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The dream's particularly vivid this time around. So, once the alarm's buzzer drags you into consciousness, you take the time between reheating last night's leftovers and sliding into the work overalls to glance at the feed from the possibly illicit microcam you've installed in the corridor outside your door. And pause - and a slow grin spreads your lips.

"Send one to talk, two to intimidate," you hum to yourself. "Three or more for violence."

Three is, in fact, the number of goonish individuals aggressively loitering almost literally on your doorstep. Not even bothering to make it appear like they're here for some innocent purpose. Honestly, it's almost surprising they haven't simply started breaking down the door yet, the silly amateurs.

Almost certainly members of Valsen's little coven, here to drag you off to him and force the issue of you joining. Which you're not particularly interested in. And you've been very patient about the whole thing so far - yes you have. Just kept saying no, politely but firmly. Didn't escalate needlessly, didn't get ProfSec involved. Didn't even raise your voice once.

The problem, of course, was that Valsen was new to Barter. All he saw was a place free from those pesky laws holding him back from greatness. He didn't - or didn't care to - understand that every place that had people also, by necessity, had rules. Rules like: don't fuck with people's money. Or: don't fuck with someone's home.

Fine, technically they haven't actually tried to force entry - they had that much sense in their heads, at least. But lurking right outside, waiting to nab you the moment you step outside? A line has been crossed here. Obviously, this merits a decisive response on your part - no?

>Nah, you're not dealing with this shit right before your shift. A temporary localized power failure should let you slip past the goons in the darkness.
>Violence is good. Not too much, but not too little either. Let the goons know they did cross a line.
>Call work to let them know you'll be late. Then let yourself be dragged off to Valsen. Time to confront the problem at the source.

>>5814198

>Nah, you're not dealing with this shit right before your shift. A temporary localized power failure should let you slip past the goons in the darkness.

Make sure we drop a note at their feet as we slip by:

“Dear Valsen,

Your boys are fuckin’ dopes and are embarrassingly incompetent to boot. I’d prefer to discuss the terms of our arrangement over an expensive dinner - you’re buying, of course.

Best Regards,
XXX”

Basically I want to dab on these fools

>>5814198
>>Nah, you're not dealing with this shit right before your shift. A temporary localized power failure should let you slip past the goons in the darkness.

>>5814198
>Nah, you're not dealing with this shit right before your shift. A temporary localized power failure should let you slip past the goons in the darkness.

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But then the hotplate beeps plaintively as the timer reaches zero, and you shake your head and sigh. Fighting? Showdowns? Who has time for that? Your shift starts in less than an hour and if you're even a minute late, Kou is still gonna be whinging about it a week for now.

Just whinging, mind you. He'd never go as far as to dock your pay. But the noise would be most annoying.

So you scarf down breakfast, finish dressing, and grab your toolbag, all the while keeping an eye on the monitor and your unwanted visitors, who probably have a rough idea of when you usually leave for work and are showing increasing signs of impatience.

Finally, you get up, open an innocuous wall panel over your bed, reach inside to grasp the bundle of cables that runs through there and close your eyes.

Not cause you need it to help you concentrate, mind - you've long since reached a level where you don't need to shut off all possible distractions to properly control your abilities. You're simply multitasking - letting your eyes adjust to darkness ahead of time.

Admittedly, closing your eyes does make things just a tad easier. "Seeing" the electricity coursing through cables inside walls and rolling through active electronic devices, and even the chaotic, branching forest of bioelectric signals racing through living beings can be... overwhelming even when not overlaid on top of the physical world.

And ultimately it's a trivial thing that you're doing. Simply... pausing the flow of electricity across a specific set of cables within this particular node. No, not even node - from the closest junction box. There isn't even a need to worry about your small trick cascading unpredictably - because while Barter's electric grid was a web of madness and nightmares at the best of times, you've made personally sure years ago that this particular corner of it was neat, orderly, and at minimal possible risk of spontaneously catching fire.

Vis Drain: 2 Wyrd spent

When you open your eyes, it's to the grayscale view of your room in complete darkness. Silence rings in your ears: the quiet hum of the fridge, the almost imperceptible buzz of the overhead light, the whisper of the air vent - all of the usually inescapable murmur of technology's has ceased.

For the next minute or two anyway.

>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 32/34

(cont)

Your hab box's door barely whispers as you manually slide it open over the well-greased rail, just wide enough for you to slip out before closing it right back. There is the unavoidable click of the analog bolt mechanism reengaging, but it's lost in the stream of muttered curses coming from under one of the goons' nose along with another's attempts to shush him - as well as the much louder, more passionate swearing heard from a hab box a couple doors down the hall.

It must've been one of those with a significantly higher power draw that you've noticed with your extra senses. At least quintuple what a hab box would ordinarily use. None of your business what it's used for, of course. Stay out of other people's business unless it threatens yours: Barter's number two rule. But buddy, that's why you invest in a portable battery bank: to absorb sudden blackouts like this. Especially if you're running your drug lab or industrial printer or whatever out of the cheapo shitbox node that gets lowest distribution priority whenever the grid shits itself.

Mindful of the time limit you're under, you spare the goons a single glance - and knock a PCU out of one's hands before he can engage its flashlight - before silently hurrying down the corridor, around the corner, down the stairs, and finally reaching a section where the lights work.

There is no sign of pursuit as you head for the nearest shuttle hub.

(cont)

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"Can't let you board," the pilot shakes his head even as the gate's scanner flashes an unfriendly shade of red and spits out you pass. "Insufficient credit."

"What are you talking about?" you demand. "I'm paid up! I'm on the Daily Double plan for ten more cycles, at least."

"I'm sure you are, but-"

"I still have the receipt! Hold on, it's here somewhere-" you start digging through your bag.

"As I said, I'm sure you are," the pilot repeats. "But it doesn't matter. Company raised prices on all economy plans, effective today, retroactive for any ongoing plans. For a plan to resume, the existing deficit must first be extinguished."

"And if I don't submit to this extortion, I lose the remaining duration of my plan," you guess. "Along with the money I paid for it."

"Per company policy, all purchases are non-refundable."

"Is this about the new tram line? Already losing customers, are you? I'm sure jacking up prices for the rest of us will bring them right back."

"The shuttle will depart in three minutes," the pilot points out impassively. "And there are customers waiting in line behind you."

You could try arguing. Yelling. Threats. You could rail against monopolies and point out how this is the kind of bullshit that happens when you make "Nothing is free!" your society's guiding principle and then let it run for one hundred years. You could do a lot of things.

But it's around eight kilometers to your workplace from here. In a straight line - never mind the tangle of nodes and corridors you'd need to navigate if you somehow received enough brain damage to willingly choose that route.

"I would like to extinguish my deficit," you inform the prick in the pilot's suit.

"Just swipe your card here," he makes an inviting gesture. "Or perhaps I could interest you in upgrading to our Deluxe Unlimited package?"

"Do I look like a fucking courier to you?"

(cont)

The shuttle glides weightlessly along Barter's starboard hull, the blue vastness of the planet the station is currently in orbit around dominating the view out the window you're sitting at. You quickly give up on remembering what its name is or what system you're in - those things barely matter to Barterites who aren't merchants. And these days, you're not even all that interested in the shapes and classes of the countless ships whose silhouettes stand dark against the planet: visitors who've come to buy and sell things too rare, too exotic, and too illegal to be obtained down on the surface.

It has grown duller - your sense of wonder. Your desire to see, learn and experience new things. You've allowed yourself to be subsumed by the daily grind and the struggle to make a living in a place where even the air you breathe isn't free. You're at serious risk of going fully native.

The dreams couldn't have started up at a better time. You're really due for a change.

The shuttle ride lasts for a scant several minutes, a significant chunk of which is devoted just to undocking and redocking. Barter is large - unnecessarily so - but even a short range shuttle's void engines can eat up kilometers in mere moments.

The remaining walk to work is relatively short. You arrive with time to spare - only to find Kou already waiting for you, tapping his foot impatiently and looking worried.

(cont)

Granted, he always looks that way and through no fault of his own. Kou is a varssk - a reptilian race from a high gravity planet that has given him an intimidating amount of bulk and strength. But, at the same time - and you're not sure if it's a matter of individual genetics or a feature endemic to all varssk - his eyebrow ridges shape his face into what, to most humanoid species, is an unmistakably concerned expression.

On the other hand, Kou really does worry often. Constantly, almost. And who wouldn't be, after being put in charge of Barter's electric grid.

"Where were you?!" he demands the moment you step through the door. "You're late!"

You slowly turn your head toward the clock on the wall, which clearly indicates that you are, in fact, four minutes early. Then, just as slowly, you turn your gaze back toward your boss.

"I'm not."

"Well, you should've gotten here sooner!" he waves his hand dismissively. "Didn't you check your messages?! We have a crisis!"

Ah, so he's actually worried.

"I told you before Kou, I'll start checking them the moment you pay the invoice. And all the future ones going forward."

"You're killing me here, Elne, you really are," he gives you a tired look. "And speaking of, your contract's up for renegotiation again."

"I hope you've let them know that if they change a single comma to my detriment, I walk."

"Killing me, I say!" he wails toward the ceiling, before turning back to you with a far more somber look. "Anyway, crisis. Need you up in Monitoring right now. Let's go."

You glance at the clock again.

>"In three minutes."
>Take some pity on Kou and stop being a filthy Barterite, if only for a bit

>>5814639
>>"In three minutes."

>>5814639

>"In three minutes."

For a fee, we can expedite?

>>5814639
>"In three minutes."

>>5814639
>"In three minutes"

"In three minutes."

"For fuck's sake, Elne!" your boss actually buries his face in his hands. "Can't you drop this shit? Just for once?"

"We both know it wouldn't stop at just once, Kou," you shake your head and shrug. "Make one exception, might as well make a hundred. And then it's the new normal."

"Really not in the mood for this, Elne..."

"Alright, I won't say anything else till I'm on the clock."

Then, true to your word, you simply stare at him until the clock strikes the hour, as he alternates between pleading and glowering at you.

"Hi boss, top of the cycle to ya! Senior Field Technician Elne Blavis reporting for her shift! Now what's this I heard about some sort of crisis, boss?"

"Monitoring," Kou simply growls before turning to lead the way. "Now. And for your own sake, watch that attitude of yours for once in your life. We have a guy from Command visiting."

Ah. Explains why Kou seems even more high-strung than normal.

"Surprise inspection?" you ask. "Or is this about the crisis?"

The stocky varssk hesitates.

"He's here to discuss the tram line situation," he says finally. "So for the love of space and profit, Elne. Watch your attitude."

(cont)

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In theory, Monitoring is the beating heart of the Energy Management department, from where highly qualified and ever-alert engineers with decades of experience patiently watch over Barter's energy security, efficiently manage the flow and distribution of power across its energy grid, and upon noticing a problem, immediately dispatch field technicians to resolve it before it threatens the smooth operation of the station - and the residents' ability to make a profit.

In practice, it's six desks in a barren, poorly ventilated room lit only by the glow of the wall-sized screen that displays a constant stream of information that is sometimes accurate, and staffed by stimulant-addled desk jockeys who've learned most of what they know about electric systems from a manual, or talking to field technicians. There are no people with practical experience in Monitoring. Because field techs don't get promoted to Monitoring. Because Energy Management needs them out in the field actually fixing shit.

The guy from Command is immediately obvious - he's the four-armed kasath in the pseudo-military uniform and wearing a sour expression as he immediately heads in your direction when you enter.

You drop back a step and let Kou deal with him as you instead turn toward the ratlike ysok with patchy fur who occupies the nearest desk.

"Heya, Pekk. So what's this crisis I'm hearing about?"

The ysok gives you a bleary-eyed, but relieved look.

"Elne, you're finally here! We're bleeding power, Elne. Starboard battery banks are down to fifty percent and no one can figure out where it's all going."

"How fast, Pekk? Can't do much with one data point."

"Uh... they were at sixty seventeen minutes ago."

Welp. Kou wasn't being a panicky ass for once. A bit less than two hours till disaster.

"What's the overdraw at?"

"Dancing between point five and one point seven."

"What?" That doesn't make sense. "How long we've been in overdraw?"

"Uh... three hours and five."

"And you've sent techs to check why at least... two battery banks aren't discharging properly, right?"

He gives you a blank look.

"Stars above," you roll your eyes. "Do it now. That's at least two more hours of power we're missing for some reason. You!" you raise your voice and point at another chair warmer. "Get all that crap off the screen. Leave only the full node map."

(cont)

The guy you addressed starts doing as you said without question or complaint. It's not the first time, after all. The screen flickers a few times and resets, replacing real time data streams with a mostly static view of hundreds of light points arranged into the rough shape of a lumpy, slightly curved cylinder. The points are connected together with a chaotic, patternless, nigh-incomprehensible network of lines. Many are burning a steady green. But just as many are yellow, or orange and blinking slowly. A number are red. A few - a daunting black.

The truth of the matter is, something is always broken or currently in the process of breaking. You don't recall a single day in the nearly two decades you've spent working here when something didn't go wrong or a sudden emergency didn't pop up. That was the simple truth of living on Barter: there was always a crisis. It's just that the station's population never found out about the vast majority of them.

"Gimme graphs: general power usage, Starboard power usage, load on bridges from Port, load on nodes... 357, 558, 011, 130. Last fifteen, no, last twenty cycles. Also, Reactor output on Ichtious - I mean, node 295. Charge and discharge cycles on every battery bank-"

You continue to rattle off instructions as the screen fills up with the requested data. You hear someone start to protest - the guy from Command, who suddenly realized the room has been taken over by a "mere" techie demands to know who you are and what the hell you're doing.

But Kou once again plays intercept like a proper boss should, pulling the man aside while explaining things in a hasty whisper. That's her, sir, the one I told you about, sir. She's the only one who can get to the bottom of this, sir, but she needs to be allowed to work...

You tune them out because, in addition to absorbing the information on the screen, you're busy expanding your perception beyond the room, beyond the confines of steel walls and titanium bulkheads, back into the eerie and beautiful world of dancing electrons and energy streams. Only this time you're going further than you had to back in your hab box. Much, much, much further. Barter is fifty kilometers long and thirty across at its widest point. A moloch cobbled together from the hulls of countless ships. It is a misshapen, slumbering beast with a thousand hearts and a million kilometers of veins.

And right now, you're trying to "see" nearly half of it.

Vis Sense: 5 Wyrd spent

>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 27/34

(cont)

A web. A web of madness and nightmares, is what you've come to call it. An apt description, and it would be folly to even attempt to fully comprehend it. But you've done this many times before - enough to grow familiar with its rhythms. The pulse of repurposed ship reactors hooked into the grid. The ebb and flow of electricity through the major junctions at various points of the day.

There is a seductive pull to the insanity laid bare before your expanded senses - a desire to lose yourself in reverie of this constructed chaos. But you know better than to get lost in it like you may have done once or twice before. You're here to find the malady that ails the Great Beast of Commerce as the station is sometimes called, and to find a cure before it becomes terminal.

Ultimately, an easy task - given that you know the answer in advance. Rather, the bulk of your time is spent giving out instructions to bring up more graphs, more charts, more data to build your case for your superiors - because "I can see electric currents" is not an argument that'll get you anywhere.

And some fifteen minutes later, after examining every trouble spot and gathering all information that you can, and then considering all reasonable possibilities along with their short and long term outcomes, you turn to Kou and the guy from Command to give them the bad news:

>"We need to shut down the new tram line."
>Wait, fuck, that won't work. You need to lead up to it. Doom and gloom them until they realize until it's the only reasonable option.

>>5815849

Are write-ins allowed?

>>5815859
Sure.

>>5815863

How about:

“The new tram line is destabilizing the powergrid.”

Basically, applying a lighter touch and letting them come to the correct conclusion on their own.

>>5815872
I'll support this

>>5815849
>>"We need to shut down the new tram line."

>>5815849
>Wait, fuck, that won't work. You need to lead up to it. Doom and gloom them until they realize until it's the only reasonable option.

>>5815872
+1

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We need to shut down the new tram line - is what you intend to say. It is the simplest way to communicate both the problem and the solution in a single, direct sentence.

What stops you is Kou's earlier warning. The trams have been Command's grand project for these past couple years. A way to make Barter easier to traverse and more accessible to visitors, inhabitants, and crew alike. And, at the same time, a way to break the monopoly of the shuttle services after the last few companies got consolidated under a single banner and became an actual, bona fide monopoly. There was a lot of support for the project, both popular and among Command crew, which is why they've been able to push things forward much more quickly than usual, bulldozing over any opposition and reacting poorly to criticism and safety concerns.

What you're saying is that with that kasath from Command standing right there, this might call for a softer, more diplomatic approach.

"The new tram line is overloading the power grid," you inform him and Kou.

There: diplomacy. Let no one say you can't use it when called for.

"Impossible," comes the immediate, curt reply, the kasath staring down his flat nose at you with lidless eyes. "It has to be something else."

"Maths don't lie," you jerk your thumb back at the screen, carefully ignoring Kou's warning look. "Tram network is drawing two to two point three and grid's spiking to one point seven over. We do one subtraction and the problem disappears."

"And I will tell you again, technician, that this is impossible," he sneers. "There has been a thorough live test of the tram system performed before it was open to public use and power consumption was well under the grid's limit. Which you would know if you were actually part of this section - or had proper authorization to even be here."

"Please hold on sir, I already told you-" Kou tries to interject, but you cut him off.

"Live test? You mean the one from sixteen cycles ago?" you briefly turn to one of the desks to highlight a particular graph. "The one right here?"

"That is the one, yes. As you can plainly see, the grid load at the time only reached seventy three percent. So clearly the problem has to-"

"Barter was still in transit back then," you interrupt.

"So what?"

There are fewer than ten people in the generally quiet room, but the sudden silence is absolutely palpable as everyone present simply turns and stares at the guy - no, the idiot from Command.

A moment later Kou's eyes dart back to you. His expression is begging, pleading, beseeching you.

"And it's sir."

"What?" you ask reflexively.

"You will address me as 'sir' when speaking to me, []technician."

>Explain things to him
>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.
>write-in

>>5816663

>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.

"Sir... Please allow me to explain that the "thorough live test" of the tram was an idiotic PR stunt that did nothing to adequately represent conditions of actual power usage of tram operation. In my opinion, the people who oversaw this testing should be vented into the void and their estates billed for wage theft... Sir."

>>5816663
>>Explain things to him. But diplomatically

>>5816663
>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.

>>5816663
>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.

>>5816663
>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.

>>5816663
>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.

>>5816663
>Explain things to him. But diplomatically.

You remind yourself that anger, however justified, rarely gets you anywhere on Barter.

You also remind yourself that failing to persuade this idiot in front of you will turn the next few cycles into a complete shitshow. So you'll need to do this calmly. Rationally. And respectfully.

"Oh my sincerest apologies, sir," you drawl in a sweet tone that causes Kou's expression to freeze into a mortified rictus. "We tend to keep things a lot more casual here at Energy - bad habit, I know. But worry not, sir, I will give you all the respect you're due."

You're pretty sure you hear Kou whimper quietly. What a worrywart.

"But if I could direct your attention to this portion of the graph, sir - right here, three cycles after the live test. Do you recall what happened on that date, sir?"

The idiot from Command furrows his hairless brows in though.

"I... believe this was when Barter arrived in current orbit around Leros?" he ventures finally.

Oh, so that's what the planet was called.

"That is absolutely correct, sir!" you exclaim jubilantly. "We arrived in orbit. And one more question sir, before we proceed: what is Barter's estimated population - crew and inhabitants?"

More brow furrowing.

"Around thirty-seven thousand registered at last census, I believe. Plus another estimated five to ten thousand squatters and transients. But what does this have-"

"You are correct, sir, that is the current estimate! But let's return to the graph! Do you see how power usage starts climbing here? Now, I realize it's all very technical, sir, but I will do my best to break it down. You see, sir, at every stop, Barter receives an influx of visitors seeking to partake in trade with the fine merchants who reside onboard the station. And while accurate numbers are always difficult to get, it's estimated the average stop can temporarily quadruple Barter's population, and sometimes as much as sextuple it! Many of these visitors remain here for days or even weeks as they browse the shops or wait for their orders to be filled. And during that time, they naturally have to breathe and eat. And sir - they even have to shit."

There's a quiet snort from somewhere in the room, quickly stifled, but the kasath's eyes still dart sideways and his frown deepens.

(cont)

"And if I can direct your attention to this graph, sir," you say quickly, "that's the power usage from Atmosphere. Do you see those jumps - how it looks like a stairway, almost? That's Atmo spinning up additional scrubbers to maintain O levels. And this next graph right here - same thing, but it's the sewage processors down in the Belly. And this composite here - that's a much more gradual climb, I'll grant you, but that's cause it's data from all the major food court nodes in Starboard. All the freezers, fridges, ovens, hotplates, processors... and let's not forget the protein farms, greenhouses, and terrariums run privately to get around the premiums from Hydroponics. And finally - and this is the last graph sir, I promise - that's data from the manufacturing nodes. As you can see, the power usage spike lags a bit behind the other sectors, but that's perfectly normal: the customers usually take a cycle or two to make a decision and start placing orders. And that's when the production teams fire up the forges, the microfabs, the organ printers, the lathes, the autoclaves, the chem labs... and as you can see from all these graphs, the rise in grid usage has been slowing down these past couple cycles - in fact, if we discount the tram line, we're at ninety seven percept average orbital power consumption. But with the tram line added into the mix, we unfortunately went into overdraw as of... one hour and fifty-two minutes ago."

You turn fully to face your boss and the idiot from Command, and even endeavor to stand at something resembling attention, with your hands clasped behind your back.

(cont)

"And so, sir, the current situation is as follows: we have another hour thirty, conservatively speaking, before the battery banks start running empty. The moment that happens and demand exceeds what the network physically can provide, we'll see what's called a cascade failure event. What this means is that the monitoring programs that govern the various reactors across Starboard will initiate emergency shutdowns to prevent damage from attempting to produce more power than they're able. Each reactor taking itself offline will of course only make the power deficit worse - which will trigger further shutdowns, spreading across the entire section and possibly leaving most, if not all of Starboard without power," except in the nodes whose owners are paying attention and will manually cut their connection to the grid beforehand. "And here's the most important thing to understand: a cascade failure will cause a lot, and I mean a lot of damage to the grid. Tripped breakers, burned fuses, overloaded junction boxes. Cycles worth of damage that will need to be identified, assessed, and repaired by us techs. And then cycles more spent on reconnecting the reactors, running safety checks, and spinning them back up one by one. All while most of Starboard remains without power, without heating, without air. Not to even mention the tens of millions in wasted materials and products from interrupted manufacturing processes. And millions more lost from potential clients who had to be evacuated instead."

Finally, even the idiot from Command is looking worried as the full weight of the situation begins to penetrate his elongated skull.

"So, shutting off the trams is as impossible as you say, Energy Management requests guidance from Command: which section do we deprioritize instead? Atmo? Reclamation? Manufacturing? Sir?"

"Can't... can't you just cut down on the non-essentials?"

"Non-essentials are under private node owner consideration as of... eight years ago? Now they're supposed to lower power usage when we ask them. But I'll let you in on a little secret, sir: they never do. Nothing is non-essential and go bother someone else - is what they say."

"Well, what about those additional battery banks? You said something about them being disconnected earlier. If you reconnect them-"

"If the techs can diagnose and fix the problem before we run out - big if, by the way - we get two, maybe three more hours at current discharge rate. Batteries are there as a buffer to let us fix a problem before the grid fails. They're not for long term use. Sir."

The kasath's eyes are darting around wildly now, as if trying to pluck a solution from some dark corner of the room. Suddenly, they stop, focus, and fixate on some element of the screen.

"What's about Portside?!" he points triumphantly. "That's at ninety three percent right now! Can't you just draw some power from there?"

You suppress the urge to sigh.

(cont)

"Oh Portside absolutely has power to spare, sir. And that's where we'd usually go to fix this kind of problem. The problem is transfer capacity," you highlight the appropriate chart you had prepared in advance. "These are the four main transmission bridges between Starboard and Port. And as you can see, sir, they've already been operating at max capacity for the past five cycles. We try to send any more power through them and things start to break. Or catch on fire."

"I thought there were five bridges between these sections?" the idiot from Command frowns, showing that he possibly read something somewhere at some time related to Barter's power grid. "Is one of them also out of commission?"

"It's been out for the past two months, ever since ProfSec decided to sever all connections and jettison it into space. The Alvarus node, sir. Uh, number 098, I believe."

"Node 098... that was the biohazard incident, wasn't it? Carnivorous, psychic fungus. There was a serious risk of it infesting the adjacent nodes, so Command made the decision to cut it loose."

"I am not disputing the decision, sir. I am simply saying that we lost seventeen percent transfer cap along with that node."

"And why didn't you simply rebuild the bridge?"

"Well, we tried to, sir. But when we went to Logistics and asked for the cables we need, it turned out someone thought it was a waste having them just sitting there and taking up shelf space, and they sold them three stops ago to put their section in the black for that fiscal period. We're still waiting on replacements."

"That's... not supposed to happen," the idiot from Command looks genuinely lost.

"But it did. Sir."

(cont)

"Look... everyone... this isn't something that's supposed to be known outside of Command, but..." he hesitates for a long moment before continuing with a sigh. "Contrary to the public stance, Command isn't as... united in their support for the tram system as the lower decks were led to believe. There is a... faction that considers the whole project a waste of time and resources. Its members lack decision-making power or any serious pull..." you can see him stopping himself from appending that statement with 'for now'. "But there is... concern that any major setback with the project, especially just a few cycles after the launch, will garner that faction undue support. And that is something leadership wishes to avoid at all costs."

Of course it had to be politics. You figured it was money, because on Barter it was almost always about money, but politics was a close second.

"So now that you understand the stakes..." the kasath looks around before locking eyes with you. "Is there anything else you can do to fix the power grid without shutting off the trams? Anything at all? Even... even if it's something your section wouldn't have the authority to do, normally. I could probably... get permission to use Command's authority."

Well then.

On the other hand... do you really want to risk even this brief brush with Barter politics? Even far more connected and better positioned people like you rarely survive that sort of thing intact.

>No. Trams are the only reasonable, guaranteed option
>Exceeding authority, is it? Well, as it happens you have a whole list of ideas!
>write-in

>>5817706
>Exceeding authority, is it? Well, as it happens you have a whole list of ideas!
Let’s make some change.

>>5817706
>>No. Trams are the only reasonable, guaranteed option

>>5817706

>Exceeding authority, is it? Well, as it happens you have a whole list of ideas!

We haven’t exactly shown a predilection to restraint in the past

>>5817706
>>No. Trams are the only reasonable, guaranteed option
"I'm a technician sir. I don't have the authority to take any such decisions."

The worst part is this would apparently not have happened if the fifth bridge had been correctly rebuilt. I'm of half a mind to suggest temporary measures that would piss people off, so long as Command approves resources from the bridge. The Tram stays up, the new bridge gets built, the system can handle the full strain, and the restrictions are lifted. Command is happy, we're happy, and the general populace feel like they got one over Command, reducing unrest and increasing Command's popularity due to them listening to people.

Alas, our reward for such an ingenious plan is guaranteed to be either a lot more unpaid and risky work, or being made a black sheep for Command to rid themselves of the responsibility of the unpopular measures while taking the credit for solving them, while also enforcing more rules and regulations because a technicians took decisions they weren't allowed to take.

Sounds like a shit show. I'll pass.

>>5817706
>No. Trams are the only reasonable, guaranteed option

>>5817706
>Exceeding authority, is it? Well, as it happens you have a whole list of ideas!

Seems like we have a tie.

If another vote comes in within the next hour or so, I'll just declare that the tiebreaker. Otherwise, I'll flip a coin.

>>5817706
>Exceeding authority, is it? Well, as it happens you have a whole list of ideas!

>>5818559
Almost to the minute

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On the other, other hand... fuck it. Change is coming, sinking its claws into you through dreams and prophetic visions. This is not something you should run from, not something you should fear.

Though it also doesn't mean you should simply throw caution to the wind either.

"I wish to have one thing on record first," you also sweep your gaze around the room before focusing back on the kasath. "Whatever ideas or thoughts I may present next, they are meant to be just that - in no way do I mean them as some sort of incitement or call to action."

If the silence a bit earlier was palpable, the one now is practically deafening as every Monitoring employee either looks away or schools their face into a carefully neutral expression.

"And in the same vein, these ideas and thoughts are only meant to be considered and discussed within the context of the circumstances we are currently in, solely as a means to solving the crisis Barter currently faces. With full understanding that divorced of this vital context, a person of bad faith could easily interpret them as subversive, or even seditious," the kasath's eyebrows travel upwards. "And as such, I refuse to take responsibility for any outcome not directly related to maintaining the integrity and functionality of Barter's power grid that comes about as a result of Command acting on these ideas or thoughts. Are those terms acceptable?"

To his credit, the guy from Command considers your words carefully before finally nodding.

"Acceptable, technician. I will consider whatever thoughts or ideas you communicate to be coming from a professional, purely technical perspective."

"Then my first thought would be to have Atmosphere shut down fifteen percent of air scrubbers across the Starboard section. This would naturally not be a long term solution," you add to forestall any protests. "But it would buy us an extra eight to twelve hours to implement a more permanent solution before O concentration starts dropping below tolerable levels."

"And what are those more permanent solutions you have in mind?"

(cont)

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"The simplest one from the technical perspective would be to get Engines to temporarily reassign a couple of their reactors to our grid. Which I realize they have a bunch of hangups over, but with Barter currently idling in orbit, they have power to spare and then some."

The kasath winces visibly.

"While I certainly see your point when viewing this as a purely engineering problem, I'm afraid it would currently be impossible to implement due to... political factors."

"What, is Aft having another succession crisis or something?" you note the change in his expression. "Seriously? Again? How bad is it this time?"

"From my understanding, there are four major factions and each one has accused the other three of trying to unionize."

There is a collective, quickly stifled groan around the room.

Just send in ProfSec, seize the reactors, and shoot anybody who resists - is what you actually want to say in response. Or vent all of Aft into space and start over, hopefully this time without all the stupid-ass decisions that led to that entire mess.

But saying that probably would land you a sedition charge, linguistic chicanery notwithstanding. So you just sigh and move on.

(cont)

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"When I was taking my usual shuttle ride to work, I noticed what looked like a brand new Nazagar class freighter parked in the docking queue," you say in a carefully disinterested tone. "And I recalled hearing something about the new models coming with a Red Dwarf Mk3 reactor installed by default. High output, high efficiency. And I thought myself: if only we could get one of those for our grid."

"You're talking about just... gutting a visiting cargo ship?" the kasath frowns.

"Not at all," you shake your head. "After all, moving a reactor is a lot of work. You need to spin it down, remove it from the housing without damaging anything, prepare a new housing, move it, install it, then run a bunch of safety checks as you spin it back up... we're talking couple weeks worth of work, at least. I was more thinking about doing it... the Barter way."

The guy from Command looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them carefully.

"Technician, you are of course aware that these are not the old days anymore. You cannot add a new node onto Barter wherever and whenever you please. There are multiple sections to consult, consideration given to the environmental impact on surrounding nodes, the effect it will have on local commerce and profit potentials... and that's not even touching upon the fact that forcefully integrating a ship being considered an act of piracy under most jurisdictions we travel through."

"I will remind you, sir, that I am looking at the problem purely from a technical perspective, with an eye toward the quickest possible resolution to the power deficit problem. I simply assumed that given the circumstances and your earlier statement, Command could... expedite the usual approval process."

"Let's say it would be an exceedingly hard sell to my superiors."

Oh buddy, if you think that's a hard sell, wait till you hear this next one.

(cont)

"In that case, here's something that caught my attention when examining the power grid. Could someone bring the status for 295 up for me please? Thank you. This, sir, is node 295, colloquially known as Ichtious. It's located roughly in the middle of Starboard and I think you can see what the problem is."

"It's... only at twenty nine percent output?"

"You got it in one, sir. 295 runs the much older "Red Dwarf" Mk2's, but there are two of them on board and they're both in remarkably good condition for their age. If allowed to run at full output, they could easily balance out the grid. The reason they can't is the exceedingly poor state of the power network within Ichtious itself. Due to the history of the ship before it was integrated into Barter, it was already a hodgepodge made of low quality materials, and it has only continued to succumb to natural wear and tear that comes with continuous operation and the simple passage of time."

"I assume there's a good reason this issue hasn't been addressed?"

"To make a long and complicated story short, it's due to an oversight in the Private Ownership Charter. Because while Energy Management has governance and decision power over reactors operated as part of Barter's power grid, due to some vague wording in the POC, it has been ruled in the past that this governance technically doesn't extend to the cables that comprise the electric network itself."

"What?!" the kasath actually loses his composure at that, staring at you with bulging eyes. "That's ridiculous! How has this not been addressed before?"

"Because most of the time it's a non-issue," you shrug. "Most owners want functioning electricity in their nodes and so they sign off on a maintenance permit. For non-emergency work this means we agree to compensate them for lost profits due to any disruptions, they compensate us for labor and materials used, accounting works out the difference, so on, so forth. But node 295's owner is different."

"How so?"

(cont)

"Once again, to make a long story short: Ichtious was a pirate ship that attacked Barter several decades ago. It was instead captured and integrated and, years later, it was rediscovered by sheer chance by a descendant of the original owners who were slaughtered by the aforementioned pirates. At that point Barter has grown too much to feasibly detach Ichtious from the surrounding structure, so the descendant elected to instead purchase the node and turn it into a... memorial of sorts to his ancestors. This involved remodeling the whole thing using its original, ethnic decor and then vehemently refusing to change anything about its appearance. Including the internals, like plumbing. Or power cables. He has refused any kind of compensation offered, including what were frankly absurd amounts of cred. And, as of late, he has refused to engage in any sort of further negotiation."

"This is absurd. Completely unreasonable! Did you try to address this through Admin?"

"We tried everything we could think of. Unfortunately, the node pays all its fees, is in good financial standing with Admin, doesn't pose a hazard to any adjacent nodes, and complies with all requests to provide access to its reactors. So with the aforementioned POC ruling tying our hands, there is nothing else Energy Management can do."

"And assuming you presented matter accurately, I don't see what else Command could-" he breaks off and his eyes widen in shock. "Here, you're not suggesting Command should do anything that would violate the POC?!"

"I'm not suggesting anything, sir," you shake your head, speaking very calmly. "I wouldn't even dare insinuate that anyone should be attempting to undermine the document that defines the core principles by which all of Barter functions. I am nothing but a simple technician communicating a problem that exists within my assigned area of responsibility to a superior. I do not have the authority to do anything beyond that."

The kasath shakes his head whether in confusion or disbelief and begins pacing around while massaging his temples and wringing together his second pair of hands.

"None of these ideas are workable," he says finally. "What else do you have?"

(cont)

"My only other idea would be to contact ProfSec and have them make an announcement for everyone in Starboard to start putting on their space jammies. Because, in just over an hour, we're all going to need them."

He stares at you helplessly before turning to try his luck with Kou, but your boss simply shakes his head.

"It's like I already told you sir, there is no one who understands Barter's power grid better than her. If she says something can or can't be done, it's best to believe her. I know I've regretted it every time I didn't."

"But she's just a technician," in his desperation, the kasath falls back on useless rank measuring.

"Yes. And frankly sir, she'd be wasted anywhere else."

"Uh, Elne?" a small voice tries to get your attention. You turn toward Pekk, the rodent-like operator pressing one side of his headset into his ear. "Finally got something from the tech we sent to the bank in 755."

"Yeah? What's he say?"

"Can he reconnect the batteries?!" the guy from Command cuts in, practically shouting.

"Uh... h-he doesn't know," Pekk shrinks back. "There's been some kind of chemical spill. He says it looks corrosive. Lots of fumes. He already called in a hazmat team, but they didn't give him an ETA."

"Probably dealing with another problem elsewhere then," you shrug as the kasath steps back, dejected. "Might as well assume that bank will stay dead for the next cycle, at least."

"Alright, fine! Let's assume - simply assume!" the kasath leans toward you, raising one finger in front of your face. "That I'm going to make a call to Command and try and sell them on one of these... ideas of yours. Which one, do you think, has the best chance of working?"

"Any of them would work. It's simply a matter of laying down all the cables in time."

"Alright, let me rephrase that: which of these ideas, if implemented, would be best for the current state of Barter's power grid?"

"Are you asking this as a purely technical question, divorced of any political or social disturbances implementing any of these ideas might cause?"

"Yes."

>The idle reactors from Engines. Most of the infrastructure is already in place, it would just be a matter of laying down a few dozen meters of cable.
>The freighter. A brand new Mk3 would give the grid some desperately needed future-proofing.
>Node 295. With the additional benefit of not having to constantly route around it
>Fuck no, you're not falling for this one. Political fallout is precisely what Command will care about. Let them worry about which one to pick
>write-in

>>5818787

>”For a hefty consulting fee, I’m sure that MY DEPARTMENT can provide a consensus pick for you to provide to Command.”

Basically, spread the blame around and obfuscate ourselves as the source of the idea. Worst case, they axe the department and we all get rehired under some new heading. Plus, we should extort this guy on general principles.

>Have ProfSec seize a couple of reactors from Aft for “stability of the Barter economy” until the succession crises there is over.

This lets us cover up the tram issue and pin the blame on Aft for being such morons.

>>5818787
Well, in for a cred, in for a fistful.
>The idle reactors from Engines. Most of the infrastructure is already in place, it would just be a matter of laying down a few dozen meters of cable.
In a way, this is future-proofing. We don't need more raw power output, Barter already has more than enough reactors. It's a problem of cores not giving all the power they could, sure, but the main problem that needs solving is simply being able to balance power. The Tram system doesn't need nearly as much in transit, while Engines could use the boost, and vice-versa in our current situation. On a normal ship, shifting powers form one subsystem or part of the ship to another is the most basic form of Energy Management, one Barter ought to learn from. The present situation is also an opportunity. Create a precedent of collaboration, incite the governing bodies of both part to chip in when needed to keep each other's batteries in the green. Given how unstable Engines and Aft are, it could in fact work in our favor. Just show the factions that more cooperation would ensure extra power during moves, and they'll be scrambling over each other to accommodate Command and be recognized as legitimate.
So long as I'm not misunderstanding Barter politics, of course.
Basically energy needs to be able to go where it's needed, simple as. That also means okaying that fifth connection being rebuilt, and making plans for more. And poof, there's your future-proofing. It's also very cost effective. Cabling is financially cheaper than a new reactor, and a whole lot cheaper politically than breaking some charters and commandeering visiting ships for extra power. Think of the effect that would have on visitor numbers if word gets around you might just get your ship stolen from under you! It'd be a disaster!

>>5818797
I support the first idea. Maybe not the consulting fee but spreading it around is good. As for the second, I'd like to see my peaceful proposal tried first. If not, well fuck it, the current mess does provide perfect cover so Command doesn't have to admit their pet project led to any drastic decisions being taken.

>>5818787
>>Fuck no, you're not falling for this one. Political fallout is precisely what Command will care about. Let them worry about which one to pick

>>5818787
>>5818820
>support

>>5818797
+1

>>5818787
>Fuck no, you're not falling for this one. Political fallout is precisely what Command will care about. Let them worry about which one to pick
Don't fly too close to the sun

>>5818820
>Support

Also supporting >>5818797 in spreading the cost around for the bonus, and putting the head on the department.


Also, good job QM. Thought this was gonna be shit, but reading through it, there's an actual grasp of intrigue and anticipation here.

>>5819062
>>Fuck no, you're not falling for this one. Political fallout is precisely what Command will care about. Let them worry about which one to pick
I fear it's too late, so may as well try for damage control.

>>5818787
>Fuck no, you're not falling for this one. Political fallout is precisely what Command will care about. Let them worry about which one to pick

>>5818825
>>5819062
>>5819154
>>5819510
The option to back off and stop playing politics beats out the others by 1 vote.


Also, fair warning that work has started up again, so the update schedule might get a bit wonky. I'll do my best to maintain the update rate, but I'll probably have to shorten them considerably.

>>5820051
Don't worry about it, I like having more votes

The corner of your mouth quirks up in a sardonic smile.

"I'm very sorry sir, but we both know that whatever decision Command ultimately makes will be done with an eye towards minimizing political and social fallout. I have given you the options I consider most viable given the effort they'll require and the time we have remaining until the grid undergoes cascade failure. But that is all I am capable of as a lowly tech. But deciding which of those options - if any - will best serve Barter is the prerogative of the station's leadership."

You can tell he does not like that answer. But fuck him. Savvier people than you have gotten burned to a crisp by straying too close to the furnace of politics. You're basically a nobody with some skills and an attitude, and you're not willing to become the fall gal for when something inevitably goes tits-up.

And so, after making some annoyed expressions, harrumphing, and trying to coax an answer out of you, the guy from Command has no choice but to requisition Kou's office in order to make a private call to his superiors.

The moment he's gone, the entirety of Monitoring clusters around Pekk's desk to speculate and gossip.

"Hey Elne, what do you think they'll go with?" someone asks.

"Is that a purely technical question, divorced of political and social context?" someone else quips, which provokes a burst of quickly stifled laughter.

"Look, if they had any sense, they'd shut down the trams until they brought in at least three reactors to give the grid a proper buffer. That would be the least disruptive option," you say.

"Command making sense? Yeah, I heard that happen once before. But then I woke up!" more laughter. "But come on Elne, what do you think will actually happen?"

"Well, I'll tell you. But first you have to agree to pay my consulting fee," this provokes several howls of laughter, despite not even being that funny. Just people releasing tension after dealing with someone a dozen ranks above them first thing in the morning. "Alright fine. But I'm not telling you what they should do, but what I would do in their position, yeah? Everyone clear on that?" the laughter dies and there are a number of quick nods. "I'd get us the reactors from Engines. Cause fuck their special rules DAO fiefdom bullshit and especially fuck that bunch of twats who keeps trying to get Engines declared a Critical Resource. They need all the power they have during transit? Fine, it's not like we need anything from them with the station empty. But if we're parked in orbit and just need the occasional maneuvering pulse to stabilize, all that spare power is just sitting there, doing nothing. Hook that up to the central grid and ninety percent of the shit we deal with here disappears overnight."

There are more than a few murmurs of assent.

"But it's not like those Aft fuckers would let us lay down table just cause Command told them to," someone points out.

(cont)

"Oh, absolutely. They got way too many privileges over the years and started feeling untouchable. But no one's untouchable in this universe. And the crisis they're having right now is a prime example of that. See, what I'd do first is-"

Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately - your discussion of plans to crush the factions of Aft is interrupted by Kou stepping back into the room. Which he does and freezes immediately as seven pairs of eyes turn toward him hungrily, eager for news.

"Uh... Command decided to temporarily scale down air production as per our suggestion," he states. "Atmo should be getting the order right now. So everyone back to your desks, get in touch with them, make sure those loads are balanced properly."

"And what then?" one of the others asks.

"What do you mean, 'what then'?"

"Like... what are they doing to keep us out of overdraw?"

"We don't know that yet. They are supposedly calling a council," this is met with groans and eye-rolling. Not unexpected, but still - the time meant to perform actual work is instead going to be eaten up by politicking and arguments. "I said, back to your desks, everybody. You're not getting paid to stand around and chat. Elne, with me."

You follow Kou out of the room. At first he leads you toward his office, but - evidently remembering it's still occupied - he takes you to the employee break room instead.

"What am I supposed to do with you, Elne?" he wheels on you them moment you close the door. "Tell me: what am I supposed to do?"

"Am I being fired?" you smile.

"Not yet," your boss runs his hand over his face. "But that might still change. Junior Lieutenant Farris had a lot of things to say about you."

"Oh, so he actually had a name."

"He judged your attitude to be rude and unhelpful-"

"I was very helpful," you protest mildly. "I told him exactly what Command needs to do to fix the problem."

"He also called you an irreverent smartass who's no better than she actually is."

"And how good is that, exactly?"

Kou gives you a long look before digging a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolding it, and waving it under your nose aggressively.

"You know what this is? A commission from ExtSec. Just came in this morning before all of this mess started. I was going to give it to you, since you're usually decent at getting those done. But if that's the tone you're going to take even with your own boss, then I'm thinking maybe it should go to someone else. Like Lunen. Or Jree. Someone who knows how to appreciate everything I do for this section and for my employees," he huffs.

>"I can see my name on that paper, Kou."
>Take some pity on Kou. He's just releasing tension himself. Apologize and grovel a bit like a good employee.
>write-in

>>5820319
>Take some pity and nod along.

We're not gonna grovel, We know how good we are. But they did back us up with the command flunky, so at least give em some feedback/praise for it.

>>5820319
>>"I can see my name on that paper, Kou."

>>5820319
>Take some pity and nod along

>>5820493
Support. They did back us up there, but there will be no grovelling on my watch! But we can just go for the "neutral getting-chewed-out" face, we probably have experience with it.

>>5820493

Supporting, but don’t grovel - we’re clearly too proud to do it

>>5820493
>support

>>5820493
+1

>>5820319
>"I can see my name on that paper, Kou."

>>5820319
>"I can see my name on that paper, Kou."

The nod-alongs have it. Vote closed.

"shorten them considerably" he said and then proceeded to knock out a 1500 word update with more to go. I'll have to finish and post it after work. My apologies.

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"You're right, you're definitely underappreciated, Kou," you nod.

"Damn right I am! You think being a techie is tough? Twenty years I've spent in the ducts! And it does not begin to compare with the amount of shit I have to deal with now!"

"Supervisors definitely have it the worst," you nod.

"Command keeps demanding the impossible. Other sections always call to bitch cause they think their needs are above everyone else's. And as if getting shat on from above wasn't enough already, I also get shit from my own employees. Calling in sick. Clocking it drunk or high. Giving me lip over how I assign work."

"It's a rough job, but somebody's gotta do it," you nod.

"Not to mention a certain smartass I have to deal with every fucking day, and whose antics will drive me to an early grave," he gives you the stinkeye.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," you nod.

All in all, the chewing out lasts another fifteen minutes. You listen, you nod, and you make vaguely sympathetic statements while listening to Kou complain about his job. You figure you owe him as much - he did stand up for you to the guy from Command. And he was an ok boss overall. Letting him vent at you for a bit was the least you could do.

"Anyway, here's that commission from ExtSec," he hands you the sheet of paper finally. "They asked for you by name, so I figure they want it done fast."

"This is in 252," you say with a groan, your eyes running over the text. "You know, if you wanted to punish me Kou, you could've saved your breath and just handed me the page."

"Well, this is what you get for being so damned competent all the time. You're the only one they'll trust to deal with 252."

"Yeah, cause the last guy from their side they sent fell down a shaft, got stuck for three cycles and came back with claustrophobia and a nervous breakdown."

"Just sort out whatever the problem is and fast," Kou sighs. "I might need you for whatever Command decides to do about this tram mess."

"Hey, as long as there's overtime, I'm all for it," you turn to head for the door.

"Yeah, yeah..." Kou mutters. "Hey, Elne?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it really kill you to try and be more... flexible, sometime? You've been at it for what, fifteen years? You're quick on the job, smart as a whip, you learn shit fast. You could probably have my job - hells, you could probably make Admin if you really tried. You'd just need to-" he hesitates.

"Ain't my style, Kou," you shake your head with a chuckle. "You know me. I don't kiss ass, don't suck dick, and don't spread legs for nobody."

"Oh come on, I wasn't suggesting that you should-" he sputters, flustered.

"I know. See you around, Kou."

(cont)

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External Security was Barter's military arm, for lack of a better term. A necessity in a galaxy brimming with pirates, warlords, and corrupt planetary governors who'd love nothing more than to take the station as a prize. And what a prize it is, brimming with hundreds of billions of cred worth of valuable goods, rare materials, and various exotic, often unique items. While at the same time possessing the combat maneuverability of a hurling asteroid and a turn radius measured in orbital circumferences.

And so, to protect Barter's wealth and its inhabitants' ability to make a profit, no expense was spared to turn the station into a fortress. Bristling with enough guns and missile bays to qualify as a warfleet all on its own, and housing strong enough shields to endure a sustained torpedo barrage, Barter has successfully fought off or scared off any and all pirate attacks and "forceful requisition" attempts in living history. And then, more often than not, went on to establish trade relations with the attackers.

All those armaments naturally required power and lots of it. And, having been declared a Critical Resource vital to the well-being of the station, ExtSec was guaranteed to get what it needed. In practical terms, this meant that all of Barter's weapons and shields existed on a completely separate energy grid with its own reactors, capacitors, generators, battery banks and by and large sanely and cleanly laid out power cables with proper safeties, well-maintained transformer stations and multiple redundancies.

Their techs got higher base wages too, the bastards. Despite having to do, at most, a quarter of the work than Energy Management did. It was a dream for more a few of your fellow techs to land a cushy position in ExtSec's energy section. You once considered it too, at least until you realized the sheer amount of ass-kissing you'd need to do.

All that said, Barter's structure being what it is, sometimes a simple lack of space prevented ExtSec's power lines from getting their own dedicated ducts, forcing them to share space with the ones belonging to the general grid. And whenever that happened, what usually happened was that some idiot would try and lower his power bill by hooking himself up to the military grid, while willfully ignoring the clear and unambiguous warnings posted every ten meters forbidding doing that very thing.

Since ExtSec's grid wasn't a hot mess of patchwork cables, decades-old wiring, splits leading to nowhere, and rusting junction boxes, they were able to easily catch the energy fluctuations caused by these kinds of shenanigans and even pinpoint their origin with relative accuracy. Which inevitably led to the idiot in question getting a reinforced boot up the ass and a ruinous fine to pay off.

(cont)

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Which is what you were doing right now, crawling on your stomach through a narrow, twisting, poorly lit maintenance tunnel: looking for the idiot due for a meeting with some footwear.

The problem with node 252 is that it's the perfect encapsulation of everything that's wrong with Barter's power grid: a mishmash of cables crammed into too little space that somehow became a major power junction - and, consequently, too important to the station's continued operation to ever properly declutter and fix.

It is perfectly plausible that someone could get lost in the haphazard tangle of old cables of all shapes and sizes. And finding a single rogue connection within the unruly jungle of haphazardly strewn cables could take many cycles for an ordinary person. Even you with your "knack" that earned you this commission are looking at many hours spent crawling through these ducts, collecting vast quantities of dust and grime along the way.

You pause at an intersection, suppressing your energy vision and closing your eyes to let them rest for a bit. Then, as you open them, you freeze. Because, staring at you from around the next bend, is a hull rat.

They're vermin, commonly found on voidcraft and inevitable in a place as large and chaotic as Barter. About the size of your head, coated in oily, black fur, and armed with a set of long teeth capable of chewing through insulation, copper, flesh, and bone with equal ease. The buggers are absolutely fearless to boot, perfectly willing and able to attack anyone or anything that wanders into their territory. You've seen more than a few techs come back from a job with deep gouges, or missing fingers, ears, eyes...

Keeping your breath calm, you slowly shift sideways, taking weight off your right arm and sliding it out from under you so that it's free to act. The entire time, you maintain eye contact with the hull rat, watching for the slightest sign of aggression or movement that would indicate a lunge.

The creature twitches its thick, greasy whiskers and shifts its weight forward, it's hindquarters rising into the air...

...only to squeal in surprise and anger as, with a loud "paff!" neon green foam explodes around it, tossing it against the tunnel's wall, where it begins to trash violently - and uselessly, as the quick-setting adhesive agent binds it in place.

"Ha-HA! Finally got ya, ya yitti skritti!" a shout echoes triumphantly off the walls. And, moments later, another, much larger rodent-like face appears around the same bend, this one scoured with countless old scars. Its owner descends on the trapped hull rat, grabs it by the snout, forcing its jaw shut and bending its head down and, with a smooth, practiced motion, drives a thin, solid spike into the back of its neck, where the skull meets the spine.

The hull rat shudders once and goes limp - at which point its killer's attention shifts to you and he blinks several times in surprise.

"Elne, is that you? Darn, girl, long time no see."

(cont)

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Like Pekk from Monitoring, Gresh was an ysok - a short-statured, rodent-like race that could probably be found on every inhabited world at this point. Unlike Pekk, who managed to land a desk job, Gresh has made a career within the least known and certainly underappreciated division of ProfSec: Pest Control.

"Must've chased that damned skritti across three or four nodes," he tells you excitedly as he sprays solvent onto the foam and bags the corpse. It kept staying a turn or two ahead of me the whole time - couldn't get a clean shot. Until it ran into you, I guess. And now my legs hurt and I've worked up an appetite," he flashes you a toothy smile. "So, dunno how long it's been for your shift, but... wanna do early lunch?"

A few minutes later you're both settling down in a slightly wider section of the tunnel, with just enough room to comfortably stretch out your legs.

"Do you always carry lunch for two?" you ask as Gresh hands you a wrapped, slightly soggy package from his pack and then grabs a second for himself. "Oh damn, is this from that kreygo place you showed me once?"

"Darn right it is. Still the best darned roast protein on the station. They were having a buy one, get one for half special, so I figured I'll pick up dinner as well."

"Shit, let me pay you back then."

Gresh waves you off.

"It'll be your treat next time. Anyway, how have you been, Elne? I keep meaning to call and catch up, but you know... stuff happens."

"Mmm," you nod, already biting into the thick, oily, vat-grown krego meat sandwich. Not the sauce you'd have gone with, but you weren't the kind of basic bitch who'd complain about free food. "You know how it is. Another day, another shitshow, another crisis to solve."

"And how's that going?"

"Came in to work today only to get told the whole power grid across Starboard was this close to failing. Just... boom. No lights, no air, nothing. But I found the problem, came up with a solution, and saved the day," you give the ysok a lofty look. "I'm a fucking hero, Gresh."

"Are ya now?" he raises an eyebrow at you.

"Fuck no," you burst out laughing. "They shut down some air scrubbers to keep the grid stable and now they're wasting the time this bought arguing over which actual solution will cause them the least grief. By evening we'll be having people getting them O deficiency headaches - probably in Belly, the poor bastards - and they'll still be arguing, most likely. Hey, wanna earn a quick few cred? Go buy a bunch of oxygen tanks and tomorrow you'll be flipping them at four hundred percent. But anyway, how's life on vermin patrol?"

"Oh, same old. Been fairly quiet since those darned fungi. But now that Barter's open for business again, I'm sure we'll be getting a whole passel of new and exciting critters to claw faces, piss battery acid, and spit flesh-melting neurotoxins."

"The usual then."

"Mmm."

(cont)

You eat your sandwiches while catching up, commiserating, and just shooting the shit. You've known Gresh for years at this point and he was one of the few people on Barter whose presence you considered anything more than tolerable. He had nearly twice your experience exploring the station's labyrinthine service tunnels, faced down countless bloodthirsty predators with nothing but his foam pellet gun, a mercy spike and raw grit, and yet somehow managed to cultivate a "take no shit, do no harm" attitude that you found, for lack of a better word... comforting to be around.

He was probably the closest thing to a friend you had in this place.

"Anyway, it's a good thing I ran into ya today, Elne," Gresh says as you're licking the last of the sauce of your fingers. "Cause I was going to ask ya something."

"I'm still not looking to get married, Gresh."

"Oh, fek off!" he huffs. "I was really drunk that night. And don't remember any of it either! Ya probably made it all up anyhow."

"Sure. Me and everyone who was at the bar that night. We all got together and decided to lie to you for laughs. Anyway, what's the question?"

Gresh continues to give you the side eye for a few seconds longer, pretending to be offended.

"Elne... yer an elph, right?"

"What fucking kind of question is that, Gresh?" you let out a laugh. "How long have you known me for?"

"Well it's not like ya ever went and got specific!" Gresh complains. "I mean, ya kinda look like one, but then I always thought elphs only eat grass and stuff."

"That's a bit racist, Gresh."

"And besides, it always pays to check. I mean, every time there's news about some new species being discovered, half the time it's another bunch of skinny freaks with pointy ears."

"Ok, that's definitely racist."

"But am I wrong?"

"Very, very racist."

"But am I wrong?"

You sigh.

"No, you're not wrong. Blame the First Great Elph Diaspora for scattering the species across most of the galaxy, where they went on to develop into genetically distinct- you know what, fuck the history lesson, why are you asking me this?"

"Well, ya heard about that noble what came on station a few cycles back, yeah?"

It's like someone suddenly poured reactor coolant into your veins.

"A noble?" you say slowly. "No, I haven't heard."

"For real? All of Barter's been buzzing about it. Like, saying she's quarter-blood at least. And how this means our reputation's improving, and how it's important to make a good impression and get her to buy lots of things."

"Of course," this was Barter after all.

"But thing is, that noble's not been doing a lot of buying or even browsing. She's mostly been holed up in one of them fancy places near the Rings. But she did put out word that she's offering ten thousand cred for anyone who can help her find the person she's looking for."

"How does that noble look - do you know by any chance?" you ask, beset by sudden sinking feeling.

(cont)

File: magibot2.png (93 KB, 450x450)

93 KB PNG

"Haven't seen her myself, mind" Gresh shrugs. "But people who did been saying she's all cold and regal, like them nobles usually are. Oh and that she has these really intense, red eyes."

You sigh. Deeply, dejectedly, resignedly.

"Fate is a stroppy bitch," you say.

Gresh looks at you, blinking in surprise.

"The heck did that come from?"

"Just thinking out loud. Don't pay me no mind," you wave your hand dismissively. "So who's this person that noble is looking for?"

"Well, that's the thing: it's supposed to be an elph, so of course people have been looking around for them, since come one, ten thou is ten thou. And so everyone quickly figured out that there aren't actually that many elphs on Barter. And them that are, mostly live up in that commune in 833. Only none of them ever hardly come out and especially now that people have started beating on their doors, they basically went into full lockdown."

"I mean yeah, I'd go into siege mode too if a bunch of Barterites showed up at my door and tried to kidnap my kin."

"Kidnap?" the ysok's eyebrows shoot up again. "Who said anything about kidnapping? The noble just wanted info."

"Because she is a noble, Gresh. And you said it yourself: Barter is trying to impress."

"So ya think that elph's actually in there?"

"I don't fucking know Gresh, it's not like I know everyone who lives in 833 by name."

"You don't? But you're all elphs."

"Extremely racist, Gresh. Besides, you haven't even told me what that elph's name is supposed to be.

"Oh, it was... feck, gimme a moment," Gresh digs through his backpack, finally fishing out a battered PCU, which he then wrangles for a few seconds, tapping on the cracked screen with greasy claws. "Oh, here it is, knew I put it down! It's... Maia Taris."

Well.

Shit.

Okay then.

Literally the last name you expected to hear. Now, or ever.

"Sound familiar?" Gresh scratches his nose. "Elne? Ya went awful quie-" he breaks off suddenly, his ears twitching. "Wait, do you hear that? I think there's something-"

And then you get your third biggest shock of the day - in approximately as many minutes - as you sense the unpleasant, jagged, painfully dissonant whine of restrained mana - and a four-legged, approximately fist-sized drone of some kind rounds the corner of the nearest junction, seemingly heading straight for you.

Fucking magitech. Of all things.

"What the heck?" Gresh exclaims, seeing the thing.

>"Don't just stand there, just fucking shoot it!"
>Covertly send a jolt down the cable it's going to cross and fry the evil little thing [1 Wyrd]
>Grab Gresh and run
>Just... fucking ignore it. And maybe it will ignore you. Who even said it's here for you?
>write-in

>>5822727

>Covertly send a jolt down the cable it's going to cross and fry the evil little thing [1 Wyrd]

Seems like we’re elf royalty boyos

>>5822727
>Grab Gresh and run

>>5822727
>>Grab Gresh and run

>>5822727
>>Covertly send a jolt down the cable it's going to cross and fry the evil little thing [1 Wyrd]

>>5822727
>Fry it and run.

>>5822727
>>Covertly send a jolt down the cable it's going to cross and fry the evil little thing [1 Wyrd]
>>Grab Gresh and run

>>5822727
>>Covertly send a jolt down the cable it's going to cross and fry the evil little thing [1 Wyrd]
I should have known that this was a lot of Mana and Wyrd capacity for a random nobody...so are we royalty or did we just piss off royalty?

>>5822727
>Covertly send a jolt down the cable it's going to cross and fry the evil little thing [1 Wyrd]

>>5823504
inb4 Maia being our mom or daughter

I'll call the vote here. Violence through conductivity wins the day.

While Gresh is still processing, you quickly trace the cables snaking across the floor back to the bundle you're sitting on. Then it's just a matter of lightly touching one, waiting till the drone goes to clamber over it...

Vis Bolt: 1 Wyrd spent

>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 26/34

There is a bright flash, a sharp crack of electric discharge, and when your vision clears, the drone is down on its "face", motionless. A quick look at it through your special vision confirms that its electric systems are completely dead.

"The fek just happened?" Gresh wanders up for a closer look.

"Don't touch it!" you say quickly. "And don't step on that cable either," you warn, causing your friend to quickly hop sideways to get clear. "Isolation must've been worn down - see that scorch mark? Damned thing stepped on it, maybe pierced the rest of the way through and zap!"

You feel a bit bad lying to him this blatantly, but there are some things about you that you try not to reveal to anyone. It's safer that way.

"Well ain't that something," Gresh snorts quietly. "What the heck even was that thing, Elne? It looked like it was coming straight for us."

"Trouble," you make a face. "Big trouble."

"What? For us?" he gives you a worried look.

"For someone, certainly. That drone? That's magitech, Gresh."

"Fek me..." he slumps visibly. "Wait, how can you tell?"

"Well, see that little thing at the top, looks a bit like a folding fan? That's a mana siphon. Don't you have briefings on that stuff over in your department? ProfSec sends us an officer every couple of years to do a refresher for the techs."

"Oh yeah," Gresh scratches his chin. "Think we're due for one next month. Yeah, yeah, they mostly show us images of glowy bits or stuff like that siphon thingie and say..."

"...to stay the fuck away?" you finish for him.

"An call a disposal unit," he nods.

"And that's exactly what we should do," you put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's back up a bit, at least. Even if its electrics are fried, the magic bits aren't. And might have a self defense mechanism. Flesh melting spells. Insanity beams or some shit. A curse to make your dick fall off."

"Fek me..." Gresh does not resist being led off.

You don't actually think the drone is dangerous anymore - the damage to its electrics also seems to have broken the magic bits. At least, you're no longer getting the painful sensation from simply looking at it. But caution was still advisable. Magic was already so much bullshit and constraining it with technology broke it in unpredictable and often dangerous ways. There was a reason magitech was banned on Barter in the most absolute possible way, despite the kind of money it could bring in. And not just banned in a pay a fine and get your shit confiscated way, but banned in a get your ass blasted out the nearest airlock no questions asked kind of way. Merging technology with magic simply wasn't meant to work.

(cont)

"Visitors, you think?" Gresh asks once you put a corner between you and the dead drone.

"Who else?" you shrug. "Ain't no one here making or buying that kind of shit."

"What do you think it was doing here?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know? Shit like this happens every time Barter makes a stop. Always get a bunch of gangs, orgs, and spooks coming here, making a fucking mess running their hustles. Not knowing the rules and shit. Who cares anyway, let ProfSec worry about it. Oh, fuck!" you bang your fist against the wall in sudden frustration.

"What?"

"If we call the disposal unit, they're gonna want a fucking statement. Might even do a full interrogation if they're feeling bored. And that's gonna take hours. I'm on a job, Gresh," you explain. "ExtSec commission."

"Don't wanna lose that fat bonus, eh?" he nods knowingly. "Don't worry about it. I'll make the call. Tell them I was by myself."

"Damn, you'd do that for me, Gresh?"

"I mean, what happened? Some stupid thing came clanking around a corner, stepped on a cable and got fried. What does it matter if one person saw it or two. But hey," he points, "now ya definitely owe me. Not just a sandwich but a whole meal. Maybe even in one of those fancier places, eh? Treat me to something nice with all that cred ExtSec is paying ya."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say this is your way of asking me out on a date," you flash him a coy smile.

"Oh fek off!" He swats at you with a cross expression - though his eyes are twinkling. "Ya gonna be that way, I might suffer an inexplicable memory resurgence thing in the middle of making my statement, suddenly remember ya were right there beside me!"

"Fine, fine, I'm sorry. No more teasing. And Gresh? Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, I already said not to worry about it. Just watch yerself crawling around here, yeah? There might be more of those things around, for all we know."

" If I see one, I'll just fucking run."

"Solid plan," he nods. "Oh yeah, and let me know if you hear something about that Maia Taris person."

"Yeah, sure," you say with considerably less enthusiasm.

"Hey, if anything comes of it, I'll even share the reward with ya, yeah? Ya know I wouldn't screw ya on that."

"Yeah, I know. But Gresh? Be careful around nobles, yeah? Best not to mess around with them at all, to be honest."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Cause they're all fucked in the head."

Gresh blinks.

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"I mean that when they look at people, they don't see people. They see this," you bend your head down and pat the back of your neck."

"What?" your friend blinks again.

(cont)

"It's how they're raised, yeah? From the moment they can stand upright, everyone's always bowing to them, everywhere they go. The first thing they see of every person they meet is the back of their neck. Day after day, year after year as they grow. And that kind of thing would fuck with anyone's head, don't you think?"

"Well, darn, Elne," Gresh scratches the back of his head. "Thanks for letting me know, I guess? If I ever need to meet a noble, I'll now know which part to wash the most."

"I'm being serious here, Gresh," you scoff. "A noble sees people bow down to them enough times, he finally starts thinking it's just the natural way of things. That seeing the back of your neck is just something he's owed. That everyone should submit to him simply cause he exists."

"Well, ain't that just how it is, thought?" Gresh shrugs. "Them nobles just are better than other people, aren't they? I mean, they conquered the Core Worlds, they've got their magic, they got their dragon blood..."

"Plenty of people who have magic and aren't noble," you point out. "And the dragon blood just fucks with their heads worse. Gives them urges and shit. I really mean it: you should keep well clear of nobles whenever you can, Gresh. It's almost never worth the risk."

"Uh, sure, I'll keep that in mind," Gresh shrugs uncertainly. "But ya know... having ten thou would feel pretty nice. And I reckon I know how to talk nice to my social superiors and stuff. I ain't been finessing my section managers for years for nothing, ya know?" he chuckles.

And you sigh softly and drop the matter. Because to keep pushing would just mean making yourself look increasingly unhinged.

What will be, will be, and sometimes that's all there can be.

"Sure thing. Thanks again for covering for me, Gresh. Was good seeing you."

"Same. Just give me that call if ya hear anything, yeah? And just call more often in general, ya unsocial bint!"

"If I don't forget," you smile. "See you around, you smelly rat."

And so you part ways, in the dark, grimy maintenance duct.

(cont)

It takes you another two hours to track down the rogue connection. It turns out to be some minor workshop trying to lower the running costs on their brand new microfab. You call it in, wait for the reinforced boot brigade to roll in, then lead the tech that arrived with it to the illegal split so that he can confirm everything and sign off on you having done your job. You leave him to handle the actual repairs, finally get out of the ducts, and reflexively check your PCU to find you've gotten a couple of messages asking you to call in once you're done.

"Hey, Elne," Pekk's familiar voice answers you call. "What's up?"

"First off, what are our glorious leaders doing? Still arguing? And how long till we all have to break out the rebreathers?"

"Oh, no, that's done, all scrubbers are back on."

"Really?" you ask with genuine surprise. But that means... "Did they actually turn off the trams?"

"Yeah, Elne, they turned off the trams."

"Oh fucking wow," you can't help but laugh. "So they actually went with the sensible option. Amazing."

Also meaning the least politically damaging option, the fucking cowards. Gotta preserve the status quo no matter what.

"Anyway, that ExtSec job is done, right Elne?" there is a faint note of worry in Pekk's voice. "Completed, signed off on, ExtSec's happy and stuff?"

"What is this about, Pekk? What's going on?"

"Uh, I mean..." Pekk stammers nervously. "It's just that Kou said not to tell you anything so that you won't get distracted from-"

"Yeah, it's done, Pekk. I did the job. Now tell me what you were gonna tell me."

"Uh, well... your hab box's been broken into, apparently. Ransacked," the ysok admits nervously. "Since EnMan's paying for it, they sent us the report from the patrol that came through your block. So uh... yeah. Kou didn't want you getting distracted from the job. Sorry," he adds in an apologetic whisper."

You exhale slowly and carefully, clenching and unclenching your first.

"No, I understand. It's fine. Tell Kou his mother was a bottom-dwelling worm."

"I don't think I'll do that, Elne. Kou also said you can take the rest of the shift off to deal with that. Paid."

"I take back what I said about his mother. She was a classy lady and a saint."

"He also wants you to stay out of HQ for the rest of the cycle. That guy from Command is still here and he wasn't happy about how things went, so he's doing a surprise audit. Things are a bit... tense right now."

"Gotcha. Will do. Take care, Pekk."

"You too, Elne."

(cont)

You end the call and sink back against the nearest wall, feeling the first dull thuds of an oncoming migraine, along with the rising burn of twin angers - one new and one you thought long buried.

You have no doubt that it was Valsen's goons who broke into your apartment. Not that you had anything of value there and work would pay to have most of it replaced... but it was still a clear and unapologetic provocation. He couldn't have you dragged in front of him, so he decided to make you come on your own.

And on the other hand, there was the noble, arriving on Barter out of nowhere and breaking this sanctuary you found among the stars with a single name: Maia Taris. A name that you considered long dead and buried. A name that no one, absolutely no one in this entire galaxy had any right to know.

Well, no, let's give due to sheer probability: among the quadrillions of lifeforms across hundreds of thousands of worlds, there must've been another Maia Taris. Hells, there could be dozens , for all you know.

But to come looking for that name here? On a transient, unimportant station skirting the peripheries of the Core Worlds? Inhabited by a mere fifty thousand souls? That defied all probability. It was almost... fate.

Events are accelerating, pulling you along into the gravity well of inevitability. You already know who the woman from your visions is - which means the sword must be Valsen. The only real choice is in which vision you'll confront first - though, by necessity, this will mean also mean it will influence the other.

Being passive or evading those visions may seem like an option. But from experience - far too much experience - you know that there is no escaping them. Plausibility will bend itself into a pretzel to make them happen. And the collateral damage this causes may be... considerable.

Because Fate is a stroppy bitch.

>Confront the noble first. Despite the anger this will provoke
>Confront Valsen first. Work off some steam by letting your knuckles dance on his face


No images for the update cause I was basically rushing to get it posted before leaving for work. Also the reason for any spelling or grammatical errors. My apologies

>>5824370
>Valsen

>>5824370

>Confront Valsen first. Work off some steam by letting your knuckles dance on his face.

Seems like we should burn off our youthful indiscretions now

>>5824370
>>Confront Valsen first. Work off some steam by letting your knuckles dance on his face

>>5824370
>Confront the noble first. Despite the anger this will provoke

>>5824370
>>Confront Valsen first. Work off some steam by letting your knuckles dance on his face

I will call the vote here. Valsen will know exactly what hit him, but he probably won't like it.

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Valsen - you decide after a brief internal debate. It's a been a long, tiring, and annoying day full of bullshit and unwelcome news. There is a lot of anger and frustration stewing inside you right now, and quite frankly you don't trust yourself to stay calm if forced to interact with a noble. And with how nobles are, simply not groveling hard enough can be seen as a punishable show of disrespect, never mind actually daring to get aggressive with one.

A more cowardly choice perhaps, but also the more sensible one. Hardly anyone will care if you beat the shit out of him first to work off some of that anger.

You took the effort necessary to track down his hideout after he made it clear he wasn't going to drop the recruitment attempts. Not his home, mind - you were playing by Barter rules even if he wasn't - but the rusting, hollowed out shell of an ancient cargo runner down in the Belly, where he would gather the sad bunch of bastards he was trying to shape into a coven.

Node 252 is up in the "top" half of Barter, so you have quite some distance to cover, but you can probably use zip-shafts for most of the way - extremely long, mostly straight corridors excluded from the station's gravity generation field and lined with constantly running conveyor belts equipped with handholds. A relatively low-cost solution to letting people cross the literal kilometers of space that Barter occupied. However, also a solution that has run its course due to the multiple new stress points each new zip-shaft created within the station's hull. The tram lines were supposed to be a more centralized, high-capacity solution to the problem, but, well... you were right there to witness how that went.

However, as head through the corridors toward the nearest shaft, you catch that unpleasant sensation you've felt back with Gresh before: constrained mana.

Magitech.

It lasts for all of a second before you turn the corner you were already taking. But as you keep walking, it returns a short while later.

You reach the zip-shaft, but instead of immediately diving into zero-g, you approach one of the food stalls that inevitably pop up in high traffic areas and take some time deliberating over which flavor drink to purchase, making conversation with the vendor while casually glancing around the area.

The little bastard is using some sort of cloaking technology, but you spot the energy it puts out easily enough with your enhanced sight. Sure enough, it's almost identical to the drone you encountered in 252. And you're just as certain that it's looking at you.

Any hope of what you told Gresh being true - that it was just a coincidental encounter with someone pursuing some unrelated agenda - dies a quiet, ignoble death.

Alright, you fucker - you decide, tossing the vendor his creds. Let's see if you can keep up with me.

(cont)

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You down the drink in three gulps, hand back the reusable container, and dive into the zip-shaft. Your stomach churns slightly, the liquid you just ingested not quite settled, but you suppress the queasiness and grab the nearest handhold as it passes you by, zooming off down the shaft.

Only instead of taking it all the way down like you originally planned, you instead take a side shaft a third of the way down, hit a micrograv transfer platform, dive into another shaft, which you ride all the way to the end, walk through a commercial concourse, filled with visitors gawking at wares and various merchants loudly shilling them, then take a particularly long zip-ride that takes you almost all the way to the outer hull. From where you board a shuttle - hey, you're still technically on the clock - heading for the industrial areas on the outer edge of the Belly.

The drop in air quality is apparent the moment you step out of the shuttle. Despite Atmosphere's best efforts to provide Barter with at least a semi-functional air circulation system, the sheer size and complexity of the station and the simple nature of gravity, carbon monoxide, along with a mixture of various other toxic gasses would always flow downward, toward the "bottom" of its gravity field. Where it would pool and gather before finally making its way into the overworked scrubbers and filters. And today, the air seems to be particularly heavy - the consequence of your persuasiveness from earlier in the day, no doubt. It's bad enough that you dig through your toolbag and pull out the air sampler, which you hang from your belt. After a minute or so of calibrating and testing, it gives a long beep and flashes a dull yellow. Tolerable - if barely.

More importantly, as you make your way deeper into the Belly, you pick up no further signs of magitech. It seems you have lost your stalker. Though that may be temporary. Magic always has been a bunch of bullshit, typically only able to be countered with more magic. And, for the current you, doing so would only create more problems than it would solve. Best you can hope for is that whoever's been spreading those bots around didn't have enough of them to infiltrate all of Barter and had to pick and choose which areas to focus on. Magitech was rather expensive, after all.

There is little foot traffic down in the Belly. Bad air keeps away all but those who need to be here for one reason or another and those few people who pass you - mostly sapients of races with lower O requirements - don't give you a second look. You're still in your overalls, carrying a toolbag with Energy Management's emblem on the front. Just another field tech sent into Barter's armpit to deal with some broken connection.

(cont)

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The corridors gradually become darker and grimier, the faded or completely burned out lights unable to keep back the encroaching shadows. The air grows even more stale and heavy, and the sampler starts giving out regular warning beeps, the light of its display shifting to orange. The background thrum of machinery and station systems grows faint before fading completely, leaving only the sound of your footsteps as you enter the abandoned sections - nodes that, for one reason or another, have been deemed unfit for any purpose or viable for restoration, but have become lodged too deeply within Barter's structure to be jettisoned or dismantled.

In theory, access to an abandoned node should be sealed off and it usually is - for a time. People are people after all, and there will always be those who will seek privacy. Debtors seeking to escape a lifetime of indentured work. Traders wanting to conduct the kind of business that no bribe, no matter how large, would cause ProfSec to look the other way. People who boarded Barter and became passengers expecting one thing only to find it was something different, but decided to still try to live out their own reality in the only place they could: religious cultists, political extremists, and fringe ideologues of countless stripes. They find these abandoned spaces, break the seals, and simply move in.

Valsen belonged to that last group. A human from one of the more conservative Core Worlds, it was the typical story of a psion being shunned for his powers by his family and community, falling in with the wrong sort of mentor, and building an identity around the psionically gifted being the next step in evolution of sapient life. Bitterness, insecurity, and a desire to show them all, all wrapped in a single package. But he had some charisma and, from what you've been able to gather, he either learned the Sensing path or had a subordinate with that talent, cause he was able to discover those with latent psionic talents among Barter's population, awaken them, and recruit those people into his coven with the typical promises of power, wealth, and a better life. It also had to be the way he discovered you were a psion - you were always careful about how and when you used your powers, after all, mostly sticking to the ones that didn't manifest any obvious physical phenomena. Frying that drone earlier was just about as close you dared to approach being ostentatious.

Come to think of it, wonder what method those things are using to track you? A mostly academic question - you can think of several, but none of them could be blocked without using magic yourself.

(cont)

The lights have given out awhile ago, though that's not much bother for you, of course. But you did turn off and put away the sampler and softened your steps to not give up your approach to anyone - or anything - that may be lurking in the dark ahead. You're following a single burning line of energy - a cable that should, by rights, be dead, but isn't. It becomes the thread that guides you through the labyrinthine, rusting passages of assimilated, forgotten voidships.

Finally the cable leads you to a closed door. And approaching it, you're able to tell that there are things active on the other side. A light. A heater. The ordered, coordinated rectangle of what you recognize as some kind of switchboard.

And three people, seated, seemingly around a table given their relative positions.

Guards. Set out specifically to wait for you, if you allow yourself this smidgeon of self-importance.

There probably is another entrance to this node, but it would mean working your way around through the neighboring nodes - without a live cable to guide your way. And you reckon that one would be guarded as well. And if you backed up and looked around really hard, you could probably find a vent or maintenance duct to try and sneak past them... but it was just as likely to be blocked off, gummed up with some smelly gunk, or home to a colony of hull rats - or something worse. And frankly, you've had your fill of crawling around in tight spaces for one day.

So fuck it, you're taking the direct route.

>A quick but firm beatdown just to take the fight out of them, then keep going. You're here for Valsen, not his goons
>Nah, what have these guys done exactly to deserve violence from you? Had a shitty life? Listened to some charismatic twat who promised them the world? Just slap them around a bit, and maybe let them know there's a better way
>write-in

>>5825749

>Nah, what have these guys done exactly to deserve violence from you? Had a shitty life? Listened to some charismatic twat who promised them the world? Just slap them around a bit, and maybe let them know there's a better way.

Maybe offer to buy them off before knocking them around?

>>5825749
>>Nah, what have these guys done exactly to deserve violence from you? Had a shitty life? Listened to some charismatic twat who promised them the world? Just slap them around a bit, and maybe let them know there's a better way

>>5825749
>A quick but firm beatdown just to take the fight out of them, then keep going. You're here for Valsen, not his goons
Let’s not waste time.

>>5825749
>Slap em around and let them know this isnt the way it has to be.

>>5825749
>A quick but firm beatdown just to take the fight out of them, then keep going. You're here for Valsen, not his goons

I'll call the vote here. You'll try to be nice.

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On the other hand... what did those guys inside do to deserve a beating from you, exactly? Made a few bad choices? Believed the words of some charismatic twat who promised them the world? Valsen is the one you really want. You can't, in good conscience, just beat this lot down. At least not without offering them an alternative first.

But doing so may require an unconventional approach.

First you take a moment to refocus and steady your mind, at the same time letting tension bleed from your body. Cause if you step in there looking like you want a fight, that's all you're going to get.

Then you listen carefully at the door, picking up muffled chatter from within. They seem relaxed. Distracted. Preoccupied with a game of some sort. That is ideal. You wait like this for a few minutes, getting familiar with the rhythm of their conversation, the rise and fall of voices as rounds are won and lost.

Then, choosing the moment when the voices drastically jump in volume, with one in particular rising above the others, you send a tiny jolt through the door's panel to release the magnetic lock, slide it open, allowing the full force of the argument to briefly spill out into the corridor, slip inside, and immediately close it behind you.

Past the door is what once used to be a moderately roomy airlock, now converted into a guardroom of sorts. But what immediately draws attention is a pershala and an ogrot quite literally butting heads and yelling at each other over a table littered with dice, hex nuts, and opened beer bottles, even as a tired looking human tries to push them apart and mediate. They're so absorbed in their screaming match over cheating and loaded dice that they genuinely don't even notice you for the first few seconds.

At least, not until you kick up one of the empty bottle crates lying around, pull it up to the table in place of a chair, and sit down. Causing the argument to immediately cease as three pairs of eyes stare at you in complete shock.

"Journey, right?" you nod toward the dice with the distinctive pictograms on the faces. "I've got time for a few rounds. Using my own set is fine? I always carry it around just in case," you grab an unopened beer from the crate under the table, pop the cap, and take a swig while dropping a couple cred on the table. "Hey, what's with those expressions?" you cock your head to one side. "You didn't think I'm the kind of shitheel to just grab a beer someone else bought without paying for it, did you? That's not how we do things on Barter."

The three men finally unfreeze, shaking off the initial shock. The ogrot, an unreasonably tall tower of muscle, is the first to speak, leaning forward to loom over you.

"Who the FUCK-"

"It's her!" the human yells out, scrambling for a photo lying on the table - before he picks it up, you're able to see the same mop of flax hair that you see in the mirror every day. "Valsen said she'd be coming! It's Elne!"

(cont)

"Huh? That's her?" the ogrot glances at the human before turning back to you. "Damn, the way Valsen's been talking her up, I expected someone impressive. She don't really look like much."

"Some days I barely look like anything at all," you nod pleasantly and take another swig. "Meanwhile you three look like a reasonable lot. So how do you end up working for a guy like Valsen?"

While the other two are still thrown off by your sudden appearance, the ogrot decides on a course of action remarkably quickly. Without wasting breath on an answer, he steps around the table, reaching for you with a meaty, calloused hand.

Probably had some experience as a professional goon before arriving on Barter. Which was a very stereotypical thing for an ogrot to be, but hey, stereotypes are stereotypes reason. And really, not engaging with you and simply dragging you in front of Valsen was probably the objectively correct course of action.

The mistake he's making, of course, is that he's letting physical appearance dictate his approach. He may have fifty-sixty centimeters and a hundred kilograms on you, but that's still no reason to step forward this casually or throw off his balance by overextending this much.

Remaining seated, you slide one foot forward to brace yourself. Then you grab the ogrot's wrist and yank it toward you, while making a low kick against the shin of the leg he's bringing forward, shifting it inward just as he's about to place his foot on the floor.

His balance broken completely, the orange-skinned sapient crashes to the floor beside you with a very surprised expression.

You take a quick swig of beer, turn in your seat, shift the foot your bracing with behind you, hook the other under the ogrot's stomach and kick out - catapulting him across the room and into the wall.

A telltale, out of place breeze tussles your hair and you look sharply at the other two - the pershala! You toss the half-full beer bottle at him. The see-through polymer isn't nearly as heavy as glass would be, but you still hit him square in the face, fouling his concentration and the kinetic blast he was about to throw your way.

"Cut it out, dumbass!" you admonish sharply, but have your attention drawn back to the ogrot as he launches himself at you with an angry roar.

Which is the main problem with fighting someone without trying to hurt them too much - they rarely realize just how badly they're outmatched.

(cont)

You leap forward, as if to meet the ogrot directly and you see his expression turn triumphant - still confident that he can win a direct confrontation. But instead you go low, grabbing his wrist again as a wild haymaker scythes over your head. Grabbing his belt with your other hand, you yank back and up, using his own momentum to send him flying over your shoulder.

His back slams into the floor, the impact seeming to rock the whole room. The other two men freeze in complete shock again upon the sight of their massive friend being toppled. Come on, it's just basic physics, guys. Like yeah, you're stronger than you look, but that strength's meaningless if you can't brace yourself properly. The ogrot should've known you'd want to stay low to the ground.

But this has gone on for too long already, so instead of letting go of the hand, you adjust your grip and, before your opponent recovers fully from being slammed into the ground, you interlace the fingers of your other hand with his and push forward, bending them back.

And back.

And back.

Until the ogrot cries out in pain and surprise, instinctively trying to yank his arm back. But your grip on his wrist is absolute, your arm simply not budging. And you continue to bend his fingers back further and further, feeling bone straining against the skin, the digits just about ready to pop out of their sockets, with the large sapient now writhing and whimpering in pain and fear as he uselessly tries to break your grip.

And that's where you stop and stay - right at the edge of actual injury.

"Five to six weeks for dislocated fingers to heal," you declare impassively. "Another four or so to regain full mobility. Ain't much work you'll be able to do until then. And by then Barter might be back in transit, so less work to go around everywhere. And meanwhile, the bills just gonna keep piling up. You got family to support you? Good friends to borrow from?" you spare a glance toward the other two before giving the ogrot a hard look. "And if you do, you really wanna be a burden on them? You wanna keep fighting?"

Abruptly, you let go of his hand - and he yanks it back, cradling it protectively on instinct.

(cont)

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"Cause me, I don't wanna keep fighting," you shrug, walking back to pick the fallen crate back up and reclaim it as your seat. "Cause I don't wanna fuck with someone's money like that. Do I look like the kind of shitheel who'd go around making people's lives harder? Your nose alright, by the way?" you direct the question at the pershala, who has a trickle of blood dripping down from his flat, broad, faintly feline nose. "Not broken or anything, right? Sorry about the bottle, but like, what the fuck were you thinking? I mean, you're there and I was here, and what's between us?" you motion at the table. "You try and blast me, all this shit goes flying everywhere. Yeah, you hit me, maybe, but you also hit big guy over there, you spill the beer, and you send a bunch of those hex nuts into that switchboard behind me. Hit the wrong thing and you killed power to the whole node, judging by the setup you've got here. And I should know," you tap the logo on your toolbag. "So what were you thinking?"

"I... uh..." the felinid stammers. "I didn't mean, uh... I didn't think-"

"I know you didn't," you agree. "But you should. You really should think about things like that before you do them. Because that power you have now - it can cause a lot of grief if you use it without thinking, whether you mean it or not. Anyway, here," you toss him a roll of gauze from your standard issue first aid kit. "Stick a piece of that up your nostril, tilt your head back, the bleeding should stop in a couple minutes. Did any beer spill on you? I hope not, it smells like piss."

"What do you want?" the human, who has made no real moves during the fight, finally speaks up. "You just showed you can beat all of us up easy, so what else do you want? An apology? It's Valsen who wants you here and you probably know this. Zeeg was just doing as we were told."

"Valsen told you to fight me?"

"To bring you to him, if you showed up," the ogrot called Zeeg rumbles behind you, picking himself up from the floor. His voice and demeanor are both a lot more subdued, and he still keeps the hand close to his body.

"I'll go see Valsen when I feel like it," you shrug. "As for what I want right now, I already told you: I want to roll some dice with you guys."

Everyone simply stares at you for a few long seconds.

"Why?" the human finally asks.

"Cause I haven't had a chance in awhile and I feel like having a game or two. Do I need a better reason than that? Does anyone?" you ask innocently. "But you know what, fine, I can see how you wouldn't care much to have a friendly game with a stranger. So tell you what - how about we make it a proper game. With actual stakes."

It's cute how all three instantly tense up. Good. Means there's something actually knocking around inside those noggins. Maybe it's even enough to make them see sense.

"What stakes?" the human asks. "Cred?"

(cont)

"Oh, nothing boring like that," you smile, leaning forward slightly. "I'm thinking, if you win, I let you lead me to Valsen and act like you actually caught me. That should be worth something, right? A chance to impress your leader?"

"And what if you win?"

You smile gets a bit wider.

"Oh, nothing complicated. You just tell me the names of the bastards who broke into my home."

"Wasn't us-"
"It was Valsen's-"
"Ain't no snitch-"

They all speak simultaneously and simultaneously break off to stare at one another.

"See, I told you-"
"We tried telling him-"
"Ain't no snitch."

A lot of nervousness. Unease. Guilty glances. So they still know right from wrong. Good.

"Hey, it's not like I'm gonna beat those guys to a pulp or anything, yeah?" you talk over the next wave of protests. "But there's rules and then there's rules, yeah? And do you really want to be covering for the kind of shitheel who'll fuck with a person's home?"

"Ain't no snitch," Zeeg repeats stubbornly - though he's sounding a lot less certain.

"Look, everyone told Valsen this was a bad idea," the pershala admits. "But he said this was the only way to get you to come to him. Even then, no one would do it until he promised he'd reimburse you for any losses. So it's not like those guys who've done it even wanted to do it."

"But they still went and did it," you say, your voice and expression flat. "And now I have a bunch of paperwork to deal with and will have to pay for a sleep pod. Most likely at visitor prices."

Everyone winces at that. Price differences for common goods and services between Barter in transit and Barter in orbit could be absolutely wild.

"But fine, if you don't wanna say, you don't wanna say. Ain't gonna make you snitches," you smile at Zeeg and he and the others relax - at least until hearing the thing you say next. "Besides, if Valsen wants me that badly, he'll probably just tell me who did it if I ask, right? What do you think - he the type to sell out his own guys? Eh, don't bother answering," you wave a dismissive hand, taking careful note of how no one immediately denied your accusations. Fine, how this as a stake: if I win, you lot fuck off for the day."

"What?" the human blinks.

"You just leave. You know, through that door," you motion toward the entrance you used. "I don't know how things will go with Valsen, yeah? We might come to blows and shit. And if that happens, I don't want you guys getting in my way anymore. So if I win the game, you just leave and don't come back till tomorrow, fair?"

They share more glances between one another. But the prospect of fighting against you again apparently isn't all that appealing.

(cont)

"Rules?" the human finally asks.

"Standard. But to not drag it out, let's say, twenty tokens per player? Two minimum for first bid, one to raise. If it comes down to two people, prices double. It's three against one, so if I go bust first, that's your win, and mine only if I run all three of you dry. Fair?"

A bit uneasily, but everyone nods in agreement and settles down around the table. Everyone grabs their dice, you pull out your own set, and the human divvies out token. And then you begin.

For the first couple of rounds you just make casual small talk, finding out small personal details about the other players. Zeeg, predictably, works in one of the cargo rings, unloading containers for distribution. The pershala is called Virric and works at a gunsmith, though as a low ranked employee, mostly cutting metal sheets for casings and only recently working his way up to helping press bullets. The human is named Gavin and similarly does low level work assembling and soldering various electric components for drones, fliers, and road vehicles. Gavin supports two kids and is trying to earn enough to get a cybernetic replacement arm for his wife so that she can also return to work. Virric is part of a pershala commune who pool resources together to rent a whole section of a node - which you know can get very expensive, very fast. Zeeg mutters something about having "hobbies and stuff".

By the start of the fourth round you've lost a bit more than you won, sitting on sixteen tokens. Gavin is in the most dire straits with nine remaining, while Zeeg has apparently forgotten he's supposed to be part of a team and has taken a commanding lead with thirty one.

And you decide it's time to properly begin your attack.

>Continue to undermine their confidence in Valsen as a leader. Dig away at his methods, question his motives, point out that he probably doesn't even have a plan.
>Like a true Barterite, approach this from a financial perspective. Is Valsen even paying them? Or are they sitting here in the ass-end of the station completely for free? Wouldn't they rather be picking up extra work?
>Go into the whole topic of psionics. Why are they hiding it? Do they know Command actually recruits psions and gives them Crew status? Why would they choose Valsen over that?
>write-in

>>5827925
>>Like a true Barterite, approach this from a financial perspective. Is Valsen even paying them? Or are they sitting here in the ass-end of the station completely for free? Wouldn't they rather be picking up extra work?

>>5827925
>>Continue to undermine their confidence in Valsen as a leader. Dig away at his methods, question his motives, point out that he probably doesn't even have a plan.

>>5827925
>Go into the whole topic of psionics. Why are they hiding it? Do they know Command actually recruits psions and gives them Crew status? Why would they choose Valsen over that?

>>5827925
>>Continue to undermine their confidence in Valsen as a leader. Dig away at his methods, question his motives, point out that he probably doesn't even have a plan.

>>5827925
>Continue to undermine their confidence in Valsen as a leader. Dig away at his methods, question his motives, point out that he probably doesn't even have a plan.

>>5827925
>Like a true Barterite, approach this from a financial perspective. Is Valsen even paying them? Or are they sitting here in the ass-end of the station completely for free? Wouldn't they rather be picking up extra work?

>>5828130
>>5828165
>>5828292
I will call the vote here. You will focus on convincing them Valsen's a shitheel, though other options may get a brief mention.

>>5829030
QM?

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Apologies for disappearing, a combination of heavy workload and insomnia kept me from writing

You lift the cup and make a face as it reveals two Travelers and two Guiding Stars. Still, two pairs is two pairs, even if they're low value ones.

"Rolling three," you add a token to the pile.

"Rolling five."

"Rolling three."

"Rolling seven," Gavin's luck is almost impressive in how bad it's been so far. Or maybe he's just bad at Journey.

There is a rattle of dice being shaken around in their cups.

"So what's it like working for Valsen?" you ask abruptly when everyone slams down their cups.

There is an immediate and palpable jump in tension in the room.

"I mean, the guy did ransack my home," you shrug in the face of three wary gazes. "Even if he actually does pay back for the damage, it's still a pretty shit thing to do, yeah? So I figured I'd ask - does he do that kind of thing often?. Oh, and rolling two," another nut joins the pile.

"First time he went that far..." Virrir mutters uncomfortably.

"But he pushed things before, from the way you say it," you press. "Harassed people about joining? Pressured them? Maybe... coerced them?"

"Dunno 'bout that," Zeeg rumbles. "Ain't heard nothing certain. Rolling one."

"But you heard things," you insist. "And that was the rep Valsen was getting. And now Valsen will get a rep for breaking into people's homes. And here's the thing: you're with him. So his rep is your rep, yeah? Doesn't even matter who specifically did it, what their names are. What's important is that they're Valsen's people. That's what everyone will say from now on: Valsen's people go around breaking into homes."

The expressions of the three other players turn distinctly sour and suddenly there is a lot of rattling of dice.

"And if I'm to join with Valsen like he wants, that means making his rep my rep. And from where I'm standing, his rep is kinda shit. So what I'm asking is: where's the worth? What do I get out of it? Calling it," you push three tokens into the pile.

"Cede."

"Cede."

"Match," Zeeg pushes his tokens across. "Rolling one."

"Valsen taught us things," Gavin says quietly. "Like, you know. Psionics," the last word barely rates above a whisper.

"He told us we have a very special talent," Virrir supports him. "That we deserve better than what we have."

"Four Fates, three Starships," Zeeg grunts, revealing his dice. "Show yours."

"I'll be honest, I dunno if that does it for me," you shrug. "I don't think Valsen can teach me anything I want. And I'm fairly happy with what I have. So no, I just don't see the worth in trashing my rep like that."

"You'll have to talk to Valsen," Gavin insists. "I'm sure he can offer you something you want."

"Show your dice," Zeeg repeats.

(cont)

"And let's say he does. Will you guys be fine with that? Cause it will have to be a lot more than what you seem to be getting. And he's started recruiting when, two, three months ago? That's a fair bit of time spent proving yourself, earning your way up... you'd be fine with someone like me just showing up and leaping ahead of everyone else?"

A telling silence from two of them. And the ogrot leaning forward with an annoyed snort.

"Show. Your. Dice. OH FUCK YOU!" he explodes a moment later. "Fucking Travelers too!"

"Six of a kind is six of a kind," you shrug, collecting the winnings. Suddenly you're up to 38 tokens and firmly in first place, while Gavin is in danger of being eliminated within two rounds, at most unless he can miracle up a win.

"So how does Valsen get you what you deserve?" you ask, looking at Virrir. "Does he have a work plan?"

"A what?" the pershala blinks.

"I mean, you know how you go to work and your boss tells you: 'here's the calibers we're making today and in what amounts.' And so you know how to set the machine and how many sheets you'll need to cut. Or Gavin here - you also get a daily worksheet, don't you? You check if it's shit you know how to make and then just go and get started, right? There is a plan, you know what you're doing, there is a clear endpoint. Does Valsen do anything like that?"

"Not... really," Virrir admits slowly. "There is a plan..."

"But he says he can't just share it openly," Gavin jumps in. "Cause if Command learns about it, they'll move to stop us before we're ready."

"So he doesn't trust you?"

"Uh, it's not that-"

"Hey, are we going to fucking roll the dice or just sit here and yap?" Zeeg demands.

"Just making conversation," you shrug with a smile and pick up the cup. "You in a hurry or something?"

"His shift starts in two hours," Gavin offers. "And it's an hour from here to the Rings using zip-shafts."

"No shuttle plan?"

"Too expensive," Zeeg snorts.

"And he's too bulky for most of them anyway," Virrir adds with a small smile. "Broke a seat the last time he rode one. I think he's still paying it off."

"Fuck you, catman," Zeeg snorts. "It's just discrimination, it fucking is. They're looking to keep down anyone taller than 180."

"Speaking of - how well does Valsen pay?"

Your question is met with looks of almost shameful consternation.

"Well..."

"Uh..."

"I'm learning to punch people by just thinkin' 'bout it," Zeeg offers an actual cogent argument. "That's gotta be worth something, right?"

"Yeah, he's been teaching us," the others are quick to nod along.

"It's the first part of his plan," Gavin adds. "He says we need to bide our time, learn, and gather strength for now."

You rattle some dice, making a show of thinking things over for a couple of rolls.

(cont)

"But what if there's nothing Valsen can teach me?" you ask while staring thoughtfully at three pairs that absolutely won't win you anything this round. "And what if I don't want to give up my free time to sit around at his beck and call?"

"Well then that's your fucking problem, ain't it?" Zeeg snarls unexpectedly. "You say you want to play dice, but all you've been doing is sitting here and talking lots of shit."

"I told you - I want to know what I'm getting into," you shrug calmly. "I don't do blind jumps, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," the ogrot frowns. "But it's almost like... like you're trying to find fault with shit. Like you're trying real hard to make Valsen the bad guy."

Well, he's not wrong.

"I think my questions are ones anyone would ask. And is it possible that it's not those questions that are bothering you, but the fact that you have no good answer to them?" you let that one hang in the air for a moment. "But sure, if it bothers you that much, I'll stop. Let's keep playing."

A somewhat tense, awkward silence falls over the table, interrupted only by rattling of dice. A couple of rounds fly by and, as you predicted, Gavin is the first to be eliminated - he simply kicks back with a sigh and opens a fresh bottle of beer. You lose both of the rounds after that, but not too badly, ceding after a bad couple early rolls. Zeeg, with an expression of intense focus, steadily rebuilds his lead with small, early victories. And Virrir seems to realize he'll be the next on the chopping block.

"Why does Valsen want you so badly anyway?" Gavin asks suddenly. "You must already be pretty strong."

A new angle of attack that you could use to undermine Valsen even further after that rather defensive reaction as your remarks started hitting too close to home. Ordinarily you'd jump right at it... but there is a problem.

You don't know why, or how, but your unwanted stalker has showed up again a round or so ago. Even now, an unpleasant prickling at your senses tells you that there's a magitech abomination somewhere nearby, focusing its attention on you.

Which means that anything you say will be heard by the stalker - and used to build out your profile they are doubtlessly already busy creating.

(cont)

>Suggest you can't actually use psionics - just know some stuff about them. Which will be an incredibly hard sell and you doubt any of the guys here will actually believe you
>Undersell yourself - you just know a few tricks and you have no idea what Valsen wants or expects from you. Use that as a jump-off point for discussing how dumb of an idea psion supremacy is.
>Admit you're pretty strong, maybe show them a trick or two to convince them. Let them know Valsen is a nobody compared to you and that he'll never control you. Suggest conflict between the two of you is inevitable - and that the best any of them can hope for is to stay the hell out of your way
>Fuck it, just fry the drone and kick things into high gear. Spin a quick bullshit story about how Command is already onto their little coven and they should just run and forget about this whole mess [1 Wyrd]
>write-in

>>5831652
>I'm good, dont get me wrong. Experienced is the word I'd use, I know the way that Barter works and I have the connections and clearance for getting most places. All good reasons to want me.
>But see, thats not why. Thats what he would tell you if you asked him. Instead ask yourself about what he told you, you were meant for something better because your birth. . So how exactly do you get more Psions? Whicu by the way, Psion supremacy is retarded.

Say our best guess is he wants a broodmare as a long term goal and our position/dirty experience for the short term.
Tells the drone nothing and it makes sense.

>>5831652
>Admit you're pretty strong, maybe show them a trick or two to convince them. Let them know Valsen is a nobody compared to you and that he'll never control you. Suggest conflict between the two of you is inevitable - and that the best any of them can hope for is to stay the hell out of your way

>>5831710
Supporting

>>5831652
>>Fuck it, just fry the drone and kick things into high gear. Spin a quick bullshit story about how Command is already onto their little coven and they should just run and forget about this whole mess [1 Wyrd]

>>5831710
+1

>>5831710
>>5832132
>>5832520
Calling the vote here. I'll alter the write-in a bit to align it better with the setting, but the gist will remain mostly the same.

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"Experienced, is how I'd describe myself," you reply, putting on a thoughtful expression. "I know what to look for, how to counter it," you motion toward Virrir's injured nose. "And also, I'm Crew. Been working up and down Barter for fifteen years. I know the layout, I know people, and I can go places no Resident can. All good reasons for Valsen to want me, yeah?"

There are a few nods - followed by confused frowns as you shake your head with a smile.

"Nah. That's what Valsen would claim he wants me for if you asked him. And sure, I would be useful to him in those ways, there's no doubt. But what he actually wants, from me personally, is a lot simpler. See, he wants to stick his dick inside me."

Gavin chokes on some beer and begins coughing violently. The other two simply stare at you, goggle-eyed.

"Like I said, I have experience," you continue with a shrug. "And it's always the same. Oh, you're special. You've been born different. You're the next step in evolution. Now let's make superior psion babies together."

"But... but you're an elph!" Gavin finally finds his voice.

"And Valsen's human. So there's viable hybrid potential."

"There is?!"

"Between humans and elphs? Yeah. You didn't know?"

"Humans can breed with... a lot of things," Virrir admits.

"And humans will fuck anything," Zeeg leers.

"Yeah, there is a very reason humans have by far the longest 4C section."

"The what?" Gavin blinks in confusion.

"Oh you pure, innocent soul," you hang your head while the other two cackle. "Never mind. The point here is that Valsen envisions me as the mother of his brood of superpowered children. Only it won't work. For one, because I don't spread my legs for nobody. For two, because the whole concept of 'psion supremacy' is retarded in the first place. And for three, because psionic ability isn't hereditary."

Once again, all three of them either frown or blink in confusion.

"It's not?"

"No. You could make the two most powerful psions in the galaxy bang and their children would more than likely be born without one whit of psionic talent. They could develop it later in life, or have it awakened by some sort of event, but simply being descended from a psion doesn't really matter."

"That doesn't seem right..."

"Literal centuries of research have gone into this, performed by very clever people and funded by extremely powerful individuals with a vested interest in creating - or breeding - their own private army of soldiers with mind powers. And do you know what all that time and effort amounted to? A conclusion that being exposed to psionic powers frequently as a child 'might' increase the chance of developing psionic talent. Which is just enough to make the myth persist - and for people like Valsen to believe it. And while we're on the topic of Valsen, let's go back to my point about psion supremacy. Cause if people with psionics are so great and superior, then why aren't they in charge of everything? Hmm? Answer me that."

(cont)

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The three men share some uncomfortable looks. Finally, Virrir hazards a guess:

"Cause, uh, the dragons-"

"Yes! Exactly! The dragons," you nod. "And the nobles, for that matter. Because they have dragon magic and magic, unlike psionics, is most certainly hereditary. And much, much more powerful. Psionics can be defended against or countered: with knowledge, with experience, with the right equipment. Magic, in comparison, can only really be countered with more magic. Which is why dragons and their halfbreeds rule the Core Worlds and psions are..." you shrug elaborately. "Well, not shunned and despised, exactly. Not universally, at least. But you don't see them ruling so much as a planet, do you? Or a nation. Or even organizing into a political party. I mean, why do you think Valsen is here, on Barter? Why is he hiding out here, in the abandoned sections and talking big about taking over Command instead of actually doing it?"

"Because he still doesn't have the strength-"

"And he will never have the strength!" you slam your fist into the table, making the three of them jump as bottles clink and nuts rattle. "Do you honestly think this is the first time someone like Valsen showed up here? That he's the first psion to try and conquer Barter?! This station's been around for more than a century and it has fended off dozens of takeover attempts, both from the inside and out, psions included. I've been here for all of fifteen years, and I've personally witnessed seven. And I know exactly how they all ended because I was among those who'd be sent in afterward to clean up and repair the damage. I saw the bloodstains, the bullet holes, the scorch marks and the warped bulkheads. People died, For the ambitions of some cretin who thought he was the first to have an idea that has already failed time and time, and time before. Everyone jokes about ProfSec being thugs chasing after unpaid bills and fines, but if there's one thing they're very good at, it's sussing out internal threats to Barter's political structure. Make no mistake, they're already aware of Valsen - of this little cult he's building here. And they're just waiting for him to make too many missteps. To break enough of the rules we live by here on Barter that no one will complain or even care when they storm this place and shoot anybody who resists!"

You realize you've gotten out of your chair and started shouting, so you force yourself to relax, sit back own, and take a gulp from a bottle to soothe your dry throat. The three men are now looking at you with worry, wariness - and maybe a little bit of fear.

(cont)

"Let me make myself perfectly clear," you continue in a much calmer, tired voice. "I will never join Valsen. I am not here to listen to his offer. I am here because he sent people to raid my home and in doing so, broke Barter's rules. So now I'm going to beat seven different kinds of shit out of him. And it doesn't matter who tries to get in my way, because if you're any indication of what's waiting for me," you motion toward Virrir, "then I'm very sorry, but Valsen just hasn't taught you all that well. So I'm going to ask you guys, but genuinely: just go home. Forget about this psionic business, and forget about Valsen. Because, after today, the rest of Barter will certainly forget him."

And as you stare them down across the table, you can see it in their eyes - they're wavering. Reconsidering their options, their allegiances. For a brief moment, you dare hope that you managed to convince them.

But then Zeeg scoops up his dice and tosses them into the cup.

"We play," he declares.

"Why?" you shake your head in confusion. "What's the point?"

"We had a bet. If you win - we leave. So we play. We roll dice. And we finish the game."

And as you look into the ogrot's gray eyes, you see in them not some particular conviction or a sense of loyalty, but the intensity of pride injured but not broken. The burning desire to avenge defeat with a victory of some sort, at least.

You started this game as a stalling tactic - to give yourself time to persuade these knuckleheads. But now, it seems, you're being made to finish what you started - or else to resort to more violence to get past Zeeg.

>Very well, you will play it out to the end. And what will be, will be.
>Throw the game. Not in an obvious manner, but let Zeeg have the win he wants so badly. Maybe he'll be more open to persuasion with that damned pride soothed.
>write-in

>>5835056
>Very well, you will play it out to the end. And what will be, will be.

>>5835056
>What will be will be

>>5835056
>>Throw the game. Not in an obvious manner, but let Zeeg have the win he wants so badly. Maybe he'll be more open to persuasion with that damned pride soothed.

>>5835056
>Very well, you will play it out to the end. And what will be, will be.

>>5835056
>>Very well, you will play it out to the end. And what will be, will be.

>>5835056
>>Throw the game

You say nothing more - and simply scoop your own dice into the cup.

The game proceeds mostly in silence from that point on, save for calling out raises and dice amounts, with the only other noise being the rattle of dice and the clink of tokens being thrown onto the pile. Both Virrir and Zeeg focus entirely on the game, and even Gavin simply watches silently, without interfering or commenting.

There is some back and forth, with the same tokens changing hands multiple times across several rounds, but ultimately Virrir is the next player to be eliminated, leaving Zeeg and yourself to face off one another. Your pile of tokens is just shy of thirty, giving the ogrot a substantial lead over you. And with all bet minimums now doubled, a single bad game could leave you in bad shape.

But you keep your mind calm and clear. The outcome of the game is ultimately immaterial. Whether those three will be present there when you fight Valsen will not make a difference. You did your best to convince them, but the decision is ultimately theirs. And what will be, will be.

You shouldn't have lost your composure like that earlier. But between having to resolve that crisis first thing in the morning, the news of a noble showing up, hearing the name Maia Taris, you've let yourself get a tad... agitated. Fearful, even. Of losing your place here, in Barter. Your stability. Your... peace. Because as miserable as this place makes you on some days, as much as it endeavors to drag you down into its churning pit of greed and apathy, there is a good reason why you stayed here for as long as you did. A reason why, in your own way, you love Barter and care for it enough to want to protect what it is.

But that's something you - Elne Blavis - should let go of. Change is coming and trying to resist it will bring only grief. What will be, will be.

Which means that naturally, just as you're able to achieve this small measure of inner peace and view the dice game you're participating in with the proper level of detachment, the magitech drone, which has been content to offend your senses only with its passive presence until this point, suddenly decides to start fucking around.

(cont)

You shudder involuntarily as tendrils of mana slither past you, coalescing on the table. Only able to sense mana in a rudimentary manner in your current state, you're unable to analyze the nature or purpose of the spell being cast. But you can clearly tell that it is focused on the dice: both yours and Zeeg's.

And what truly pisses you off is the inability to do anything about it. Because the spell itself is invisible to ordinary senses - only a trained mage, or someone with high mana sensitivity could even begin to sense it. So to react in any way would mean giving away information you do not want your stalker to have.

The rudeness. The arrogance. The sheer audacity it must take to interfere using such crude and blatant methods that could easily be detected and blocked in any semi-reputable gambling house.

But you clamp down on this renewed surge of anger and simply continue the game. Reminding yourself that what will be, will be.

Then you win the first round against Zeeg by getting a Constellation with the first roll. Which... sure, it can happen sometimes, why not. And it equals out your and his tokens. Then on the next round, you get five Fates and a pair of Planets within two rolls, while all Zeeg is able to present are two pairs. And on the round after that, you get six Spaceships on the first roll and have to fight down an overwhelming urge to scream at the idiot controlling the drone to at least stop making the cheating this blatant.

"Raise. Rolling four," you decide, leaving yourself with three Spaceships. You roll four Fates, raise again, and turn the four into a pair, rolling the other two dice, coming up with another pair. And win the round again, as the visibly frustrated Zeeg only manages three of a kind and a pair - leaving him with just enough tokens for the buy-in and a single raise.

There is some humor, at least, in the fact that you're as put out with this winning streak of yours as he is - if not more.

"A Journey's fortune can turn with a single roll," Zeeg growls the adage oft-repeated by amateur and professional players alike. And slides his four buy-in tokens toward the middle of the table.

You say nothing, acknowledging his resolve with a single nod. Even though, to you, the game is no longer anything but a sham.

You both roll. Then roll again. And then he's out of tokens and can only watch as you make a third roll and finally reveal your dice. A five and a pair, opposed by a lone four of a kind.

"Guess it's your victory," Virrir sighs.

"Seems so," Zeeg mutters, his eyes locked onto you. Does he suspect you of cheating? Very possible - the rhythm and feel of the game changed completely from the moment your stalker got involved. Even if you couldn't sense mana, you'd have probably grown suspicious yourself.

(cont)

"Then will you honor our bet?" you ask calmly.

You can see the ogrot's jaw working under his skin. The tension in his muscles, the aggressive set of his shoulders. You move your feet slightly, shifting your balance and preparing for violence - while outwardly, remaining relaxed.

"Whatever," Zeeg grunts, slapping his hand down on the table. "I've my shift to get to," he collect his dice, a couple personal items from the table, gets up and heads for the exit. "Was going to take some extra hours anyway. Rings' been buried under cargo this past week."

With that, he's gone. And the other two seem to be breathing a bit easier.

"Guess I'll get going too then," Virrir also gets up.

"You're not going to kill Valsen - are you?" Gavin asks abruptly.

You meet his eyes with a steady gaze of your own.

"I'm just going to teach him how things work here on Barter."

"Yeah, but you said-"

"Ain't much point in giving lessons to a corpse."

"I guess..." Gavin breaks eye contact and also gets up, suddenly in a hurry to leave. "Well, it was nice... uh, I mean... thank you. For, you know..." he gestures vaguely. "Going easy on us. Oi, Virrir, wait up! Let's go together. Cause, y'know... spooky dark corridors and shit."

A few moments later, you're left alone in the room, sitting at a table littered with hex nuts and empty beer bottles.

Well - almost alone.


>Let the drone's owner know that you don't appreciate being "helped" - but offer no specifics on what you noticed or how you know it's there
>Ignore the drone and simply proceed to your confrontation with Valsen
>write-in

>>5836478
>>Ignore the drone and simply proceed to your confrontation with Valsen

>>5836478
>Let the drone's owner know that you don't appreciate being "helped" - but offer no specifics on what you noticed or how you know it's there

>>5836478
>>Let the drone's owner know that you don't appreciate being "helped" - but offer no specifics on what you noticed or how you know it's there

>>5836478
>>Let the drone's owner know that you don't appreciate being "helped" - but offer no specifics on what you noticed or how you know it's there

>>5836478
>Ignore the drone and simply proceed to your confrontation with Valsen

>>5836478

>Ignore the drone and simply proceed to your confrontation with Valsen

Playing dumb is almost always a better strategy when being surveilled

>>5836527
>>5837489
m8, wtf are you doing. I'm discounting both votes.

Which means that complaining about unseen helpers wins.

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You stand up, work the stiffness out of your muscles, finish the beer you've been drinking, and abruptly slam the bottle down on the table.

"I don't appreciate being followed," you say to the air, looking down at the pile of hex nuts from the game you had handed to you. "But what I appreciate even less is being 'helped' without my knowledge or consent. You clearly don't know what I'm doing, what my goal is, or how things are done on Barter and why. So, good visitor, I must decline any further assistance. Why don't you go get some shopping done instead."

And without another word, you leave the room through the door that leads further into the node.

It's not hard to navigate your way around the ancient freighter ship - Valsen wisely went for the minimalist approach of only supplying electricity to the areas that absolutely need it, so it's as simple as following the active power cables. It is slightly odd that you encounter no one else along the way, but that issue clarifies itself once you reach the central chamber of Valsen's hideout, located in the portside cargo hold.

The twenty-three sapients inside still manage to occupy only a small portion of the entire chamber. They're all sitting or kneeling on mats, in whatever position their biology allows. Though most of them, you quickly note, follow the common plantigrade biped body plan.

Judging by the reduced bioelectric activity your Vis Sense detects in most of them, they are engaged in meditation exercises with various degrees of success. And walking slowly between them, arms clasped behind his back like the very image of a sagely mentor, is Valsen.

He wears dark, largely form-fitting clothing with just enough trimmings and adornments to make sure he seems like someone of status, especially among the manual labor workers that make up most of his disciples. Still a lot more restrained than you'd have expected from a man like him. But he does actually carry a long, thin sword on his hip, the pompous ass.

But what draws your attention the most is the complex bit of electronics you detect inside the pendant around his neck. A personal energy shield, no doubt. Quite the expensive toy, even though you're certain it's just a civilian model. It also explains the restrained fashion sense - bulky, extravagant clothing would disrupt the shield's protective field.

(cont)

You linger in the doorway and out of sight, listening to him give instructions for a bit. Some very basic meditation guidance stirred together with several heaping spoonfuls of mysticism and superstition that always seemed to attach itself to psionics, especially in the more isolated covens.

Which, fine, there was plenty mystical bullshit about psionics no one's been able to figure out. The whole Lifeweb thing you didn't bother explaining to the three guys back in the airlock since it would probably just confuse them. Threads glittering in the dark between the stars. The heartbeat of the galaxy. But for fuck's sake, you didn't start novices with that kind of stuff. You taught them perception, introspection, and control. Fundamentals, fundamentals, fundamentals.

Also, you took on one, maybe two apprentices at a time. Not more. Certainly not twenty. How was Valsen going to respond to their individual needs and quirks as they ran into roadblocks along their path? And the answer was that he wasn't. Because he wasn't here to nurture and teach a new generation of psionic talents. He was here to raise an army.

And you were here to give him a good beating before he got people killed.

And also because he broke into and trashed your home. Let's not forget about that.


>But just a beating would not be enough. To dissipate the poison that is Valsen, you need to destroy him and his myth of psionic superiority. Challenge him to a duel - without the use of psionics on your part.
>A little power failure goes a long way. Kill the lights, grab Valsen in the confusion, and drag him off into parts unknown. Then offer some persuasive arguments for why he should leave Barter and never return. Without him, his coven will quickly fall apart
>write-in

>>5837936
Sorry. I forgot I voted already and I rarely memorize my id so I didn't realize it.

>>5838032
>>But just a beating would not be enough. To dissipate the poison that is Valsen, you need to destroy him and his myth of psionic superiority. Challenge him to a duel - without the use of psionics on your part.

>>5838032
>But just a beating would not be enough. To dissipate the poison that is Valsen, you need to destroy him and his myth of psionic superiority. Challenge him to a duel - without the use of psionics on your part

>>5838032
>>But just a beating would not be enough. To dissipate the poison that is Valsen, you need to destroy him and his myth of psionic superiority. Challenge him to a duel - without the use of psionics on your part.

>>5838032

>But just a beating would not be enough. To dissipate the poison that is Valsen, you need to destroy him and his myth of psionic superiority. Challenge him to a duel - without the use of psionics on your part.

This seems best - shame the guy in front of his acolytes

>>5838032
>But just a beating would not be enough. To dissipate the poison that is Valsen, you need to destroy him and his myth of psionic superiority. Challenge him to a duel - without the use of psionics on your part.

By unanimous decision, Valsen is being cancelled.

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Valsen's pacing is slow, deliberate and, as a result, quite predictable. Which, once you notice it, gives rise to a rather petty idea.

And as it happens, you can sometimes be a rather petty person.

It's been awhile since you had to do much actual sneaking or presence concealing, but you figure you do a passable job. Since the way you imagine this looks from Valsen's perspective is that one moment it's just him delivering his "wisdom" to his acolytes and the next he turns around to change direction - and there you are, right in front of him.

He stumbles back with a rather undignified yelp, trips over his own feet, and lands on his ass.

"Hello, Valsen," you say crossly, while just barely suppressing the overwhelming urge to grin like a maniac. "I hear you've been wanting to see me."

Pettiness status: satisfied.

All around you, the acolytes are looking at you in surprise or jumping up to their feet in alarm, your sudden appearance in their midst catching them as off guard as it did Valsen. You pay them no heed, your eyes fixed on their leader.

"Come on, Valsen, don't you have something to say to me?" you demand. "You went to all this trouble to meet me. Followed me around. Sent thugs after me. Trashed my home. Well, congratulations, it worked: here I am. So let's hear your sales pitch."

"Ah, Miss Blavis! I was... y-yes," Valsen finally finds his voice. He gets back to his feet, doing a remarkable job of regaining his composure. "First of all, let me offer my sincerest apologies for the, ah, rather extreme measures-"

"You think a mere apology will be enough?" you interrupt.

"Well, of course not! I'm prepared to offer suitable compensation for any losses-"

"You think a few cred will be enough?"

You're peripherally aware of the acolytes backing away rapidly, creating a circle of empty space around you and Valsen. They obviously know when a fight is brewing.

"Miss Blavis," Vlasen steeples his fingers under his chin, giving you a look of the deepest, most apologetic concern he can muster. "I understand that you're angry. And believe me that I am willing to do anything it takes to-"

"Disband this cult of yours, pack your shit, and get the fuck off Barter. That's what it's going to take."

Valsen's expression wavers for just a moment as he flashes you a look of pure anger that he immediately masks with a jovial laugh.

"Ahaha, Miss Blavis, it appears you may have got a rather inaccurate impression of our little group. We're not a cult, we're-"

(cont)

"A cult," you cut him off yet again. "That is exactly what you are. One leader, bunch of stooges to do his bidding, with a sprinkling of vague mumbo jumbo on top. Seen plenty like you before. You show up on Barter, break rules, get people killed, and then disappear. You're nothing special, Valsen. No, shut up, I don't care about your psion supremacy bullshit," you shush him as he goes to open his mouth. "Because that's all it is: bullshit. Whoever taught you to think that way was an idiot, and so are you for believing them. And on top of that, you seem to be a terrible teacher, if the skill of the guys I ran into on my way here is any indication. Zeeg, Gavin, and Virrir are fine, by the way," you look around the room at the acolytes surrounding you. "We had a small scuffle, rolled some dice, talked things out. Then they went home. You guys should do the same. My only problem is with this bozo here," you turn your gaze back on Valsen, who is openly glaring at you now.

"I assure you Ms Blavis, all those things you've just said are simply a result of some tragic misconceptions and misunderstandings," Valsen somehow manages to keep his temper in check, though he is very much talking through clenched cheek. "Perhaps if you allowed this discussion to continue in a more private setting, we could-"

"I'm not interested in fucking you either," you misunderstand him on purpose, drawing a couple quickly stifled giggles from the audience. "And it wouldn't work anyway. Because, like I explained it to those three earlier, psionic talent is not a hereditary trait. So no, Valsen, you're not getting those superpowered babies you want."

Oh, wow. His lower eyelid actually started twitching. Guess you really struck a nerve. Or several.

"I have to say, you disappoint me, Miss Blavis," Valsen's face becomes a cold mask. Slightly ruined by the fact that his eyelid continues to twitch. "When I discovered a psion of your power existed on this station, I had high hopes for the kinds of things we'd be able to accomplish if we joined forces. After all, our kind are so frequently feared, hated, and persecuted across the whole known galaxy - even someone of your considerable talent is forced to hide her true nature from the dull, mundane creatures around her, lest they turn on her and-"

(cont)

"What is this bullshit?" you laugh out loud. "Have you done any research? Like, at all? There are a couple dozen psions working for Barter - did you know? Did anyone here know?" you once again sweep your gaze around the room. "Yeah, you don't hear much about them, but there's a bunch of them on Crew. ProfSec, ExtSec, emergency services... pay is decent too. And they get training - proper training, not whatever nonsense he's been feeding you. A better way to improve your life that some rising up against the oppressors bullshit. Hells, you could work for Barter too," you turn back to Valsen. "You've been taught the Sensing path, haven't you? It's how you've been finding these latent talents. Command would love having someone like you on their payroll."

"And yet you hide your true self from them!" Valsen accuses.

"Yeah, I do," you shrug. "But it has nothing to do with some bullshit persecution complex."

"Then why?"

"None of your business. Anyway, we've both wasted enough breath. So let's make a bet."

"What kind of bet?" Valsen frowns in suspicion.

"We have a duel. Right here, right now: just you and me. You win, and I submit to you and join your cult. I win, and you do what I told you to do: pack your shit and get lost."

Valsen smirks.

"And why would I accept such a bet? You may be powerful, but consider your current position - surrounded by my own acolytes on all sides."

"Because I'm going to fight you without using any powers of my own. Just these two hands is all I'll need is to prove just how bullshit your whole idea of psion supremacy is. And that you're just shit at using your talents in general," it's now your turn to smirk. "Or do you fear having your convictions tested, Valsen? Are you, a mighty psion who's going to conquer all of Barter one day, afraid of losing in a fistfight?"

His hand goes to the sword at his hip, seizing the handle, knuckles white with anger.

"I see," Valsen spits, just barely managing to hold onto his composure. "I've misjudged you again. You're obviously an augmented individual, equipped with an arsenal of cybernetic-"

"Nope!" you shake your head. "I don't do none of that cybernetics crap. It's bad for the soul. What you see is what you get!" you slap your torso. "One hundred percent genuine flesh and bone! Come on, Valsen, stop looking for excuses. If you're afraid of putting money where your mouth is, just say so. Admit this 'superior' talent of yours actually ain't shit!"

You have him cornered. You know it and he knows it too. He can't back down now, especially not in front of his following. His pride and status as their leader won't allow it - even if he suspects a trick.

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"Very well, have it your way, Miss Blavis," he draws himself up haughtily. "Not only are you very much mistaken about us, but also incredibly arrogant. And I do so despise arrogance. I will make you apologize for every insult you've thrown at our small, but talented gathering - and I will expect you to abide by the terms of this bet in full."

And you will expect him to try and weasel his way out of fulfilling his end. But that's alright. Because, here's the thing.

There is no trick.

"Then you're fine with starting right away?" you let your toolbag drop to the ground.

"Absolutely," Valsen draws his sword with a flourish.

And then two more jump into the air from the back of the chamber and zoom across the intervening space, one of them taking up position over Valsen's left shoulder.

And the other aiming for your right arm.

You lean out of its way with a small, economic, almost relaxed movement - taking note of its decorated jade handle as it passes you. It keeps going for nearly four meters before Valsen makes it reverse and come flying back at you.

You sidestep it casually - and again, it overshoots by several meters.

"Subpar control and terrible reaction speed," you comment. "It's barely a kilogram of metal that you're controlling with your mind, Valsen. It has a turning radius of zero. It should be a wildly spinning buzzsaw cutting into me from every direction."

"I can hardly make you submit if you end up in pieces, Miss Blavis," he replies with a surprisingly cogent point. "There's not much use in turning you into a corpse."

"Fair. But you're still giving me far too much breathing room."

"Then let's see how you handle this!"

The second sword shoots forward, joining the first in attacking you.

Which doesn't go nearly as well as Valsen would likely want it to. His ability to control and coordinate two swords at once is lacking, to say the least.

"No, see, this is completely wrong," you shake your head in disappointment while weaving between the swooping blades. "You're swinging them as if you were physically holding them. It's your mind Valsen, not your arm. There's no wrist or elbow to restrict your range of motion. Get creative! Keep switching up directions! Don't fall into a predictable rhythm! Come at me from different heights! Use my blind spots!"

"Will you shut up!" he snarls as the two swords collide with a loud clang and nearly fall to the floor.

"But Valsen, you have to go at least that far if you want to amount to anything as a Far Hand psion," you say sweetly while ducking a wildly spinning sword. "And the same goes for you lot watching! Far Hand is the easiest path to learn - it gives the most what you call it, tactile feedback. You think really hard at a toy block and it twitches: boom, progress! Now just keep doing what you just did, only better. So there's more Far Hand psions around than those of any other path."

(cont)

You interrupt the impromptu lecture for long enough to sidestep a sword that comes plunging at you directly downward and then kick it at Valsen, who forgets he's the one who should be in control of it and dives to the side with a yelp.

"Easy doesn't mean simple or weak, mind you," you smoothly pick up where you left off. "Far Hand can be plenty strong and has tons of utility. But it being the most common also means it's the most studied. And what that means is that people who do learn about it tend to have a good understanding of its limitations. For example!"

You dodge the next sword - but this time you grab it by the handle as it flies past. You immediately swing it at the second one, locking blades with it for the moment you need to similarly take hold of it.

They both shudder and tug against your grasp for all of a couple moments - before suddenly going completely still as Valsen loses control of them.

There is a prolonged moment of stillness and silence as everyone simply stands there, looking at you.

"I do believe you just lost, Miss Blavis," Valsen says finally. And oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. You were hoping he'd do that.

"And what makes you say that, Valsen?"

"Your bet stipulated that you wouldn't use your psionic abilities in the duel."

"And have I done so?" you blink innocently.

"Very clearly, yes. You've done something to negate my control over the swords. Therefore, by the terms we both agreed upon, you-"

"You really are a complete ignoramus, you know that?"

"Excuse me?" he sputters.

"Alright class, question for everyone - or at least for those of you who actually managed to figure out telekinesis already. When Valsen here was teaching you - though I use the term loosely - he probably mentioned something about how you won't be able to use your powers against another person directly. And so that, if you want to attack them, you have to do it with an object," you raise one of the swords, "or you need to compress a bunch of air and blast them with that, yeah?"

There are a few hesitant nods.

"Well, did any of you ever wonder why that was the case? Anyone? Anyone at all?" you sigh. "Oh well. To answer the question: it's because of the Phavis-Botti Field. Now, what is the Phavis-Botti Field, you ask? It's a kind of invisible aura generated by most sufficiently complex living organisms that happens to be capable of completely nullifying most psionic abilities. Like, you know how one of the tall tales about psionics is how they can read thoughts or control people's minds? Nope - completely impossible. Closest you get is being able to get a read on someone's emotions. Or, more pertinently for Far Hand psions like yourselves, it's why you can't push someone over. Or, say, reach into their skull to tear a vein and cause an aneurysm."

You're looking directly at Valsen as you say that last part and - to your immeasurable joy - you see his expression shift in sudden realization.

(cont)

"Holy shit Valsen, you've tried that, haven't you?" you start laughing. "Haven't you?! You thought you were going to be all clever and sneaky, make people drop dead out of the blue like some untraceable master assassin! Come on Valsen, be honest: how much time have you spent trying to make that trick work? Weeks? Months? Years? It was years, wasn't it? Nah, sorry," you shake your head, still laughing at the now red-faced man. "Better psions than you have tried. Literal centuries of research went into this. All for nothing. You can't beat the Phavis-Botti Field."

You give an elaborate shrug while shaking your head apologetically at the watching acolytes.

"Oh, right. And to bring it back to the matter at hand," you wiggle the swords. "All that research did reveal that while it's impossible to influence the field from the outside, it's actually perfectly doable for the individual themselves to learn to manipulate their own field to an extent. For example, by temporarily expanding it beyond one's physical body. Which is what I did in this instance: I extended my field over your swords. Thus negating your control over them."

"But-"

"And because I know what you're about to say, I will add: you don't need to be a psion to manipulate your Phavis-Botti Field. Now, it certainly helps to be one because of all the introspection and awareness training they usually do, but anyone who regularly practices meditation or is particularly willful can influence their personal field - even if they often do it subconsciously. But it is something they can do. Therefore, it is not an ability unique to psions. Therefore, I didn't break the rules. Therefore, the duel continues. And speaking of, Valsen," you point one sword at him. "I think it's my turn to attack."

And you begin walking toward him.

Valsen jumps slightly and even takes a couple steps back before realizing it's not a good look in front of his subordinates. He stops, frowns...

And you hop to the side a moment before a blast of air strikes the floor where you just were, sending up a cloud of dust and a couple of meditation mats.

"See, Virrir being this sloppy I could understand," you say, continuing to advance. "He just started learning. But you? His teacher?" you shake your head and sigh. "It's the breeze, Valsen. Compressing the air like that creates movement, so if you do it right in front of my face, I'm going to know what you're doing. A competent Far Hand psion would know how to block off the air around me from moving to avoid giving himself away."

Frustration, embarrassment, confusion, worry, anger, shame, egotism. An explosive mix that you've been stoking all through this fight. All aimed at making Valsen lose his composure, to get inside his head, to take complete control of the fight's pace.

(cont)

File: scifi shield.jpg (46 KB, 900x520)

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And finally it pays off. Because Valsen, his pride stung one time too many, his anger at having his competence constantly questioned boiling over, attempts to do the one thing you shouldn't do in the middle of a fight: he tries to prove to you he's one of those "competent psions" by using a complex, unfamiliar, untrained technique.

And while he's busy trying to figure it out, you leap forward, closing the distance between you in three quick strides, and kick him square in the chest.

The personal shield activates of course, the point of impact briefly outlined in a blue glow as the energy field absorbs your kick. And even though you didn't put all that much strength into this kick, Valsen still stumbles back a couple steps, while you also hop back, avoiding his reflexive but belated sword swing.

"Oh-ho, what's this?" you grin at him. "A personal shield? That's quite an expensive toy there, Valsen. Does everyone in your cult get one, or is it just you? I have to say, you can't be very confident in those psion abilities of yours, if you-"

"SHUT UP!" Valsen roars, charging forward with his sword held high. "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shutupshutupshutup!" wild blows rain down on you, all of which you block or deflect with your own weapons. "You stupid bitch! You fucking whore! I'll fucking kill you! Mock me? Laugh at me?! I'll show you, you knife-eared slut! I'll show you the true gap between us!"

If he hadn't started making all that noise all of a sudden, you were going to inform him about how personal shields - the civvie models, at least - are actually kinda bad for anything outside their original intended purpose: safety equipment for sapients engaging in extreme sports.

As it is, you'll just have to demonstrate.

>Moving slowly enough to avoid triggering the activation threshold, yank the pendant off his neck. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face
>Rip up some of those fancy clothes of his to change his silhouette and disrupt the shield's integrity. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face
>Go on the offensive, landing enough quick blows on the shield to deplete its battery. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face
>Kick him again, but this time put some actual strength behind it - a single, massive impact will drain the capacitor and blow a safety fuse. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face

>>5839694
>Moving slowly enough to avoid triggering the activation threshold, yank the pendant off his neck. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face

>>5839694
>>Moving slowly enough to avoid triggering the activation threshold, yank the pendant off his neck. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face
A gift for us? Valsen, you shouldn't have!

>>5839694
>Kick him again, but this time put some actual strength behind it - a single, massive impact will drain the capacitor and blow a safety fuse. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face

>>5839694
>>Rip up some of those fancy clothes of his to change his silhouette and disrupt the shield's integrity. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face

>>5839694
>>Moving slowly enough to avoid triggering the activation threshold, yank the pendant off his neck. Then proceed to punch Valsen in the face

>>5839905
>>5839996
>>5840501
That pendant looked gaudy as hell anyway.

You toss one of the swords aside, which goes unnoticed by Valsen in his fury - not that he could actually reestablish control over it with such an unquiet mind. Then, after exchanging a few more blows with him, you go for a blade lock. Which he is more than happy to oblige you with, his snarl turning triumphant as he expects to easily overpower you with his superior size and mass.

He wouldn't, but you're not doing this to engage in a strength contest. Instead, you bring your free hand up against his torso in a smooth, even motion, just slow enough to avoid triggering the shield's acivation threshold. Then, before Valsen can react, you snake the hand up to his neck, grab the pendant and rip it off with a snap of chain links. And, in the same motion, you throw it away.

"It looked gaudy on you anyway," you tell the shocked man, already feeling your mouth spreading into a grin. "And now for the fun part."

You grab his armed had by the wrist and squeeze, until you feel bones grinding together and Valsen cries out, his sword clattering to the ground.

Then you punch him in the jaw.

You pull your strike hard, not wanting to end the fight with one hit. But he still stumbles sideways, losing his footing. You yank him back toward you by the wrist and punch again, this time landing a square hit on the nose. He throws a blind haymaker that you duck and then lash out with your elbow, opening a gash in the side of his face.

You finally let go of his wrist and a quick hook to the stomach makes him stumble back, cradling his gut protectively. You follow, landing a quick one-two-three on his face that disorients him and sends him stumbling onto his ass. You leap forward knee-first, forcing it past his guard and finally breaking his nose.

"Ready to surrender yet, Valsen?" you ask, as he curls up on the ground, shielding his face with both hands. "Please don't say yes, this was barely a warmup."

He looks up at you, frightened eyes caged behind trembling, bloodied fingers. But then his gaze shifts, flickering to somewhere behind you.

"Well don't just stand there, idiots!" he roars suddenly. "Get-"

Your kick shatters a few bones in his hand and breaks the jaw it was protecting.

"Oh, whoops! I could've sworn you were about to say something really stupid!" you have to raise your voice to be heard over his howls of pain. "Not your proudest moment there, Valsen. And you did just forfeit the duel. Don't you agree, guys?" you turn to his acolytes, who are watching you with a mixture of shock, hesitation, and fear. "Him trying to call fall help means he lost."

Of course, with the duel over and you not being the kind of idiot who turns her back on an enemy, you feel justified in utilizing your advanced senses a bit.

(cont)

Expanded Vis Sense: 1 Wyrd spent

>Mana: 253/253
>Wyrd: 25/34

One of the breakthroughs you've had while following the Vis path was the realization that electricity is just one form of energy - so why shouldn't you be able to sense others as well? So now, in addition to the wiring in the room and the bioelectric signals of the acolytes' nervous systems, you also pick up the hazy, weak auras of their psionic talent, and the stronger, more controlled aura of their beaten teacher. As well as the mana of the drone which, naturally, had followed you here and has been observing the whole fight - though you could sense that regardless. And, interestingly, you now also pick up the bioelectrics of another individual who was not here before - he's hiding up high, based on his pose, in maintenance duct running above the cargo hold.

Curioser and curioser, this day has been getting. But crucially, you should now get some advance warning if Valsen decides to try something silly, like telekinetically shishkebab you with a sword.

And right now, you have a roomful of his pupils to deal with - ideally before they decide to heed their master's demand and hurt themselves in an attempt to attack you.


>Most of them are clearly unused to the level of violence you've just displayed. Use that to intimidate them. It might involve hurting Valsen some more, but that's strictly a bonus.
>Eh, you're warmed up now and you could use the exercise. You'll only hurt them enough to get the message across.
>You won, Valsen lost. Remind them of the fact and the terms you agreed on. And with your business done here, you're going to leave - taking that shield generator along as a trophy, of course. And oh, hey, bet no one here knows it's possible to use the Phavis-Botti Field to give yourself a really imposing presence
>write-in

>>5841064
>"Right, you and you, are probably good fit for security. You, probably more of an electician, and you and you and you, frankly I can't tell at this distance but if you want crew status then you will probably get put somewhere. The bottom line is that Psions get work for their innate talents and training to make you useful. Its an asset, so treat it well and don't go listening to self taught charlatans if you want to get ahead.

With my advice and lesson, Ive probably taught you more than this nitwit has in 6 months, so either you take this advice to improve your lives, or you throw it away on the word of a man who broke our rules, and is now trying to break his own deal because he is losing. Anyone who wants to enter this fight is getting the same reward he is. Now, I didn't hear a forfiet."

>Then break his Arm and beat him. Psionics will alllw him to eat with it. If he screams, then it could drive the point home.

So we are a dragon, or 'noble', with new context. Especially judging by that mana bar.
My play is to offer them helpful life advice, then drive home the brutality that they risk by jumping to his defence. We wouldnt go too hard on em as we are on valsen but. . They dont know that.

>>5841064
>>Most of them are clearly unused to the level of violence you've just displayed. Use that to intimidate them. It might involve hurting Valsen some more, but that's strictly a bonus.

>>5841064
>>5841386
+1

>>5841386
Imma just pop in and say that if this option wins, I will be severely toning down the haughty. Elne, from the way I characterized her so far, does not do haughty and will automatically dislike anyone who does.

>>5841772
Thats fine. When I seek to intimidate someone, and I have the advantage of violence they cannot match, the natural place to talk from is one of immense height over the other party.

First trick to commanding strangers respect is already acting like you have it. Figure authority works the same way on neophyte cultists

>>5841386
>>5841637
Alright, calling the vote here.

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"Here's the kind of work a Far Hand psion can expect to do as part of Barter's crew," you address the crowd of acolytes in the finest lecture voice you can muster. "Rescue and recovery. Remote handling of hazardous materials. EVA object retrieval. And those are just the simplest and most common tasks. And I am specifying Far Hand here because that's the only thing Valsen's been teaching you, yeah?"

There are one or two hesitant nods, though most of them are simply too confused to react. But hey, at least they're not attacking you yet.

"Figures he would. Can only teach what you know, after all. Thing is, some of you have been making a lot less progress than others, yeah? Maybe even started feeling like you're just dumb or useless for not understanding things quickly enough," there is a barely audible murmur of assent. "Well here's the thing, there are multiple psionic paths you can follow, and just like with everything else in life, you'll be better at some than at others. It's why psions tend to organize themselves into covens: cause one nitwit with delusions of grandeur," you jerk your thumb back at Valsen," can't possibly give so many people the education they actually need."

You advance on the cult leader, who reflexively attempts to crawl away, crying out in slurred protest as you easily catch up to him, grab him by the hair, and drag him up to present his bleeding, ruined face to the crowd.

"So here's my advice: go to ProfSec, tell them your psionic abilities have awoken, tell them you heard Barter hires people like you. They'll give you a proper evaluation, test your aptitude, put you in touch with a mentor who's actually best for you. Or you can continue to throw your lot in with this man," you shake Valsen, "who broke our rules and is now trying to break the bet we made simply because he lost."

Valsen tries to protest and at the same time you sense a buildup of psionic energy around him, so you plant your foot against the back of his thigh, just under the knee, and shove, at the same time releasing your grip on his hair - causing him to slam face-first into the floor.

"Or you can fight me too, the way he wants you. And get the same reward as him."

You grab Valsen by his intact hand, yank it up behind him, place your foot on his back and, with a single, firm twist, snap several bones at once. The sound alone causes the watching acolytes to wince, and the scream that follows causes a few to start backing away.

"Your choice, really," you say, releasing Valsen's ruined limb.

You then stare them down, shifting your gaze from one to the next, locking eyes with them, daring them to say something, to disagree, to dare to so much as show a hint of aggression.

None of them do. They look intimidated. Fearful. A few, outright nauseous at the level of violence you've displayed.

"Go. Leave," you wave them off. "Head home, think on what you were told. And make the right decision that will actually improve your lives."

(cont)

"What's going to happen to Valsen?" someone asks.

"Does it matter?" you say in a cold voice. "Same thing that happens to all visitors who disrespect our rules."

"But he wasn't-"

"He may have called himself a resident," you shake your head firmly, "but his thoughts and actions were those of a visitor. He didn't bother to understand Barter: why we do or don't do certain things. Why our rules are what they are. He simply tried to change things to suit himself. And now he will pay the price."

It starts with one man, turning around and starting to shuffle toward the exit. Another sees him and, hesitantly, follows. Then another joins them, setting off a chain reaction of the entire group making their way toward the exit, casting occasional furtive glances over their shoulder - and looking away immediately as you meet their gazes.

Not a minute later, it's just you and Valsen left in the cargo hold. And, as you glance down at him, you realize he has passed out - most likely from the pain.

Well, not just two of you - there's still that individual hiding in the crawl space above.


Double vote:

Valsen:

>Wake him back up and lay down the law: he either abides by the bet and leaves Barter, or you'll hunt him down. But otherwise leave him down here: you've wasted enough time on his shit.
>You've always been the type who likes to personally see things through to the end. Drag him to a medi-point, get him patched up, and then escort him to the next planetside shuttle.
>write-in

The individual in the crawl space:

>Ignore him, unless he decides to make himself a problem
>Call out to him to get his ass down here. You might as well keep him where you can see him
>write-in

>>5843901
>Wake him back up and lay down the law: he either abides by the bet and leaves Barter, or you'll hunt him down. But otherwise leave him down here: you've wasted enough time on his shit
>Call out to him to get his ass down here. You might as well keep him where you can see him

>>5843931
+1

>>5843931
Supporting

>>5843901
>You've always been the type who likes to personally see things through to the end. Drag him to a medi-point, get him patched up, and then escort him to the next planetside shuttle.
Not like we have anything else planned.
>Call out to him to get his ass down here. You might as well keep him where you can see him

Update might be delayed a couple days, as I scored some side work that I could really use with the holidays coming up. I'll keep the voting open until then.

>>5843901
>You've always been the type who likes to personally see things through to the end. Drag him to a medi-point, get him patched up, and then escort him to the next planetside shuttle.
>Call out to him to get his ass down here. You might as well keep him where you can see him

>>5843901
>>Wake him back up and lay down the law: he either abides by the bet and leaves Barter, or you'll hunt him down. But otherwise leave him down here: you've wasted enough time on his shit
>>Call out to him to get his ass down here. You might as well keep him where you can see him
>>5845164
Congrats!

>>5845164
Any ETA for the update OP?

Alright, so. In short, the side job ended up being a bigger deal than expected and is soon going to be my main job. Which means, unfortunately, that I'll have a lot less free time to write. And as this would mean dropping the update rate to 2 maybe 3 per week, I decided it's better to abandon the quest.

My apologies.

>>5855043
2-3 updates a week is totally fine. Many popular quests take even longer to update. Please don't drop this.

>>5855047

Would second this anon’s comments, it’s perfectly fine to have a slower update schedule with board volumes as they are.

>>5855047
Thirding. Your new update schedule would be perfectly normal.

>>5855047
>>5855083
>>5855155
Alright, alright, if people are fine with the slower pace, I'll continue. I'll do my best to get a couple more updates out before the thread falls off the board.

>>5855530
Yes!

>>5855530
Nice.

"Oi! You! Yeah, you, up above! Get your ass down here!" you call out toward the ceiling. "You have until I finish dealing with this bozo!"

Then you grab the toolbag you dropped at the start of the fight, flip the still unconscious Valsen onto his back, tear open the front of his shirt and, bringing out the first aid kit, slap two patches into his exposed chest.

It takes around fifteen seconds for the effects to kick in - the man comes to with a start, eyes dilated and darting around wildly. After a few more seconds, they focus on you - and, with a small whine in his throat, the man attempts to wiggle away.

You put a stop to that by grabbing him by the intact shoulder.

"Do I have your full, undivided attention? Yeah?" you give him a little shake for emphasis and finally you get a vigorous nod. "I gave you a painkiller and a stimulant. They're both good for around an hour - plenty of time to reach a medi-point. Your personal shield over there?" you point toward the necklace piece. "Use that for collateral in case you don't have enough cred for treatment."

You did consider taking it as a trophy. But the psionic shield you can project around yourself is superior in every way and the last thing you want is Valsen getting stuck on the station with a debt contract.

"And after they patch you up, you will honor our deal and get on the next planetside shuttle or passenger ship. No, I don't care," you raise your voice as he tries to say something. "You want to play psychic warlord or cult leader that badly, head further out toward the Rim - plenty of opportunities there for idiots like you. But you will not pollute Barter with your bullshit any longer. You have three days - then I'll be hunting you down."

And, having said all that was necessary, you're up and walking toward the exit.

"Come along then," you only slow down for long enough to beckon at the figure lurking in the shadow of some ancient shelving. And then you keep walking.

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You only stop once you reach the airlock where you played dice with the three guards. There, you finally turn around to get a good look at your newest stalker.

He (or she?) is of a species you don't recognize. Like Kou, he's distinctly reptilian, but unlike your boss, he is tall and lithe, trading bulk for wiry musculature. He wears a dark, form-fitting jumpsuit that you'd bet a month's salary is made entirely of microweave, and you should know - your underclothes are made from the same stuff. Thin, light, and breathes like cotton, but can stop a low caliber bullet in a pinch. Bloody expensive, but hey, a girl needs some luxuries in her life.

The outfit is, of course, complemented by an energy shield of his own, and a more powerful model than what Valsen wore at that, one that allows for a (still rather flat) backpack with a number of unobtrusive gadgets stuck to the straps. Or at least unobtrusive to most - their technomagical nature has been a minor but constant irritant for the entire short walk.

And the entire image wouldn't be complete without the two dagger sheathes the reptilian has strapped onto himself: on across his chest and the other at the small of his back.

He remains silent and virtually motionless as you look him up and down, meeting your gaze with an unblinking one of his own. But this outward stoic demeanor is an easily pierced shell to your senses. Because while every species has its quirks and there are some really out there biologies in the galaxy, you've had your powers for long enough to realize that there are certain constants in how carbon-based lifeforms behave. And the neuroelectric activity you're seeing from this fellow is the familiar pattern of a fight-or-flight response. Meaning he either wants to fight you or is terrified of you.

The fun bit will be finding out which of those two is the case.

"Well, aren't you a specimen," you say finally. "So are you third party or fourth party?"

That results in a blank look.

"I mean, are you with the guys who've been following me around with drones, or with someone else?"

You're pretty certain it's the former, but there's an old saying about making assumptions. But your query is met with more silence.

"Do I get a name, at least? Or do you just go by 'hey, you'?"

This, at last, gets a response.

"Hrassi."

"Well, nice to make you acquaintance, Hrassi, I'm Elne. But I assume you already knew that. Now let's go."

"Why?" he asks as you're about to open the door.

"Because if you're going to be creeping around after me anyway, I might as well keep you where I can see you," you give him a small smile. "Honestly, I figured you'd just run away after I called you out - probably would've been the smarter choice. But you didn't, and you're here, so blame yourself, really. Now come on."

You enter the dark corridor outside the airlock and, after a moment, you hear him follow.

(cont)

"I was... sent to help," he says abruptly.

"Really?" you chuckle. "Even though it was both unwanted and unneeded? And what was the plan - to drop down from that duct and start slicing people open with those knives? Honestly, could you be any more of a visitor, Hrassi?"

As before there are no lights in the corridor, but you note that the lizardman doesn't seem bothered. Could be any number of reasons for that, of course. Gadgets, spells, implants - including bioware that wouldn't necessarily show as artificial to your enhanced sight. Though his body does seem to be largely free of any enhancements.

"That's generally the surest sign someone's a visitor on Barter," you say conversationally. "Carrying weapons while not wearing a ProfSec or ExtSec uniform. And sure, there's no law against it as such, but it's usually completely unnecessary. In case you haven't noticed, we Barterites aren't exactly a violent bunch."

You wonder if he'll point out the blatant hypocrisy of you claiming that. He doesn't.

"Hey, you in the mood for some statistics? Ninety-three percent of all violent incidents on Barter are initiated by visitors, of which roughly forty percent are attacks against other visitors. Which means statistically your greatest threat here is the dumbass newcomer who came into a respite center with a gun, took all the drugs, and started seeing giant neon-green arachnids crawling on the walls. The next six percent is encounters with the local wildlife."

"Wildlife?" this actually elicits a reaction. "This is a... station."

"A really, really big station," you point out. "And one that traffics in all kinds of weird exotic animals that occasionally break loose and manage to flee into the abandoned sections like the one we're in. But otherwise it's mostly hull rats. And I know what you're thinking: they can be annoying and can even cause a fair bit of damage, but it's easy to keep them in check with regular maintenance, right? A small nest is the worst it's gonna get, yeah? But here on Barter? They've got room to hide, and grow. And sometimes, they swarm. Like, hundreds of the fuckers pouring through the ducts and out onto the corridors. And when that happens, the only solution is usually to seal off the affected node and dump RXP-15 into the air distributors."

You glance back again and... oh yeah, he's definitely nervous now.

(cont)

"And what makes matters worse is that a few decades back some brainlet biologist decided to try and uplift the species for some damned reason. Anyway, the predictable happened and his test subjects used their big brains to escape containment and mingled with the local population," you continue gleefully. "So now Barter has a hull rat population that's smarter, more cunning and vicious, and can pull off base level tactics like ambushes or encirclement. And while nothing's ever been proven by Pest Control, there's persistent rumors there's a swarm somewhere down here in the Belly that's formed a rudimentary hive mind and even developed psychic powers."

You turn your head to send Hrassi a wolfish grin.

"And you know, that stat is probably much higher than just six percent. Cause if someone gets caught out playing Interstellar Man of Mystery in the maintenance ducts, especially down here... well, there's not gonna be a body left to add to the statistics, is there?"

And there's that anxiety spike. How lovely.

"By the way, we should probably slow down."

"Why?!" for the first time, Hrassi's voice displays actual emotion, even managing to crack slightly.

"Well, Valsen's former disciples didn't leave all that far ahead of us. And if we catch up to them, it's just going to be all kinds of awkward, you know?"

You walk in silence for a bit, letting Hrassi stew in his newfound fear of rats potentially lurking in the shadow of every crawl space.

"Anyway, that does leave the last one percent of cases," you resume abruptly. "Which does include those regrettable instances when a resident gets violent with a visitor for one reason or another. And sometimes it's justified, sometimes it's not, but believe me when I say that it's really, really rare. Because generally, there are three things Barter wants from a visitor like you: that you make lots of expensive purchases," you count off on your fingers. "That you generally enjoy your time here. And that you tell all your rich friends to come visit too. It really doesn't get any more complicated than that - and any rumors you may have heard about people getting scammed, cheated, robbed, taken as slaves, or drugged and sold off to organ farms are just that: rumors, usually spread by people incapable of taking responsibility for their own stupid-ass mistakes. Because there is no profit in antagonizing your customer base."

At last, there is light up ahead - even if it's just a security light strip above a doorway.

(cont)

"Also, you don't have to worry about becoming part of the one percent statistic," you say casually. "See, you've had plenty of chances to try something while walking behind me in the dark, but instead you were even considerate enough to make your footsteps audible for me. So I figure you're not gonna try and kill me. But that does leave the question," you wheel on the lizardman, blocking his way. "What do you - no, I apologize - what does the person you take orders from want with me?"

There is a lengthy silence that you chalk up to decisions being made and instructions relayed.

"Elne Blavis," the lizardman finally hisses. "Marchioness Shanaia of House Maevian grants you the privilege of an audience with her, at her current lodgings in Five Petals Hotel. At your earliest convenience."

Which, for those with even passing familiarity with Dragonblood Nobility translates to: get your sorry ass here immediately, before I have it dragged before me in chains.

On some level, you knew something like this would happen the moment Gresh mentioned that name from your past - Maia Taris. A name that no one alive - save you - should by any rights know. But that noble did, somehow. And also knew who to connect it to and, most importantly, where in this vast galaxy to look for you - which made for three impossibilities, which were three too many, as far as you were concerned.

And there was also that vision of yours, of course: the woman with crimson eyes.

You meeting her was an inevitability that you weren't going to resist any longer. The resources a noble could draw on were prodigious and their influence vast. And Barter, for all its size, could become a very tiny place for you if you defied the Marchioness.

So the only choice you've had was in how you chose to present yourself: what kind of message about yourself you wished to send to the noble, who was no doubt watching you through the lens of a camera mounted somewhere on Hrassi's gear.

>"Alright."
>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"
>"I don't particularly want to see her, but if she insists on seeing me..."
>write-in

For potential write-ins: Elne will not do obeisance or servility. In case you haven't gathered, she has a bit of a chip on her shoulder toward authority - nobles in particular. Even excessive politeness would be out of character for her

>>5858775
>>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"

>>5858775

>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"

Hrassi seems like an idiot, let's pump him for details.

>>5858775
>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"

>>5858775
>>"I don't particularly want to see her, but if she insists on seeing me..."

>>5858775
>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"

>>5858775
>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"
This a good quest, qm. I like how you write the characters.

>>5858775
>"A bite to eat, first. Care to join me, Hrassi?"

"Sure, I guess," you give your best 'pleb who doesn't understand the honor being bestowed upon her' shrug. "But it's been awhile since lunch, so I think I'll grab a bite to eat first."

With that, you turn around and walk off, while silently counting your steps. Four, five, six-

"W-wait!" the lizard calls out after you. "A meal will be provided, if-"

"Aw, thanks for the offer, but I'll pass. All that fancy noble fare would be wasted on a wage grunt like me. A nice, sloppy sandwich is where it's at. With plenty of hot sauce. Oh hey, speaking of, when was your last meal?" you send the lizardman a sudden, bright smile. "Care to join me, Hrassi? My treat."

He protests, starting to say something about how the Marchioness insists, but you're already turning away again, ready to walk off.

"If you're not interested, fair enough," you throw over your shoulder. "But try looking at it like this: if you're with me, it's less of a chance I'll skedaddle for the next planetside shuttle."

Then you keep walking and, after a few seconds, you smile to yourself as you hear Hrassi's soft footsteps catching up.

"But do actually put those knives away somewhere," you say, without looking. "It's genuinely embarrassing, having them out in the open like this. Oh yeah, and since my work shift officially ended ten minutes ago: you used a zip-shaft before, right?"

(cont)

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Even with the daggers tucked away in his backpack, Hrassi manages to draw attention to himself by looking and acting distinctly out of place in the less visitor-focused areas of Barter. Despite his slender build and developed athleticism, he lacks the acquired ease of a Barterite slipping through the often cramped and crowded passages. And he pays attention to far too many things.

Also, he actually tries to turn down a free meal once you reach the tiny, back-corridor diner you made your destination. No true, working class Barterite would ever do that! You have to actively cajole him into ordering something - a process further extended by making sure his digestive system is compatible with local fare and he doesn't have amino-acids or proteins pointing off in weird directions.

But finally you dig into your order and the lizardman picks away at his, and it's time to get to the actual reason you decided to snub a noble's invite for a greasy, high-calorie slab of meat between slices of bread. Because, despite appearances, it wasn't just a weird power play on your part.

Alright, fine, it totally was a power play on your part. Because you certainly didn't bring Hrassi here in the hopes of getting some actually useful information about his employer - any attempt to fish for dirt would be instantly shut down by his handler.

However, there is another purpose to dragging the discomforted lizardman around with you - an opportunity created by the fact that you know (or at least strongly suspect) that the Marchioness is monitoring your little act of rebellion, and that she knows that you know. Because it means that she can use Hrassi as her proxy while at the same time you both pretend she's not doing that - which allows you the opportunity to express yourself in a way that, in a formal audience setting, would be considered impertinent, if not outright insulting.

More importantly, it lets you have a conversation that you can exit at any time without having to fight past a small army of heavily augmented bodyguards.

"So what does the Marchioness want with a nobody like me?" you open with the most obvious question.

(cont)

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Predictably, Hrassi immediately tenses up, his expression becoming carefully blank.

"Cause I've been having a bit of the ol' think on our way here and I'll be honest mate, nothing really comes to mind. And also: House Maevian? That's a very long way from home for her to come and visit a nomad station skirting the edges of civilized space. Mind you, I'm not conceited enough to think she'd come all the way out here just for me - like I said, I'm a nobody - I'm sure she has far more important business, if not on Barter itself then somewhere in this sector of space, surely. But that still leaves the question of why she would bother with some low rank electrician. Any idea what's on her mind?"

When your perfectly reasonable query is once again met with silence, you're left with no choice but to force a response.

"I mean, I get it, you don't want to talk about your employer, maybe you can't talk about her - I don't know what they made you sign when you hired on. But you clamming up like that is starting to make me a bit antsy. Cause where I'm from, a noble taking interest in someone for no reason is almost never a good thing. And you know how I mentioned that shuttle earlier? It's starting to look increasingly tempting the longer you stay mum. So come on, throw me a bone here, would you?"

This, at last, gets a reaction.

"You are not in any danger and no harm will come to you," Hrassi says in the stilted manner of someone repeating words they're being told to say. "Marchioness Shanaia simply wishes to converse with you. And ask you about a certain name."

"Maia Taris?" you shrug and smile at the look he gives you. "What? It's not like it's a big secret you've been looking for her - heard about it from a guy earlier today. A noble asking around after Maia Taris, offering good cred for good information."

"The Marchioness wants to know about Maia Taris, yes," Hrassi nods. And, after a pause, adds: "And to offer her a well-paid job."

You thoughtfully scratch your chin.

"And what if the Marchioness was to find out that Maia Taris is in no position to accept this no doubt generous offer?"

A longer pause - long enough that you have time to take a couple of bites from your sandwich.

"Whatever obligations or debts may be keeping her on this station, the Marchioness is willing and able to settle all of them," Hrassi replies finally. In a very predictable manner, given how you phrased your statement.

"My apologies for not making myself clear," you say, pausing only to lick the sauce off your fingers. "You see... Maia Taris died a little over sixty-three standard years ago."

(cont)

And with that little revelation dropped, you dive back into your meal, savoring the last of the slightly soggy sandwich while it still retains the last of its warmth. All while Hrassi watches you with an odd expression.

"But... you are Maia Taris," he says cautiously. "Are you not?"

You ignore the question because hey, it's your turn to be silent and mysterious - fair's fair, damn it. Instead, you finish your meal, drink the last of the water that came with it, hand the plate and the bottle back to the diner's owner, and only then turn back to the lizardman.

"At the moment Maia Taris died, all those who knew her name have long since passed on, their bodies rotted beyond use and souls beyond any deadspeaker's grasp," you muse. "Similarly, any devices that may have held a record of that name have been destroyed beyond any hope of data recovery - and that includes temporal magic. And I may not know everything there is to know in this vast galaxy of ours, but I dare say I know a bit more than most. And I can think of exactly two ways in which the Marchioness could've obtained that name, and of those only one would've also given her a destination. So my question to the Marchioness - a very important question - would be: where did she hear the name, Maia Taris?"

And you turn your lidded gaze on Hrassi, waiting for a reply. Waiting to hear the answer that you already suspect. Confirmation that, after all this time, Fate once again decided to drag you into her eternal game.

And you watch Hrassi's expression shift slightly as he's told what to say, his ridged brow creasing with the slightest, somewhat confused frown. He opens his maw and from it comes a single word:

"Nowhere."

And you burst out laughing.


THREAD END