Tales from the Inbox: The Professor's Adventure

2950-06-07 – Tales from the Inbox: The Professor's Adventure

Today, Fifth Fleet announced the resignation of Admiral Reneer Zahariev, effective immediately. In theory, the investigation into the battles in the Håkøya system is still ongoing, and nobody in the government or in the Navy’s central bureau has openly declared Zahariev at fault for losing the system, but it seems all but certain that Minister Neirin and the Admiralty Council requested his resignation shortly after the Causey War Memorial dedication. 

Though I cannot confirm this, rumor has it that Captain Kirke-Moore departed the Maribel system three days prior to Zahariev’s resignation, apparently on a ship bound for Allsop. As this embed team has enjoyed positive interactions with the Fifth Fleet staff through Captain Kirke-Moore, we wish him the best in his apparent desire to return to retirement. 

Though no official announcement has been made, it is expected that Admiral Tamara Venturi, the second in command of Home Fleet who was part of the Navy delegation to the memorial dedication, will be Zahariev’s replacement. Venturi, young for a flag officer at 49, has apparently occupied ground-side postings in the Core Worlds for most of her career, but Captain Liao informs me that she has a good reputation as an out-of-the-box thinker, at least in terms of military theory and performance in simulated fleet battles. A formal announcement of Zahariev’s replacement is expected in the next few days. 

Yes, I will attempt to set up an interview, but I offer no guarantees. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Twenty-five thousand?” 

Rachel Aldershoff stared down the scowling man with only a single raised eyebrow. She’d been flying too damned long to let a penny-pinching customer intimidate her into slashing her profits. 

“It’s only what, fifty ly to Saunder’s Hoard?” The man, waving a slate and trying to loom over Rachel, banged the device against Rubicelle Randy’s nearest landing strut. “I could almost buy a wreck like this for twenty thousand!” 

“You’re welcome to try.” She knew all too well that no ship on Maribel that was anywhere near spaceworthy could be had for less than five times that amount. Just the previous day, she’d seen someone sell a forty-year-old Albatross Explorer for three times its going market value on any other world. “Twenty-five thousand is the fee. Load what you want, as long as it fits, it’s yours, and it’s no trouble with the authorities. I know you can afford it, Mr. Velasquez, and moreover, I know you won’t find anyone willing to take you for less. I could charge you forty, and you’d probably still have to pay it.” 

“You spacers are all the same. Greedy, heartless pieces of-” 

“Finish that sentence, and the fare is thirty thousand.” Rachel turned back toward the gangplank which led up into her little ship’s belly. 

Velasquez sputtered and fumed for several seconds before tossing the slate onto the landing pad and storming off. 

Rachel smirked and patted the familiar hull of Rubicelle Randy above her head. Though it had started life as a humble Columbia personnel transport, Randy had been overhauled so many times that it only superficially resembled its numerous sisters. It deserved to carry better than Velasquez and his various pointless posessions, but Rachel didn’t discriminate; she’d move whoever could pay, wherever they wanted to go, as long as it was legal or she had plausible deniability. 

“Excuse me.” 

The timid voice caused Rachel to turn around, and she found there a figure almost perfectly matching the voice. Tall but stooped, slim and grey-haired, with an almost stereotypically academic bearing, the man leaned on a carved wooden cane. “Would you be Captain Aldershoff?” 

“Captains fly ships bigger than this, Mister.” Rachel shrugged. “What do you need?” 

“I’m looking to book a trip off-world. To visit family.” 

Rachel nodded. The “visiting family” euphemism had become quite popular among Maribel’s well to do citizens for their flight from the world that seemed poised to fall next. “I’m in that business. Fee is-” 

“Twenty-five thousand?” The tall man smiled. "It is a bit farther to Adimari Valis than to Saunder’s Hoard.” 

“That would be-” Rachel stopped, blinked, and held up one hand. “Are my ears finally going, or did you say Adimari Valis?” 

“Is there a problem?” 

“What rock have you been living under, Mister? Adimari Valis has been an Incarnation world for more than a year. If you really had family on that rock, God have mercy on their souls.” Rachel waved her hands. “I don’t do runs to enemy systems. That’s suicide.” 

“Come now, Captain Aldershoff, we both know it's not suicide. You just need to have the right ship, and the right pilot.” The tall man brought his cane up to tap the stubby nose of Rubicelle Randy, which extended almost to where he was standing. “If it is an issue of money, I can pay more.” 

“You’re serious.” Rachel glanced past the man, seeing no-one who might overhear. She had no idea what he knew about the real capabilities of Rubicelle Randy, but anything at all was bad news. “Why don’t we discuss the details inside.” 

The man nodded and gestured for Rachel to lead the way. Thinking furiously about who might be leaking information about Randy’s capabilities to the general public, she escorted him up into the ship’s main passenger compartment, currently configured as a sort of lounge. 

Once he stooped to pass through the hatch, the man looked around. “Quite comfortable.” 

“Who are you?” Rachel pressed a button on her wrist computer to close the hatch and activate the various anti-surveillance systems built into the compartment. 

“My name is Jarvis Courtenay.” The man’s name matched his appearance so perfectly that Rachel almost giggled to hear it. “I’m a professor of xenoarchaeology at the Slaine-Wyrick Institute, and my son really is on Adimari Valis.” 

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me or my ship, but I’m not a miracle worker. If your son was there when the Incarnation landed, he’s probably dead.” Rachel shuddered, remembering stories she’d heard about the other alternatives. “He’s lucky if he’s dead.” 

“Oh, Raymond is not dead. At least, he was not dead twenty days ago, when he recorded a message for me. I pray that has not changed.” 

Rachel shook her head. There was, obviously, no direct way to get information in or out of Adimari Valis, but she had heard of foolhardy spacers who snuck in close to Incarnation-held worlds to collect covertly-transmitted messages and deliver them elsewhere. If these illicit post-men survived, they could make quite a profit, but there was no way of knowing if any message they carried was sent by someone compromised by the enemy. “He sent you a message asking you to come? That sounds like a baited Inquisition trap.” 

“Oh, no.” Courtenay shook his head. “His message only said that he is faring well, despite everything, and that he’d found something marvelous. He dared not say much more.” 

“Then why?” Rachel gestured to the man. “You’re an academic. No offense, but you’re in no shape to be skulking among the rocks and avoiding chip-head patrols.” 

Courtenay shrugged. “Raymond was at a dig in a very remote part of the badlands when the Incarnation landed. He is probably still there, and I doubt the foe has visited even once.” 

“And you came here to ask me not to help you rescue him, but to help you join him?” Rachel waited a few seconds, hoping the obvious insanity of this position would become clear to what seemed otherwise to be a reasonably sensible person. 

Unfortunately, Jarvis Courtenay seemed impenetrable to reason. “That is precisely what I want, Captain Aldershoff. Trust that an old academic has done his research.” He winked conspiratorially. “I know you can help me. What would you charge?” 

Rachel winced. She could turn the old man down flat, of course, but if he knew too much, he could make a lot of trouble for her with the authorities. Worse still, she didn’t really want to turn him down – suicidally crazy or not, she knew she’d enjoy a week aboard with Professor Courtenay. “Make it forty thousand up front. We leave tomorrow at zero six hundred local time.” 

“Forty.” Courtenay nodded, then reached into his pocket, withdrew two one-thousand credit chits, and set them on a shelf near the hatch. “I’ll have the rest when I arrive tomorrow.”  

Rachel opened the hatch and the old man ambled out, seemingly impervious to the peril which he had just signed up for. 

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Tales from the Service: A Memorial for Margaux

2950-05-31 – Tales from the Service: Veslemøy Park

This week, a Confederated Assembly delegation led by War Minister Gennady Neirin visited Maribel for the dedication of the Causey War Memorial in a groundside cemetery near the Maribel Spaceport. Despite its name, this memorial bears the names of all those confirmed and presumed dead after the battles on and above Margaux. Captain Liao allowed this embed team to join him at the dedication, at which Admiral Zahariev and most of the other senior captains and flag officers of Fifth Fleet were present.

Rather than bring an account sent in by one of the many spacers and adventures involved in the war in peripheral roles, I’ve elected to reproduce a portion of Minister Neirin’s speech at the dedication.

(NOTE: The speech below was given during of a public event which was, by request of Fifth Fleet officials, not recorded by any audiovisual device. A transcript recorder in the podium provided a textual record of the event for the Naval Archives, and it is from this record which this selection is drawn.)

Yes, we are here to dedicate a few hundred square meters of Maribel soil in the memory of those who fought The Incarnation to a bloody standstill at Margaux. Think on that for a moment. Perhaps you can see, as I do, that this offering of ground, synthcrete, and stone is too little to immortalize the memory of so much blood and so many sacrifices.

Many centuries ago, when dedicating a memorial not too different in principle from this one, one of our forebears made a revolutionary remark, that perhaps in the short remainder of his life he did not fully understand. Indeed, many centuries of great leaders and thinkers have pondered his words without grasping all the implications of what that man said.

What he said, standing on the beaten and blasted soil of the battleground on a grey day in Earth’s late autumn, was that we, the living, cannot really consecrate a fitting memorial for the dead. The memorial they consecrated through their valorous struggle consecrated a memorial for them which was, as he said, far beyond our power to alter.

You have already heard a few anecdotes from Bishop Anderson and Father Pamphilos telling the stories of a few of the many heroes of Margaux. In the light of these stories, and in the certainty that there are thousands of other stories of valor which history will never know, can we ever expect to build or consecrate any memorial truly worthy of their memory?

In view of this sobering reminder, let us not think too highly of what we do here at this memorial. Soon, we will all return to our posts, to our ships, to our halls of government, and it will be time to return to the unfinished work started by the dead whose names you see on these pillars. True, we now look at Margaux as a defeat, and a bloody, sobering one, but it represented the hopes and prayers of all the peoples of the Reach. At Margaux, the brave souls now departed across the Sea of Glass showed that our foe can be beaten, and now it is our duty to complete the work they started, to ensure that their sacrifice is not in vain.

Even as far as we can give these dead a memorial, I would see that this place, here on Maribel, should not be the final remembrance of their sacrifice. Some day, whether it be in one T-year, in five, or in twenty, we will return to Margaux, and take back the enduring monument which our dead built and hallowed for themselves. When we do, it will be the battlefields and redoubts of the Causey Plana themselves which will stand for all time as a testament to their sacrifice, and to the victory whose foundation is watered in their blood. Their enduring memorial to future generations will, God willing, not be found in any edifice of stone; it will be in the freedom and prosperity of Margaux and all the other worlds now fallen into darkness.

To that end, my friends, we must be active in our own roles in this conflict, but do not forget also to pray unceasingly. Pray for our spacers and troops, and pray that God grants them victory on their battlefields on this beachhead, or on the next.

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Tales from the Service: A Sovereign’s Offer

2950-05-24 – Tales from the Service: A Sovereign’s Offer

While most of the mercenary companies supporting the Navy’s defense of the Coreward Frontier are quite happy to send reports to this publication, the one from which nothing has ever been sent is Sovereign Security Solutions.

Indeed, many mercenary companies seem to view Cosmic Background as a dumping ground for press releases thinly disguised as direct accounts of their victories and activities. We do, I hope, a good job of filtering this out of both the vidcast and text feed programming, and these companies are perfectly welcome to submit sponsored items following our usual sponsorship process if they wish to use our platform to advertise their interests. 

The total silence from within such a massive organization as Sovereign extends to our competitor outlets as well. This can only be the result of a deliberate policy of retaliation against anyone who leaks the company’s doings, and it strikes me as highly suspicious. We’ve seen several accounts on this feed of Sovereign acting suspiciously (most recently A Sovereign Entrance), but the Navy seems to trust the company’s leadership, and so far the company has not done anything to change this. 

Several mercenary outfits we are in contact with have gotten strangely generous buyout offers from Sovereign in recent weeks. Most have stalled or rejected these offers, but a few have taken them up. The companies receiving these offers have been ones with fielding armor-suit infantry units, but we can only guess why Sovereign needs ground troops in the Coreward Frontier, while most of its best assets are tied up in fighting and raiding around Sagittarius Gate. Nevertheless, I’ve selected the account of Captain Xasan Maas as representative of the sorts of encounters multiple people have reported to me; whatever Sovereign is planning, it’s here, and it involves putting boots in dirt. 

[N.T.B. - Sovereign’s top leadership includes people alleged to be former pirates, and its overall top officer is rogue Navy officer best known before his mercenary career for almost single-handedly starting war between the Confederated Worlds and Rahl Hegemony in the 2920s. Its biggest contracts before the War were all for the Hegemony, and its forces have put down at least one anti-Hegemony rebellion. While I’d love to have a few drinks with the self-styled "Commodore" Madoc and talk about his various adventures and close scrapes, I’m not sure I’d let him watch my back.] 

“Let me make this as clear as I can.” The woman in the black and gold Sovereign uniform grinned and leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “You run a good outfit, Captain Maas, good enough for Sovereign. What do you say to a buyout at twenty-five?” 

“Twenty-five million.” Xasan Maas tried to sip his drink nonchalantly, pretending to mull over her offer without letting his eyes pop out of his head. The whole sum of his little mercenary company’s assets came to less than sixteen million credits, of which their lovingly-restored troopship represented the lion’s share. Twenty-five million would pay off all his creditors with millions to spare, and as the sole owner of the company, Xasan had no obligation to share those millions with anyone. “I’d ask what the catch was.” 

“Only the standard points. You can’t retire for eighteen months but we’ll pay you a salary as a Sovereign skipper. We’ll give everyone else on your payroll a ten percent raise, and even throw around a few one-time bonuses to head off any grumbling about your take.” The woman grinned, her eyes darting across the room to where Xasan’s senior officers were chatting with a group of mercenaries from other outfits, including Sovereign. “The offer is for all of the assets and employees of Maas Holdings, not for the company or its branding. We’re not interested in all the corporate paperwork, and we find our branding quite... sufficient.” 

Xasan nodded, feeling uneasy even as his brain worked through the millions of credits he would gain from the transaction. Ever since he had brought his mercenaries to the Frontier, he’d resented Sovereign Security Solutions for its smug, elitist way of doing nearly everything. The company seemed to have infinite funding, perhaps the result of obscenely profitable Navy contracts that no other company could even bid for. The Sovereign representative was offering him a Faustian bargain, and the sly cant to her easy smile suggested she knew it. 

Bonuses or no, most of his people would resent him for letting Sovereign buy him out. Some of his people hated Sovereign even more than the Incarnaton – after all, the Incarnation showing up anywhere was good for business, whereas Sovereign showing up there was bad for it. Sure, most would stay on through the grumbling, but the most principled mercenaries – a contradiction in terms, perhaps, but a real enough phenomenon – would quit on the spot to avoid taking Sovereign’s blood money.  

Sensing his hesitation, the woman tsked and sipped at her drink. “We can help you message it to your people. We have done this before.” 

To Xasan, this was a step too far. Having consultants help him figure out how to message something to his crew and troopers was a step too far. Squaring his shoulders, he held out his hand as if warding away the temptation of all those millions. “It’s a fine offer, and I’m flattered, but I’m not selling the company.” 

“Of course you’re not.” The woman shrugged and tossed her head, clearly not used to taking no for an answer. “But if you change your mind...” A holo-card appeared between her fingers, and she stepped forward to slip it into the pocket of Xasan’s grey tunic. “My door is open for the next few days.” 

After hovering at an intimate distance for a few perplexing seconds, the woman from Sovereign slipped away and vanished off toward the bar. Xasan watched her go, more to appreciate the way her black uniform accented her build and proportions than out of any regret for refusing her offer. Sovereign, in his experience, was always trouble, and working for them had to mean the most trouble of all. 

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Tales from the Service: A Spacer’s Decision

2950-05-17 – Tales from the Service: A Spacer’s Decision 

Ramiro W. slipped into his usual corner table at the Iris Basket and pressed the button in the middle of the table to switch the holographic menu display from its idle-state showing a vase full of blue and white flowers. Though the Basket was hardly the nicest place to eat on Henry Orbital, he always found time to visit at least once when he was in port. The restaurant had just been having its grand opening when he’d gotten his start in the small-tonnage cargo business, and he had negotiated his first contract at that very same table over a plate of Chicken Kiev years before. 

That the food contained no real chicken and the cook who’d arranged the various synthetic, textured food items had only secondhand reports of what Chicken Kiev should look and taste like hardly mattered. To Ramiro, the Basket’s rendition was a unique experience; a reminder of his first success, and of his early days plying the spacelanes aboard Jen Daley.  

Just as he punched in his order, Ramiro noticed the light blinking on his wrist computer. He’d silenced the thing and left his earpiece back on the ship, but given the insistent rapidity of the indicator, he had received quite a few datasphere messages in the twenty minutes since then. With a wince, he loosened the wrist unit’s strap, slipped it off, and dropped it into his pocket. Whatever Livia wanted could wait, and he had no intention of letting her spoil his dinner at the Basket. He had told her he’d think about her scheme, and if she hadn’t understood that to mean that he wanted no further persuasion, that was entirely her problem. 

“Ramiro, fancy running into you here!” A jovial, red-faced man slid into the opposite seat. “Just the man I’m looking for.” 

Ramiro smiled and extended a hand. “Good to see you again, Gavril. How’s business been?” Gavril, employed by the only authorized Reed-Soares distributor in the Philadelphia system, was a sporadic source of contracts; he regularly hired spacers like Ramiro to ship products out to the outlying colonies of the Galactic West. Even when he didn’t have cargo that needed shipping, the man was solid company for conversation over a few drinks. 

“A little slow, but I get by.” Gavril poked into the menu hologram to select a drink, then sat back. “How about you? I heard you’ve had some tough luck lately.” 

Ramiro shrugged. “I’m still flying and that’s not going to change. Worst case, I go into passenger service. I hear there’s money there these days.” 

Gavril scoffed. “Passengers? You? Times must really be tough if you’re that desperate.” 

“It’s not my preference.” A white-aproned young woman hurried out to the table bearing Gavril’s drink and a glass of water for Ramiro, and he waited for her to vanish back behind the kitchen doors before leaning in conspiratorially. “If you know anyone who needs to move something less annoying, I’m certainly listening.” 

“I’m sure you are.” Gavril took a long sip of his drink. “I hear tell Rafiq over at Vasilev is trying to hire someone to drag a service team out to one of the more distant colonies.” 

Ramiro scowled and shook his head. He had worked for Vasilev precisely once. After spending two months arguing with their money people just to get paid what the contract had specified, he had vowed never to work with that company ever again. 

“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” Gavril smiled. “Let one of the new crews learn a lesson on that one.” 

“New crews?” Ramiro perked up at the phrase. 

“Oh yeah. Three small-time haulers have been around since you last took off. Damn, Ramiro, they get younger every year. Not a one of their skippers was born the day I moved out here from Centauri.” Gavril sighed and looked down. “The one that just cleared out took on the only cargo I had waiting.” 

Ramiro sighed. He would have been only too happy to turn Livia down by pointing to a contract with Reed-Soares. 

Fortunately, his disappointment at missing Gavril’s contract fled at the sight of the aproned girl returning with his meal. Even when times were tough, as lately they always seemed to be, Ramiro relished the memorable, if not precisely appetizing, smell of a fresh plate of the Iris Basket’s rendition of Chicken Kiev. 

Gavril raised an eyebrow and waved the smell away from himself. “I do think you’re the only person ever crazy enough to eat that stuff twice, Ramiro.” 

Ramiro smiled. He couldn’t explain to Gavril what the meal meant to him, questionable though it was in objective terms. “It’s an acquired taste.” 

Just as he raised the first fork-full to his mouth, Ramiro saw Livia walk into the Iris Basket. Where most of the clientele was wearing spacers’ fatigues cut and colored in various styles, she stood out in a sheer dress of bright blue cloth that, though it covered her from throat to ankles, left none of her ample proportions to the imagination. Her dark hair, normally worn loose over her shoulders, lay piled up inside a huge, broad-brimmed hat, and touches of shimmering metallic makeup accented her face. As most of the patrons turned to gawk at her, Livia spied Ramiro across the room, and a broad smile split her painted lips. “Ramie, dear!” She waved and began weaving her way between the tables. 

Ramiro set his fork down and dropped his shoulders. “Of course.” 

Gavril looked with interest between Ramiro and Livia. “Friend of yours?” 

“Sort of.” Ramiro ground his teeth as Livia reached his table. “Hello, Liv. Didn’t think I’d run into you here.” 

Livia dragged a chair from a nearby table, pushed it next to Ramiro’s, and sat down. “Oh, I bet you didn’t.” She glanced at Ramiro’s plate, then at his companion. “You must be Gavril. I’m Livia.” 

“That’s me.” Gavril raised his glass to Livia. “You seem to know me, but I don’t think we’ve met.” 

“Did you need something, Liv?” Ramiro shot a warning glance to Livia, increasingly certain that she was up to something. She made a living on social subtext, and couldn’t possibly have missed his hints that he didn’t want her company. 

“You weren’t answering messages, and I was worried.”  

The way Livia arched an eyebrow after she replied told Ramiro that whatever she really wanted wasn’t for Gavril’s ears. “Can you give us a few minutes, Gavril?” 

Gavril chuckled and shook his head. “No problem, buddy.” Taking his half-finished drink with him, he got up and moved a few tables away, though not before giving Ramiro a congratulatory nod. 

“Seems nice enough, even if he is imagining us in bed together.” Livia scooted her chair a bit to the side and adjusted her hat. “What are you eating?” 

“The menu calls it Chicken Kiev, but I’m not sure-” 

Livia snatched up Ramiro’s fork, and before he could stop her, the morsel speared on it passed between her painted lips.  

Ramiro winced, remembering how many horrified faces he’d seen in the Basket after people curiously ordered his preferred meal. “It’s an acquired taste.” 

Livia frowned over the mouthful, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed, with no obvious signs of disgust. “Not bad. Is real chicken anything like this?” She pulled his plate toward herself.  

Ramiro chuckled and reached into the menu display to request another meal. For reasons that had nothing to do with the unavailability of other work, he knew he’d go along with her Maribel passenger scheme. “Nothing like it in the slightest.” 

This is the last section of the account sent to me by Ramiro previously, and it likely took place in the latter half of last year. Obviously, we will not be publishing anything which could identify him directly, in case Ladeonists wish to take revenge for the little swindle he and his partner played in the Galactic West. 

The Iris Basket is, interestingly enough, a very real business on Henry Orbital. It gets middling reviews from the locals and visitors. Perhaps if anyone is in the area, they can try the Chicken Kiev, but based on Ramiro’s description, I doubt that’s a good idea. 

[N.T.B. I’ll try it next time I pass through. Doesn’t matter how bad it is; I’ve had worse.] 

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