Valklears

“I am not going to train you; I am going to try to kill you.”
- Valklear Instructor

During the long years of enslavement and the great war for liberation, the Minmatar tribes found themselves sorely lacking in able-bodied solders. They were forced to create them from their most dangerous criminals – murderers, rapists, thugs, etc. The program was a remarkable success. The Valklears won the Minmatar a slew of military victories and emerged as the Rebellion’s most notorious elite force.

With the end of the Rebellion and the formation of the Minmatar Republic, some politicians within the new government questioned the need for such an iniquitous military force: The need was gone, peace was won and surely such ugly necessities of the past should be resigned to history to make way for the new Minmatar age? The military commanders would have none of it, and the Valklear program remained and continues to prosper to this day, although it has lost none of its infamous reputation.

Valklear commanders rely wholly on specialized recruiters to fill their ranks. They tour the courtrooms and judgement halls of the tribes, and with a trained eye they pick out the prime cuts of criminality from the great swathe of vicious, vile, and corrupt. Once the recruiter has selected a candidate, he works on brining the convict into the system. Each recruiter has his own persuasive technique, but for many hard convicts, presented with the option of a lifetime behind bars or a shorter term in the military, the choice is a rather obvious one.

The recruiter’s selection is not as clear-cut as one may think, though. They recruit from a broad range of the criminal fraternity. One day, a violent psychopath may be paid a visit, the next a serial killer, and then perhaps a corrupt lawyer, a notorious embezzler – even people who may have never held a weapon in their lives. The path the criminal has taken matters less than their skills, instincts and the inherent potential the recruiter perceives.

Once a candidate has accepted the proposition, they are silently removed from their cells and the penal system loses them in a maze of red tape and paperwork. Any digging within their records will show that these prisoners took their place in the death chamber or got transferred to a maximum-security facility. The Valklear candidates are lost in the system and will never be found.

When the candidate is removed from their prison cells, the training begins in earnest. Hundreds of evil-minded bastards, bloody killers, and fiercely intelligent criminals are put through one of the most gruelling training regimes known in New Eden. Through intense training, the prospective Valklears are melded into unstoppable war machines. Instructors push recruits beyond their limits in order to see if they push back. The candidates are beaten to see if they will get up again, then beaten down even harder. Recruiters want that indomitable glint in their eye that says, “Fuck you.”

Those candidates that wash out are thrown back in the penal system with even harsher sentences. The ones that make the grade – and to the recruiter’s credit, it is a surprisingly high percentage – are then indoctrinated into the Valklears proper, where the expectation of “tough bastard” gets re-evaluated once more.

A Valklear’s tour of duty is dependent upon the term of his original sentence, not including the full year of training after selection from prison. If a Valklear survives his tour, he immediately becomes a free man. He is also given a new identity, and any links to his criminal past are wiped from the records and replaced with a suitable cover.

After their tour with this elite force, most Valklears find a calling suited to them in other military branches. The former Valklear will in turn get transferred to another unit, though his new comrades will remain ignorant of his background.

Currently, some of the highest-ranking members of the Minmatar armed service were once Valklears. This fact is kept top secret; the public remaining ignorant of a Minmatar military run by murderers and thieves.

Extinction Burst

The type of behavior that presents the greatest potential for scientific study, I find, is that which is exhibited under duress. Not enough research has been undertaken in this area, and those who engage in it do so under a dark cloud of superstition and mistrust, suffering a woeful lack of support from the public. We have to do it all ourselves – all of it – hidden away like criminals.

Against completely nonsensical prejudices, I should add, held by a species composed almost solely of unexamined habits and chiseled thoughts, a species whose worldview has been set since childhood, with room for nothing new or exciting, and to whom the suggestion that there might be something worthwhile to be found on the edges is so repulsive as to be anathema to the trembling cores of their very moral fiber.

Take the extinction burst, for example.

While most people – including a few scientists, even – believe that certain behavioral patterns cannot be forcibly deteriorated, I am of the opinion that we simply have not developed the correct methodology. Everything can eventually be exposed; expulsed; exterminated. But lifelong habits run deep, and the development of an all-encompassing methodological framework that can demonstrably break even the most stringent of these remains, unfortunately, beyond my abilities. I’m still fencing with the problem; working on the edges, trying to find a way in.

An extinction burst is not the extinction of a species, though that would be a marvel to engineer. It has to do with the more granular exhibition of learned behavior, when that behavior is met by adverse conditions never before experienced, and with the reactions subsequently exhibited by the afflicted organism. In most cases these new conditions progressively alter and eliminate that behavioral pattern, but you’d be amazed at how desperately some animals will maintain their old habits before finally letting them die off for good.

This is, quite honestly, a good thing for evolution. I have no time for a species that gives up the first time it encounters failure, or pain, or lack of reward.

Some species do give up right away. But others will persist, following through on the same pattern even when it is not being rewarded, or even, I should say, when the situation might demand that they break the habit. They may no longer be safe. There may be a dearth of food, or water, or air. They may be running out of time. But still they’ll cling on to what might be called, for the lack of a better term, hope. Moreover, their attempts will intensify, the number of attempts rapidly increasing for a short period of time in a last-gasp attempt to maintain the pattern. That is the extinction burst.

We see this occur in various guises throughout the animal kingdom, but it has not been extensively studied. This lack of research surprised me when I first began looking into the phenomenon; I did not expect my experiments to be groundbreaking merely by dint of being the first ones performed in a proper, thorough, scientific manner. Naturally, I’ve tried to cast a wide net, acquiring a set of vastly unlike species in New Eden and, under controlled conditions, carefully noting their reactions to my stimuli.

Most learned patterns have to do with confinement, but I’ve never been entirely comfortable with the usual button-stimulus paradigm. All it really does is produce a lot of needy, overweight rodents.

Instead – and believe me, this took a bit of time – I’ve set up a kind of working, monitored environment. Not just a cage with a bed and a feeder, but an actual maze of sorts. It’s complete with all manner of stimulus-providing machinery, most of which remains hidden until the animal makes its way down that particular corridor or into that particular room. The function of the stimulus machinery is basic and easily understood by whatever animal I’ve got in the maze – often no more than the familiar button or sensory panel dispensing a quick drink of water or a brief encouragement of some gland or another. It does not constitute the main experiment, but it’s extremely handy for taking more detailed measurements of the subjects’ current extinction burst status.

The main experiment is the maze itself. Most of the corridors and rooms have exits, but they are hidden and will reveal themselves only after a specific sequence of events has been enacted. Again, these events are not too complex for most of the animals in the maze, though I will admit that I was rather disappointed initially by the Hanging Long-Limbs, – but they do require the subject to experiment rigorously with materials at hand.

The maze starts off easy but gets progressively more difficult. Along the way, as noted, stimulus-providing machinery permits me to monitor the subjects’ extinction progress. Some tend to give up quite a bit sooner than others, and every time they stop to push a button in a room, you can see the hopelessness in their increasingly lackluster reactions to the stimuli.

The Hanging Long-Limbs, of course, remain the exception.

When animals come to in my maze – I’ll admit I have to sedate them for transport and preparation, but it wears off without any noticeable effect – they tend to pace about a bit, get familiar with their surroundings, and altogether look a little confused but inquisitive. Not quite so for the Hanging Long-Limb. I don’t quite know what causes this.

The species has quite a limited spread, confined as it is to the methane clouds of a single Gallente planet. It grew up in an environment that has remained unchanged for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, almost entirely unspoiled by man. It has its predators, as everything does, but it knows how to deal with them, and nothing in my maze sets off any of its ingrained warning signals. The Hanging Long-Limb is also not, I have to say, a very intelligent species. This is not necessarily a drawback: Low intelligence often means highly developed instincts and makes an animal’s responses easier to predict, categorize and quantify. Lastly, it does not rush into anything. It is a fast animal when it wants to be, as various small amphibians have learned to their brief regret, but unless driven by the impetus of moveable prey or by a nearby predator, it simply is not in any great rush at all.

I had not considered this when I acquired these animals for my maze. They were costly – I had to flood the damn maze with methane, too – but they are worth it. While other species all follow more or less the same behavioral patterns, the Hanging Long-Limb continues to defy my expectations. It moves slowly, dazedly, as if drugged, and it seems to take an endless fascination in studying its surroundings. Many of them never even make it out of the first room. Watching their progress, once the observer has cultivated the necessary patience, is so lulling as to be practically meditative.

The same cannot be said for another of my favorite subjects, the animal known to its local population as a Charisoco. It is a small rodent, nimble but extremely strong for its size, and restlessly inventive. It is invariably curious when it begins to explore the maze, shuffling around the corridors with apparent aimlessness, but even then, my observations have proven that it develops – visually develops –- its escape methods by making its way through the twisty corridors with remarkable alacrity. The first half of the maze provides little to no obstacle to this ingenious little animal, which makes its tendencies to halt its progress and experiment with the side-track stimuli I’ve left in various rooms all the more amusing to monitor.

Meanwhile, the great beast they call the Slaver – easily one of the most dangerous animals I’ve put in the maze, and certainly one that made me nervous to the point of queasiness when I first watched it wander the corridors – has a more forthright approach. It is cunning, as predators are, but if it gets too frustrated it will eventually begin throwing itself against the walls, heedlessly ramming its bulk against them in a futile but impressive display of strength that rattles the room. The Slaver is a harsh and brutal animal that simply does not ever give up, though whether its tenacity is out of survival instinct or a kind of angry desperation, I don’t yet know.

None of which helps prove the extinction burst, as these animals make their way through my labyrinthine passages. At least, it remains unproven until they get to a random room – I don’t even know which one; my maze autoselects it – where no solution will work. None. The exit strategy, which becomes obvious after a little while, does not function. No matter which panels, buttons, floor plates, or decorative items are touched, in whatever order, nothing happens.

The real, proper exit strategy…well, that’s when some of the animals start to get a little nervous.

I’ve run this experiment countless times. I truly feel I am on the cusp of great discoveries here. But moreover, I simply enjoy watching these animals, my favorite subjects. I don’t feel I’ll ever tire of them, though I do fear that some day I will inevitably grow weary of the experiments themselves, and I’ll have to put an end to it all. Yes, even the Hanging-Long Limb, reposed in blissful quiet; or the creative little Charisoco; or the restless, pacing Slaver.

And maybe even you, my darling, as I watch you screaming at the walls.

Ante

When she suddenly stopped walking at the base of the dropship’s gangplank, Silphy enDiabel’s entourage halted abruptly and turned to see if something was wrong. They waited patiently on the tarmac under the blazing Intaki sun for several moments as she stood absolutely motionless, staring at the ground.

“nMiss enDiabel?” The only decorated Space Police officer in the bunch stepped forward, reaching out for her arm.

She waved dismissively at him and knelt slowly, pulling her long braid of synthetic blond hair behind her shoulder as sheran her hand across the concrete landing platform, tilting her head to examine her palm when it came back covered in a thin layer of dust and small pebbles. Smiling, she stood up and rubbed her hands together, nodding for the entourage to continue on their way to the cathedral’s spaceport terminal a short distance away. Despite the glaring sunlight reflecting off the glass paneled surface, she could see several figures anticipating her arrival near the main entrance.

As she led the group to the terminal, the last two armed escorts established positions near the ship, one of them leaning in closer to the other and whispering, “What was that all about?”

Not taking his gaze off of his responsibility, he whispered back, “It’s been a while for her.”

* * *

Making his way through the murmuring crowd of worshipers as delicately as possible, the courier approached the hooded woman from behind and coughed subtly, standing with his gaze averted. When she casually turned around to meet his gaze, he seemed on the verge of choking, but managed to stutter, “I have a message for you from Internal Security, Reverend Mother.”

“Go on,” she breathed, downplaying the conversation so as not to attract the attention of anyone else in the chamber, a sprawling temple just as impressive for its size and grandeur as it was for the haste in which it was constructed. Despite the fact that her official title was Chief Executive Officer, she had to admit to herself that she secretly enjoyed being called Reverend Mother by the frightful, superstitious locals on many of the worlds her organization aided.

All the Sisters of EVE ever asked for in return for their humanitarian assistance was permission to construct cathedrals dedicated to their faith, and over the years they had perfected the science and art of completing such structures in a matter of mere hours. The one in which they stood had a ceiling over thirty meters high and could seat twenty-thousand worshipers during its daily services, one of which had just ended.

“A ship has arrived,” he began, glancing in each direction to make sure no one else was within earshot before continuing. “A Syndicate ship.”

The woman pulled the hood back over her shoulders, revealing a tight bun of thick brown hair held in place with an ornate ivory clip. She folded her hands into the sleeves of her robe before chiding the messenger. “I believe this is a matter the local authorities can handle, my child. The Syndicate knows their place, so if they…”

Interrupting her and immediately regretting it, the boy clenched his eyes shut, expecting to be harshly reprimanded, but spoke his peace anyway. “Not they, Reverend Mother: her.”

“Her?” She inhaled as if to say something else, then stopped abruptly and looked around the room. When she finally did finish her thought, she spoke a little too loudly, prompting more than a few bystanders to take notice. “Silphy is here?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother. She waits for you in the rectory.” Instantly understanding that he had overstayed his welcome, the messenger bowed his head respectfully and dashed off through the crowd of dispersing worshipers.

Santimona Sarpati met the lingering stares of several onlookers before replacing her hood and gliding off toward the arched corridor.

* * *

Silphy was standing with her back to the door when Santimona entered the meeting room, an oddly shaped octagonal chamber with smooth metal walls that curved inward near the ceiling to create a geometric pattern of etched reliefs. Directly opposite the door was a wide, double-paned window looking out on Intaki V’s capital city, Lenoika, its flat-roofed buildings boiling in the red afternoon sun. She didn’t move at all in response to the Reverend Mother’s arrival.

“I was told there would be rain today or tomorrow,” she said to the window.

Santimona loosened the silk rope that kept her formal robe closed and moved to a seat at the low, square table in the very center of the room, which had but two chairs. When she was certain that the elegant garment had fallen properly over her crossed legs and was free of any wrinkles, she replied, “We’ve found meteorological reports rather inaccurate on this planet, considering the late sequence of this system’s star.” Conjuring up a hollow smile, she offered, “Stay a few days and you’ll see rain, I promise. You’ll have to find accommodations in the city, though; only Sisters are allocated living quarters on the premises. You understand.”

Silphy didn’t take the bait, just stared out the window. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Miss Sarpati.”

“I’m not quite certain why you wished to speak to me, actually.” Resting one of her pale arms on the table, she drummed her fingers. “Is your station experiencing another food shortage?”

Silphy turned at last to look her in the eye, but still refrained from reacting to Santimona’s repeated jabs at their tumultuous history. Instead, she copied her smile and played along. “No, but you have the Syndicate’s continued thanks for the Sisters’ assistance in that matter.”

Santimona nodded appreciatively, but only for appearance’s sake. She continued counting quietly to herself. Twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six…

“How are your efforts proceeding here on Intaki V?” Silphy reached the table in three steps, but didn’t sit, instead leaning on it just enough for her shadow to pass over the other woman. “Will you be here much longer?”

“As I’m sure you remember,” Santimona replied, “the cathedral is always our last item of business for any project.” She motioned for her guest to take a seat, but Silphy straightened back up instead. “I’m sorry,” Santimona amended, “but I’m not exactly certain what your title is these days. How should I address you?”

“Syndicate titles are purely for internal use, so you needn’t worry about them. I have, however, returned to using my family name.” Silphy paused for a few moments, looking at Santimona inquisitively. “Do you know what enDiabel translates to, roughly, in the original Intaki dialect?” As she spoke, Silphy strolled around the conference table with the practiced ease of a seasoned politician circling her audience.

Knowing that she wasn’t really expected to answer the rhetorical question, Santimona simply raised her eyebrows and waited for Silphy to continue her train of thought.

“Good,” she said with a smirk. “How much longer?”

Two, one “Now.” Santimona lunged forward on the table as Silphy hurriedly took the opposite seat and closed in as well. When next she spoke, the Sister had an urgent, hushed tone. “It was a little more difficult to time the punctuated recordings in this facility since it’s so new. When the sensors realign during this log, everything between now and the point when it resumes will look like a momentary glitch, which the operator will probably chalk up to sunspot activity. We might only have a few minutes.

“That’s all we’ll need if everything is in place. If that crusty old merc refuses to talk to me directly, you need to convince him that including us is going to be much easier than locking us out.” Silphy slammed her hand down on the table to conclude the statement. Her eyes shimmered in the crimson-tinted light that streamed into the room.

“And if he refuses?” All traces of ire had evaporated from Santimona’s voice.

Silphy turned her head and clenched her jaw tightly before answering. “Tell that traitorous son of a bitch that the Syndicate isn’t going to sit idly by as another government ignores us. And if Mens thinks those pedantic mercenaries are going to hinder our business one bit, he is sorely mistaken.” Leaning forward and composing herself, she spoke calmly, “What I mean is that we have something to offer both entities if we’re brought in on the deal.” During her brief, emotional response, a lock of hair had escaped the lengthy braid running down her back.

Reaching out across the table, Santimona gently pushed the loose hairs back behind Silphy’s ear and smiled. “Yes, that’s more like it. Flies with honey, my dear.”

Silphy almost reached up towards her hand, but stopped herself short. “What do you think he’ll say, Mona?”

“That depends,” she said, her attention seemingly elsewhere for a few seconds, then reasserted herself suddenly, “on what you’re offering him. Remember that you have two flanks to address, and in my experience, Muryia can be very difficult.”

Silphy leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, taking the time to choose her next words carefully. “Tell him that the Federation hasn’t controlled trade in this system for decades, and that if he wants that blood money from Mens to keep appearing in his bank account, he’ll learn to respect the local culture.”

“Ahh, now that’s going to be the hard sell. He’s not at all happy about your little stunt with the Zephyr shuttles. Everyone who produces shuttles took a noticeable hit when you did that. If you offer the right commodity, I’m sure he’ll reciprocate.”

Covering her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her laughter, Silphy nonetheless refused to look away. When she was able to control her mirth again, she explained, “I think I have just the thing his corporation would appreciate. There’s a funny story behind those shuttles, by the way, but I don’t think we have time for it.”

“You’re right,” Santimona replied abruptly, standing up and pulling her robe tightly about her. Twelve, eleven, ten…

Mirroring her posture as she stood from her seat, Silphy leaned forward onto the table once again and shot her counterpart a seductive grin. After a few seconds of silence, she asked, “Do you ever miss it?”

“Every day,” Santimona replied with a nostalgic sigh. Three, two, one…

Reaching back and putting her shoulder into the effort, Santimona whirled around suddenly, lashing out with one open palm to strike Silphy across the face. The impact’s sharp crack echoed around the room as Silphy tumbled backward over her chair, landing on the floor in a disheveled heap.

Shrieking at the top of her lungs, Santimona stormed around the table, pointing accusingly at her prone target. “Does your arrogance have no bounds?” When Silphy had recovered enough to sit up and wipe the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth, the Sister continued, “I won’t jeopardize this honorable organization to subsidize your criminal agenda!”

“You’re pathetic,” Silphy finally uttered, pulling herself up and immediately assuming a defensive position. Beyond the doors, she could hear her security escort arguing with the Sisters of EVE guards stationed there. “I can see right through you, Sister. You’re insane if you don’t think the Intaki are going to figure out why you’re really here. This was your last chance to get through this with any semblance of your obsolete cult intact.”

As the doors burst open and half a dozen armed men encircled each woman, Santimona shrugged off her protectors and released a parting shot. “I should have known you’d never change, Silphy. Get off this planet.”

Glaring at the Reverend Mother spitefully, Silphy shook her head and stalked out of the room, her escorts hustling to keep up with her determined pace. They marched through the cathedral without stopping until they reached the gangplank of the dropship, which was casting an elongated shadow over the landing pad, its metal hull sizzling under the unrelenting sun. Silphy turned to face the ornate building, her eyes following the swooping architecture up to the steeple near the top, which was emblazoned with the Sisters of EVE holy crest. “Sadistic witch,” she spat.

Not far away, in the cathedral’s security chief’s office, Santimona watched Silphy intently on the holographic display. With her sentries still nearby and the chief respectfully out of the way so the older woman could use his station, she studied Silphy’s every move, frowning as the Syndicate’s unofficial leader spit on the ground in contempt before boarding her ship. “I often wonder which is more perplexing: the fact that she abandoned the Sisterhood or that she was ever allowed to join in the first place.”

* * *

Reclining in her personal quarters aboard the starship, Silphy took a sip from a glass of ice water and held it to her cheek, wincing reflexively. Chuckling to herself, she tapped her password into the console embedded in herchair’s armrest, prompting a translucent heads-up display to appear in the air half a meter in front of her. Scrolling through several waiting messages, she chose one of the more recent ones and read it quickly.

Silphy tapped the controls that would establish a direct connection to the person who had sent the message. She waited patiently until her screen evaporated, replaced with the three dimensional head of an older man covered in elaborate facial tattoos. “Silphy,” he said respectfully.

“Mr. Lecante,” she answered, nodding slowly. “Have the other families reached a consensus?”

“Yes.” He looked around as though there were other people in the room with him, but none were visible on the holographic display. “They’ve agreed to your plan. So what’s our next move?”

“Consolidate all the data received from the Zephyr program, everything those oblivious capsuleers have given us on wormhole space. Prepare the datacores for immediate transport; a representative from the Sisters of EVE will be arriving shortly to take possession.”

Lecante nodded. “I think you’ve really nailed this one, Silphy. That’s precisely the kind of token Ishukone won’t be able to resist.”

“I know,” she concluded, touching the disconnect button and raising the glass to her cheek again. She spent the remainder of the journey back to Syndicate space staring out the window of her cabin, unable to conceal her nostalgic smile.

Chasing Shadows

Directors Conference Room, Federal Intelligence Office HQ, Renyn system, Essence

March 9th, YC112

“So why are we here, exactly?” asked Candon.

“Haven’t found out yet,” replied Suisse. “All I know is it’s Code 14, top clearance.” He enunciated the next part with careful mocking precision. “Should see En-Quaitant-do-Miérz Portres in here soon enough.” He snapped his finger. “Yup, there he is. Start smiling.”

Portres was making his way toward them. He was a tall gentleman, about fifty years old, and he walked with a purposeful strut that came off just a tad too calculated. With a cultured flourish, he took his seat next to the other two.

“Gentlemen.”

“Counsel. How are the kids?” asked Suisse.

“Oh, you know,” replied Portres. “Annoying their parents, going against the grain, experimenting with trodes and bodymods and what-have-you. It’ll pass.” He placed his case on the table in front of him and unclasped it.

“Any idea why we’re here?” asked Candon.

“Something about a new security directive. I’m not sure,” replied Portres.

“You’d think they’d brief us properly,” said Suisse.

Portres nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose it was all rather vague and hurried.” He pried his d-pad from the case’s foam inlay, placed it on the table in front of him and began powering it up. “Comfortably certain it’s all part of a plan, though,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket. “Let it seldom be said our new President doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Let it never be thought, much less said,” muttered Candon.

Portres straightened in his chair, smoothed his lapel bottoms. “Well,” he said, “at the very least he provides the illusion of knowing what he’s doing. Right now, maybe that’s what we all need. I know he’s convinced me so far, and I’m a fairly hard man to convince.”

“That much is true,” said Candon. They sat there in silence for a few seconds while the meeting table’s holographic center cycled through its test patterns.

About ten minutes later, with the formalities concluded and the heads of the Federal Intelligence Office’s fifteen major divisions settling somewhat uneasily into their seats, the slight, bald figure at the head of the table began to speak.

“I’m sure most of you gentlemen are wondering why you were brought here this afternoon on such short notice, and with such dramatic urgency,” he began. “Just as I’m sure many of you realize that the act of bringing you here in such a way can be an end unto itself.”

A few heads turned around the table, but barely a sound was heard.

“As of 9:00 AM this morning, I have issued a presidential directive that places specific orders in the hands of each and every one of you. Your dossier pads have been updated with the relevant information. Use the holofield to your convenience. As you review the data, bear in mind that if even one bit of this information finds its way into the wrong hands, the whole operation will come down on your head.”

He paused for one second, then continued. “As you will learn, the impromptu Code 14 meetings will continue for the next two weeks. They are an unfortunate necessity, but crucial in the grander scheme.” He lowered his head. The room was silent.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Please take your time to review your orders. They are effective immediately.” Without another word, he turned, strode away from the table, and vanished through a side entrance, the subdued slither of his entourage trailing behind him.

Candon and Suisse looked at each other. Portres stared down at his d-pad stream. One by one, the three men went to work.

***

State and Region Bank Gala Hall, Jita system, The Forge

March 20th, YC112

The hall was gigantic, tastefully adorned in traditional Caldari style and dotted with artistic recreations of State exploits commissioned by the State’s most beloved artists. The exclusive crowd in attendance, however, were far more interested in the other people around them than in their exorbitant surroundings.

“Miss Omura.”

“Mister Kaikumi. Good to see you made it.”

“How have things been, Miss Omura?”

“Copasetic. And with you?”

“Staying on an even keel.”

“Good to hear. I understand you’ve been expanding into new markets recently?”

“Always on the prowl. Expansion is the lifeblood of our economy.” He made a sudden awkward shuffle, backed up two steps. “My apologies. Miss Omura, allow me to introduce a friend of mine. This is Katiana Rigomi. She’s an Achura investor of some repute. Katiana, this is Jaan Omura, the CEO of Caldari Funds Unlimited.”

The girl thrust out her hand, almost forcefully. The older woman took her hand and shook it, and as she did, the girl’s expression turned strong and penetrating, full of purpose. Her hand was cold.

Elsewhere in the room, a camera snapped.

***

Mercantile Club Master Parlor, New Caldari system, The Forge

March 29th, YC112

Dim lights glowed in far corners, draping tasteful ambience over the plush chamber. Against the city’s jagged skyline, two older men were engaged in heated conversation.

“I don’t know, Sioras. Advisors to the Federation? It sounds a bit pie-in-the-sky to me. You don’t think his motives might be spurious in the least?”

“No no, listen to me,” said Sioras. “I’m just saying that if there’s anything for us to be gained from the hoopla going on right now with Omura and CFU, then it would be with him.”

“But we’d essentially be turncoats.”

A note of impatience crept into Sioras’s voice. “Think outside the box, Kanai. You and I have been doing this for decades. Our best days are behind us. We’re basically just glorified financial advisors at this point. Sure, we’ll work high level, but we won’t be aiding the enemy. We’ll just be economists, there to help bridge the rift between the two nations.”

Kanai said nothing. He looked out at the city, watched the skylarks ascend into orbit, lingered briefly on the erratic blinking lights of the skyscrapers in the fading dusk.

“Think about it,” said Sioras. “The political capital would be enormous. I mean, we could get back in the game. The Provists have enough internal trouble right now, anyway. They’re not going to come hunting for us, least of all with the visibility we’ll have. And besides, we’re advisors. It’s not like we’ll be directly involved in affairs of the state.”

“State,” grunted Kanai.

Sioras gave a small sigh, clasped his hands together. “Yeah. Look, I know where you’re coming from. Don’t think I don’t. But consider it, at least. Give it a fighting chance. Didn’t the Sustainability and Co-operation Conference do anything to soften your view on this?”

“Tell you the truth,” replied Kanai, “I was smelling deception right from the start of that little get-together. The pandering was so obvious. The cultural nods were revolting. You could tell they thought they were being subtle, too.”

Sioras nodded. “Well,” he said, “our former compatriots have seldom been renowned for their nuance. Whatever the case may be in that regard, the facts of the situation speak for themselves, don’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said Kanai. “I see the opportunity, and it seems good. Even if there was blowback from the die-hards, we could probably weather it with PR. It’s just…I just don’t trust that little man. He’s unreadable. You never know where you have him. Any minute now, I feel like he’s going to tap me on the shoulder and politely inform me he’s the actual father of my children.”

Sioras fixed him with an exasperated look, the kind only an old friend can bestow. “I’m going,” he said presently, with a note of resigned finality. “So are Kormoken and Tikilo, along with a good deal of the Citadel old guard. Are you sure you don’t want to give it a little more consideration?”

Kanai was silent.

“Well,” said Sioras. “You think about it.”

***

Caldari Providence Directorate Headquarters, Piak system, Lonetrek

April 2nd, YC112

“It’s all over the wires, sir. The financial establishment is up in arms.”

In the warm interior of his personal quarters, Executor Tibus Heth, the highest-ranking man in the Caldari State, sat in a posture of frozen rigidity.

“What’s the extent of the damage, counsel?” he asked.

“Well, sir… for one thing, right now Omura’s got more on her plate than she can handle. Even if her name clears eventually, every one of her close associates will have distanced themselves too far by then to come back. And it’s making people point fingers elsewhere. High-visibility employees are gone from two of the eight megas already. Federation media’s playing it to the hilt, too. No punches pulled.”

“What are the repercussions for the CFU pension funds?” asked Heth, shifting slightly in his seat.

“Well, sir,” said the counsel, and paused. As if on cue, the holographic field bearing his image wavered slightly. “Net asset values are going to stay more or less intact, but if the current situation escalates any further the investors will most likely pull their money for political reasons. If enough of them do that, we’re going to have a problem on our hands that I’m just not sure how we’re going to deal with.”

“And the rest of the megas?”

“Lai Dai and Kaalakiota are currently engaged in strenuous internal and external PR efforts, trying to make sure no one outside the very top tiers of command realizes they could stand a real chance of crumbling at the seams due to infighting. Like I said, they’re really up in arms, sir.”

For a moment Heth sat, staring down at his lap and rubbing his calloused thumbs together. He stayed that way for a while, with his counterpart on the other side of the FTL link growing increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, the executor raised his gaze, face resolved, fingers locked in front of him.

“Set up an inquiry. National scale and beyond. I want all figureheads closely monitored twenty-four hours a day. I want every single transaction routed through our headquarters for analysis. I want nothing to get by us. Nothing, do you understand me? We’re going to clamp down on this thing hard, and we’re going to start right now. I trust you know who to talk to for the wheels to be set in motion.”

There was a small pause at the other end. “Executor,” the voice came then, “your wish is my command.”

***

“Mister President?”

“Yes.”

“We just received word. Heth ordered a national inquiry. They’re starting with the financial institutions. No stone unturned. Being very vocal about it, too.”

“Thank you.”

“Just thought you’d want to know.” The secretary allowed himself a brief grin.

Jacus Roden flipped off his viewscreen, drew in a deep breath, released it. He leaned back in his seat, thought about the events of days past, and tried not to smile himself.

Merely Disassembled

Parlan, reading scripture, felt a drop of sweat trickle down his back. It was a late day in early summer and the fields outside still wavered with heat. Through the window he could see the workers putting away their microblade scythes and sending the last of the wheat through the binders. People worked in shifts here on the colony, and it was Parlan’s week for early days in the field and late nights studying his faith.

He wouldn’t have minded being out there, working himself into tiredness. It was far preferable to thinking so much, these days.

He refocused on the text in front of him, willing his gaze to remain fixed on it. Ordinarily, reading the scripture was akin to meditation. The words would hum in his head, turning into a litany that took him elsewhere; sometimes into the gentle rapture of faith, and sometimes merely into a void empty of all sense, away from whatever earthly demands needed to be ignored.

The drop of sweat kept trickling down, down, down.

A sound emanating from somewhere in the room interrupted his attempts at meditation, and he realized he had been quietly singing to himself. He sighed, closed the text and got up, sliding his wooden old chair under his wooden old desk, and massaging the sweat on his back into his robe. A look outside the window confirmed that the day would still be warm but bearable, and resplendant with nature.

Parlan left his room, walking slowly through the halls of quietude that formed the main section of the temple. He did not meet anyone on the way. There were guests in the temple these days, travellers from other systems who wanted to explore the Amarrian faith, but they would be working in the fields.

Once he’d left the halls and entered the world of the living, it took him a moment to get used to the brightness, the smells and sounds, the slumbering freshness of it all. This temple, sitting as it did in the middle of golden fields of extensive farmlands, felt like the head of a body: Quiet and cold, silent and meditative, and ideally divorced from the messy vagaries of the lesser orders of daily life.

He walked at a slow pace with no particular destination in mind. A keen eye was enough for nature to provide him with any number of distractions, and for that he was thankful. He let the leaves on the trees fascinate him, their veins showing through the remainder of the golden sunlight; and he imagined what it would be like to soar like the birds above him, who barely seemed to bat their wings. He looked to the hills in the distance, too; grey and covered in their own smoky haze.

That was another reality. He would be there tomorrow.

The winding paths eventually led him back towards the temple. On his way there he walked past the conference area: A small, secluded spot where acolytes could sit on wooden benches and discuss the tenets of their faith under sunny skies. He came close enough that he could recognize the few people who were sitting there, talking quietly. In this place it was held that thoughts on faith should be shared.

Not all thoughts could be shared. Parlan sighed.

He found a tall tree, sturdy tree with heavily foliated branches and sat down in its shade. He was close enough to the conference area that he could hear the soft murmurs of words. He shut his eyes and listened. Even at this distance, where the words were unintelligible, he could recognize some of the voices. He imagined that one of them was speaking to him. He realized that listening for a precious voice was, in fact, a very religious activity, and he grinned to himself.

Someone right next to him – a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize – asked if she could sit down. He opened his eyes.

She had blonde hair, beautiful in the fading sun, though it stood in contrast with a subdued harshness of her expression. He expected that the harshness had been there before she arrived. This place eased the minds of its inhabitants, at least those who could leave their ill longings behind them.

He realized she was waiting for an answer, so he nodded and smiled.

She explained, without too many words, that she was one of the visitors – one of the ‘rich’ guests, she called herself, with a clear sense of self-irony that he appreciated – and that she’d been working in the fields all day, was tired and sweaty, had gotten sick of the drama among her own people – a recent theft in the temple had started to fray their tempers – and wanted to relax in the presence of someone who looked like they could use some rest themselves.

She was forthright when tired, she warned him. He said he had rather suspected that, and she laughed. He liked her already.

They talked for a while about life on this planet and life elsewhere. She was a mission agent, she told him, and had been working out of her home planet in the Gallente Federation. He’d heard of the profession, although it was rare for the colony to receive agents of any stripe. She asked if the agents in the Amarr Empire didn’t tend to have crises of faith with the work they were doing, and he said that they did not, for the ones who aspired to the profession were driven, rather than hampered, by their faith, and did not need to buttress it. She said that she did not know whether she envied them, and he admitted that he did not know, either.

During the conversation he had stolen a few looks at the crowd sitting by the conference area, still talking, and eventually his companion at the tree – whose name, it turned out, was Heci – asked him if he had other things than faith on his mind.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them.

“Is it really that obvious?” he said, quietly, even though he knew no one could hear him but this woman and God.

“No,” she said, to his relief. “But I have desires of my own to deal with -not for you, darling,” she added with a grin, patting him on the shoulder and eliciting a snort of laughter from him, “- and they make me see these things. You know how it is. When you look for signs of God, you see Him everywhere. Same with other things.”

He nodded.

She fell silent, closed her own eyes and leaned her head back against the tree. She did not ask him to elaborate, but he knew she would listen.

He was not sure whether he could discuss this, even though she had caught him. He could admit to a sin in the abstract, but revealing details – speaking them aloud – would make it real, and not merely an imagination inside his own head.

But he wanted to talk about this – he needed to – and he doubted he would ever find a safer conversant for it. Besides, compounding it with the sin of lying wouldn’t enamor him with the holy.

“I have never acted on it,” he said, even quieter than before.

“Never?” she asked.

“Well, look at me,” he said amusedly, and held up the end of his robe.

She smiled and nodded. “Not much opportunity for romance, is there,” she said, not really asking.

“Do you love anyone?” he asked.

She looked away, to the vistas beyond. “Too many, really. Including your kind of love.”

“My kind of love?” he said. He understood her, but he really hadn’t thought it had been that obvious.

“The one that’s not allowed? Oh yes. I know that one very well,” she said, nodding towards the acolytes by the conference and, he thought, in particular towards the one he’d been looking at. She continued, “Even if most of it was only physical – I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable with this…”

“No, no,” he said.

Heci said, “Unrequited love is a bitch. You give all you dare and don’t get the same back, even as you want to give so much more. You have to continually accept that you are not the one setting the limits, but the other person, who decides how much of you they are ready to take.”

She shifted, rubbed her back against the tree. “So even when it was mostly physical, there was always some degree of love there. You just have to accept it for what it is, and allow it to exist in your heart as long as it cares to stay there.”

The idea that he would have to live with these feelings, unrequited, for the rest of conscious time made Parlan intensely uncomfortable.

“So how do you deal with heartbreak?” he asked, truly hoping that her answer would imply some end to the way he felt, some course these feelings would naturally take that would eventually lead them to extinction.

And she did not. She said, “The heart is resilient and cannot be broken, merely disassembled for a while.”

They sat there for a while, looking out at nature and God’s creations, and when the sun went down he left without a word. He kept the peace and walked back to his room, where he sat and read scripture long into the night until he couldn’t stand it any longer, then took a shower so cold he gagged from the shock, crawled trembling into bed, wrapped himself in the sheets and shivered into sleep, the warmth rising slowly from within him.

***

The next morning it was his turn to visit the mines, as everyone who worked on the settlement had to do from time to time. It was a long day’s walk and gave him time to think. Something about last night’s conversation, in that shade of the silent tree, had begun to comfort him even though the shock of it had been too much for his tired head at the time. There was an inevitability to his feelings that he had not realized before his talk with Heci.

The mines, when he got to them, were the same pit of stink, ash, smoke and misery as they always had been. The Amarr Empire kept slaves, and on this planet some of those slaves tilled the fields alongside the acolytes, while others, not yet ascended, lived and worked in this place. Some day they, or their children or their own children, might be lifted up to the fields, but until then they slaved under the eyes of God.

Parlan was inured to their pain – the world was full of suffering and it made no more sense even if one brooded on it – but he eased it the best he could. For hours on end he walked among them, in their thousands, bringing them water as they hacked at the earth. As he poured he sometimes thought of the one he loved. Some of the slaves thanked him, others – too tired, he reasoned – did not, but in every pair of eyes there was a quiet acceptance. They did not resent his presence here, nor particularly welcome it: He was merely here, and they were thankful for him while he stayed. This life they led was their lot just as Parlan’s was his, until the day God decided otherwise.

He spent most of his day there. Some of the incoming slaves from the fields, attending briefly on their own business, mentioned that there’d been a commotion back at the settlement. He didn’t care. His lot was to be here, and give his love to these people.

At the end his robe was caked with dust, and he could not even see his fingerprints for the clay that had covered his skin. When he finally went back to the settlement he saw everyone outside, with serious faces, and something starting in the open expanse of the conversation area.

As he watched, one of the settlement slaves – an assistant to the head minister, and someone he knew had family in the mines – was dragged out there, stripped, and tied down. The minister announced that he had been guilty of the recent theft.

The slave overseer arrived, with his tools. It went on for a while. Everyone watched, some looking upset, others – including Heci – horrified and disgusted, and a few looking hungry for more.

Parlan did not react, one way or another. The clay felt cool on his dry skin.

There is a mindset where you achieve quiet and tranquility not by accepting things the way they are, but accepting that they are the way they are.

When it was over he retired to his quarters, where he read scripture until he fell asleep in his chair.