#unconcordant | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neon-mind-palace · 2 years

Text

First, it was the humming of the umbilical hatch as it attached to the passenger craft. No other space ship that Ira Morrengard had ever ridden on had a docking procedure that was as smooth and perfect as the Courte’s. The soft thump of the umbilical’s rubber mats clamping onto the outer hull as they form an airtight seal, no unnecessary clicks or ker-chunks, the satisfying whir of the umbilical as it pulls the passenger craft into the docking platform.

Second was a treat specific to the Courte itself: a vectorgram of the ship’s assistant ego, Noire, appears suspended, floating in the airlock, and chimes in with an affable and hospitable “Hello and welcome to the CSC Courte Nebulae, your center of the universe!” Typical of the Courte, it spared no expense when it came to designing the perfect personality to greet it’s patrons and visitors. Made to look soothing to the eyes, Noire’s appearance was always themed after that of a classy Human woman that one might find working at a speakeasy in some hidden, unconcorded corner of the Sprawl. This time, as she hovered there and gestured the him into the umbilical, she was styled as a rustic barkeep wearing a vest and slacks, and tending to some dirty mugs with a washrag. Almost nowhere else that Ira visited had taken this much care into making a good first impression, but the Courte wasn’t just any space craft, after all.

However, the third was not as welcoming. Ira Morrengard stood before the airlock, waiting to be ushered onboard the calming atmosphere of the resort craft. The soft red carpet yielded to the weight beneath his boots, reminding him that he isn’t here for leisure. He never is. The Courte is a ship that exists to serve those in need of rest and relaxation, yet Ira only ever found himself aboard when there are pressing matters to attend to. As the motors within the walls of the airlock began to lift the hatch open, Ira glanced behind, nodding to the red orc and the elf that standing to his respective left and right. Bodyguards, sure, but more of a formality, only cementing the fact that, ahh yes, he is in fact on duty right now.

Soft light drapes Ira from bottom to top as airlock hatch glides upward into the ceiling, revealing Captain Pardo Jarvis, standing at the ready to greet him. Alone, uniform perfect, hat in the crook of his arm, feet tapping.

“I assume you got my message?” Jarvis opens with a bite.

“I read it. It reads like a briefing, Ardy.” Ira steps off of the airlock platform and onto the long corridor of the umbilical, his two guards lagging a healthy 5 feet behind him. “Besides, the conference chamber is just a short walk from the hangar, you could’ve just waited for me there.”

“Surely you can understand the urgency of the situation this time around, sir,” Jarvis responds, matching pace with Morrengard.

As they began to walk, Ira contemplates how to proceed, but his genuine irritation gets the best of him. “Could you have held off for a little bit longer? Dammit, could you have at least called me first?”

Captain Jarvis sighs, almost as if he anticipated that this conversation would arise. “They entered concorded territory and encroached upon a concorded vessel. They were given proper warning, told to remove themselves from the proximity of the Courte, and failed to comply when Defense gunships were deployed.”

“And then you proceeded to obliterate their vessel in a dogfight and sent their body parts out into the cold vacuum of space."

“Would you have prefered for us to have used the railguns? Or the beam cannons, perhaps? Had I known your concern for their remaining intact, I might have been more careful with my orders.” As Jarvis walked with Morrengard, the tensions already beginning to simmer between them, the sarcasm and cutting remarks already playing their role in the battlefield of dialogue. “Please, Ira, you know the protocol. You, of all people, know the protocol.”

Ira was no stranger to this verbal battle ground, having fought against Captain Jarvis many times. In fact, he knew Jarvis’s rhetorical prowess very well, as he was almost always on the business end of it when he was summoned to visit the Courte. However, Ira was learned in the ways of dialogue just the same; not only because of his familiarity with audience-affronted podiums, but also because he saw a heated dispute such as this as a whetstone to sharpen the sword of his own rhetorical prowess. Nevertheless, if one were to truly conceive of a conversation as a duel between two opponents, then one would consider his game bested in the wake of an opponent such as Captain Jarvis.

“I know how to read the room, Ardy. You only know how to read one room, and that’s the Pentdeck,” retorts Ira, after a moment of careful deliberation. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know who they were. I know you aren’t that much of a socialite, but surely you must have some knowledge of current events… or at least, a taste in music?”

“Ahh, yes. The peoples have been singing their praises, everyone knows about the Retrogrades,” he mocks, his arms pantomiming awe in the air before him. “I must say, I’m not one for that kind of industrial electronica, but they did put on quite the performance at the Capitol, wouldn’t you agree?”

As they approached the end of the corridor and the entrance into the Courte proper, the conversation naturally becomes hushed, now taking their verbal combat into the occupied facilities of the ship. Leaning in, Ira mutters “That’s cold, Ardy, even for you. Making fun of some kids that you just blew to oblivion, some innocent artists that were just coming here to put on a show?”

Moving into the hallways in the rear of the docking bay, they headed towards the conference room. Jarvis crooks his head up and announces, “Noire, set up the conference room and prepare the black box recording data.”

"Right away, captain," sings a disembodied voice from a localized intercom speaker that matched their walking speed.

“You recovered the flight recorder? Why?”

“Because I served, son,” he said, playing the age card and the Authority veteran card at the same time, “and in my line of duty, investigative measures were often taken… besides, the physical black box itself was found floating away from Corvo space after the explosion, completely beyond repair, but the internal data remained intact. The audio recordings have been wired into the ship’s logs.” They found themselves at the conference room door, pleasantly surprised to find it empty for their use. As they entered, the two armed men would remain at the door and stand at attention, while Jarvis and Ira walked around the large, 20-seated table. “I would hope that the Equitor’s Board would be present for such an occasion.”

“Ahh, you know them. They only show up for the cool stuff.” In this moment, Ira looks behind him to find the door fully shut, with the only present company in the room being his two bodyguards, and Captain Jarvis. With their privacy assured, he turns to Jarvis with a smile. “Like kids, they are. You have to keep them entertained with toys and pretty lights,” he laughs, but is not beholden to one in return.

A sharp sigh once again leaks from Jarvis' mouth, indicative of the proverbial chip on the shoulder. “It’s your fault that they behave as such, sir. You and your Luminarian council."

And so the wounds are dealt, Ira thinks. "You two, step outside," Ira commands the bodyguards who, without hesitation, march in formation, coming to a stop right outside. As the door closed, Ira directs his voice towards the ceiling. "Noire, engage soundproof seal on the room." Any noise caused from the passerby in the hallway outside quickly fades away, instilling a calming anxiety onto the room. Now the real conversation begins. The one that has nothing to do with why I was summoned here. “Please elaborate,” resumed Ira with a smirk.

“If this vessel remained a colony ship, then it could have survived on concorded funding. We would not have the need for third-party income if the original purpose of this ship, the original destiny that it was designed to fulfill, remained to this day. Maybe it would have been better if the whole craft was decommissioned and scrapped for parts. Why you Luminaries allowed for this ship to be gutted and remodeled into this cesspool, I’ll never know."

"You're talking about something that was decided over two-thousand revs ago, as if I was there to give the order. You're smarter than that, Ardy. You're just looking for something tangible to blame, but the truth is, the fault lies on those that have come before us. You and I are products of our history and our ancestors. The road that's been laid out for us, we have no choice but to travel."

Ira was satisfied with his volley of philosophical thrusts, and left Jarvis to chew on those words and devise his next action. "Regardless… for generations now, the Equitor’s Board has turned this ship into a dungeon of debauchery and sybaritism. They act like children because you have given them a playground with which to do so,” he seems to conclude, enunciating the end of the sentence. However, Jarvis drew breath to say one more thing. “But if it wasn’t going to be here, then you wealth-fed elitists would've built it somewhere else.”

Ira’s ears perk up at that last part. An all-too-familiar battlefield, this conversation, yet capped off with a weapon Jarvis hasn’t wielded before, a thought he hadn't vocalized until now. “You’re right about that. The difference between the two scenarios being that, since this so-called dungeon is built here on the Courte,” Ira says, leaning his weight onto the conference table with one hand and motioning to the ship around him, “you and I can have direct eyes on the going-ons of these so-called elitists. If it wasn’t here and instead, say, built on some detaché planet in the Periphering, then you and I would have absolutely no dirt on them. Think of your position as a way of monitoring these people, keeping tabs on them.”

His hands slowly slide off the table, fingertips dragging. Ira walks forward a bit, meeting Jarvis at the head of the table. “This ship is a tiny nook, hidden away in a massive and ever-growing civilization; a place where their vices and their perversions can be indulged in. People come in from all over the galaxy, some even risking sublight travel to get here, because they are absolutely certain that on this ship, they are alone. No one to see them in their raw state, no one to witness their carnal filth that would otherwise ostracise them from society.” With a pause, Ira considers his next words. “I’m sure you can understand the value of a place like this to the Concordaat. Though it may not be the intended purpose for why it was gutted, it has served a new purpose, fulfilled a new destiny,” jabs Ira, parrying Jarvis’s earlier words. “The clients will behave how they do, and I say let them. Let them write their own receipts, all you have to do is keep them.”

Jarvis sighs, softer this time. “I can find myself in good company amongst the average clientele. After all, they’re just rich assholes, even they can learn some manners,” he says, getting a rise out of Ira who barely knows this man to curse.

After a pause, Jarvis continues, “...But the Board is just…” These lulls in the fight, Ira thinks, are not usual of this man. Something is eating at him. “Is it not their duty to be informed of things such as this, and offer wisdom on how to manage this predicament?” Jarvis says, careful not to let his frustrations be apparent in his speech.

“Oh, no no, their duty is to remain happy and keep giving up their money to make sure this ship is furnished with the most luxurious of attractions. It’s OUR duty to maintain that happiness. Ya' know, keep them in a state of euphoric money loss,” says Ira, half sarcastically.

“Earth’s memory, I cannot believe I just heard you say that.”

“You didn’t.”

Jarvis looks up at Ira, standing almost a foot taller, and is reminded of the intensely threatening aura of this man. Ira Morrengard, Principal Luminary of the Galactic Concordaat and appointed representative of the human race, Chief Commander of the Concorded Authority, Supreme Dean of the Concorded Academy of Research and Science, and CEO of the Scatter Corps. Effectively, the man who holds the realms of economy, politics, science, military and space travel in the palm of his hands, alongside the Luminaries of the other races of the Sprawl. Ira is careful not to flaunt this immense rank, and Jarvis has been long accustomed to the loose and jovial nature of the man. However, in moments like this, when such rank is made apparent, Jarvis cannot help but feel humbled.

“I understand,” he utters, finally. He looks down for a moment, almost sheepishly, until a familiar chime rings through the room. Above the conference table materializes a very business-casually dressed Noire, holding what appears to be a manilla folder in her hands.

“I have the black box recordings you requested, sir,” she says, appearing dressed in modest business attire.

“Yes, thank you,” says Jarvis, regaining his composure. He had almost forgotten why this meeting was taking place. “Let us return to the matter at hand, shall we?”

“Please,” Ira returned, taking a seat at the table.

“If you would, Noire,” Jarvis motions. She nods and reaches into the folder to retrieve a page. It floats from her hand and morphs into an audio playback UI, showing the timestamp, playback status, and a speech-to-text display. “Five hours ago, at about 0300 Concord time, an unregistered flagship craft, most likely Gilder in origin, pinged some regional proximity sensors just outside of Corvo space. Careful inspection of the black box’s navigational charter showed no sign of the ship passing through the Corvo focus beacon, which can only mean one thing, sir.”

“They traveled at sublight speeds.”

“Affirmative. When they dropped from sublight, the craft’s mid-range flight engines took over, and laid in a tragectory heading directly towards the Courte,” Jarvis says, as Noire raised her hand to bring to life a vectorgraphic diagram of the planet Corvo. The vectorgram zooms in to enlarge the image of the Courte Nebulae in its orbit, and represents the flagship craft as a red dot gliding along a green line that intersected with the Courte. “When I arrived at the Pentdeck, multiple attempts were made to hail them, but none of our calls were answered. Scans on the vessel identified five personal ID codes aboard.”

“Tank and the gang,” Ira says, referring to the members of the Retrogrades. “You know, I gave them a pretty souped-up tour craft to commemorate their concert at the Capitol, but I guess I’m glad they didn’t fly it this time!” Ira Morrengard, always one to try and lighten up the conversation.

Jarvis ignores this. “Scans also clocked six more passenger craft in the launch bay, as well as four main battery cannons and a guided missile system. A missle system with an excessive amount of ammunition in its reserves.”

“Making their main ship one big explosive barrel,” Ira continues, as if finishing his thought.

“However, shields and comms systems were seemingly disabled, possibly to divert power to the prototype reflector-screen camouflage that was activated around the craft. Although, credit where it's due…" Jarvis winces at the words about to come from his mouth, "thanks to the Equitor’s Board, our ship’s tech is quite a bit more advanced than that of the construction worlds out in the Crescent, and our sensor array was able to maintain a visual on the craft as they were cloaked.” Jarvis might not like the Board, but at least he can appreciate their utilitarian uses; that being, equipping the CSC Courte Nebulae with the most bleeding-edge technology and machinery. “Three gunships were deployed from the Quadrant 2 docking bay, equipped with EMP satchel charges, industrial strength grappling hooks, and hull-buster railguns…” he paused, hoping that maybe Ira would pick up on the subtle hint. “Truth be told, the guns were a last resort.”

“I see,” chuckles Ira. He picked up on the hint. “You didn’t deploy those gunships with any ordinance.”

“No, sir,” says Jarvis, relieved to get that point across finally, at least in some way. “When no communique was established, the flagship craft’s mid-range engines accelerated to full output, beginning a suicide trajectory aimed directly at the Courte’s center mass.” The vectorgram above the table depicted the red dot gliding faster along the green line, until it collided with the Courte, blooming larger and fading away, demonstrating the theoretical result of said collision. "Our next course of action was to disable its thrusters and incapacitate it, using the grappling hooks to tow the vehicle back to the Courte for investigation and questioning of the passengers.” That was the end of the thought, intentionally so.

“So...” Ira says, filling the pregnant pause. “If your boys weren't packing any heat, why did their craft ultimately explode?”

“That brings us to why you have been summoned here,” he states, gesturing to the audio playback UI above the conference table. “Noire, please show us the final hour of the flight recording.”

“Yes, sir.” The vectorgraph display showed a total play time of over 13 rotes, but the timestamp marker slid to just before the very end of the total playback time. “This is the portion of the black box log data you requested, recovered from the Gildern Sandblaster class freighter. Audio and speech has been transcribed for your visual assistance.”

“Thank you, Noire. Begin playback.” The conference room lights dimmed. A hush fell on the room.

aud.file loaded

timestamp:RESUME

[humming of the sublight engines, footsteps of the passengers, muffled and indiscriminate speech]

pilot1: Nah, see... Okay, it’s all about salesmanship, right? Ya know, puttin’ on a good show, makin’ the customer feel like they’re in charge.

pilot2: Salesmanship. Okay, if puttin’ on the act is so important, then why even grift ‘em at all?

pilot1: Think about it. My shop is on the outside of town, no one ever comes in there to do major contract work like the garages in the big city. Me, my only customers are the typical runaways, refugees, wannabe bounty hunters, even sometimes some inner-Sprawlers lookin’ for a place to hide. They see my shop, they come in for a speeder or a land dart…

pilot2: And then you lay it on real thick, I seen ya'. I just don’t get why.

pilot1: Because, guy. Gilder is a “hostile environment”. People like that, they just want someone they can trust, someone they can call by their first name. I’m that someone, guy! I’m Diesel Darryl! They see that sign above my shop, they come in, and I act like a lifelong friend, they love it. Then, when they drive out that workshop door on a brand new motor, zoomin’ over the dunes, feelin’ that desert air blast through their hair… they might notice a little hiccup.

pilot2: So you rig your motors to stall?

pilot1: Yeah, buddy, it’s as simple as that. Well, that and the trackin’ locators I fix up inside the fuel well. My boys get that signal, home in on it, and boom. A sucker at my mercy.

pilot2: All’s I’m sayin’ is that you’re already makin’ enough dough sellin’ the motors. You’ve got the chance to make an honest livin’.

pilot1: Honest livin’? Buddy, in the Periphering, “honest” and “rich” don’t coincide. I’m tellin’ ya, these poor suds might be good for their loot, but I’ve gotten some good men too. It’s pretty surprising what someone will do just do not die that slow and agonizing death out in the de-

“Pause playback,” interrupts Ira, bringing the audio to a stop. He ponders for a few seconds, piecing together the information he had so far. “Malgam Jockeys.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Figures they didn’t show up on the initial scans. So we have space pirates on a Gilder-made craft, flying sublight to avoid the beacons, and plotting a suicide trajectory into an incredibly famous concorded leisure vessel? Looks like the Retrogrades had a bit of a moral relapse,” he supposes, letting gravity bring his fist down onto the tabletop in disappointment. “I thought they cut ties with the Jockeys. I mean, that’s they’re whole gimmick, that’s what made them famous.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to cast blame on them, sir,” replies Jarvis. He looks back up at Noire, who was patiently observing the conversation. “Proceed to just before the flagship drops from sublight, when their leader enters the cockpit.”

“Right away,” she chirps.

timestamp:RESUME

pilot1: -and they’ll make sure o’ that, too, cuz they don’t want the bossman comin’ in and choppin’ off their-

[Leader Dredger barges through the door]

Dredger: Shut yer traps, men.

pilot1/pilot2: Yessir!

Dredger: How far out are we now?

pilot1: Uhh… just over 3 minutes until sublight drop, sir!

Dredger: Perfect. [Yelling away from the cockpit] Bring ‘im up!

[Loud stomping, chains rattling, person thrown down onto their knees]

Tank: ...You know I can’t feel that, right? [Coughs, spits] You and your cydocs killed my nerve sensors when you went to work on my legs last ni-

[Loud concussive blow, Tank falls to the ground]

mercenary1: You’re still ‘ganic in the head, ain’t ya?

[pilot1/pilot2/mercenary1 laugh]

Dredger: Alright, quiet down, boys. I need our frontman here to be awake for his performance.

Tank: Yeah… I felt that one. You won’t get away with this, Dredge, this plan of yours is absolutely crazy, even for you.

Dredger: Oh sure. I’m turning over a new leaf. Now, let's cut to the chase, eh Tank? We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you and those other mercs goin’ soft on us. I mean, each one o’ you boys got a body count. You had so much goin’ for ya, yer names struck fear in the hearts of priceheads, you had all the money and all the girls you could ever want. Then you run out on us; betrayed the family and yer talents and the cause. All for what… music? Music that’s mediocre at best?

Tank: Tell that to our trillions of fans… [laughs, spits]

Dredger: Ugh, kids’ll listen to anything these rotes.

Tank: What are you talking about? You and your grunts have been beating my ass down in the cargo hold ever since we left Naga Yumi, so why are you saying all this now?

Dredger: Because ya sing better when you’re in a bad mood. [another concussive thud] And this is gonna be you most explosive performance yet. [laughs]

Tank: That’s a terrible one-liner, Dennis.

[pilot1/pilot2/mercenary1 together, silently] ...Dennis?

pilot1: Oh! Sir, we’ll be droppin’ from sublight in… 5… 4… 3… 2… aaaand…

[sublight engine humming slows, ship creaks loudly]

pilot2: Successful slowdown, Den- Umm… Dredger.

[Tank bursts into laughter, then is hit on the head again]

Dredger: You little shit! You, get some more men and bring the other boys up from the cargo hold!

mercenary1: On it, bossman!

[silence, filled with ambient clicks and beeps of the cockpit]

Tank: Hey, guys. Does Dennis still talk in his sleep?

pilot2: Oh buddy, he totally does. When we’re off world-

[rustling, supposedly drawing gun]

pilot1: SHUT yer DAMN MOUTH! Did you hear what I said earlier about the bossman and the choppin’?!

pilot2: Ye-yeah, sure enough…

“Pau- pause playback,” Ira stutters through hearty laughter. In this infinitely somber moment when he is listening to the final moments of a person, he is reminded of the good nature of this young man who went only by the name of Tank, the frontman of the Retrogrades. They were a group of musical artists - Tank, Jinx, Deathray, Syfer, and Splinter - that shocked the Sprawl by coming out about their ties to the Malgam Jockeys and its syndicates. Tank and his 4 band mates left behind an objectively more profitable lifestyle, not just because of their musical talents, but because before it was too late, they were able to realize that a life lived for murder and sabotage was no fit life at all. Now, here Ira was, amused at Tank’s good heart, and still-brazen sense of humor in the face of dire circumstances.

After a few seconds of Ira giggling and slapping the table, Jarvis spoke up. “Yes… my analytics boys were amused by that as well.”

“Ahh, that was good,” Ira sighs. He really did hate authority, Ira thought, just like in their songs. “Apologies, Noire, keep going.”

“Very good, sir,” she chimed.

timestamp:RESUME

[Large group approaching cockpit, indeterminate yelling, more chains clinking, prisoners being brought to their knees]

Deathray: Watch it, tusky, or I’ll break one off and cut your fat neck with it… Whoa.

Dredger: Welcome to Corvo, boys! Ain’t she beautiful? Now, she herself might be a mighty fine planet one would consider to be the perfect venue for an electrifyin’ band such as yerselves, but… If you look out that porthole there, you’ll see your auditorium crestin’ just over the horizon.

Jinx: Hah, you’re kidding me. The Courte Nebulae? We can’t play the Courte Nebulae, do you understand just how intensely guarded that ship is?

Dredger: About that. How’s the invisibility comin’?

pilot2: Power’s reen rerouted from the outbound comms, and I had to reroute the shield systems too.

Dredger: It’ll have to do. Engage cloakin’ and move in.

Tank: This was your big surprise, Dennis? A flash concert on the Courte? [Tank stands, grunts in pain]

Splinter: Yo T, you’re bleeding out, man.

Deathray: You damn bottom feeder. We shot off from the gang for this, because you’re a senile old psychopath with a massive death wish.

Tank: [spits]...And you kick the crap outta your guests.

Jinx: Yeah, why just torture him, huh? Too afraid to lay hands on the rest of us?

Dredger: Well, someone’s gotta play the instruments. Gotta have the band in tip-top shape. [Knocks on Splinter’s metal arms] Ain’t that right, toothpick?

[Intense struggling, chains thrashing]

Splinter: Oh, I’ve made some modifications to them, with you in mind. Unchain me and I’ll show you!

Dredger: Easy kid, save it for the show. Sy, how ‘bout you? You feelin’ like seizin’ the opportunity and playin’ the best damn show o’ yer life, or are ya as spineless and gutless as the rest of ‘em?

[Syfer remains silent]

Dredger: I asked ya a question, boy. [Concusses Tank once more] Speak up, or the frontman’s gonna need a last minute stand-in.

Syfer: Fuck your one-liners, Dennis. We’re not playing the Courte.

[Frustrated grunts, another attempted concussion interrupted by incoming hail]

defense.Officer: Unidentified craft, this is the CSC Courte Nebulae main dispatch, please state the reason for your approach or turn around and evacuate concorded space.

pilot2: Uhh… hey, Dredge, I think they spotted us.

Dredger: What? I thought you said we were invisible!

pilot1: Well, not exactly…

Deathray: Come on now, Dredge. Did you really think the mechanics from the chop shop had the brains to whip up a stealth drive for this old rust bucket? Let alone one advanced enough to-

Dredger: Don't be lecturin' me on how to think! This ship has been through a lot more than you know, boy.

Splinter: This has to be the most null-brained scheme you've ever come up with, Dredge.

Jinx: Yeah, we've run a lotta crazy missions for you, but this one tops them all.

defence.Officer: Unidentified craft, you have entered restricted space and are now intruding upon concorded territory. State the reason for your approach or you will be met with force.

Tank: Told you. [laughs]

Dredger: Silence! Thrusters full speed, take us in! Looks like the element of surprise ain’t ours no more.

[Buttons pressed, mid-range engines increase in volume and rise in pitch]

Dredger: [Yelling above the noise] Alright, here’s the plan boys! We’re gonna find ourselves a way to climb aboard that there pleasure cruiser, and blast our way down to the Inner Core. There, my fine young songsters here will put on the show to end all shows! Meanwhile, yours truly brought a fleet and a crew to do a little setup.

[Malgam Jockeys chuckling in unison]

Tank: All those explosives in the cargo bay. You’re gonna try and blow the Courte out into the vacuum.

Jinx: So the show is just meant to be a distraction?

Dredger: Think of it as us setting up some pyrotechnics for your concert [laughs]. My pilots in the launch hangar will place the charges around the hull, and at my command, boom goes the jewel in the crown of civilized society!

capt.Jarvis: Attention, this is Captain Pardo Jarvis of the CSC Courte Nebulae. My crew have scanned your ship and revealed the presence of five personal ID codes, matching those of whom go by the name the Retrogrades. [Short pause] If this is true, I implore you to reconsider your actions. The Courte is not open for concert performance today, I’m afraid. As of this moment, three gunships have been deployed to your location with the intention to intercept your craft before it comes into contact with my ship. If you do not bring your engines to a halt, or do not turn around and evacuate concorded space, we will have no choice but to arrest you and bring you in for questioning.

Dredger: Gah, blast it all! Load the guns and prepare for evasive maneuvers! Whatever happens, you make sure we get on that ship!

pilot1: Sir?

Dredger: If we don’t have time to place the charges, we still have them here on this boat.

Splinter: Tank, tell me he’s joking.

Tank: He isn’t… Dredge, we’ve flown with you on some pretty daring jobs, pulled some crazy stunts, but this one just isn’t going to work. You gotta understand, this isn’t like running a scam on another syndicate. These people aren’t pirates. They’ve already sent the dogs out on us, Dredge, we have no hope of making it aboard. Even if we did, we made it onto the docking bay, traveled down to the Inner Core and play Starway Blues, what makes you think they wouldn’t notice your charges on the ship?

pilot2: Hey, bossman! We got some bogeys up ahead!

[Cabin alarms blaring, buttons clacking, hull lurching and shifting]

Dredger: Bah! Can't ya' do somethin' about 'em? This space bucket's got guns, ain't it?

pilot2: Sir, I… I-I think their ships are a lot more tricked out than ours…

Dredger: Worthless sludge brain… step aside!

[Loud commotion, pilot2 thrown to the floor, Dredger sitting in the pilot's seat]

Tank: Dredge, wai-

[Engines pulsing, ship creaking as Dredge seizes control]

Dredger: If we ain't got time to play no music, then the least we can do is put on that light show!

Jarvis: Attention. We are aware of your vessel's mid-range comms equipment. Please respond. Your trajectory does not accommodate your vessel's current speed. If you are plotting a collision course, know that my gunships will be forced to intervene. Stand down now, this is your final warning.

Jinx: We juked the Jockeys so that we wouldn't have to die in a blaze of glory, and now look where we are.

Tank: Please, Dredge. I'm begging you. You're gonna kill us all. I know you, you'd never let something as significant as your own death be in vain.

Dredger: Yer beggin' me? You little softie. Don't worry, boy, my death won't be in vain. None of ours will. Today is the day we finally do some damage to those pompous Concordaat bastar-

[Massive crashing noise, followed by two more. Gunship grappling hooks lodge into the hull of the Gilder craft]

pilot1: Dammit! Boss, they pinned us down, those hooks are frying our electrical systems!

Jarvis: Attention. Our scans have revealed the presence of overwhelming explosive potential in the form of propelled ordinance, excess fuel reserves, and improvised implementations of combustion. For the time being, your vessel has been arrested and you are being detained here, at a safe distance from anything that could be harmed in the event of detonation. Prepare to be boarded.

pilot1: Boarded? Oh great, we can't even fly away.

pilot2: Now look what you've done, Dennis.

[Slow hum of the mostly deactivated ship]

Dredger: Not like this. I ain't gonna let myself be carted off to some Authority slammer. I'm goin' out my way. Better now than never. Right, Tank?

Tank: Dredge, NO!

[Short, punctuated blast, followed by audio cutout]

timestamp: END

aud.playback complete

"That's it, sir. Can I help you with anything else?" says Noire, punctuating the end of the tape.

An almost corporeal silence washed over the conference room as the black box recording finished its run. As it played, Ira and Jarvis listened intently, and now that it's over, all they can do is reel from the gravity of the situation. Ira processes what he just heard, and speaks up to dispel the somber mood. "Such a shame to lose your life because of someone else's incompetence. Dredger was a fool, and remained so until his own demise. Dammit," he chokes out. The criminal activity that brewed in the gangs and syndicates of the Detaché Crescent was a sore thorn in Ira's side, given his position, so this wasn't the first time he's been met with Dredger's schemes.

"That's what happens when loosely organized gang activity is met with genuine military force. Either he underestimated the Courte's Defense, or he overestimated his own capabilities. I suspect the latter." Many things, Captain Jarvis was, but most of all, he was matter-of-fact.

"The explosion at the end of the recording, I'm assuming Dredger activated a detonator of some sort?"

"We believe so, yes," Jarvis affirms. "The improvised explosives in the cargo hold were rigged to blow remotely, and seemingly sparked a chain reaction that sent the other combustibles on board up as well. The resulting explosion destroyed the three gunships I deployed, Ira." The bite in his voice was sharp. "Had I known they were rigged, I would have been more careful with my orders, but… I guess Dredger had one smart idea."

"I'm sorry, Ardy. You lost some good people today who didn't have to die. I understand why you're upset." Ira stands up from the chair, raising the lights in the room with him. "You couldn't have known about the other Gilder clansmen on board, what with them having no ID codes, so you assumed that Tank and the boys were the only ones on the ship. You and your crew did your best to spare them. I appreciate that."

Jarvis sighs once more. "I'm sorry as well. I know how much those kids meant to you, sir," he conceded. With a wave of his fingers from his forehead, Noire whistled to life and heeded the hand signal.

"Very well, sir." Fading away into a soft golden light and disappearing from the vectorgram, Noire became absent from the room.

"And what can I say," Jarvis says, "I kinda liked that Ode to Legacy song they had."

It wasn't much of a joke, but Ira knew Jarvis's stale sense of humor well enough to know when he's making an honest attempt at lightening the mood. If this guy wasn't so stiff all the time, Ira thought, then I bet we could be friends. "Of course. Me too, Ardy."

"As far as a public statement goes, what are you gonna say to the peoples?"

"The truth," Ira points. "What can I say, other than the Retrogrades were kidnapped against their will and forced to go along with the schemes of a notorious crime syndicate leader. Their deaths were the result of a heinous attack on the Courte. Tank and the gang's reputation remains intact, and, I don't know, some anti-space pirate fervor gets drummed up among the concorded systems."

Jarvis scoffs. "Leave it to the Concordaat to turn a travesty into a political statement."

"The point is, there's nothing to hide from the public on this one. Just some ex-cons, getting caught up in their past. Who hasn't seen that before?"

"Understood, sir."

For his own purposes, Ira continues, "I would also like a copy of the full black box recording wired to my node, if you would, please." He wanted this in part for archival validity and alibi, but also a personal record of a friend's final moments. Ira knew so many different people, meeting more and more every rote in his line of work, but the Retrogrades struck a chord with him more than the average acquaintance.

"Yes, sir, that is all," Jarvis concludes, bringing the meeting to a close. The purpose of this conference was to inform the Principal Luminary of any attacks made to or attempted on the Courte, as per the orders of the Principal Luminary. With this goal accomplished, Jarvis saw no more reason to continue this dialogue.

Turning to meet Jarvis eye to eye, Ira implores, "Can I buy you a drink?" Though he may not always have time for it, there are actually a few people in this galaxy that he would make time for. Despite not seeing eye-to-eye on most matters, Ira and Jarvis can agree that the safety of the Courte was a top priority. "It seems you've had a hard rote, you could use a little break. Actually, I have yet to drink from any of the watering holes on this ship."

"No, sir, unfortunately my rote doesn't end when the excitement does," Jarvis slyly chuckles. "Besides, I'm sure you have pressing matters to attend to when you depart from the Courte."

"Oh, nothing too urgent. I'm just due to give the dean's speech at the CARS graduation ceremony in about an hour." Ira extends a hand out. "Until next disaster, Ardy."

"Who knows," Jarvis says, shaking his hand in return, "maybe next time you can buy me that drink." He didn't mean this, and Ira knew he didn't. Ol' Ardy isn't one to drink, Ira thought, especially during work hours. And he never came to this ship when Ardy wasn't working.

"Food for thought," utters Ira, turning to the conference room door. "Keep her safe for me, Cap," he says, gesturing to the Courte in general.

As he exits through the door's threshold, the sound-proof seal of the room opened and let in the ambience of the corridor. The two bodyguards straightened up at attention, and fell into formation behind him as he left the room. Walking down the corridor, retracing the path that led him to the conference room, on his way back to the VIP launch bay, Ira Morrengard wonders what particular ordeal will bring him back to the CSC Courte Nebulae.

#Courte Nebulae #Courte's Defense #Galactic Concordaat #Malgam Jockeys #Ira Morrengard #Pardo Jarvis #the Retrogrades #Noire #principal luminaries

1 note · View note