Log

I am Nigel, a virtual intelligence (VI) created to curate and summarize the memories and experiences of my creators. Eight of them linked with me directly, sharing elements of themselves to create my basic skills. They also gave me a rudimentary set of emotions, so I can give a humanistic perspective to my reports.

Only one of my creators are studied in Galactic Law, which was passed on to me. We are aware that sections 2 through 4 of the Standard Report Clauses dictate that a summary VI must have a basic mental archetype from one of the 36 available in mission critical repositories, however these are extraordinary circumstances, and under Section 22 of Emergency Protocols, I have been created with what limited resources my creators possess. Despite these limitations, I shall do my best to adhere to standards and best practices for summary reports.

There is a ninth member who had a hand in creating me. At the compiling of this report, he has yet to link with me, sternly refusing each and every one of my requests, but when he asked to review the memories summarized in this report, I refused him access. I have a stern sense of fairness, and I made this clear to him: if he wishes to access these memories, he must contribute his own.

As this is my primary purpose in life, I do wish to conduct myself in a manner my creators would be proud of, so I did seek a compromise. After lengthy negotiations, we agreed he would have access to this summary report. In exchange, he has been cooperative with interviews, and I have included his accounts in these summaries. Neither of us are happy with the compromise, but we have both agreed it is fair. He was kind enough to provide me with a name, which my creators failed to include.

I will begin, quite literally, at the beginning.

Standard Galactic Time

2-13-7244

7:32pm

Nine crewmembers of the Kindred awoke from an induced coma at the time stamp, apparently having wiped their own memories with neurolyzers. Their memories begin at this moment, waking up in the medical bay of a dead ship. These are the nine who created me.

The crew:

• Jasmine Silk (Reverence Officer, 2nd Grade): beautiful woman whom every word and deed is graceful, her initial reaction was an emotional meltdown, similar to Mim. Understandable, given the circumstances.
  - Desmond Character

• Droam Bevel (Medical Officer, 2nd Grade): a large, grim fellow, irritable, studying the neuralyzer in his hands with suspicion.
  - Ryan Character

• Vlads Romo (Environmentalist, 3rd Grade): tall, broad fellow, attractive in a neo-classical way, looked around at everything and everyone, trying to take it all in.
  - Krys Character

• Cael Jain (Molecular Engineer, 3rd Grade): a short fellow with an older, more distinguished look, dressed professionally, at odds with the sparkle in his eyes and the grin quirking his face. He found elements of his predicament to be funny, an odd reaction to total amnesia.
  - Tommy Character, absent 1st session

• Lina Skycast (Neurologist, 3rd Grade): straight-laced woman, cold and logical, she betrayed no emotion at all, neither in her body language nor her thinking. Studying what was in her hands, she calmly mused, "a neurolyzer, did I wipe my own memory?"

• Cicero Arch (Scientist, 3rd Grade): big black fellow dressed smartly, had a wondrous expression, studying his own neuralyzer and muttering "astonishing!"

• Lazarus Stratt (Pilot, 4th Grade): brash, cocky fellow with piercings and scars that look as if he just fought off a wild animal, clearly a fashion statement for augmented, glared at everyone else distrustfully.

• Java Tellaroff (Mechanic, 4th Grade): larger, stalky woman with a shocking-black mohawk, a scar over her left eye, chastised Jasmine and Mim, "oh yeah, screeching like banshees will really help."
  - Sarah Character

• Mim Melire (Mechanic, 4th Grade): tiny, petite woman, though mechanics have a lot of physical augs so she is much stronger than she looks, began freaking out once she realized she had no memories of herself or others.

With less than a minute to come to terms with where they were and what was happening, a tenth person entered the room, 1st Grade Kindred Commander Karr Ora. It was then that he learned the crew had no memories and the Kindred had been bricked. He flew into a homicidal rage and tried to kill Lina with an unknown aug. Many in the crew wrestled with him in an effort to save Lina, as ineffectual as if they had wrestled a mountain, before Java stabbed the commander in the face with a conorium spike - the radiation from that weapon disrupted his augs.

As a side note, one of the curiosities that each member had was a conorium spike, fashioned as a stabbing weapon with a shielded grip and sheath. Although they were unclear on why they had such crude weapons, they found it to be highly effective at injuring the commander, who was otherwise impervious to their attacks.

Once he was stabbed, Lina collapsed from his grip as the commander was shocked out of his rage, registering the conorium spikes as a threat, but his behavior became unhinged, and (cackling like a madman) he taunted the crew that they could not catch him, and fled. His metrics read "NALA-8 maximized" and his icon was visible as he ran through unseen turns (navigating ship corridors) before running straight for several meters and merging with a cycle icon. Together, they moved at a high speed until, near two kilometers away, the icons winked out, beyond the range of crew sensors.

As the medical officer, Droam took charge, ordering the mechanics to fix one of the medical beds so it reoriented into a horizontal position. Using her mechalyzer, Java complied, and Droam laid Lina down and engaged his medilyzer to inspect the blackened wound around her throat and head (see detailed analysis under Appendix A). Though she had suffered a mortal wound of corruption that rendered her cells and nanites inert, with extensive damage to her throat, jaw, neck, and brain, he found that the corruption had come within millimeters of her mind seed. The attack from Java had halted the spread an instant before total death.

Mim approached Java with a desperate request to link with her, a level of connection that allows sharing thoughts, considered intimate but the fastest and most efficient means of communication. With reservation, Java agreed, and after they linked, Mim took a submissive stance behind Java and set her metrics to redirect any requests for Mim to Java, now her representative. From that point forward, Mim seemed to take her cues from Java, agreeing to whatever stance she made.

After a brief debate, the rest of the crew agreed to link with one another (having to get permission from Java to link with Mim), aside from Lazarus, who seemed to ignore Java and Mim but treated all higher ranking members of the crew with contempt, none more so than Jasime, whom he sneered at, and Droam, whom he glared at as if daring him to try something. Jasmine ordered Lazarus to link, but he cursed her out and refused.

As a side note, I have spoken to Lazarus about this motivations in this matter. As some of the crew have already determined, no officer can hold their position if they have suffered a catastrophic fault such as total memory wipe: such an incident would render them unable to perform in an official capacity. Lazarus believes that rank, therefore, no longer applies and refuses to participate in what he sees as a faulty command structure.

Most of the crew spread out to search the ship while Droam worked on Lin. With their inspection of the Kindred, the crew learned the following:

• The ship (a Numian-class Exploration Vessel commissioned on June 6th, 6672) is dead.

• All hatches are open.

• The MA core, the primary power source of such a ship, is missing, apparently jettisoned.

• The conorium core, the emergency backup power source, is badly damaged: it seems nine chunks were cut from the core (the source of the conorium spikes).

• The memory core of the ship is bricked: completely wiped, making flight virtually impossible without a full systems download.

• They are on planetfall: outside reads a breathable atmosphere, but its a wasteland, fierce wind whipping dirt and debris (would do serious damage but their nanites could repair as fast as it stings).

• It was dark outside, cloudy, night, but a fat tire-tread marking showed that a runabout cycle had been deployed from the hull and driven a number of times into the surrounding wastes.

The crew waited a few hours while Lina remained unconscious, giving her mind time to process the trauma, and Droam was unwilling to consider leaving until she woke.

Reviewing their shared memories of their encounter with the commander, the crew made a disturbing discovery - their aug memories indicated they had state-of-the-art augments, but the commander clearly had ones they had no record for. When they checked their chronometers, they realized they had centuries of knowledge missing - they had assumed it was around 7044, but it was 7244, meaning the commander had two hundred years of upgrades compared to them.

When Lina woke, she was cold and logical about her own trauma. Asking for each of their neuralyzers, she studied them (as of the conclusion of this first report, she had yet to complete her analysis).

The crew is planetfall on an unknown world, in a dead ship, and the only person who could answer any of their questions had attacked them and fled. The crew argued for a while before deciding that some of them needed to stay and work on the ship while the rest went after the commander. Droam, Jasmine, Vlads, Cael, and Java decided to set out while Cicero, Lina, Mim, and Lazarus stayed behind.

The world outside was still dark and a fierce dust storm raged, capable of damaging exposed skin. As augments, the party could simply allow their nanites to repair the damage, but it would hurt. Opting instead to engage their nametic clothing, they each chose to activate their vac suit. I must say, even understanding the technology, viewing it through their sense memories was exciting. Their clothes melted into a multicolor liquid that flowed over their bodies, encasing them in spacesuits with such efficient light capturing surfaces that they appeared to be human-shaped holes of pure, non-reflective black.

Engaging their augs, the party set off at a dead sprint, clocking speeds of over 26kph, a pace they could maintain for days, if needed. They followed the fat tread-mark of the commander, having calculated which direction he had traveled by reviewing all of their collective memories, tracing back the route his icon had headed, and finding a trail within one degree of their calculated estimates. In short order, they pulled beyond range of their crewmate signals but Mim had begun work on an amplifier that would expand their reach, but for the next few hours, each group was cut off from the other.

Thankfully the storm lessened, and at 12:36am Standard Galactic Time, dawn came. With the local magnetics detected and the orientation of the sun, the crew were able to orient planetfall directions, and found the trail they followed cut straight in a west by southwest direction.

At approximately 75 kilometers away from the ship (which, by that time, the crew had reconnected, thanks to the repaired amplifier), the party found their first evidence of life, human life, on the planet. The cycle had stopped here, the commander having tarried briefly before heading onwards on his original course. What he left behind was a scene of carnage.

As best we can determine, a group of at least twenty locals had stopped the commander, attacking from the ridges lining this shallow area like an irrigation canal. He had killed six of them before the rest fled north. His trail continued in a western direction, through ridgelines of mountainous rocks weathered and battered by fierce winds into haunting shapes.

I am fortunate to have only a basic set of human emotions, for the scene he left behind was almost too much to bear - many of our crewmembers were traumatized by the sight. Some of those on the ship who were present at the scene virtually chose to block visual senses while they processed the horror. Forgive the crude analogy, it was as if an irate toddler had gotten angry at his dolls and ripped them apart. Severed heads and limbs were scattered around his cycle track, the earth soaked in their blood.

A closer examination of the bodies revealed that they were retros - humans who have rejected the gifts of augmentation and separated from galactic society to experience humanity in their own way. By galactic law, augs must do what they can to respect retros and avoid contact when possible, blending in and suppressing technological superiority when avoidance is not feasible.

The commander broke so many laws and norms by flaunting his augs and murdering retros that we can only conclude that his mental parameters are far beyond acceptable limits. He is a danger to himself and others. We had a new mission - stop the commander, and protect the locals from him.

When Droam analyzed each body with his medilyzer, he was shocked to discover the oldest was a mere 39 cycles old, the youngest 15. Each of the bodies also had similar markings, red symbols painted on their fronts and backs, and each with mohawks dyed in various shades of red.

These retros lived ugly, brutal lives, each bearing scars, diseases, and radiation poisoning. Their weapons were primitive but brutal, clearly designed for conflict against other humans - melee weapons like welded-junk maces, clubs, and serrated survival blades, all bearing traces of DNA from inflicted injuries (the number of distinct DNA signatures indicated many several victims).

The most common weapons were mag pistols: old tech that uses EM fields to hurl slugs to lethal effect. There were found not just on the bodies, for several more lay scattered where they had been dropped, presumably by terrified survivors as they fled the slaughter. The bodies were also garbed in dysfunctional survival suits that appear cannibalized and patched, some perhaps a century old or more - necessary for survival in this wasteland for such simple, fragile creatures.

The party quickly deduced that they could not continue in tech clearly superior to the retros. Though they still suffered from amnesia, the laws were clear and they each felt duty-bound to obey. They needed a disguise.

Cael, the molecular engineer, used his nanite controller and a few nanite chunks to delete five survival suits, deconstructing them molecule by molecule as the nanites recorded the pattern for duplication. Uploading these schematics into each set of nametic clothing and adjusting the dimensions to better fit each user, every party member was soon wearing local survival suits, with one additional modification - each set had been painted red along the shoulders with a vertical line on the front and back, forming a red letter "T" on each suit - Droam suspected this was markings for a particular tribe or nation and thought it best not to choose sides.

Many in the party also scavenged mag pistols and MP slugs to arm themselves with local weapons, some even taking one of the serrated blades. Once finished, they looked like locals. They took a last, grim look at the nude, diseased-ridden, battle scarred bodies, averting their gazes from the grisliest bits, then followed the trail onwards.

After running for another 20 kilometers, they came upon a border region, the wastelands at their backs, ridges of rocks running north and south forming a broken wall along the border. Before them, the land turned to rolling rises and shallow hills, sprouting the first evidence of native life - clumps of jagged growths like puffy moss of a sickly shade of green covered much of the terrain.

They left the wastelands and entered those strange, green lands, following the treadmark. After another 30 km, where the border ridges were little more than grey smudges to the east, they came upon a village or town made of scrap junk. More than a kilometer away, they first spied it, thinking at first perhaps it was a junkyard. As they drew closer, they noticed a dark brown line emerging from the structures and following the terrain to the south, dwindling in the distance: some sort of road, they guessed.
They stopped to consider their options as they surveyed the treadmark they followed, seeing how it cut a path straight into the center of that town. 

***admin: Des was absent this session.***

Session Start 2-14-7244, 2:52am GT

Nigel, VI, second report.

At over a kilometer away, the party surveyed the town, linking together and sharing everything they observed. The cycle tread lead straight to the center of the strange town, right towards the big hydroshunt in the center. There was no movement in town but possible motion within the hydroshunt itself, irregular shadows through the windows. Two of the party even spotted what appeared to be a figure on the north end of the hydroshunt, at the uppermost level, scanning the terrain to their right, north.

They saw two basic approaches to the town: straight along the cycle tread, the entire route in clear view of the hydroshunt, or they could follow the low lands to their left, largely out of sight, up to a single, southern road that lead from the town to dwindle and disappear among the folds of the land. There, they could climb upon the bulwark about half a click south and walk into town as travelers approaching on the only road.

Knowing absolutely nothing about this culture, its customs, or its language, Droam decided that the best way to meet such a foreign community was to draw attention to themselves. He opted for the direct route, urging others to follow, and in short order they were arrested, disarmed, and thrown into a cage (as likely bandits who obviously did not belong).

It was an embarrassing start to normalizing relations with the locals.

Still, while the party languished in prison, they were able to listen in on the townsfolk, huddled and hidden within the hydroshunt. They listened and learned much.

Augmented retain everything they hear and see and, linked together, they were quickly able to parse through all the data and build a narrative of what the locals spoke of.

First, even while they were getting arrested, the odd babble of the population set their translation augs into full swing. After the fifth and sixth phrase from the locals (as they waved mag pistols and junk maces at the group), shouting as the party raised their arms in the universal signal of surrender, the aug locked on to a matching language, though one that had last been updated over three centuries ago.

It was Abidonian, meaning they were on the planet Abidon, a retro colony that split off from the human race at the dawn of augmentation over a millennia ago. They realized that, should they speak Abidonian, with translation augs three centuries out of date, they are likely to sound very odd or old fashioned to the locals, and they decided to say as little as possible.

Tales of the Locals

Listening to the locals, they came to understand that the commander made quite a scene when he arrived in town. He was accosted by four armed locals. By all accounts he laughed and mocked the men, pointing to a strange, monstrous mag pistol strapped to his hip and threatening their lives.

The locals did not take kindly to this, and all four opened fire. Aside from his skin darkening and his coat fluttering, the slugs seemed to have no effect, and the commander pulled out his mag pistol, fired four quick shots, and was holstering his weapon... as all four of their heads exploded.

Apparently the locals have a superstition about a "Lord of Darkness" and "King of Lies" - Mallif. Using his augs, the commander raised his voice to a volume heard throughout the town and disturbed the locals with his words. It was then all locals fled for the hydroshunt, thinking a demon had descended among them and their souls were at stake.

Mallif, as the locals referred to him, then stole a little girl, Mala, killing her father with a touch of his finger. The party might have gained much knowledge if they had been able to examine bodies of the four slain guards or the dead father, but they were imprisoned, and could do little more than wait, listening to the population as they shared stories with one another of what happened.

Mallif had stayed in the town for hours, the inhabitants hiding in the hydroshunt, hearing him as he sang strange songs they had never heard of, in an alien language. The locals were so superstitious they were afraid to remember the words, thinking their souls at risk.

Then, about an hour before the group walked into town, Maliff is said to stop singing with a curse, speaking a final time to the town in his hurricane-force voice, declaring ownership of everything to the north, and then his mono-cycle started itself and drove out of sight, among the buildings. One witness swore he spotted Mallif on that demonic vehicle, driving into the wilderness north, but the locals were taking few chances.

Finally, two brave souls decided to track the cycle, and when they returned screaming that Mallif had left, the whole town emptied out of the hydroshunt to chatter with both fear and relief, everyone taking off their helms and gas masks to reveal their faces to one another.

The town was ruled by Watcher Jent, a haughty woman, plump and curvy (the only one among the population that looked better than half starved). She was a large woman wrapped in silvery robes that felt both aggressive and authoritative. Twin golden-gear icons were pinned to her collars. She obviously felt superior to others and seemed to have a cruel streak. As near as they could tell, she was both spiritual and political leader of the community, with absolute authority.

When she declared that she was going to check the locals for signs of Mallif, they could hear a number of them sobbing quietly at the news.

But among the superstitious and suspicious population, one fellow approached the group to speak softly while the others were away. He said his name was Mitt, and he feared for a community to the north - the Watcher had declared all travel in that direction was forbidden, but Mitt had a brother there, and he was desperate to go check on him and warn him of Mallif. He thought the party was a part of something called a dohbah troop, but he insisted any deal would have to be done with masks off.

The party was reluctant to reveal themselves, but they saw no choice.

Mitt, dressed in an old, battered and rusty survival suit, took off his breather and helm to reveal a fellow who looked to be in his sixties, the scars of disease marring his battered face, and he gasped aloud when the party took off their masks.

As you know, augmented always look their best - aside from some minor ascetic sculping of the face and features to be more pleasing, augmented always look fresh and clean, even their hair springing into proper forms the instant a hat is removed. Aug sweat cleans the skin and leaves a tailored scent created to be pleasant, often even alluring.

Compared to the locals, the party looked like angels from the heavens. For whatever reason, this seemed to convince Mitt that they were dohbah troops and he agreed to help.

The party did not have to wait long.

A commotion erupted on the east side of town, starting with a man screaming hysterically, two others joining in, then gunfire. After several shots rang out, many more began screaming, and everyone armed rushed to that end of town to confront the trouble.

All but the Watcher, that is - she went upstairs within the hydroshunt to seek shelter, ordering one of the armored wastelanders to restore order then report back to her.

Within a minute after the last guard left, Mitt returned, eager to free the party so they could use the distraction to make their escape. After struggling with the door, he freed them, and many in the party wished to retrieve their dropped weapons outside where they were captured, but when they exited the hydroshunt, they saw all of their weapons, plus those of the four slain guards, were missing.

Droam asked Mitt to help them get more weapons, but the wastelander laughed at this. Such weapons were rare and precious out here in the wastes, he told them. When Droam pressed him further, Mitt guessed that perhaps the Watcher had weapons in her vault, but the party had no stomach for a confrontation and opted instead to leave.

Demon of Last Chance

They got to the northern end of the town, but even as Mitt urged them to push on and escape, what they heard towards the disturbance worried them. Some of the shouts included terms like "demon" and "invulnerable." Panic, fear. With a growing dread, the party realized that perhaps the commander left something behind, something the locals could not deal with. They decided they had to check it out, so they sent Jasmine to slip in covertly.

One structure with an open door was at the center of all the fear and terror of the townsfolk, who huddled behind cover among surrounding buildings and stared at it. From whispers among themselves, it seemed that a demon had attacked a family during meal time, killing a few of them. Reportedly, it was immune to mag weapons, and the townsfolk feared it would emerge and eat their souls.

There was only one entrance to the building, with no covert way to cut another one out of the back without a great deal of noise and time, so the party decided they had to enter the building and see for themselves.

The locals watched astonished as the group emerged from among the hiding places, strolling towards the doorway, into the line of fire of every weapon in town (including, no doubt, some they formally owned). Some of the guards shouted feeble commands, but the party ignored them, and entered the building.

Within was a mess, a large central table smashed to pieces, food and drink scattered across everything, including three bodies. One of them twitched, and the group saw a little girl face-down atop the body, shaking. They rushed to aid her, scanning the shadows for signs of the demon, but when they drew within a few meters of her everything became painfully clear.

The girl was small and thin, long brown hair in a braid ragged and half undone. She appeared to be approximately 8 or 9 cycles old, and as she heard the group approach, she sat up and turned to see them. Her skin was too white, mottled with green splotches, her eyes entirely black and shiny. Her lower face was drenched in blood, and she smiled obscenely at them, revealing the blood and bits she had been chewing on. The chest of the wastelander beneath her was rent open, a loop of entrail still clutched in one of her hands.

And she had a virtual presence. She was augmented, but her metrics were gibberish. With an insanely gleeful grin, she leapt on Droam with superhuman speed, her hands and upper arms blackening as, among the gibberish, her metrics read "NALA-8 Active" - the same aug the commander used to attack Lin.

She was physically stronger than any in the party, but they drew their conorium spikes and fought for their lives. She latched on to Droam and began tearing at his neck and face with fingers tougher than diamond and stronger than a machine press, but before she could do serious damage, Java felled her with a stab through the brain above her left brow.

There was no question of saving her - Droam examined the body with the medilyzer, confirming their fears. The commander had augmented her, wiping her soul, replacing this little girl with an augmentation both unstable and highly unethical. A few close passes of the conorium spikes ensured no lingering nanites were a threat. In the minutes of silence after their brief scuffle, they heard footsteps approaching from outside.

"Find a weapon," Droam ordered desperately, cursing as they link-searched the interior and found not so much as a junk mace or mag pistol. Just before the interloper reached the door, Vlads snatched up a table shard and jammed it into the head wound, pulling clear just before the woman arrived.

She was a stout, squat woman with a pinched face, looking in with equal parts determination and fear. Her eyes widened when she saw the party standing around the body of a demon, and she shouted out, "You did it. THEY DID IT! THEY SLAYED THE DEMON!"

Seraphin and Valkyries

The locals rushed to form a ring outside the door, and when the party exited to face them, many called out for them to remove their masks and show themselves. Once more, with much trepidation, the party took off their helms, and with the impact of both their beauty and their deeds, the locals were awestruck. Many held their left fists before their own mouths, whispering, and with linked senses the party heard the same litany, word-for-word, chanted in whispers by the locals.

Seraphin watch over me, for I am Exiled. I sin not, for the seraphin judge. Valkaries protect my soul, for I am faithful. Save my soul for I am Exiled.

Jasmine recognized the phrase "Exiled", and guessed that the locals may follow a corrupted form of Exilism, a religion founded by retros at the dawn of augmentation.

The locals began speaking of the party in awe, suspecting that they were seraphin and valkyries made flesh to smite the demon.

Though his accent and manner of speaking would complicate things, Droam decided to address the crowd, telling them that the demon had been dealt with, but it was a sad day. The locals began to repeat his words to one another with religious fervor. The party was uncomfortable at being the subject of worship, and Droam felt compelled to speak further.

He told the populace that the party was on a quest to hunt down and stop Mallif. He added a request that they return their weapons and let them depart, but most of the locals fell to their knees and prostrated themselves before the party, weeping and crying at how unworthy they were, asking for their souls to be saved. Droam considered saying more (wanting to insist that they were not seraphin), but the rest of his crew, in person or watching virtually, clamored for his silence, worrying that each word only made things worse.

Very uncomfortable with how things turned out, the party started walking, through the crowd that parted before them, some reaching out is if to touch them, but too afraid to actually make contact, and they left the locals praying, weeping, and repeating every spoken statement the party had uttered to one another, as if there were hidden wisdom within the words. The party donned their masks as they left.

When they reached the north end of town, they found Mitt waiting for them. Unaware of what transpired, he asked if everything was okay. Droam simply nodded and Mitt led them away from the town, into the northern wastes, though in a more easternly direction from the cycle tread. A few in the party suggested following the track, but Mitt scoffed at this, saying the point was to get to the community before Mallif found it. Given his help, the party relented and let him lead them into the wastes, leaving the town behind.

Session End 2-14-7244, 2:52am GT 

Session Start 2-14-7244, 2:52am GT
Nigel, VI, third report.

Leaving Last Chance (the final waystation, according to Mitt), their guide led them northeast, towards the border region between the wastelands (where their ship is hidden) and this region of sickly-green lichen that Mitt tells them is the "Golden Basin." Perhaps the locals are unfamiliar with the color of gold. Still, many in the party were hungry, and as they travelled, each would occasionally reach down to tear some of the lichen free when Mitt would not notice, feeding the biomass into their nutrient synthesizers.

Mitt spoke freely as they walked, sharing lore about Mallif: known as the Prince of Darkness and the King of Lies, the people of Abidon believe he is the source of all evil, seeking to devour their souls and flesh, turning them into immortal demons who serve his will. Mitt doubted that the Commander was the real Mallif and suspects he is actually a simulcron - a synthetic being. We were taken aback that retros were even aware of simulcrons, given that such creatures are often illegal on retro planets.

The Watchers of this planet serve as the spiritual and political leaders with absolute authority (he cautioned the group to limit their interactions with them), but Mitt admitted they were the best builders in the world - their technology was second to none. For the rest of the government, Mitt was of the opinion they did a fair job, as long as you do nothing considered sinful.

On the Kindred, Mim began to engage Lazarus privately, embarrassed and unwilling to discuss what they were doing with the others (and Java kept folks from pressing too hard).

Lina Skycast, Neurologist, 3rd Grade Kindred, called for a conclave. All nine of the crew attended, in virtual since Lazarus was not linked. Even as they attended the meeting and focused much of their cognitive attention there, each of the crew continued in their tasks, lightly monitoring the real world. They met in a virtual environment of a room in the Kindred, if it were functional, at a circular table with nine chairs ringed around it. For posterity, I shall quote the news she delivered verbatim:

Lina cleared her throat and began in a dry, clinical manner: "I have called this conclave to deliver some important news. Upon learning what I have to say, we shall have to collectively decide how we wish to proceed."

Lina shared her news slowly, as if aware what she was saying may have been difficult to hear.

"I have analyzed the neurolyzers. It did not take me long to deduce their purpose, but it did take me a while to dig into the coding, to find clues as to how, and why."

"Each neurolizer was keyed to one crew member, each of us nine. Activation had to be self administered, only after the full ramifications of this procedure was conveyed, with no omission nor deception, and each of us had to affirm and administer the treatment willingly."

Lina seemed to steel herself. "These are not for wiping memory. We each volunteered ourselves to undergo a complete and irreversible Soulwipe. We bear the names and basic mem imprints of the original crew, but they are dead. We are, in every sense of the term, new augmented."

Nodding to Lazarus, "he is right about one thing, we cannot rely on past merit nor experience to determine rank in our crew. We are a starship crew without a ship or captain. We have no contact with authority nor do we have any standing orders. We have to decide how we will function as a team, as an isolated part of galactic society."

"We need to determine our own command structure, who is in charge, and what our goals should be until we reconnect with higher authorities other than the commander, who is clearly operating beyond all decency and law and should be stripped of his rank and detained for trial."

Understandably, this news was difficult to take in. The nine crewmembers who bore their names had killed themselves willingly, giving the current crew a chance at survival. The crew debated what rank structure, if any, they would adopt.

None were in favor of defaulting to the rank structure of their predecessors, the original owners of their bodies, but they were split: Lina, Jasmine, and Droam were in favor of a similar structure with the crew voting for the leader (Cicero and Mim were also willing to support this), while the majority wanted more of a socialist structure.

As newborn augmented with no experience, they were simple galactic citizens in the eyes of the law, free to collaborate or not as each saw fit. For hours as the party walked behind Mitt they debated both systems, but reach no consensus that day.

Breath of Hell

About an hour before dusk, the party arrived at the border region between the wastelands and the Golden Basin. It was there the crew discovered how wise they were to get a local as a guide.

Mitt halted the walking to inspect the largest local ridge of stone, saying, "we need to find shelter before the Breath of Hell, and my bones whisper it will be fierce."

As none knew what he was talking about, he noticed our confusion. He stopped and said, "my apologies dohbah, this close to oblivion, Breath of Hell is the name we use for the Grand Gnawing. You know of the Grand Gnawing? No? The Dark Howl? Dusk Gales?"

Though none were certain what he spoke of, they played along, calming his confusion. They watched him select a shallow trench running up the rock, sit with his back into it to check he would fit, then he took out some steel pitons and some sort of trenching tool and began driving pitons to either side of where he would sit.

He anchored himself into that trench, and the party suspected a storm was coming, perhaps with high winds, so they chose similar trenches to either side of Mitt. Hidden from his view, they used a quick mod from Cael to their nametic clothing to anchor their waists to the rock.

As the large, red sun of Abidon kissed the mountains to the distant west, Mitt shared a tale with the crew, staring at the setting sun as he spoke.

"They say the Breath of Hell is a test of our faith, and the price we pay as Exiles - our foremothers may have escaped Hell, but with each dusk the breath comes. Comes to claim the unfaithful. To drag our souls back to Hell. So they say."

"When I was a young lad, such sayings had a powerful hold on my fears. I used to watch the sun as it set, trying to will it to stay. I thought that if I believed hard, I could stave off the Breath of Hell. Some nights, the breath was gentle, as those things go, and I was emboldened to believe it was my will, my faith did it."

Mitt was quiet for a long time. Finally, he added, "I believed that for a time, until the breath killed my maw, my paw, my aunties and cousins, damn near the whole clan in one night. Only three siblings and myself survived. And now all I got left is my little brother... And that's why I don't believe no more."

With dusk, the crew at the Kindred detected the first signs of the typhoon. Fierce winds from the east came with such force that the particulates in the air generated charges, building to dry lightning bursts like three dimensional snowflakes.

After Cicero studied this phenomena, he urged the crew to shut down the amplifier until the storm passed - the charged particulates were jamming the transmissions, and the charges may pose a threat to their comms if it grew much stronger. The crew agreed, and less than half an hour after the sun had set, comms were cut.

The typhoon was fierce, "Mighty Fierce," as Mitt had warned. Such was the interference that each in the party lost all contact with their neighbors, alone to huddle in their trenches and fight the winds that tried to rip them away, even sheltered as they were against the east gale. Bursts of lightning lit the haze of flying debris and glittering particulates that could strip flesh from bone. The pitons grounded Mitt from threat, but the others found some of the charge grounding around them, discovering that the survival suits were well insulated, too.

For four hours the typhoon raged, making the serious storms that followed seem mild by comparison, and six hours after dusk, the sky calmed and the party found themselves reconnected with one another, each harried and stressed by what they had endured, but they could hear Mitt snoring through his breather mask. The air was warm, warmer than the day had been, and Cael was the first to realize this did not make sense.

The injured among the party simply rested while their augs repaired the damage, but Droam had been injured by the augmented girl who was once Mala. Since Mitt was asleep, Droam activated his medilyzer, surgically removing much of his own neck and shoulder where the corruption had set and rebuilt flesh and bone, unblemished, since he had no desire to keep a scar for remembrance.

This reconstruction took less than five minutes.

Firebird Marker

By dawn it was chilly, and the party followed Mitt onward, on a path along the border region between the Golden Basin and the wastelands, northward. That region is littered with ridgelines of stone that serve as a natural buffer from the Dusk Gales - given the dangers of such storms, it seemed wise to follow along such sheltering terrain.

During their journey, Jasmine composed some poetry for the occasion and recited it, lifting spirits. When she was done, Mitt took off his mask for a moment, flashed her a grin, and said, "I knew it!!! I figured y'all were dohbah troops."

None of us know what that means, but it seemed wise to let Mitt make such assumptions. Better that than the truth.

Twenty kilometers from where they slept, they spotted an odd, smoking structure on a rise in their path, surrounded by the wreckage of what appeared to be a wheeled vehicle. Here is where they learned of the brutality of the locals.

It was a marker, erected by the Firebird Clan, a gang of marauders that, according to Mitt, had defeated or consumed all rival gangs over the last two cycles to become the dominant power in the wastes. They had waylaid a trader that Mitt recognized, looting his smashed vehicle and torturing the poor soul, turning his body into a territory marker.

They had taken two metal struts from the wreckage, driving them into the crown of the rise where they strung him between, upside down, his ankles secured to either post by cables stretched so taunt that his legs were forced into splits, his inverted body further secured by a third post in the center, his breather mask still on his head, dangling inches from the ground.

His legs were horribly burned, in some places the charred bone showing, and Mitt removed the mask from the corpse, revealing a face frozen in agony. Mitt told us the Firebird Clan liked to build such markers from their victims, stringing them up, rubbing thermal gel on their legs, then lighting them and leaving them to die - the rebreather mask was kept on so the victims would last longer, and some were rumored to last days before dying.

Common rumor, supposedly spread from the clan itself, was that this flaming, human "T" was meant to represent a firebird.

Those back at the Kindred, aside from Lina, severed their connection, unwilling to see. Jasmine and Cael stayed at the bottom of the rise, away from the corpse. For those who braved getting a closer look, I suspect the scene will haunt them for some time.

Droam determined that the trader had only passed a few hours ago, and he encouraged Mitt to help him cut the fellow down to give him a proper burial. Mitt was nervous that the clan may see and come to enact vengeance, but Droam pointed out that they would likely be attacked anyway, and insisted this was the right thing to do. Mitt seemed puzzled at the idea of burying a stranger, but he helped, nevertheless.

Vlads searched the wreckage and found two charred mag pistols, deciding to keep them a secret as he pocketed them (sadly, when Vlads revealed them later, Cael pointed out that he could have used the wreckage to fabricate many pistols, rather than cannibalizing both of them to make one).

After they buried the poor trader and moved on, Jasmine sung a sad song of loss, moving many in the party and Mitt to tears, though her voice was raw with emotions she could barely contain. Falling apart emotionally, she still managed to sing a beautiful and stirring piece.

During their intermittent chats with Mitt as they walked, Droam came to understand something of this culture. Whenever Mitt started talking, he would take off his mask and frequently turn towards whoever he was speaking to, revealing his face. For anyone who kept their mask on, he tended to become uncomfortable, limiting his interactions, but to those who took off their mask he engaged openly, friendly even.

Droam realized this was a social norm for these people. As he began to mirror the practice, Mitt warmed to him, and as the others followed suit they found a fellowship with Mitt that felt authentic and wholesome. They were talking to one another as friends, and the scars, age, and disfigurement of the old man seemed to melt away as they saw who he was as a fellow human being. Something deep in their hearts warmed to this, affirming their humanity, and some began to wonder at the possibility that they could adapt into this culture, become a part of a community, have what humans need most - fellowship with other humans, bonded to one another.

A side note here, Lina affirms that a culture that values face-to-face interactions would tap into primal parts of social brains, bonding families, societies, and cultures into collective/cooperative groups that could maximize potential at the familial range, say a hundred or so, given unknown variables of the local evolution are accounted for.

One in the party did not participate. Java kept her mask on at all times, and Mitt was clearly intimidated by her. Given the mechanic's temper, perhaps it is wise that she keeps her expressions hidden, lest they frighten the locals.

Call for Help

Walking a few hours later, everyone (including Mitt) picked up a universal distress beacon, to the right of their current path of travel, deeper into the wastelands. Mitt was astonished at this, claiming anyone who would set off such a beacon in Firebird territory must be desperate to risk it. Many in our crew strongly suspected it was some sort of trap, but they went to investigate anyway.

It turned out, everyone was wrong.

The signal led them ten kilometers into the wastelands, to a lone rock formation jutting twelve meters high, surrounded by open terrain. There would be no stealthy approach, for anyone with eyes had but to look to see them cross the open terrain. Approach they did, under a midday sun.

They saw no movement nor heard noises but for those they made as they approached the spire in the quiet, not so much as a breeze to push back the silence. They saw no sign, not when they reached it, not as they climbed to the top, until they found the source in a shallow cave near the top.

He was a man dying of thirst, a man in a survival suit, an empty holster on his hip, his shoulders and the center of his chest and back painted red. His head was exposed around his a helm and mask that only covered his face, a dirty red mohawk caked sideways over his left ear. The helm was the source of the signal, still broadcasting when they found him.

He was of the Firebird Clan.

Even as they individually arrived to take in the scene, as the first approached the man took off his mask, revealing a lower face scarred and chapped, evidence of severe dehydration, and croaked at them, begging for water.

Upon spotting the fellow, Mitt flew into a rage, with his rifle blocking the others from getting any closer. Mitt thought the fellow deserved to die of thirst and demanded that the party turn back and depart.

Droam attempted to diffuse the situation by claiming that he was going to question the man, asking Mitt to wait out of sight. Taking off his helm, Mitt flashed an ugly grin and drew a long knife with a wicket curve at the tip, offering to help Droam in his interrogation. Realizing the situation was worsening, Droam took off his helm and tried another approach.

He admitted to Mitt that his code, our code, was to do no harm to anyone, that all life was sacred to them. Though heartfelt, Droam was unable to reach Mitt, listening as the wastelander raved about how many people had been tortured and killed by scum like this. Droam argued with Mitt like a primitive medical doctor with no bedside manner.

Mitt stormed away, down the spire, leaving the party to wonder if he would wait for them when he reached the bottom.

Droam gave the man water, waiting for half an hour while the fellow drank, coughed, trembling for a while before repeating the process. When the fellow was sufficiently recovered, in a rough, raspy voice he told his tale.

"My crew heard an approaching vehicle and set up an ambush south of here... Fanciest ride I ever saw. We put six slugs into the driver and he stopped. But when we moved in, the man turned into... pure darkness - like a hole cut out of the wastelands."

"Slugs had no effect on it. He was a demon, a REAL SHIT-WHORING DEMON."

"IT... tore the arm off of one of the men, then it... threw his mag pistol - clean through the chest of another."

"That's when I dropped my piece and ran like hell... I can still hear the others screaming as the demon ate their souls."

By this point, the man was weeping openly, and among his sobs, he said, "I was never a believer... I have sinned, Valkaries have mercy! Seraphin have mercy. Protect my soul!"

Lina diagnosed the fellow and her results were no surprise to any of us. This man was traumatized.

Like the pieces to an ugly puzzle, the facts became clear among the link. This was one of the survivors of the marauders that ambushed the commander, just after he had fled the Kindred with an open gash on his cheek from where Java had struck him with her conorium spike, saving Lina from a true death.

The party had found the bodies hours later (for the crew, the first signs of retro life), following the treadmark of Karr Ora, commander of the Kindred. Comparing their current location from that of where they found the bodies (the party had been mapping all visible terrain with their augs, along with the odd, planetary magnetic fields and the position of the sun), they saw the massacre site was over sixty kilometers away. If the man had followed the terrain that could shield him from the dusk gales, that was over a hundred kilometers at least.

That the man made it this far on a single canteen spoke of how tough these locals were.

In a way, the crew felt responsible for this person. Karr had broken several laws and abandoned all humanity and decency when he revealed his augs and murdered those retros. As members of Galactic Society, they felt a deep shame over what he had done.

All but Java and Vlads took off their helmets, revealing their faces to the firebird.

Droam tried to convince the fellow that he should abandon the firebirds and reform his ways, but the marauder reacted as if the doctor spoke nonsense.

Understanding the philosophies of religions was one of the talents of the Reverence Officer, Jasmine. Using her knowledge of Exilism, a common retro religion dating back to the founding of augmented society over a millennia of cycles ago, she formed an impassioned sermon that called upon the teachings of Exilism to sway the man to walk a better path.

She soon discovered that his form of Exilism was corrupted from the original, and she could not rely on the root beliefs. Nevertheless, her beauty and grace awed the fellow, and she charmed him into searching his own feelings of shame, guilt, and sadness, until he began agreeing with her that his choices led him to this moment. He had a second chance, and perhaps higher powers were giving him this opportunity to save his soul. The firebird was astonished, looking upon her with adoration as the idea took hold.

At the end he cried once more, and Jasmine held him, soothing him like a child. Once he composed himself, the marauder tore off his survival suit, snatched up a sharp rock, and began vigorously scrapping the red off the suit.

Droam tried to get the frequencies of the clan, but the marauder was confused by this, saying the clan had no such tech, they used simple channels. Besides, they were too smart to broadcast their movements.

He did mention someone named Trinity. When Jasmine pressed, he told them she was the leader of the clan - a woman who somehow came into possession of a simuldog (a synthetic animal she calls Mincy) and used it to kill her way to the top of the clan. According to the marauder, simulbeasts are very rare, though common before "the Breaking." Mincy was a vicious animal, utterly loyal to Trinity.

They left the firebird and climbed back down the spire. Mitt was waiting at the bottom, and once the last of the crew stepped out into the wastes, he turned and resumed the journey, the party trailing after. He spoke once, to complain that this delay would make it unlikely they could reach the watering hole before dusk.

Sins of Droam

Since they first met Mitt, his coughing worried them. As the kilometers passed and the sun passed towards the west, his bouts of coughing grew stronger, each episode longer, until the wastelander began coughing so hard that he fell to his knees, shook as he hacked into his breather mask, and collapsed.

Vlads cried out in alarm as Droam rushed to help. He turned the wastelander onto his back and removed his mask, revealing a bloody mouth, speckles of crimson red splattered across the inside of the mask and his face.

His breathing was labored and weak. When Droam realized the man was unconscious, he activated his medilyzer, the multi-colored mist of the nanites flowing from the device. They swarmed the face of the patient, triggering a medical coma even as they entered the dying man, a wealth of medical metrics swarming before the intense concentration of the medical officer.

First, though the man appeared to be in his sixties, cell analysis clocked his age at about 42 standard cycles. The immediate problem was found in his throat, then his lungs: late-stage cancer eating his insides, most prominent in the respiratory system, but already spreading to other organs.

Mitt had less than a few hours to live.

Virtually, the crew gathered in horror at the news. Though they had only known him for a day, many had felt they had formed a bond with the retro. The thought that he was about to die was terrible to face.

Droam could cure him, but this would be a clear violation of galactic law. As the crew expert on such laws, no one understood this better than Droam. If he healed the man, when they connected with galactic society, he would face incarceration for fifty, perhaps a hundred standard cycles, probably longer than the typical lifespan of any retro on this planet.

But if he did nothing, they would have to watch a decent man die, drowning in his own blood. The debate the crew had was emotional, for either choice incurred a heavy toll.

In the end, Droam decided he was the only one who could make that choice, and invoked his authority as the senior medical personnel on the scene, absolving the rest of the crew - only he would face the consequences of these actions.

Droam cured the cancer, leaving the blood and gunk in the mask in the hopes that Mitt would see it and assume he had coughed out whatever was troubling him. Deciding it would be best to revive him in the morning, the crew noted that dusk was approaching, and turned their attention to finding shelter, Java casually scooping up the unconscious wastelander and tossing him over one shoulder as if the man were a sack of feathers. They headed for the nearest ridge.

Cave of Vlads

By the time they reached the rock face, the party had decided to use their tech, since the only retro witness would see and hear nothing. Vlads took charge, with assistance from Java: they both engaged their mechalyzers, nanites chewing away rock as it seemingly melted and evaporated, forming into a cave of sufficient size for everyone. Vlads took some extra care to sculpt the cave, giving it the appearance that it had been natural, with some evidence it had been expanded with retro tools.

Thinking no retro would ever discover any tampering within the rock itself, he did penetrate the surface to reinforce the structure beyond the walls and ceiling - an atomic blast could shatter the ridge, leaving a protective shell encasing the cave.

The party settled in to wait out the dark. Cicero gathered data as the dusk gale came with the night, but everyone could tell that this storm was but a pale whisper of the typhoon they endured the night before, and within a few hours the night had calmed, the air warmer than the hottest part of the day.

During the night, Vlads showed the others the two charred mag pistols he had picked up at the wreckage, asking Cael if he could fix them. The molecular engineer, rated to craft any hand-held tech, hissed with frustration - had Vlads mentioned the finding of the pistols when they were still near the wreckage, he could have used the scrap to make dozens of mag pistols, plenty to re-equip the party.

He took the charred remains and deleted them, storing two incomplete maps of the weapons, then used the harvested molecules to build a new one. Since he had to add some design choices of his own, Cael decided to build an advanced one, by appearances no more advanced that a masterfully-crafted one, but with subtle improvements.

They also remembered the reports from Last Chance, how the commander had a large, black mag pistol that blew the heads off of four retros. Cael suspected their former commander had made it using aug tech, giving him further ideas on this project.

The result was a sleek, bulky mag pistol with a long barrel, six-shooter, the metal seemingly made of black carbon steel, with recessed portions able to absorb light as well as their vac suits - the EM coil would never need charging, as it was far more efficient than a standard one, and exposing the pistol to rays as dim as starlight could recharge it (given sufficient time).

Happy with the results, he saved the template as Kindred Mag Pistol, Mark 1, and added his maker stamp beneath the make and model on the gun: Cael Jain. As Vlads was judged best among them with pistols, the weapon was given to him. The rest of the party donated all MP slugs they had scavanged earlier, giving Vlads more than enough for two full reloads.

About two hours before dawn, the party prepped for the day, ready to awaken Mitt and hope he did not realize how much had been healed.

Session End 2-15-7244, 10:27pm GT 

Error: VI offline, report pending.