Knight to C6

The room was just a giant steel box. All the tables were fabbed plates, carefully rounded edges, resilient but safe. The bar was different. It dominated the back wall, improvised materials welded together to make a contiguous half wall. The man behind the bar was fit, stocking vials, decanters, and bottles of hundreds of colors. Each affixed with a chip he spun forward. Any augmented vision could conjure up detail from just that label. The man had long greying facial hair, and a vague thin wisp of hair near the temples before it gave way to his bald head. A pair of smoked glasses rested in front of his eyes, like they should obscure vision but he acted unhindered. His outfit showed technology, environmental compensators and health regulators, but some spots were torn and patched with other materials.

The other patrons around the bar were covered, most of them head to toe, in varying degrees of in tact  environmental gear. Most had masks or helmets that completely obscured their heads and faces. The vials the bartender served up had some connector affixed to it that let them interface into the array of helmets. Most had straws or angled for gravity, but some advanced ones used other technology to draw the liquid out into the wearer's body. The mismatched masks, some vaguely human shaped, others geometric or animalian, combined with different hued liquids from attached vials made for a strange scene. Conversations were rare here, as most of the figures would be tapped into digital feeds, conversing with people around the globe and ignoring those seated just a meter away.

The room was part of a waypoint, a refueling place in the frags, where people needed to stop and get liquids or supplies before heading onward. Yincent, the barkeep, had been manning this outpost for a while. His shop was some 120 kiloms from the closest federated outpost, a small waystation on the maglev lines used for barter. Certainly some of the better vehicles could get to the waystation quickly, but he had never gone. His mother had run the bar prior to him, and he grown into the role. He had also grown up around the travelers, used to their need for privacy. Occasionally someone would travel with form-fitting clothes and you could discern a sex, but that was rare. He and most of the staff at the waypoint made a game out of it. Now he was more preoccupied with determining where on the globe they may have come from based on their ways of phrasing orders, if they even spoke. They used synthesized voices if they had to, modulated in ever changing patterns to deter listeners from figuring out who they were. Most favored digital displays at their tables or other automated systems provided by the waypoint, and Yincent would get a little notification on his smoked glass about the new customer and order. As soon as the order was placed and drink proffered, they sat in silence, motionless when possible. Yincent adapted to it, now well acquainted with the quiet, and he focused on keeping the vials ordered chromatically and straight. It made him feel better when they were neatly arranged.

The airlock on the far side of the bar cycled. It connected the upper level of the waypoint to the bar. A new patron stepped in, decked out in layers of cloth and armor. All of it was tattered and mended, like a patchwork quilt that made Yincent's look fairly well maintained. The amalgamated outfit was billowy, providing lots of storage spots. His mask was just a facial one, locking into some parts of his mantle. It was a cleanroom white, all geometric angles that made a rough face shape. But across the eyes and bridge of the nose were just a solid blue stripe. It was a deep blue, almost metallic. The colors of the mask didn't match anything else on him. Slung over one shoulder was a giant drab black rucksack, over a meter in length and covered in straps and locks. Usually that would be of sufficient note as most travelers left their bags in their transports. But then there were his metallic gauntlets. As he walked towards the bar, he flexed his fingers and the metal uncoupled, pulled away from his fingers like a ghost leaving a corpse, and folded into metal cuffs further up the arms. What they revealed were worn, tanned hands covered in concentric circle tattoos. The rings and shapes were overlapping in spots, and looked like they may have been dermtech. Some of the other patrons seemed to turn at this, seeing skin being an unexpected surprise. He approached the bar, waved over Yincent, and asked though a less modulated voice than Yincent was expecting for "One hydration, one Yeoman's whiskey. In glasses."

The rest who hadn't looked now turned to look. Yincent could guess some of the thoughts: "Glasses?No connector? How is he going to drink from a glass? How is he going to pay for a glass of Yeoman's? Who does he represent?" Yincent suspected some even thought about tailing the newcomer out of the waypoint to see what other valuables he might have on him.

Then the stranger reached up to his mask, and several small locking pins unscrewed automatically, letting the mask pull away from the face. The inside was a latticework of sensors and connectors, and underneath the polished veneer of the mask there were layers of circuitry and couplings. He put the mask down to rest on the bar, facing it so it made eye contact with him, a face now protruding from the bar.  His own face was pale, but worn. Metal connectors protruded from the skin, anchored to bones. Metallic contact points on traced skin. But here too were some dermal tattoo implants. A few more circles, and then the eyes. Dermal traces ran on the corners of the eye, and the irises had telltale signs of tampering. They were a flat blue color. Not the normal speckled texture, but a dull blue circle around a hollow black pupil, likely augmented. No facial hair, even his eyebrows were gone. Whether it was radiation or the replaced body, it was hard to tell. Derm tats mimicked eyebrows, and two heavy anchor bolts obscuring the rest.

Yincent placed the two mismatched glasses down, poured the larger one full of a slightly cloudy liquid, which was the hydration mixture used for wastewalkers. He knew that term, "hydration" meant someone had just be traveling a far distance and needed to replenish more than just h2o in their body. The stuff had some long technical name when you fabbed it, but those who knew it called it "hydration." The strangers chapped lips parted for a contented sigh, and he brought the water to his mouth while Yincent turned to grab the whiskey. This was a rare vial, front and center in the display. He'd only seen it ordered a few times, but always taken to go. Yeoman's was a trade whiskey. It meant it wasn't fabbed here, like the hydration, or any other synthohol that most people drank. It meant someone spent time distilling this stuff. And for that, it fetched a heavy premium. He grabbed a small vial, affixed a drain top, and poured it into the glass.

By time Yincent poured the remainder in the glass, the stranger put his first down, now empty, and waited as Yincent passed the tumbler over, moving it well clear of the mask. The man tapped the empty glass, noting a refill, while he picked up the whiskey like a precious gem and inspected it with his dull eyes. The glass clouded slightly, his circular tattoos dancing where they touched.

Most of the room had now lost interest. It was weird, but it was of no gain to them to stare. Two seemed to take this as an omen to leave. They unhooked their drinks, transferred credits, and left. One had a vulpine mask, and the other a smooth helmet. No obvious trade signs, so maybe independent, Yincent speculated. Or just cautious. He shrugged, and went around to get the discarded vials. 

As Yincent came back around to the bar, the stranger held out a hand. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his voice. "You.. uh... you see lots of transit here lately?" He asked. Curiosity kindled in the bar again.

Yincent paused, thinking. "Nothing unusual. More west transit, out towards Dennen."

"Have you seen another person with glyph... uh.. circle tattoos?" A few others turned back to the conversation. This was information. Everyone wanted information.

"No one has, uh, displayed any I've seen." He paused, then added. "Sir." It seemed right. A faint smile creased the chapped lips of the stranger. He coughed out a dusty laugh.

"Oh, 'sir' huh? I guess... well, I guess that's how life progresses." He nursed his whiskey, drinking some more hydration as well. Blissful silence returned to Yincent, even if there was this still this stranger at the bar. If not for an unmasked person, it may have been a normal day.  The stranger put down the now empty whiskey glass, and made motion to leave.

"How much do I owe for the drinks?"

"2750, standard. I can calculate for other currencies too, we take pretty much anything." Yincent replied. Resuming his normal bartender voice.

"Huh. Well, in that case..." The stranger trailed off, and held his hand palm-down a few centimeters off the counter. Yincent was about to tell him the finger readers were to the left of where he had his hand, when the pockets on his arm started to wiggle. The sealed flaps opened, and tiny threads of metal streamed from them. Under his splayed hand, the thin wires wrapped themselves together into a cylinder of pure metal, and from the color and tint, it looked like copper. After the threats finished, he grabbed it with two fingers and a thumb, and flipped it up to Yincent. The room was dead silent. At this point, people stopped and turned. No attempts at masking the intrigue. The stranger just extruded a pure metal as payment. This placed him in a very small category of people. A very dangerous category of people. Yincent froze.

"It's copper. Refined to pure, approximately 1.2 kilos. Should be equivalent, plus conversion fee." He said, matter of fact. Yincent stared, still unsure what to do. Pure copper was indeed valuable, but he'd never tried to convert it before. presumably it could be done, and likely with conversion fee. He'd have to ask someone else in the waypoint to assess it and trade it up. Raw materials like copper were very rare, but it was sometimes trivial for Kinetics to make it, which is what he suspected this man was. A shiver shot down Yincent's spine. If he was uncomfortable before, realizing this guy probably was kinetic made everything worse. And with that though, the pit in his stomach deepened, and he realized he didn't care if the copper were worth it, he just wanted the stranger to leave.

"Yea- yeah... Yes. Yes, this is sufficient payment. Thank you and have a good day." Yincent replied, willing himself to remain composed.

"Right. Well." The stranger muttered, and picked up his mask. Putting it back on, the studs re-attached and sealed, thin lights reigniting as he stood. He re-donned his gloves, pulled his giant rucksack up to his shoulders, and turned to leave the bar. Everyone stayed locked in place until he left. Shoulders relaxed once he outer airlock door shut, most notably on Yincent.

After a few minutes and taking care of a few customers in silence, Yincent pulled his own mask out from under the bar, grabbed his jacket, and walked to the supply door. He donned the mask, opened a open channel for the patrons, and left a simple message for them to check, then switched the bar into lockdown, sliding safely panels between the half-height bar and ceiling, separating the guests from the drinks. The translucent material had a notice running across it that the proprietor was temporarily unavailable, and would be back as soon as possible. He called a secondary on the station to come down and take over the bar for a bit, and stepped out into the supply hall, fully clad, and decided to have a stimpack to forget about anything he could.

[Felix - 4] The Resistance of Memory

The ship, a sleek matte grey arrowhead with recessed engine ports all along its form, streaked out from the night sky. Retro thrust aglow, with faint blue-white fire flaring close to the point. It's descent was slowing as it neared the monolith. The black tower loomed in the fading light. Adorned with twinkling lights, it stood upright amid a low rolling landscape. It was the central transit hub for the city. The lights were docking platforms and hangars, guides and control modules. Each important, but just a piece of the dazzling structure. The ship slowed, but not enough. It lazily crashed into a docking bay on the monolith and blossomed into smoke.

Then time stopped, it reformed from the smoke and fire and jettisoned backwards, before it cycled again. Every time it pulled back, there was something different. A new person stuck to the front, or strapped to the adjustable wings. People I didn't recognize, then Vanessa, then Conrad, then Travis, then someone else I couldn't place, but she was tall and old, weathered in a way I hadn't seen before. In my gut, something told me she was from the wastes. Then it paused, and I realized she wasn't strapped to it, but was holding on to the ship.

Then the ship was buried in sand. It was the glass desert, harsh and reflective, ozone hole pouring in lethal cosmic rays. It hurt to stand by the damaged ship, now looming large over me. The old woman was there, her dark skin chapped by the harsh, dry wind. Permanent creases in her face from glaring and frowning. She was holding out a helmet to me, or some sort of head cover. She may have had a similar one, it looked like she did before, but she was definitely handing me someone else's. Her clothing was strange. It was real hide, not just synthetics like the stuff I wore. The clothing on me recoiled from her reach, trying to stretch away from the proffered helmet. My left hand was paused, reaching out, but not quite sure what to do. I tried to make it move, either towards or away, but it wouldn't budge. My clothing came alive, pulling away from the left arm like molting skin, and flailing up into my face. My panic started as I feared the clothing was really going to strangle me this time.

I shot awake, norepinephrine compensators pushing a slight dose into my blood, detecting the heightened state as part of a nightmare. That was another thing my past self added, Endocrine modulators, which tapped into part of the neural framework and could counteract instinctual reactions. Having my body naturally compensate for a bad dream was an incredible perk. Though with my proclivity towards dreams, I wonder if it added to the problem, or that was why he added them. Well, I added them, I guess. I sighed, I was probably never going to get past referring to the pre-crash version of me as "him."

Getting up, I walked back to the display walls. Suspended in the screen was the same arrowhead ship from my dream, though this one was bulkier, better defined, and traced with records of parts and trajectories. The monolith was pretty much the same looming central tower of Novost Sprawl as in my dream. Though my version of the accident didn't include dream specters adorning the prow.

I'd been working on recreating this disaster from what records I could find for years. I never really told anyone at work, but I'm sure they all suspected. I'd query related data when I had down time, I even visited a records vault where they kept some physical evidence in case future material analysis was needed. In that time, I was able to piece together some interesting details about the passengers and crew of GT-022-9A3QL. The 022-series inter-atmospheric shuttles were common transports, but not for large volumes, usually more climate sensitive things, such as people or plants. The hangar was booked for inter-sprawl travel, but the 022 was the ship of record. But now that I had this case, I had access to new Novost records that were inaccessible prior. now I could almost place Travis in that ship, wondering if he was steering or just sleeping.

The most interesting things I found from it were partial manifests and crews. There were 7 people accounted for, like Travis, who I ruled out as being me. The other names and designations were difficult to work with. There wasn't any directly linked data, and even tenuous connections had already been made previously and dismissed. There were at least 3 passengers from the frags. and based off incidental evidence, all records presume I was as well. But I at least must have been fairly well off, as I didn't have any telltale signs of organic decomposition. Usually fraggers show all sorts of degenerative diseases, being exposed to cosmic radiation, as well as the less hospitable atmosphere.

A chime went off in my ear. Subtle, but noticeable. Put my display gear back on, overlay recalibrating for my vision, and augmented panels shimmered back into place. The chime linked to the corner of my eye, a notice from Novost:

+ Felix

# Phirenaius

$ < new case data available

It was simple. That's usually how the notifications from Phirenaius usually went. It was the default text of a notice. He didn't add any additional details. I wonder if that's just his way of getting me to message him directly. Before I contacted him, I ought to have a shower. I put the display back down on the table.

I went to the bathroom portion, a sterilized laminate room with bathroom fixtures. The ripplesuit was convenient, but I didn't want to shower with it, so it retracted to a minimal undergarment, and loosened the binding to take it off. The minimal shape and binding were in case it failed. No one liked standing naked someplace if it failed. Heh, well, most people dont, I should say. I slipped the ripplesuit off, dropped it in a quick cleaner while I grabbed a showerhead and stepped into a fast flow of water. Reclamation ports in the ground collected the excess, and sent it off to whatever destination it had for returning to the system. The shower was smart, it cycled the water temperature, reading my impulses for desires, adding cleansers and scanning for harmful materials. It checked the reclamation water for any other contaminates and gave me a clear bill of health. 

I remembered in that rushing water when I first discovered all the subdermal implants I had. Some were damaged or only partially restored, but I still carried a few meatsinks in my back. From the restoration, my health checks after the shower always took a bit, because the non-human parts of me caused the system problems. Maybe remnants from the previous me, maybe just it couldn't calibrate for derms. Sometimes I found myself prodding a few medal nodules on my body, wondering if there were still pieces there the doctors didn't catch. Previous me spent a good amount of credit on body mods, and I doubt all of them would show up. The endocrine modulators were ones they didn't catch, so who knows what else I had.

A rush of air from the ceiling knocked most of the water off, then a set of soft absorptive towels were present, already at my body temperature, for me to finish with. I swapped the towel I used for my now clean ripplesuit, and put it back on. It stretched and crawled across me, wrapping limbs and forming into my preferred jumpsuit as I left the bathroom.

The humidity lingered in the air as I stepped out, then ambient sensors picked up, cycled the air, and dried it again. I picked up my display, and made sure I looked reasonably awake. A coffee was brewed from the synthetic dispenser while I checked, machine learning picking up the obvious next steps. A circular dietary cake formed as well, hints of steam trailing from it. The flavor was supposedly a butter pastry. But I don't know anyone who told me that had consumed real butter or pastries to verify. But it was nice, warm, and went well with the coffee. It wasn't like that came fro real coffee beans, so what did I care.

After call handshakes occurred, I was connected to Phirenaius. He looked his usual self: composed, tired, and a little bored. He gave me a quick once-over.

"Felix. You spent all night reading the case." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. Phirenaius could have pulled my activity logs to figure that out. But he was an analyst, and had been for years, I'm sure he pulled that just from sight.

"Yeah. I did. What's the data?" 

"This just gets weirder. It's a dossier from GT. It's pretty much all noise, but I found a few bits of interest. Particularly the medical records."

With Phirenaius, "interest" may mean the digital equivalent of a smoking gun. He was terse, but if he said anything, it typically proved worthwhile to check. I saw the files begin transferring over. There was substantially more than I expected. Not particularly relevant to how Travis died, but it was a lot more data from GT than I think I had ever received from a separate corp in the few years I had done this job.

"So now data suddenly exists? How convenient! Now that we're investigating it I'm sure it ties everything together nicely."

Phirenaius laughed his dry, rasping laugh. "I've taught you well, kid. But you've got your work cut out for you now. This isn't just noise. I think they gave you disinformation. I think this is getting buried, and they want us to find the easy answer." He paused a moment. "What do you derive from this?"

I paused. There was weight to that last part. I recognized it, and he knew it when he said it. "Uh, I'm not sure yet, let me look at the files." I muttered, and ended the connection.

For now the second time this day, I slumped into my chair, and conjured up some synthohol. "Derive" was not exactly code, but it usually meant something bigger lay just below the surface. And taking in a few details of what he did and did not say, I was going to need a drink.