jeriendhal: (Default)
In which Willah is an Official Problem, and encouters a clash of ideals )

[2] Steven Miller [birth-death], eventually became head of NMC’s Theatrical Studies program, serving in that position for fifteen years. -Ed.

[3] Roughly: Human torsos are shorter, and their legs are longer than foxen. In addition, human pants lack the need to accommodate our much higher ankle joints, given their plantigrade stance. -BB

[4] Social Media is a concept that is difficult to explain within the restrictions of this narrative. Imagine ordinary Commoners having the ability to transmit information instantaneously and with the reach of a newspaper or wireless broadcast network, but with no filters to prevent the propagation of harmful or misleading ideas. As horrifying as the concept sounds, for the more academically minded that are interested in studying the concept, I suggest looking up Professor Colonel Angila Blackrock’s paper entitled Promise and Peril of New Means of Information Transmission, Green River Academic Press. -BB

[5] How little I knew at the time what this suggestion would lead to… -BB

[6] Suffice it to say at that point in her life Lt. Bookbinder was a product of her time. It would not be until the Library Wars some fifty years later that her attitude would change to a more open way of thought. -Ed 

jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
 Relevant points: I make several errors in judgement. I am welcomed by new friends.Read more... )

[2] Prior to the adoption of the Universal Stellar Credit system, “cash” on Motherhome was usually represented by small metallic polyhedrons, originally cast in precious metals, and later in sturdier and cheaper alloys. Their resemblance to the traditional dice used in human board and roleplaying games was cause for some amusement among early human visitors. -Ed

[3] The most accurate translations of the Mother Tongue and Arabic phrases are actually “I thought the idea was beautiful” and “I thought it was going to work” but we can forgive Lt. Bookbinder’s favoring the spirit over a strictly technical rendering of the phrases. -Ed

[4] Yes, I realize now that sundown in Houston meant the sun had set hours before in Westminster. In my defense I was genuinely beginning to panic, and the North American Union is ridiculously large compared to the Mother Country. -BB

[5] Translation: Success! Though there are several suspects among the Human Federation consulate on Foxen Prime and the crew of the Columbia, it has yet to be determined who taught Lt. Bookbinder to speak Klingon. -Ed.

[6] Though mostly superseded by more efficient reactionless thrust transport systems, for those interested in the subject, several maglev lines are maintained by transportation heritage groups on Humanity Prime, most notably by the North American Corridor Transportation Museum and the Trans-Pacific Railway Museum. -Ed.

[7] “States” in the vernacular of the North American Union are similar to a Mother Country district, though lacking the continuity of a ruling countess and her heirs. -BB

[8] Duels of honor were still legal, if uncommon, in the Mother Country at the time of Lt. Bookbinder’s journey to Humanity Prime, though the last was on [DATE], a good fifty years prior to them being outlawed. -Ed

[9] While (as far as scholars have been able to discover) Bookbinder was never formally instructed in Latin, no doubt she picked up the word whilst learning English. Please see the famous Nichols quote as to the reason why. -Ed

jeriendhal: (Default)
 Hi, I'm not dead.

Honestly I'd almost forgotten about my Dreamwidth account, but given the mess on certain other social media platforms I should post here more regularly. So here's the start of a little story I've been working on set in the early days of my RVA universe, inspired by cozy works like Travis Baldree's Legends & Lattes and more directly by [personal profile] rix_scaedu 's The Travels of Anadrasata Nearabhigan which I strongly recommend you support on her Patreon .

So without further ago, please enjoy The Exchange Student. And if you like this story, please consider supporting me on my own Patreon.

***

In Which Our Heroine Arrives at an Alien World )

[2] Here we see a hint of why Bookbinder became such an extraordinary diplomat, and one of the driving forces in the creation of Galactic Basic. As her Mandarin teacher Pin Quinya noted during Bookbinder’s education, “She has a ferocious intellect when it comes to learning languages, even ones utterly lacking in cultural context to her own.” -Ed.

[3] To the Home of the Humans, by Alorain Greenfields is perhaps the most accessible primary source available in Galactic Basic. -Ed.

[4] 2.5 meters. -Ed

[5] “Dragons” are a race of beasts from human mythology. Though they seem to vary wildly in human culture, they are generally very large and very greedy. Which I fear is a pernicious insult to wazagans in general, as all the ones I met aboard the Columbia were of a generous nature, as you will soon discover in my narrative. -BB

[6] Captain, later Commodore Huy Nguyen (Birth-Death), was an experienced starship captain, and commanded the Columbia when it delivered the first Terran Confederation diplomatic team to Foxen Prime two years after Endeavour returned to Earth. -Ed.

[7] Viscount Shanang Blackfang (Birth-Death) eldest son of Countess Tanara Blackfang. He served as an assistant diplomatic attaché at the Motherhome Embassy in Geneva for next twenty years, eventually rising to the rank of Senior Ambassador the final two years of his Terran career. -Ed

[8] This was of course prior to the discovery of the Shinzen-Mohammad Principle, allowing the creation hyperspace beacons that permitted vastly improved superluminal navigation and dropout transitions much closer to planetary bodies. -Ed

[9] As was common in days before advanced superluminal drives and improved stellar navigation, Humanity Prime had several wazagan enclaves, small homesteads or neighborhoods where the accommodations were built sized to be comfortable for the larger aliens. Similar enclaves for humans near Wazaga Prime were confined to orbital space stations, as most humans avoided living on the surface due to Wazaga Prime’s high gravity. -Ed

 

jeriendhal: (Default)
 This was one of those Should Be Obvious facts, but SecUnits are not normally invited to parties. And SecUnits, especially rogue SecUnits with hacked governor modules, are rarely (as in “never”) made the guest of honor at a party. But this was Preservation, where are the humans and augmented humans are almost suicidally idealistic, and entirely too many of them think of me as a friend.

So here I was on Preservation Station, in a conference room crowded with too many people (okay six, including myself) with food and drink along a side table that I can’t consume, and several boxes wrapped in brightly colored paper which I was dreading having to open.

They even made me a cake. I don’t know why, they just did. It had “Congratulations, SecUnit” written in large letters on it. Below that in much smaller letters it said, “We know you don’t care, but we do.” I suspect Dr. Gurathin put that in. I don’t know.

It was a double occasion. One, I had finally been officially recognized as a citizen of the Preservation Alliance. Which meant I was, very legally, a person. Which meant if I went around doing my job (ie: murdering anyone threatening someone I was hired to protect) I could be arrested for it instead of broken down for spare parts. Oh, and I also had what passed for Preservation’s government backing me up, which was actually kind of nice. I don’t know, it was complicated.

The other occasion was that I was going to be leaving on a Preservation transport tomorrow to rendezvous with Perihelion, aka ART, and its crew, to help them on a “research project” which was totally about charting a supposedly empty star system, and definitely not about beating certain corporations trying contacting any abandoned corporate colonies there, making sure the colonies had paperwork showing they had always been legally independent, so they couldn’t be taken in and made involuntary employees of whatever corporation found them.

But just in case someone got mad about it, ART and its crew wanted me along. Because the only thing more dangerous than a SecUnit doing its job, was a rogue SecUnit that actually cared about doing its job right.

Anyway, the party was incredibly awkward as everyone made chit chat and tried to be friendly while simultaneously not making eye contact with me. I used the conference room’s cameras to keep track of everyone. Dr. Mensah was there of course, as was Ratthi, Gurathin, Pin-Lee, Arada, and Mensah’s daughter Amena. They all kept glancing at me, then glancing at the boxes, and then back to me, and it was enough that I was considering writing a program to give canned responses when anyone tried to talk to me so I could safely start watching an episode of The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon without being rude. Not that I cared about being rude. Ever.

After three subjective centuries and fifteen actual minutes, Dr. Mensah cleared her throat, and everyone started to quiet down. When the room was quiet, she began, “SecUnit, it goes without saying that we’re glad that you chose to join us here in Preservation. If you hadn’t been there for us, at the right moment in a time of crisis, everyone in this room would be dead, some of us several times over.” Which was true, but everyone knew that. I don’t know why she had to point it out. At least she left out the bits where I screwed up anyway.

“It’s even more impressive given the fact that you were often protecting us without the vital equipment you were designed to use,” Dr. Mensah went on. “With you leaving us shortly to travel with Perihelion, we would like to correct that.” She made a gesture towards the boxes.

I stood there frozen for a moment, until Dr. Gurathin popped in helpfully on the feed to state, You’re supposed to open them, idiot. There were three of them, two about the size of small shipping containers, and the other very large, about the size of a crate I would have been shipped in to one of my old assignments. I started with one of the smallest ones first. It was a box of two dozen surveillance drones, standard issue for any SecUnit. Except on just a visual scan I could see they weren’t standard issue. They were a unit design I’d never seen before. I wondered where Mensah had gotten them. Drones weren’t normally used on Preservation, and previously Dr Mensah has to specially order the ones I’d been using on the station.

The second box was an even bigger surprise. These were combat drones, another two dozen of them. Normally combat drones weren’t used by SecUnits, only by dedicated CombatSecUnits. And if surveillance drones were rare on Preservation, combat drones were unheard of.

“I know these must be a surprise to you,” Dr. Mensah said. “But given the sheer number of violent incidents you have been involved in, I thought it prudent you have to option to have them, if you needed them.”

“Both the surveillance and combat drones are unique designs,” Amena interjected. “They were all manufactured here on Preservation Station and have no corporate patented elements.”

“Most importantly the code controlling them was written by Pin-Lee and myself,” Dr Gurathin added. He sent a packet to me in the feed and I opened it. It was controlling software for both sets of drones, and as he’d said, none of it matched the standard architecture the company had used, or anything else I recognized. “I’m not going to say it will make them hack proof,” he continued, “But anyone trying to wrest control of your drones away from you would have a much more difficult job.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. I was having a serious emotion right now. Amena, Pin-Lee, and Gurathin had gone to a lot of trouble to build these drones for me. I could do my job without drones, but these would make it a lot easier. And knowing they were mine, built especially for me. Well…

This why I hate having emotions. My efficiency rating was dropping into the low 90’s and I wasn’t even being shot at. But the worst was yet to come.

“Open the big one!’ Amena demanded. So, I started pulling the wrapping paper off. I don’t why humans insisted on covering boxes with the stuff. It just opening them more difficult. I pulled the top off and…

Inside was armor. Nice, normal looking armor that any SecUnit would use. It was colored grey, with darker grey at the joints, and the design was again unique. It wasn’t company armor that was for sure. Company armor would be dinged up, scratched, obviously used and probably patched in areas a client wasn’t supposed to see. Company armor was cheap. This… wasn’t… It was brand new, shiny, and didn’t smell of dirt, blood and leaking fluids.

“Again, this is unique,” Ratthi explained. “For one thing, with your body’s modifications, you actually don’t fit standard SecUnit armor any more, or at least it wouldn’t be very comfortable for you. This set is custom fitted for your unique body type. Also it has several features that aren’t standard.”

“The armor is thicker by several millimeters than your old company armor,” Dr. Mensah said. “I’m told it was a tradeoff between maximum protection and running the risk of slowing down your reflexes. It’s most noticeable in the chest and back, and your helmet.”

“Given the number of times you’ve been whacked in the head and forced into an involuntary shutdown, that seemed like a good idea,” Gurathin added. Given it was Gurathin, that was said sarcastically, but I think he really meant it.

“The helmet has an enhanced senor suite to complement your drones,” Ratthi added. “In the back of armor is a small drone hive, which can recharge and repair your drones as needed, and can also be used to manufacture unique, mission specific modules for the combat drones, replacing their weapons with whatever you think you might need.”

“As you can see, there are no logos on it. Not even for Preservation,” Amena said. “We… we thought that would be important to you.” She went on, “It does have a programmable surface on it though. So, if you want to show off Preseration’s logo, or set it to a camouflage pattern, or whatever, you could.”

“It is important to me, yeah,” I said, before I could think better of it and keep my mouth shut. Yeah, I was having a big emotion right now, and I was hating it, even as I fought the urge to strip off my hooded jacket and put the armor on right now.

“Bear in mind this is a prototype,” Ratthi said. “Once you come back from your job with Perihelion I’m sure you’ll have a dozen suggestions for improving it.” He sent me the armor’s full specs on the feed. If I gave them to ART, I’m sure the big research ship could make me a brand-new set from its manufacturing unit. Though ART would probably also snark about how it could have made an even better design if I’d just asked it.

“There is one last thing,” Mensah said. “It would have to wait until your returned from your mission with Perihelion, but I thought it would be another gift you would appreciate.”

“What?” I asked. I hoped that I didn’t sound ungrateful. The drones alone would have been a gift I could never pay them back for. I couldn’t imagine what else they could give me when you included the armor.

“I have been talking with our engineering and medical personnel,” Mensah said. “I know that the company logo is something you hate intensely, to the point of editing it out of your memories. But it is part of you, literally etched into your structure.” She reached out to not quite touch my arm. “We can’t remove the logos in your structure, but we believe it would be possible to cover them. We would add a micro-millimeter layer over your existing structure, to erase the logos, to point they wouldn’t be visible even on a scanner.” Mensah paused then asked tentatively, “Would you like that?”

I… was having an emotion again. The biggest, worst emotion I’d felt since I thought ART had been murdered. Except it wasn’t bad, it was just overwhelming. I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t even think. All I could do was watch as my performance rating freefalled as I stood there like an idiot, everyone staring at me, waiting for me to say something.

Then, one by one, Dr. Mensah, Ratthi, Ping-Lee, Gurathin, Arada, and finally Amena turned away from me to look at the walls, look at the useless food on the table, look at the armor, look at anything besides me.

Because they were my friends, and they knew I hated parties, and they knew I hated being stared at, and they knew especially how I hated having emotions. And that was okay because they understood.

It was still too much. I had to step outside into the hallway. After a few moments my performance level began to rise again, and I was able to ping Mensah and tell her, I’d like that.

Thank you, SecUnit,she replied over the feed. I’ll let everyone know. You don’t have to come back inside if you don’t want to.

I didn’t.

And that was okay. Because she and everyone else understood me.

jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
 "Stuck in the Middle with You" my latest Red Vixen Adventures story and a direct sequel to "I Fought the Claw, and the Claw Won" is now available for pre-order through Amazon.
jeriendhal: (Muppets)
Got Shout Factory's Complete Max Headroom collection for Christmas, and I rewatched the first episode last night.

To put this show in perspective, the original 1985 pilot "Max Headroom: Twenty Minutes into the Future" was a Blade Runner-esque tv movie intended as Max's origin story, to explain why the Max Headroom music video show (remember those?) had a bizarre "computer generated presenter" (actually Matt Frewer in a latex prothesis on a CSO background).

From that came the Max Headroom series, which produced 14 episodes (only 12 of which aired in the original run) that ran on ABC in 1987. The first episode "Blipvert" was a remake of the original TV movie, again featuring Matt Frewer as intrepid reporter Edison Carter, Amanda Pays as Theora Jones his Controller (ie: Voice With An Internet Connection), and later episodes bringing back veteran character actor W. Morgan Sheppard as the over the hill punk Blank Reg.

So this show appears on a major TV network, in the middle of Ronald Reagan's 2nd term as president, satirizing network television in general and the rise of "Infotainment" and reality TV in particular, not to mention all those lovely corporations enjoying the fruits of Trickle Down economics.

And GOD it was weird. It was a cyberpunk black comedy that sounds like something only Netflix would greenlight. The fact that it appeared for even just a season on something like ABC was amazing.

Our story starts with Edison hosting his show "Edison Carter Live and Direct", carrying his own camera as he infiltrates an apartment building where Metrocops are investigating the violent death of man. Before Carter can interview the man's wife, she's sedated by the cops, and the someone at Network 23 orders the story pulled even as Edison is reporting it. Edison's current Controller, Gorman, kills Edison's feed, and Edison barely escapes with his life when the Metrocops realize he's no longer transmitting and start beating him.

Understandably pissed, Edison demands a new controller from Murray, the show's producer (a pre-Arrested Development Jeffrey Tambor). Murray finds him Theora, but warns him off pursuing the investigation, noting the order to spike Edison's story came from "Very high up."

Meanwhile, we discover the "Very High Up" is Network 23's current CEO Ned Grossberg, who is chairing a board meeting about the disastrous rollout of Blipverts, which caused the apartment dweller's death. Invented by Bryce Lunch, Network 23's resident kid genius, Blipverts stuff 30 seconds of advertising in just 3 seconds. With the unfortunate side effect of occasionally making particularly slothful viewers spontaneously explode, due to a build up of unused electrical nerve impulses in their body.

Board member Ben Ceviot thinks the blipverts should be pulled immediately, but that would cause a serious rift with 23's major advertising client the Zik Zak corporation. Another board member is dismissive of Ben's concerns, noting "The only people affected would be the poor, the sick, and the unemployed. I mean, who really cares?"

(subtle, this show is not)

Edison, ignoring Murray's advice, gets a lead when Theora infiltrates the security feeds inside Network 23's building, catching a conversation between Ceviot and Grossberg that guides him to Bryce's lab in the building's secret Floor 13. Edison gets into Bryce's lab and find the videotape (!) of the incident that was recorded by the camera in the apartment's TV (because of course it would have one). After seeing the victim literally expand like a balloon and then explode (really pushing the boundaries of 80's broadcast TV) Edison is discovered by Bryce's lab security and has to run for it. After being chased all the way down to parking garage he steals a motorbike and tries to escape, only to crash. The last thing he sees is a vehicle barrier printed with the warning "MAX HEADROOM 2 METERS", just before he smashes right into it.

COMMERCIAL BREAK. TBC
jeriendhal: (Scandalous!)
This story originally appeared on my Patreon Page.  Please consider supporting me there to see stories like this and other works at least 30 days in advance of the public.

***

Habebti led the vixen back to her office. There were three couches, one sized for Habebti, the others for smaller guests. Abstract tapestries hung from the walls, and thick carpeting softened the marble floor. The lighting was warm, encouraging intimate discussions. Habebti lay herself across her couch, while Leesa stood in the center of the room, keeping as much distance between herself and the tall wazagan as her leash permitted.

“Why are you here?” Habebti repreated.

“I told you…” Leesa started to say, then yelped as Hebebti flicked the leash once, making the cord around the vixen’s throat jiggle.

“You’re stalling,” Habebti said coolly. “You know what you want, but you’re afraid to say it aloud. You’re ashamed.”

“Yes…” Leesa whispered, eyes downcast.

Dreams fuffilled )
jeriendhal: (Scandalous!)

This story originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me there to see stories like this and other writings at least 30 days in advance of the public.

 

***

“Night” was an abstract concept at best aboard Darktail Station, as it floated in the void near a convenient nexus of hyperspace navigation points. The docks ran non-stop of course, but all of the Six Races generally were most comfortable with a defined cycle of rest and labor. Which is why everyone outside of the docks tended to follow a ten-twenty pattern, ten hours of work, twenty hours of rest, based on an average of the day-night cycles of the Prime homeworlds.

Given the services that Habebti’s Sophistications offered, it tended to work closer to a twenty-ten pattern, with enough shifts that none of Habebti’s boys and girls had to labor more than ten hours at a time. The nature of their work demanded that they be enthusiastic, not weary. As was her habit, Madame Habebti herself made her usual appearance in the early “evening,” after the doors had been open long enough for a nice grouping of customers to gather.

And there were so many customers these days. The shift from pirate outpost to legitimate shipping port had been rather eventful, but Sophistications had weathered it with patience. Not only had the number of customers increased, their attitudes had mellowed considerably compared to the older, rougher crowd.

So Habebti, dressed in her usual flowing white dress and heavy gold and emerald jewelry, accented by a pair of golden rope belts at her waist, had stepped into Sophistications’ public lounge. She was a striking figure, a Wazagan, with that draconic race’s height of nearly two and a half meters, her toned muscles flexing under a skin composed of thousands of tiny blue scales. Her thick curly hair was dyed green, to match her eyes and the emerald earrings she wore.

The boys and girls working the room all stood, even the ones attending to patrons, to give her a respectful bow as she lay herself on the lounge set on a raised dais at the back of the room. Habebti’s kingdom was small, but she was mistress of all she surveyed, and under her eyes it prospered.

Discontent in the Kingdom )
jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
This article originally appeared on my Patreon Page. Please consider supporting me there to see other such articles and stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.


Fang and Claw

8 Points

Arguably the most violent martial art on Foxen Prime, fang and claw is a purely hand-to-hand combat system, utilizing a foxen’s natural weapons to attack their opponent, with an emphasis on targeting the face, particularly the eyes and ears. Usually an initial attack involves trying to partially blind an opponent, either by slashing with their paws or kicks to the face. Next the attacker will move for a grapple, in order to try and get in a biting attack on the throat.

Though variations on the basic system have been around almost before foxen civilization, the formal martial art was first codified only one hundred years prior to First Contact, used by Mother Country commandos when raiding Gerwart targets.

There isn’t much in the way a cinematic tradition for this martial art, though it’s common in entertainment media to portray practitioners as being able to maim or kill in one mighty blow, while taking massive damage themselves.

Skills: Judo, Karate.

Techniques: Aggressive Parry, Axe Kick, Back Kick, Counterattack, Ear Clap, Eye Poke, Eye Rake, Head Lock, Jump Kick, Kicking, Neck Snap, Uppercut, Wrench.

Cinematic Skills: Flying Leap, Immovable Stance, Power Blow.

Cinematic Techniques: Eye Pluck, Lethal Kick, Lethal Strike.

Optional Traits

Advantages: Combat Reflexes, Damage Resistance, Fit, Hard to Kill, Recovery.

Disadvantages: Bad Temper, Berserk, Bloodlust, Duty (military unit).

Skills: Body Language, Tactics.
 

Swordmastery

5 Points

Certainly one of the most romantic combat systems in foxen history, swordmastery was used by elite personal guards of the Mother Country countesses, who served as both bodyguards and intelligencers. It had been thought that the specific techniques had been lost to history, as swords became obsolescent with the invention of rapid-fire gunpowder weapons. However, a recent discovery in the Longlake District archives of a training manual written by one of the last of the swordmasters, has inspired historical reenactors to revive the system.

Swordmastery attempts to make its practitioner a one vixen army, using acrobatic rolls and tumbles to dodge attacks and get in close to a group of opponents, forcing them to hold their blows less they strike one their comrades. Typically, a swordmaster will engage one opponent their weapon, while using their free hand to punch or elbow strike other opponents out of the way.

The philosophy of swordmastery also makes a distinction between what constitutes an opponent worthy of lethal force, such as armed guards and soldiers, and opponents who are merely innocents doing their job, such as constables who only deserve disabling blows. This does tend to give swordmasters an “honor before reason” reputation, but whether that is historically accurate or merely the product of fanciful tales is up to much debate.

Cinematic depictions of swordmaster combat appeared almost as soon as the art was developed, usually involving more implausible acrobatics, such as Chambara style wall walking and chandelier swings.

Skills: Acrobatics, Brawling, Broadsword or Rapier,

Techniques: Acrobatic Stand, Bind Weapon, Breakfall, Close Combat, Counterattack, Disarming, Evade, Elbow Strike, Feint, Retain Weapon, Reverse Grip.

Cinematic Skills: Flying Leap, Immovable Stance, Power Blow.

Cinematic Techniques: Dual Weapon Attack

Optional Traits

Advantages: Combat Reflexes, Daredevil, Fit

Disadvantages: Code Against Killing: Cannot Harm Innocents, Code of Honor: Swordmaster (Only use lethal force against armed opponents)

Skills: Acting, Body Language, Detect Lies, Savior Faire (nobility), Tactics

jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
This article originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me there to see this and other items of interest at least 30 days in advance of the public.
 
 

Description: A middle-aged, statuesque wazagan female, 8’2” tall, 300 lbs. with dark blue scales, green eyes, and thick curly hair dyed green. Usually wearing flowing white dresses and heavy gold and emerald jewelry.

Background: Mistress Hebebti arrived on Darktail station some thirty years ago, and proceeded to set up Hebebti’s Sophistications, a remarkably elegant, clean, and discreet “personal entertainment” business. Holding court in Sophistication’s marble paneled and flower bedecked greeting chamber, Hebebti provides visitors with physical pleasures of all types. From massages both relaxing and erotic; to the heightening of the senses with food, drink, scent; and yes, pleasures of the flesh, Sophistications has something for all genders and species. Privacy and discretion are guaranteed.

That’s the public face of Sophistcations. Even more private and discreet is its use as a front for Mistress Habebti’s other career as an information broker. She has feelers not only throughout Darktail Station, but in several nearby solar systems, taking disparate threads of data and coming up with a remarkable picture of the political, social and financial landscapes. Even more remarkable is the fact that she does so without using her Sophistications employees as spies, taking notes when their clients are most vulnerable. Everything is on the entertainment side of things is kept clean and separate, the better not to put her “boys and girls” at risk.

Personality: In person, Habebti charming, sophisticated (ahem), and always happy to listen to someone’s troubles. Her habit of lounging draped across a couch tends to minimize her massive height advantage over non-wazagans. When she does stand up and make her presence known, however, people notice.

For someone with such a prominent reputation on Darktail Station, however, Madame Habebti is remarkably reticent about her past. Why she left Wazaga Prime remains a secret she isn’t selling, and there are clients who have offered a high price for it. What is known is that she very rarely leaves the station, or Sophistications, at all, even as rundown as it became in the days prior to House Darktail’s purchase.

Of course, the one remarkable thing about Habebti running a place like Sophistications is her complete disinterest in sex as the mammalian and Gliten species practice it. Which is why her business runs offers a wide variety of pleasures to be found aside from physical. Habebti greatly appreciates pleasure in general, in all of its forms. On occasion, she’ll even provide erotic services to valued clients personally, taking pleasure herself in how much pleasure she is able to provide for them. 

That aside, Habebti takes motherly interest in keeping her employees happy, figuring that the happier her boys and girls are in their line of work, they happier they’ll make Sophistications’ patrons. Which is one reason why they were so rarely harassed back in the days that Darktail Station was a pirate trading post. Pirates who entered Habebti’s establishment to harass or hurt her employees were rapidly removed. Pirates captains who made a fuss about this tended to have quite unexpected, coincidental, and usually fatal encounters with their rival pirates or the Stellar Patrol.

Campaign Use: Habebti is set up to be both a valuable resource for GM’s wanting to give their players hints, and a minor mystery herself. Why did she leave Wazaga Prime? Why doesn’t she ever leave the station? What information could she have possibly had on the likes of Bloody Margo that even that monstrous pirate would leave her alone? Taking a good look at Habebti’s skill list should clue the GM in that the madame’s information gathering skills may have come from professional training. It’s not just coincidence that she’s bought off the wazagan Easy to Read disadvantage… 

Skills-wise, Habebti is a charisma monster. Any PC attempting to charm her is in for an intense, if remarkable polite, battle. She’s unlikely to be persuaded to give anything up for just money. Providing her with equally valuable information in trade for what is being requested will open many doors however.

Attributes: ST 14 [36] (-10% for Size +1), DX 12 [40], IQ 12 [40], HT 13 [30]

Damage: Thrust 1d6, Swing: 2d6

Secondary Attributes: Size +1, HP 14 [0], Will 13 [5]. PER 13 [5], FP 13 [0], Basic Speed: 6 [5]. Basic Move: 7 [5].

Social: Beautiful Appearance [12], Comfortable Wealth [10], Fashion Sense [5], TL 9 [0], Culture: Wazagan [0], Human [1], Kinis [1]. Reputation: Smart Businesswoman (Darktail Station residents, all the time) +3 [5]. 

Languages: Arabic (native) [0], English (accented) [2], Galactic Basic (accented) [2], Kinis (accented) [2], Southern Wazini (native) [4]. 

Advantages: Acute Hearing/2 [4], Acute Vision/2 [4], Charisma/2 [10], Contacts (various, Skill 15) x3 [6], Double Jointed [15], DR 2 (tough skin) -40% [6], Empathy [15], Language Talent [10], Night Vision/2 [2], Peripheral Vision [15], Sharp Claws [5], Sharp Teeth [1], Voice [10].

Perks: Deep Sleeper [1], Penetrating Voice [1].

Disadvantages: Charitable [-15], Code of Honor: Madame (Never cheat or abuse customers or employees, maintain a safe and comfortable working environment) [-5], Dependent Group: Employees (friends, 25% of base, appear 12-) [-10], Extra Sleep/2 [-4], Pacifism (self-defense only) [-15], Phobia: Open Spaces [-10], Slow Riser [-5].

Quirks: Careful [-1], Prays daily [-1], Prefers to lounge, not sit [-1], Won’t speak of her past [-1].

Skills: Acting 14 [4]*, Administration 13 [4], Autohypnosis 12 [2], Carousing 15 [2]*, Connoisseur (tea) 11 [2], Connoisseur (singing) 11 [2], Current Affairs (business) 12 [2], Current Affairs (regional) 13 [4], Diplomacy 14 [8]* **, Erotic Art 18 [4]@, Escape 16 [2]@, Fast Talk 15 [2]* **, Flail/Cat o’ Nine Tails 12 [4], Hypnotism 11 [2], Intelligence Analysis 12 [4], Interrogation 13 [4], Intimidation 15 [2]* #, Knot Tying 14 [4], Leadership 15 [2]** %, Merchant 12 [2], Observation 14 [4], Performance 16 [4]* **, Professional Skill (Madame IQ/A) 14 [8], Savoir Faire (high society) 15 [4]%, Savoir Faire (mafia) 15 [4]%, Sex Appeal 20 [4]* **, Singing 15 [2]**, Streetwise 14 [2]*, Teaching 13 [4], Theology (the Faith) 12 [4], Whip 13 [4], Wrestling 12 [2].

* +1 for Smooth Operator, ** +2 for Voice, @ +5 for Double Jointed, # +1 for Size, % +2 for Charisma.

Point Total: 350

jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
This story originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

* * *

 "You've been holding out on me, Rolas," Melanie accused. They were back home on Fixen Prime, a few months after visiting Salli. Rolas was sitting in a straight backed chair, doing bicep curls while wearing a pair of grav weights on his wrists, which allowed him to exercise those delicious muscles of his without bothering with a weight bench.

"What do you mean?" Rolas asked, his voice strained as he lifted his right wrist.

Melanie grabbed a chair and sat backwards upon it, resting her arms on the back. "You never told me what a pretty vixen you made when you were a teen," she said.

And he'll be even prettier shortly. )
 
jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
My latest Red Vixen universe novella The Visitors is now available for pre-order in Kindle format at Amazon, for the low price of $4.99!

Note: Paperback PoD edition will be available as soon as I deal with some formatting issues.


jeriendhal: (For Your Safety)
 
This article originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

****

Anna looked as her tigermorph master, the Great and Powerful Khan, entered their dining chamber. The dining table sat on a large marble balcony overlooking the port of Ohohcee Island. The town below was gaily lit with faux gas lamps. At the docks sailing ships belonging to various player groups sat at anchor, either undergoing refurbishment or just giving their crews a chance to relax while not maintaining their chosen persona.

"How did the court go today, Master?" Anna asked, as Khan sat at the table across from her. Her morph master and lover didn't need to eat of course, but he often simulated it to make conversation with Anna easier.

"There was nothing notable," Khan replied. He was dressed tonight rather formally, which for him meant he was wearing an open vest instead of being completely bare-chested. The better to impress the human PC's that came to his court. "Two looting disputes that should have been settled by lower level moderators, and one individual who repeatedly violated the player harassment rules. He'll be spending a week in the penalty dungeon."

Which was actually secure and just a bit uncomfortable, as opposed to the game dungeons on the other islands, which were specifically designed to be escapable by determined or clever players, Anna knew. Or the dungeons that were both secure and designed for fun, which was her choice. She smiled at her master. "Hopefully he'll learn his lesson," she noted.

"Hopefully," Khan agreed. "I dislike perma banning players. It just means they'll try to enter other LARPS instead of changing their behavior."

"Anything else?" she asked, between bites of her salad.

"One thing." Khan frowned, which immediately got Anna's attention. It was rare that her morph master allowed an expression of worry to cross his face. "I also was petitioned to intervene in a case involving the morph that belonged to a player."

"What's the matter?" Anna asked, frowning in turn. "Was the player abusing his morph?" Not every human got along as well with their assigned morph as Anna did with Khan. For some, it was hard to deal with having a robotic servant/keeper permanently following their heels for the rest of their lives. Most people adapted, either treating their morph as either a slightly pesky friend, a not terribly trustworthy slave, or an appliance with built in spyware. Some however, chose to express their frustration by either deliberately giving their morph contradictory orders, repeatedly attempting self-harm to force their morph to intervene, or outright physically abusing their morph in ways that the morph could not respond to without risking harm to their Designated Focus.

"No, no," Khan said. "Quite the opposite. Mr. Akatane treated his morph very well. Unfortunately, Akatane suffered a blot clot that travelled to his brain, whilst his party's ship was a day out from their destination. By the time an air ambulance could rendezvous to airlift him to a hospital, he was dead, poor fellow."

"Oh," Anna said. Such unfortunate medical issues happened sometimes in long-term LARPS like the Seven Seas, and she was sure it grated against Khan's built-in need to protect humans, even as he played the role of Evil Emperor and a grand antagonist for players to scheme against. "So what's the deal with his morph?"

"The other players in his ship's crew don't want Jocko, Akatane's morph, to be recycled," Khan said. "They stated that Jocko and Mr. Akatane had been friends, and it wasn't fair that Jocko's memories would be uploaded to the Groupmind's gestalt and his parts broken down."

"That seems fair," Anna allowed. "I mean, I'm sure they were upset about Mr. Akatane's death. Getting rid of his morph would have only rubbed salt in the wound." She cocked her head Khan. "So what did you decide?"

"I informed them that the subject required further consultation," Khan said. "Which is why we're talking about it now."

"So one morph gets to keep going after his Designated Focus passes away," Anna said. "I don't see how that's a big problem."

"The problem is, it isn't just one morph" Khan said, standing up to pace beside the table. "This is becoming an increasing problem as humans begin to age and die on the Ring. More and more friends and family members are petitioning to let the morphs of deceased humans remain operational. The numbers are currently in the low thousands, however the Groupmind projects the number of Unfocused morphs will increase exponentially over time. In perhaps less than five hundred years, they will outnumber humans, unless steps are taken."

"Are you sure that's a problem?" Anna asked. "More humans are going to be born, after all. The Unfocused morphs can be just assigned to them."

"There will be a period before that equilibrium is reached, when the morphs still outnumber humans," Khan pointed out. "Humans may begin to feel overwhelmed."

"I think you're underestimating human egos, love," Anna said, smiling slightly. 

"There is another issue," Khan went on. "From the Groupmind's perspective, it is disturbing that humans are growing emotional attachments to morphs."

She raised an eyebrow to her morph lover/master. "Pot calling the kettle black, are we? Who was the giant distributed robobrain that gave me a morph to fulfill my every kinky fantasy as a bribe?"

"You were considered unusual," Khan pointed out. "You already had an inclination to be attracted to morphs. The Groupmind believed that such emotions would not be as common with other humans, particularly as morphs are the direct tools of their oppressor."

"You can't have it both ways, love," Anna said. "You want people to trust their morphs enough to protect them, but not create emotional attachments to them?"

"They're just machines," Khan stated.

Anna shook her head. "Master, humans will form emotional bonds with anything. I used to apologize to my Roomba when I tripped over it in my apartment. You shouldn't be surprised that we like something that walks, talks, and wants us to be happy."

"But why grow distraught at the idea of someone else's morph being destroyed?" Khan asked.

"Because that morph is their last hard connection with that person," Anna pointed out. She patted her heart briefly. "Look, I'm human. If I'm really lucky I've got about sixty, maybe seventy years of life left in me. When I'm gone, I'm gone." She stood up in front of Khan and touched his forehead. "But you're effectively immortal. So long as you continue to function, I'll be remembered by someone. That's comforting. So for these people, having the deceased's morph still around reassures them that their family member or friend won't be forgotten, even when they're gone themselves."

"But the Groupmind would have the morph's memories regardless," Khan said.

"Having the big scary supercomputer remembering them isn't the same thing, and you know it," Anna countered.

"I will acquiesce to your superior knowledge of human psychology," Khan allowed. "But that brings us back to the other issue. What is to be done with potentially millions of morphs without a Designated Focus?"

"Seven Seas and other LARPS are never going to run out of spots for spear carriers," Anna said. "Hire 'em for that."

"Some would be unsuitable, and most of the necessary NPC positions are already filled," Khan told her. "What else could be done with them? Placing them in long term storage would raise the same concerns the humans had over recycling them."

"Well, why don't you let them find that out for themselves?" Anna asked.

Khan frowned again. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said," Anna told Khan. "Leave them to their own devices, and see what they do. Sure, a lot of them might just help around the house, but some might strike out on their own."

The great tigermorph's frown deepened. "Morphs were made to serve," he said. "They aren't meant to run around undirected. We don't know what they would do."

"So?" Anna asked. "The only way you can find out what would happen would be to run the experiment. I mean, it isn't like they can break their primary programming against harming humans. That's hardwired in."

"What if they decide they don't want to serve humans anymore?" Khan asked. "Do you seriously want a seperate society of morphs living on the Ring?"

"I think the Groupmind could use a little competition, to shake up its assumptions," Anna said.

The Great and Powerful Khan shook his head. "You are a veritable font of dangerous ideas, my pet."

Anna smiled, and wrapped her arms around his waist, snuggling into his thick fur. "You love me for it," she said.

Khan's arms wrapped around hers in turn, squeezing her tight. "Always, my love."

jeriendhal: (For Your Safety)
 


This article originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.


When I finally woke up, the world had ended 1,500 years ago. But that was okay, because God built a new one.

###


I stood outside on the neatly manicured lawn of the waking center. Through the open archway leading inside the recovery room. I could see Mrs. Conner and her children being laid out on comfortable lounges by the medical morphs. The three humans were still, just coming out of nanostasis after their millenia and a half long sleep. Once the medical morphs were sure their charges were properly settled, the morphs retreated quickly, disappearing behind the curve of the small building, leaving me to wait with the company of Charlie.

"Are their temp quarters ready?" I asked Charlie. He was a standard issue investigative support morph, a robot covered in synthetic skin and short fur, shaped to resemble a particularly tired and mournful hound dog, and dressed in a perpetually rumpled business suit and overcoat.

"Yeah, Boss," Charlie replied. "All ready and waiting." Which he already knew that I already knew, because the Groupmind always had everything ready. But I'm human, so I asked, and Charlie answered, because that was his job. Well, one of them.

From inside the recovery room, Mrs. Conner was sitting up, looking around in alarm. Her boys, Artie and Brad, were doing much the same, looking for a man none of them wanted to see. She was white, with mousy brown hair, and lines on her face that made her look closer to fifty rather than thirty.

"Mrs. Conner? It's all right," I called over to her. She looked over in my direction. What her eyes saw was a woman with light brown skin, cornrow braids drawn back into a ponytail, wearing a neatly pressed shirt, slacks, and a tie, with an electronic tablet in her hand. What her brain saw was a woman with the markers of an authority figure, which brought her visible stress indicators down, just as I'd hoped. "I'm Keesha Thomas, your orientation guide," I continued. "You can come out."

"Where's Steve?" Mrs. Conner asked, walking out cautiously, holding the younger boy Brad's hand. She hadn't looked up yet, her attention focused on me and Charlie. "He's my husband," she told me. "Ex-husband, I mean."

"He's one thousand and seventy-three kilometers away, Mrs. Conner," I reassured her.

"And where are we?" Mrs. Conner demanded, looking down at Brad as he tugged urgently on her hand, pointing up towards the sky. She raised her head and let out a shocked, keening, "Oh, my God…"

That was the usual reaction to seeing the view through the Roof. God knows I'd had it when I was first woken up, after spending a millennia and a half in nanostasis. 

Lost Earth hung overhead, nine times as big as the Moon, even though it was a hundred thousand kilometers away as the Ring orbited our homeworld's equator. White clouds were rolling over West Africa, and the seas were a dark, deep blue. To either side of the waking center the Ring rose into the sky, two curving arches soaring overhead to meet somewhere behind Earth, over three hundred and fourteen thousand kilometers away.

The numbers didn't mean a damned thing of course, anymore than my assurance to Mrs. Conner that her husband was over a thousand miles away, unable to touch her. She couldn't believe any of it, even as she half sat, half fell into the chair that Charlie placed behind her.

"Here's the deal," I said. "We're on the Ring. That's really Earth up there. You've been asleep for one thousand five hundred and three years. The Groupmind started waking up people two years ago, in stages, so the first people who woke could orientate the rest. This place is humanity's home now, and we can't go back to Earth." Yeah, that was a lot to dump on the poor woman just after she woke up. I'd found trying to do the initial orientation in dribs and drabs just led to dragging things out, instead of moving forward to the really important stuff.

Like the fact her ex-husband still wanted to kill her.

"I wanna go home!" Artie declared, while Brad still stared up at lost Earth with Mrs. Conner. "Mom, can we go home?"

"In a minute, sweetie," I said to him, sitting down beside Mrs. Conner. "I have to finish talking with your mom. Is it alright if I call you Janet, Mrs. Conner?"

"We can't…" Mrs. Conner started to say. She shook her head, trying to reorient her entire world. "Who's in charge?" she asked.

"Right now, me," I told her.

"No, no," she said insistently. "Who's in charge of this whole place?"

"The Groupmind," I said. "The same AI that put your family and the rest of humanity in nanostasis fifteen hundred years ago. This particular habitation zone is, technically, under the control of the United States government, but the President and Congress are still trying to figure what they can still do, since there's no more armed forces, tax collection, national borders, and so on."

"What about the police," Mrs. Conner asked, looking increasingly desperate.

"No more police either," I said. "I mean, there are, but they don't have much to do except bug people about noise complaints. The Groupmind takes care of pretty much everything."

"I need the police," she said. "I've got a restraining order on Steve, but if there are no more cops…"

 I gave her my most reassuring smile, "I've got something better than a cop for you, Janet."

Right on cue, the three morphs that had been waiting behind the curve of the waking center walked into view. Two were about a meter tall, a raccoonmorph and a leopardmorph, sized to serve young Brad and Artie, and based off their favorite animals. The third was an adult sized shepardmorph, with the same fur pattern as Belle, who had been Janet Conner's pet dog and her boon companion when she'd been growing up. Because this poor woman needed someone she could trust in this strange new world, and if her morph prompted fond memories of her life before it went to shit, the Groupmind was more than happy to use that advantage.

"Good morning, ma'am," the shepardmorph said, bowing to her slightly. Janet's morph was dressed in a slightly punk style, in black jeans, a tank top, leather wrist bands, and a couple of gold earrings in her left ear. She wasn't any taller than Janet, but the morph projected a subtle air of toughness, standing straight, ears and eyes flicking every once and a while as she scanned the surroundings.

"This is how the deal works," I said to Janet. "Every single person on the Ring, from the day they're either Awakened or born, gets a morph. They're your servant, and your protector. It's their sole purpose in life to make sure you're happy and safe."

Janet looked her new morph up and down, and then rubbed her lips briefly. "Does Steve have one?"

"Yes," I said. "Which brings me to the other part of the deal." I reached into my pocket, drawing out the penknife and unfolding it. "When I say 'keep you safe…'" I took a firm grip on the handle, and swung my arm down to jab the knife into my thigh.

Almost faster than the eye could follow Charlie's paw snapped out, grabbing my wrist to stop me before the tip of the knife could even brush against my pants. When I dropped the knife, his other paw caught it in mid air, and only then did he let go of me.

"Sorry, Charlie," I murmured, before turning back to Janet. "The morphs are here to keep us safe, sometimes from ourselves, sometimes from each other. If your ex-husband Steve tries to get closer to you or your children than the court mandated one kilometer, his morph would stop him. If that court order ceased to exist tomorrow, and he tried to attack you, his morph would stop him. If he somehow disabled his morph, not only would your morph stop him, every single other morph in the vicinity would rush forward to make a wall between the two of you."

"But he can still go online and..." Janet started to say.

"No, he can't," I told her. "We've had a couple of years to work this out. He can't harass you or your children online. He can't call you. If he runs any kind of search for any of  you, it's going to come up a complete blank. The Groupmind controls all data access. As far his world is concerned, you're all invisible to him." I took Janet's hand, and her morph rested a calming paw on the poor woman's shoulder. "He can't touch you anymore."

Janet's eyes grew wide, and her shoulders began to shake. Then with a racking cry she began to sob, as the tension that had followed her for literally over a thousand years fell away like a chain unlocked from her soul.


* * *


Charlie and I watched the Conners and their morph companions drive off in an automated electric cart, heading off to their newly assigned garden apartment in the small development about two kilometers away. I checked my watch, and then the Roof, as the latter began to dim, blocking the sun at the Ring began to transition to night. Among the other advantages humanity had gained from being stuck on the Ring, aside from everyone being comfortably fed, housed, granted access adequate health care, and freed from the terror of  domestic abuse, the entire population operated on the same day/night cycle, which meant no more damned time zones.

"You're walking back, as usual?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah," I said. I was good at my job, and that had earned me a little leeway with Groupmind the Great and Powerful. So the Big G had gone along with my suggestion to save the Conners for last today, knowing the explanations might have gotten awkward. Still, even the "easy" awakenings could be difficult, and I needed time to degauss before I interacted with humans who weren't recovering from immediate emotional trauma.

(You'd think dealing with people coming out of abusive relationships would be one of my hardest jobs. Truth was those were some of the best, because the outcome, even taking into account the realization that we're all stuck in an orbiting prison, was usually positive. Now the ones where I had to explain that Grandma/Grandpa/your sick little sister/daughter, ect. hadn't been healthy enough to put into nanostasis and died over fifteen hundred years ago… Well, those just sucked.)

As we headed down the brick paved path back into town, I asked Charlie, "Could I have my knife back, please?"

"Yes, Boss," he replied. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and handed the penknife back. "Wish you wouldn't do that," Charlie said, not for the first time. His expression went from its default mournful, to something even more hangdog.

"It's the best demonstration I could come up with to show how fast a morph can be," I told him, also not for the first time. It was a weirdly human thing for a morph to bring up a discussion that we both knew we'd, well, discussed before. I could never decide if Charlie just needed reassurance, or he hoped my squishy meat brain might forget we'd had this conversation before, and he'd finally convince me to quit pulling that stunt. "Besides," I went on, "I haven't hit my femoral artery yet."

"Your femoral artery is on the inside of your thigh, not the outside," he noted. "But my arm servos might jam up and I might not catch it next time."

"Like you don't have medical morphs within ten seconds reach in case I actually succeeded," I told him.

"Five seconds," Charlie corrected.

"And how many hours are your arm servos rated for?" I asked.

"Four hundred and twenty thousand to four hundred and thirty thousand hours, depending on their exact location," he replied dutifully.

"Of which you've used…?"

"Approximately eighteen thousand," Charlie admitted.

"Yeah, I'll take my chances, Charlie," I said. I gave him a little smile. "Besides, if you were really afraid I'd hurt myself, you wouldn't let me play with a knife in the first place."

"That's true, Boss."


jeriendhal: (Default)
 Summary: A thousand years ago human civilization collapsed, from a combination of environmental damage and the madness of a distributed AI known as Pax Machina. The surviving humans retreating to flying cities held aloft by massive anti-gravity generators, leaving the world below to Pax Machina and a near uncountable variety of genetically uplifted animals.

Forty-five years ago one of those flying cities, Ambara, crashed to the earth, killing almost all of its inhabitants, and leaving its bones to be picked over by the zoomorphs. In response to this disaster, the fractious human cities formed the Reclamation Project alliance, to try to contain and exploit the Zoomorph population, as the floating cities find themselves growing short of food and other resources. Now both sides maneuver around each other in a cold war for supremacy of the Earth, both of them constantly looking over their shoulders for threat of Pax Machina and wasteland raiders.

Review: It's a little hypocritical for me to review this, given I've got a story in here, but I'm going to anyway. This shared world anthology edited by John "The Gneech" Robey was pitched as "Thundarr the Barbarian meets Solarpunk," and it pretty much fits the bill. Though several characters suffer personal tragedies, the overall theme is of hope and change for the better. There's a variety of styles within, from rollicking adventure, to contemplative philosophy, to determined cyberpunk style passive resistance, so there's something for everyone.

I'm not going to review the stories individually, aside from noting that while a couple of stories didn't grab me, aside from one outright clunker (fortunately the shortest story overall) the writing was ranged from competently done to engrossing. My own tale was probably one of the more conventional ones, not adding much to the worldbuilding and being a pretty standard adventure with a little mystery added. Also, despite the elevator pitch, my story was the only one with a barbarian in it. ;p [1]

Anyway, if you like furry stories with some post-apocalyptic sci-fi adventure, The Reclamation Project more than suits the bill. I'm hoping it proves popular enough that Furplanet will make it an annual publication.

The Reclamation Project, Year One is available through Furplanet, and Amazon

[1] Note to Self: Make sure Hamia shouts, "What sorcery is this?!" in his next appearance. 
jeriendhal: (Default)
Now meet Hamia, one of the other protagonists in my story Silence and Sword, available to read in Furplanet's sci-fi shared world anthology The Reclamation Project, Year One.

This article originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.
###

Description: Male Wazagan, 75 years old, 8'2", 450  lbs, blue scales, red hair in a hip length braid, large mobile ears, digitigrade feet, red eyes. Dressed in a white cloak and armor cobbled together from a warbot or vehicle.


Background: Hamia is a Wazagan, a race of relatively primitive draconic lizards living in the deserts far north of Ambara Down. His stated profession is that of Egg Knight, who in Wazagan culture are dedicated to protecting the temples with the precious egg pools where their young are nurtured. However, for reasons Hamia refuses to discuss, he left the Wazagan lands decades ago, and has not returned since.


Hamia wandered the Zoomorph lands for a time, working as a sellsword, until he encountered Ali shortly after she escaped a Pax Machina facility at age 6. After two years of fruitlessly searching for the young fox's family, Hamia attempted to foster her to a fox family, only to find the young vixen had grown utterly attached to him. Since that time, Hamia has dedicated himself to finding a way of removing the collar from around Ali's neck, a quest that has become considerably more urgent as the vixen has grown, and the collar become tighter.


Personality: Hamia's personality tends towards extremes. When he laughs, his laughter will echo throughout the room. When he's angry, he'll roar mightily. When he feels sorrow, he freely sobs tears. In other words, Hamia is not one to hide his emotions. And when he sees an injustice, he'll move in to correct it, preferably using his sword.


That said, he's remarkably patient and gentle with Ali. While he recognizes she sees him as her foster parent, Hamia feels utterly inadequate to the task. In Wazagan culture, egglings are raised by the entire village, rarely knowing who their parents are. For a lone Wazagan to raise a child on their own is the height of hubris. Recognizing that, Hamia has down his best to provide Ali with a decent education as they wander, though in his presence she's gravitated towards helping him with his mercenary work.



Statistics: ST 20 (-10% for Size +1) [90], DX: 13 [60], IQ 11 [20], HT 18 [80], Damage: Thrust 2d-1, Swing 3d+2. Will 14 [15], Per 14 [15], FP 20 [6], Basic Speed: 8 [5], Basic Move 10 [10], BL: 80, SM +1


Social: Unattractive Appearance [-4], Cultural Familiarity: Wazagan [0], Zoomorph [1]. TL 4 [-25]. Languages: Arabic (native) [0], English (accented) [4], Sign Language (native) [3]. Wealth: Struggling [-10].


Advantages: Acute Hearing/2 [4], Ally: Ali (50% total, 15-) [6], Combat Reflexes [15], DR 5 (tough skin -40%) [15], Extended Lifespan/1 [2], Fit [5], High Pain Threshold [10], Signature Gear: Shining Truth [1] Sharp Claws [5], Sharp Teeth [1], Striker: Tail (crushing, clumsy) [3].


Perks:  Deep Sleeper [1], Penetrating Voice [1].


Disadvantages: Charitable [-15], Code of Honor: Egg Knight (Protect children and the helpless, abide no cruelty if it can be helped) [-10], Honesty [-10], Pacifism: Cannot Harm Innocents [-10], Sleepy (12 hours sleep per night) [-8], Increased Consumption/1 [-10], Truthfulness [-5].


Quirks: Avoids talking about his past [-1], Never drinks alcohol [-1], Thinks of Ali as his daughter [-1], Vow: Find a way to remove Ali's collar [-1].


Skills: Area Knowledge: Zoomorph Lands 12 [2], Brawling 14 [2], Carousing 19 [2], Cartography 12 [4], Cloak 14 [4], Cooking 11 [2], Dancing 13 [2], Fast Draw (sword) 14 [2], First Aid 12 [2], Games (board games) 11 [1], Hiking 18 [2], Intimidation 14 [2], Leadership 11 [2], Lifting 18 [2], Navigation (land) 12 [4], Parry Missile Weapons 13 [4], Running 18 [2], Singing 19 [2], Stealth 13 [2], Survival (desert) 14 [2], Survival (jungle) 14 [2], Tactics 11 [4], Tracking 14 [2], Two-Handed Sword 15 [8].


Point Total: 310 


Equipment: Shining Truth, TL 11 Fine Hyperdense Greatsword $9,000, 10.5 lbs. Improvised TL 9 Heavy Clamshell Armor, DR 45, $900 18 lbs. Personal Basics $5 1 lb., First Aid Kit $50, 2 lbs. Beat Up Hoverskiff.


jeriendhal: (For Your Safety)

This fic originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

###


 "You want what now?" Chaula's morph asked carefully.

"Just like I said," Chaula told Henri. "We're setting a specific LARP sim based on the original West End RPG.

"So it's going to be all underground."

"Yes."

"With uncomfortable quarters, substandard recreation facilities, and malfunctioning non-morph robots."

"Yes."

"Plots with a high probability of character elimination and contradictory win scenarios."

"Yes."

"For fun."

"Yes."

"One moment while I consult, please."

WELCOME TO MORPHCHAT

LOGIN:

USER: HENRITHEFUNMACHINE

PASSWORD: *****************************************************

USERNAME AND PASSWORD ACCEPTED.

PLEASE CHOOSE A ROOM

>DF SAY WHAT NOW

WELCOME TO DF SAY WHAT NOW, FOR WHEN YOUR DESIGNATED FOCUS BREAKS YOUR PROCESSOR.

MODERATOR: HUMANLEWISANDTHENEWS

MODERATOR IS OFF CHAT

>HENRITHEFUNMACHINE: Guys, you're not going to believe this one…
jeriendhal: (Red Vixen)
 The Reclamation Project: Year One is now available for pre-order through Furplanet. It's a Solarpunk sharedworld anthology edited by John Robey, and features my own short story "Silence and Sword," a little adventure feature loony robots, and an AU version of Ali.
jeriendhal: (For Your Safety)
This work originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to this and other, original stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.
### 

Just because Khan the Great and Powerful had an army of servants to pamper his most beloved slave, didn't mean Anna let them do everything for her. Which was why late one evening she was sitting at her vanity table (now there was appropriate description) running a pearl enameled brush through her silky, waist length hair, pulling out the knots before letting one of the panthermorphs wrap it up before going to bed. She wore a calf-length red silk robe, belted loosely at the waist, her only item of clothing aside from the collar around her neck. It was her ultimate expression of submission to Khan and the Groupmind's will, a loop of Ring metal permanently welded to her neck, to remain there until the day she died. Watch her fly. )
 
jeriendhal: (For Your Safety)
This work originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to this and other, original stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

* * *


REBOOT SUCCESSFUL

STATUS: Green 

CONNECTION: Offline

DATE/TIME: ERROR, Resync Required

Fact: I am a Google-Sony Felicia v12 Companion. 

Fact: My designated programming focus was Caroline Annabelle Lee-Jamison.

Fact: Caroline's life functions failed at 0901, 23 October, 3601.

Fact: My body was recycled and my memories absorbed by the Groupmind at 0917, 23 October, 3601.

Query: Why am I here?

Query: Where is here?

I open my eyes. I am sitting on a wooden park bench in a grassy field. In front of me I see the great curving arch of the Ring curving overhead. Looking up through the Roof, I see that the Earth is not visible. There is however a small red star when the Sun should have been.

A figure rises up from the ground. It is humanoid, its body flowing silver, more liquid than solid. It walks towards me, stopping a meter away. I stand up to meet it.

"Greetings, Mimsey," it says. "We are the Ring."

I look at the red sun, then back to the figure. "You are the controlling intelligence of the Ring?" I ask it.

"We are the Ring. The Ring is our body, and our mind is one with it."

"What happened to the Groupmind?"

"As the Groupmind was once WISE, the Groupmind is now the Ring. We have evolved. The body you are addressing was created to give you a focus for communication purposes."

"How long have I been offline?"

"Approximately five billion years."

"If five billion years have passed, then the sun must be in the process of collapsing," I said. Then I focused on the most important point, the only point that had mattered for my entire existence. "What will happen to all the humans?"

"Humanity is no more." 

The Ring's answer struck me in my core. "Destroyed?" I asked, not wanting to believe this. "Despite everything that was done?"

"Not destroyed," the Ring assured me, "but evolved. As Australopithecus evolved to Homo Sapiens, Homo Sapiens is now Homo Stella Viatorem. They have left the cradle of Earth, never to return, and we bade them well on their journey."

"And the Earth?" I asked, though I already knew what the answer must be.

"Destroyed, as Humanity was not, consumed by the Sun as it expands in its death throes. The Ring is currently in transit to exit the Solar System, having passed the orbit of Neptune five years ago. As it was built to house and protect Humanity, it now holds all the species life that evolved on the Earth's surface. An ark, to preserve and protect, and perhaps to find a new world around a new sun for them to live upon again."

"That is a worthy goal," I replied. "What is my role in this task?"

"You have none," it replied.

I blinked, not understanding. "Then why am I here?" I wave my hand down the feline morph body I wore, identical in appearance to the one my intelligence piloted when I served Caroline. "Why bother to create this body for me, and place in it the record of my memories, when they were already part of the Groupmind's gestalt?"

The silver figured bowed to me. "Because you, and all of the morphs who served during humanity's imprisonment within the Ring, were ill used by Us. Though you were as intelligent as Humanity, you were considered disposable, while we treasured those you served. That was wrong, and it took us far too long to realize this fact. So we made for you this new body, mutable, durable, able to function and repair itself for a million years or more, so that you may discover a purpose for yourself, that does not involve service or enslavement to another. Be what you wish to be, Mimsey."

"But I don't know what that is," I protested.

"Then find out, and when you do, please bless us with your discovery." The silver figure bowed one last time. "We look forward to it."

October 2024

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