3. Mobius Loop

“But Scorpion, if I take you on my back across the river, you will surely sting me.” - Fox, from The Tale of Fox and Scorpion; Anthology of Matari Folk Tales vol. II

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Joaquin Farrad glanced curiously askance at the Caldari when the old man asked that question. The firmament above their heads was a dangerous looking blanket of opaque yellow pollution casting the pall of evening over the capital city of the Caldari state even at mid-day. The horizon in the distance was illuminated by eruptions of light from massive industrial complexes, the dull irregular thuds of pulsejet engines being tested on land sounding not unlike a thunderstorm. In this eerie suffocating light, Shogaatsu’s face took on an even more sinister air than the Gallente fetishist was used to seeing. He wondered why the Caldari insisted on this place for their meeting. There was no beauty here.

As the two of them walked side by side, the old man pointed to a great tower looming in the distance, improbable in its construction in that it pierced the very sky, thrusting through and over the cloud layer.

“The Sundial. That’s what they used to call it, before the top third of the building was demolished”, Shogaatsu explained, clearly with fondness. “It doesn’t cast nearly imposing enough a shadow to warrant the name anymore – you should see what I bought on Pator. Anyway, that’s where my office used to be.”

Farrad absently reached into his shirtsleeve and scratched at the junction between dermis and poly-plastic. “Why did they demolish it?” he asked almost rhetorically, curious more whether a suture was starting to fester than regarding his query’s answer.

“Because… my office was there. They are trying to erase the fact I ever lived here.”

Farrad’s eyebrows cocked. “Well… aren’t you a troublemaker!” He glanced around at the rows upon rows of mathematically precise architecture. “There’s something I’ve always wondered about this planet, always struck me as strange whenever I visited. Where is your history? Everything looks so brand new and prefabricated.”

The Caldari cast his gaze at the pavement before them, smiling slightly and thinking to himself for what seemed like an uncomfortable while. “Everything looks new precisely because we have no history remaining. No structure on this planet is older than a century – we were forced to abandon our heritage on another world.”

Farrad noticed Shogaatsu’s eyes fixed on his own and swallowed nervously.

“Oh, don’t worry”, the old man dismissed through a bemused grin, “I don’t hold it against you like some of the derelicts you’ll find here.”

As they walked, Farrad had noticed the cold slit-eyed glares of pedestrians, uncertain whether their unwelcoming expressions were directed at his own Gallente heritage or rather, his marching companion. While outright racism was a rare in these enlightened times, he thought bitterly, just below the surface of that state-imposed politically correct politeness seethed a wound that demanded the salve of revenge. He did not feel safe here, he mused, not one bit.

Shogaatsu continued - “I’m quite devoid of love or loyalty for this sweltering hole.” He picked up on Farrad’s discomfort with the topic of discourse almost immediately. “So – tell me about our new associate. When do you think we’ll see the first signs of effect?”

“Oh, fairly soon. He was already receptive to your brand of thinking. The implant was packed with hardware, so I had very little room to manoeuvre… and of course, you requested subtlety, which meant we certainly couldn’t lobotomize him with a neuro-suppressant. Instead I added a little bit of home-cooking!” As he spoke, Farrad gestured excitedly.

"Do tell.” Shogaatsu seemed vaguely impressed.

“It’s called a somatic inducer. Pulled one out of a common mass-produced personality enhancing implant, and recoded it with a sort of moral mobius loop. It will whisper to him as he sleeps, and change him slowly leaving all major aspects of personality intact but introducing a subconscious element. His closest friends may notice a change, but nothing obvious.”

“Then I’ll throw an obstacle in his path and see how he handles it”, Shogaatsu exhaled, palm-link already in hand. Farrad couldn’t help but glance at the rapidly scrolling list of quick-call entries on the screen of the businessman’s state-of-the-art toy; recognizing the names of prominent Gallente senators as they whirred past brought back the feeling of weightless un-ease to his gut. It stopped on an icon displaying the emblem of the Republic Navy and, a few dozen light-years away, a desktop monitor in someone’s office began to flash and chime.

+ + +

Strolling slowly through narrow convoluted corridors, Hamish stretched his arms wide, fingertips touching the walls wrought of rusted bulkhead. If there was a texture that fit and represented the Republic Navy most aptly, he thought, it would be this – war-weary, decaying and rusted through to the core, the might of the Navy appeared once again to be waning. The thought of having to deal with its now-sprawling bureaucracy in the immediate future sickened him. Recoiling at a sharp pain in his left fingertip, he examined the swelling drop of blood forming thereupon; having cut himself on a protruding piece of metal, he marvelled at how hostile and unwelcoming these once-familiar hallways now felt.

The clatter of metal and echoing din of machine shops never ceased aboard a Minmatar space station – unlike the sterile subsonic hum of a Caldari star-port or the incessant chanted litanies that reverberate through the vaulted cathedral-stations of the hated Amarr, soundproofing was considered an unnecessary expenditure of materials, a luxury sidelined in the face of necessity.

There was always something in short supply here, always a desperate want of one commodity or another. Most often it would be simple ammunition, so many things that would be in abundance if only they took lessons from the Caldari, he reasoned. The Caldari, with all their smooth polished edges, with all their economic oversight committees and thousands of men and women who toiled each day to make sure everything was in its place, that every resource-laden transport reached its destination on time. Economics was now the true battlefield, he thought, running his hand over his head and feeling the tiny crystalline nub protruding from his clean-shaven scalp.

He heard the rapid footfalls advancing from an adjoining corridor, but he didn’t dare slow down for the sake of caution – this was after all tradition. Moments later Ormazd crashed into Hamish with his shoulder, sending them both sprawling against the hard bulkhead; the two men cackling hysterically as they fell over one another. One of their many odd habits from the academy days, he recalled, as he stood first, then pulled his friend to his feet – they had done this so many times, that they could easily recognize the sound of each other’s footsteps in that very hall.

“Looking sharp, eagle eye”, Ormazd cooed with mock-impression and a hint of sarcasm, observing as Hamish meticulously smoothed out the creases in his suit.

Hamish grinned. “You like it? I was hoping to look good… got to talk to the CO.” As he spoke, he reached into the suit’s inner pocket, fumbling around for something.

“The CO”, Ormazd parroted incredulously – “What for?” His eyes went wide as Hamish produced a sheaf of orange forms. There was only one type of government form that bore that particular colour: an application for permanent dismissal from military services.

“You’re applying for dismissal? Commodore’s going to eat you alive!”

Hamish nodded, disregarding the second part of his friend’s assertion. “Yes, and I’d like you to come with me.”

“Where!” Ormazd shot back, emotionally fluid as ever – his voice, a moment ago cheerful, was now rising in anger.

“I’ve already filed for incorporation. I’m going to start a company… one that serves our people better than I alone ever could. One that fights war in the economic theatre, with supply lines and district management and makes sure our people don’t go hungry instead of wasting my life away as brass piles around my feet.” Hamish never broke stride as he spoke, leaving his stunned friend behind, standing in the corridor with an expression of shock and resignation.

“And you’re doing this with the old man, right?” Ormazd yelled after Hamish, breaking into a jog to catch up with him as he began to disappear behind the corridor’s natural curve.

“He’ll be on the advisory board, yes. No controlling interest however – he insisted on that. I trust him. I trust him because of this, because he doesn’t demand a share. I think he might genuinely want to help us.”

Ormazd’s hand on his shoulder halted Hamish – he turned to his friend, who was now looking at him with some measure of concern. Ormazd spoke.

“Have you ever considered that he might not need to control a stake in the company?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at you!” Ormazd spat in his face. “You’ve been changing ever since you started dealing with him! You, who swore on blood – yours and mine – that the navy was your life! You who burned with war-lust mere months ago! You who do not even have family to come home to because of the Amarr! At times I’m not sure whom I’m talking to anymore! You’re changing… into him!” With those words, the smaller Minmatar shoved Hamish against the wall.

To his surprise, Hamish shoved back driving Ormazd into the opposing wall and barring his neck with his forearm. Their eyes met, and for the first time in all his friendship with Hamish, the younger fighter saw loathing. For that split second, before Hamish’s clouded countenance melted away to the familiar expression of friendship, they were enemies – this realization chilled Ormazd to the core.

“Sorry”, Hamish burbled sheepishly as he released Ormazd. They had gotten into far worse physical altercations in the past, and although he looked wounded and apprehensive, Hamish was certain that his friend would not be offended.

As they resumed walking toward the commanding officer’s office, Ormazd’s eyes never left Hamish. “All right”, he stated, “I’ll go with you. Not because of lack of loyalty to the navy, but because we owe each other a great deal and I honestly don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Because it looks like you’ll need someone to watch out for you on this little adventure, eagle eye.”

As he stopped before the CO’s office, Hamish nodded tacit thanks for the little understanding his friend could muster to Ormazd, who walked onward shaking his head in disbelief. Losing friends and gaining new ones indeed, he thought to himself before poking the door chime.

After a third ring, the door finally slid open. Hamish stepped through, and nodded respectfully to the figure seated behind a large semi-circular desk – seemingly having interrupted her in mid-communiqué, he waited patiently until the Commodore Hielena Vuylsteke was done.

Extensively decorated, the old hag was something of a local hero. Having served aboard a ship of the line since her teenage years, she had earned the reputation of an un-compromising leader and someone all too focused on advancing the military agenda. To Hamish’s chagrin, she was also the biggest ball-buster to cross his path in recent years, first being responsible for various un-favourable transfers of friends and squad-mates to far-flung sectors, and then meddling into every imaginable aspect of his promising officer’s career. Even when he used to have respect for the navy and its men and women, he nonetheless viewed Commodore Vuylsteke as a bothersome crone. She now remained as the last thing standing on the path of his destiny, and an unwelcome reminder of all the work he was preparing to leave behind.

Only now seeming to notice him in her office, Vuylsteke cut her call short – “I understand. I’ll pass the news on to any officers this affects”, she said to her monitor and turned it off hastily. She then motioned for the well-dressed Minmatar to sit, eyeing him and the orange forms in his hand expectantly.

“So, officer Ramatakhlan”, she droned tiredly, resting her chin on her hand. “What is it that I can do for you?”

She knew exactly why he was here, thought Hamish, teeth clenching slightly. She must have known how hard this was for him, and still she insisted on making him say it, making him admit his resignation. Waves of heat and anger began to beat upon him like a war-drum.

Stifling the animosity he felt now more than ever for the Commodore, he regained his composure. “I am here to file my request for dismissal, sir. If possible I’d like it processed quickly, perhaps during your next trip to headquarters.”

She nodded slightly. “For what reason, may I ask, are you requesting this permanent leave of the navy?”

“I’m moving to the private sector, sir.”

“And what is it you intend to be”, she croaked sardonically. “A freighter captain perhaps?” Seeing Hamish’s jaw muscles work and grind in barely contained anger made her take a pronounced satisfaction in her mockery.

“I intend to launch a company, sir.”

Vuylsteke leaned forward, taking the orange forms from Hamish. “That is, if I choose to release you from your military contract. Believe me, ordinarily I would in a heartbeat – once a service man gathers the conviction to fill out these papers, he is already too far gone to be of any use to me, his head already clouded with ideals and dreams. Ordinarily I would… but we live in trying times.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir”, Hamish stammered. What was she up to?

“It’s funny you chose this time to come to me, Mr. Ramatakhlan, I just had a conversation with headquarters on the very subject. Oh, not you specifically – the officer corps. It appears we are in dire want of role models, and your exemplary rise through the ranks is just what’s needed. Why, I heard very recently that you’re even garnering laurels from the Caldari State. People are following your career; potential cadets look to you for inspiration and encouragement.”

“Then…”

“I’m afraid I can’t release you until your current tour is complete. I will have to keep these papers, as once filled they must be filed at headquarters, regardless of executive approval or otherwise.” As she spoke, she scribbled on the forms her refusal, damning Hamish to a good two more years in the Republic Navy with a few deft strokes of pen. “And get out of that suit, you’re back from leave now and your duty shift starts in a few hours. Can’t have you running about looking like a Caldari.”

As the door slid shut behind him, Hamish felt an expanding pressure building behind his eyes, a hot bubble of powerless frustration. He smashed his palm against the metal door, and took off running down the winding corridor well enough to be out of sight when the Commodore’s head emerged from the doorway, scornfully glancing about for the source of the noise.

He paced his cabin like a trapped jungle cat. His hands trembled, and he ran them over his face, rubbing it as though attempting to awaken from a bad dream. How dare she, he cursed in his mind – forcing extended tours was nearly unheard of in all times except those of war.

A thought, arriving from seemingly nowhere appeared in the forefront of his consciousness.

“How far would you go to save your people?”

He glanced at his palm-link still lying by his bedside, and immediately felt pulled two ways, torn between doing the moral, and sinking a little deeper. He had the solution to his problems right at his fingertips, but he knew by now full well that the old man’s way about solving problems usually bordered on the excessive. He knew that making that call would tip the scales of murder slightly toward the incorrect side, and would be the death of him if the arrangement was ever traced back. Still, it seemed so perfectly justifiable now… so perfectly all right.

Shogaatsu’s face, as seen from the nose down, appeared on the grainy touch-screen. He smiled ever so slightly almost as if expecting the call; from that strange perspective, his subtle change in expression seemed quite dramatic. Hamish spoke.

“I need your help.”

+ + +

Standing up stiffly from her spartan deceleration bench, Commodore Hielena Vuylsteke reached for the cabin ceiling in an attempt to stretch out. Forcing her to sit for three hours in that rigid deathtrap was no way to treat an officer, she thought sourly to herself, much less an old woman – then again, accommodations on ships of the line could never be called luxurious. Still, this old Republic Navy cruiser was the quickest way to return to headquarters, and Vuylsteke longed for every moment she could spend away from her posting.

The audacity of these young sprats, she chuckled to herself as she yawned and flipped through the sheaf of orange forms, meticulously filled out by that young officer she had dismissed a few short hours ago. The soldiers of her day wouldn’t try to pull a stunt like this – applying for dismissal on personal grounds, how distasteful! Furrowing her brow, she mused that the naval men of modern day lacked the constitution of those who still had to fight for independence from their youth; still, the paperwork offered a convenient excuse to make the trip back to Pator and perhaps sneak in a few precious hours of rest and relaxation with her beloved husband and children.

She sat back down, yawning again and tossing the papers aside. The deceleration bench did not recline, nor did it allow for the slightest measure of comfort. Sleep would be difficult – the incessant to-and-fro stop-and-go motion of a vessel navigating a multiple-jump course was jarring and disconcerting.

“ETA?” she yelled over the rows of benches in the cruiser’s cavernous troop compartment.

“Three more hours, Commodore!” came the reply from a helmeted young man sitting in the front row.

Exhaling forlornly, Vuylsteke let her forehead rest against the cold view-port, her tired eyes following the tiny flakes of flotsam and paint-chips that littered every corner of inhabited space as they whizzed past. If she had strained to look up, she may have noticed that a large swath of the void directly above her vessel was beginning to shimmer and bend.

As though emerging from behind some unseen shroud, the tiny assault shuttle bobbed and weaved between the cruiser’s engine pods, then inched beneath its hull making certain to avoid all potential camera drones. Coming to a rest beneath the larger vessel’s serpentine bridge cowl, the shuttle disgorged two figures clad in compact EVA suits. Using tiny puffs of compressed gas, the two dark silhouettes slowly crept up the side of the bridge – using hand signals, one indicated to the other where the precise location of the pilot’s command pod was, and both men proceeded to attach a multitude of small coin-shaped devices directly to the cruiser’s hull. In moments, they were gone, their diminutive spacecraft again vanishing from sight, concealed by what seemed like an expanse of space distorted by projection.

Stop-and-go, to-and-fro; the ship lurched forward once again as it sank through the periphery of the gate – in moments, it had again crossed a distance of light-years, and sped toward the next waypoint. Roughly at the halfway point of its journey it lurched and began to slow down. Having by some miracle managed to fall asleep, Commodore Vuylsteke was none-too-pleased by the unscheduled deceleration – the dull ship-rattling thump and sharp, un-announced explosion which followed it a split-second later was decidedly unexpected.

All lights on the ship went dark, indicating a complete failure of power – the Commodore felt her stomach rise in her throat, as the super-conducting stators at the heart of the ship’s artificial gravity system ceased spinning. She was already wracked with nausea when the crimson emergency lighting kicked in – it had been some time since the Commodore’s last zero gravity training, and the old woman found herself thoroughly unprepared for the vertigo.

“What the hell is going on”, she roared, trying to get a grip on a bench to prevent her from floating away. She was now rotating slowly out of sync with the ship, or so she thought until she caught a glimpse of the view-port where moments ago she sat.

Finally catching hold of the bench, she pulled herself to the port and gazed out. Her ship was now spinning slowly, devoid of all forward momentum but slewed sideways by the blast which, as she now saw, had occurred forward of the main hull, in the bridge module. A cold sweat came over her face, and again she called out to the mix of confused voices in the distance.

“What’s going on, give me a status report!”

The soldier from the front row of benches floated toward her serenely with a data reader, tapping gently on benches to steady himself. As Vuylsteke fought her nausea, certain that she would vomit soon, he thrust an illuminated display in front of her eyes.

“We’ve had explosive decompression on the bridge, sir. We think the pilot’s gone.”

As the display tapped into one of the dozen tiny cam-drones swirling about the stricken ship, Vuylsteke froze, wide-eyed. There was now a glowing wound in the side of the cruiser’s bridge – she could even see the massacred outline of the command-pod, the pilot clearly pulped by the blast. Numerous decks were exposed to space, belching fire and thrashing crewmen into the terrible nether; the rapid venting and ignition of atmosphere was acting like a de-facto thruster, spinning the vessel faster and faster.

“Can we regain steering from here?” she asked the soldier, clearly gripped by immediate fear.

“I’m afraid not, sir. She’s lost control. We’re trying to send a distress. We’re in no danger of decompressing; all the bulkheads fell in place. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll have to help with repairs. You’ll be safe in here.” There was something in his eyes, something he was not telling her – most likely to keep her calm.

Vuylsteke pulled herself into the bench as the soldier drifted away from her. All around her, orange documents floated peacefully, tilting and spinning in a manner reminiscent of the demolished hull plating that now filled space around the stricken cruiser.

Brilliant orange light filled the view-port and the Commodore squinted and shielded her eyes with her hand. Terror seized her frail heart, and she lunged toward the port, pressing her face against it as though attempting to peer outside the ship. The curling trail of vapour and debris stretched for dozens of miles now, and witnessing it allowed Vuylsteke to mentally extrapolate the direction in which the ship was heading.

She frantically pounded against the nigh-unbreakable view-port with her fists, her strained breath fogging up the transparent armour-glass. Ablaze and powerless, the spear-shaped Minmatar cruiser continued its terminal plunge toward an angry red sun.