To: Methusulah. Subject: You're a techfinger. Care to get some grease in your beard?

[Enkidu]

Incoming Transmission...
Decrypting User ID...
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---------------Welcome, Arbeiter ---------------

Terms of use

This message is highly encrypted using syndicliga proprietary encryption cryptography through intranet-publicneralink drops and are functionally untracable if no sender address is given. Abuse of Intranet functionality commands community service punishments as listed in regulation five three seven gamma six. security is assumed. Any deliberate or otherwise location triangulation method successfully employed against anonymous transmissions will receive either a one billion credit reward or immediate incarceration dependent upon disclosure and motive. The revanchist council requests that Arbeiters do not squander valuable neuralnet bandwith on the consumption of CNS articles, adult content, or gambling, and advise that the relevant arbeiters employ public terminals for such use, rather than the secure line. Communal enforcement may differ between Reichsarbeitergesellschaft der Alsterian and Landwirtrechbewegung cells. Consult your admin for technical support or contact your resident Neural Technology Help Specialist at www.totallypacifica@notAHacker.net. The Union reminds Arbeiters that "trolling" is not an acceptable standard of political debate, unless aimed at capitalists, fascists, militarists, etc, who lack the neurological prerequisites to engage in such discourse. Southern Unioners are encouraged to remember that the average Unioner's literary age is roughly analogous to a twelve year old on PCP, and are encouraged to avoid engaging in difficult subjects, and are suggested to stick to familiar subjects, such as the market value of cardamine, bundschuh-based footwear puns, and the general terrible quality of life aboard wedel mining station.

Have a glorious day, Comrade user. - Unity, your resident Neuralnet VI.

G.Riehl

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Incoming Transmission

Ridrrs

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To: The man riding wingman replacement for Grun Three.
From: Hellion. Oh, my real name's Gunda Riehl. Riehl name. Heh.
Subject: Figured this might make you feel comfortable.

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Unpacking videofile...
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Gunda Riehl grimaced - the restrainer field were -supposed- to make spine-crushing organ-splattering ejections a relic of prespaceflight history. Mind you, a thousand years ago the smart money was on visual range dogfights being absurd in the ballistics of space. I guess they didn't bank on neural enhancements and the near limitless efficiency constant of modern drive systems, did they, Gunda? Funny how history pulls a fast one. Even in one lifetime.


The mysterious stranger was good - sure, he didn't know the guts of his fighter yet - but it wasn't just his gnarled old fifty-something face that spoke of experience. He had a practiced ease that'd seen off the laconicism that came of living in the independent systems - a Freeport Two nut-and-bolt with his head screwed to his shoulders. That counted for something. Even when getting podded by the LSF's finest blacksuits deep in the beef-oiled houstonian heart of the Big Tex'.




"Hey old man. Seems you've lived through a few shifts. You're nifty at the stick."

Look, there's some project work we need people to dig into. Technical manifests stranded out here on Vierlande, now that we've got the starforge up and cranking hot toxic waste into the vacumn of space. I'm kiddin' - we filter that crap. We've got Gaians to think about. I wouldn't plug it into your vacsystem though."

Yeah, let's flash the knitty-gritty up for him.

"Onscreen you're going to be eyeballing some real... hm - hush-hush buy-and-sell orders. Now, we're Unioners - as much as the GEIST exigency is gonna' push for you to be covert rather than overt, we don't keep secrets and we don't do need-to-know. We're not soliders; we won't cosplay them even if I am your wingco' out there in the deep black battleground of the constellations, you feel me old man?"

"I figure with you plugging around in an unfamiliar star-fighter, I might make you not go crazy after your first sortie by handing you something you're familiar with:"

---------------Data, Uploading ---------------

Stennis-Ralon Multi-Cell-Shareware standardised Shield-reactor Induction anode, Fighter/bomber variant. RELA model 1.5

"That's a RELA- Union-slang for Reactor-Electromagnetic-Lace-Array; it's how we get the old antimatter initiated fusion forgedrive running with the shield grid. It's right in the middle of the big 'Oh toridal reactor on the caboose of your fighter that makes it 'go', and gives it the power to right some multi-megatonne wrongs. See, I don't know how much you heard about how we got Unioner boots on the ground in Vierlande. But there's a few ten thousand boots that deserve to be there, and arn't. Call the decks a little empty."

This is the first time you've heard Riehl embittered. By anything. Let alone a memory out of her own head. You wonder how the Vierlande massacre must have been in first person, from the rumours you must have heard in the cramped dive-bars that the Unioners had carved out of the 'roids. You realise that you prefer not to know. She snaps herself out of it, whiplashing like a chord - nearly jumping out of her chair. The Union wasn't as insensitive as most pirate movements to PTSD - it's just that everybody had it, and everybody had already filtered through the coping mechanisms. Especially the Wedel remnants.

"Every Arbeiter and Solidaritat's got more-or-less the same model with a few individual end-user tricks that the groundteams accept as a crazy fact of life that occasionally rips a rook's pacemaker out of his chest - that is, if you put the thing on ground-power outside of the reactor insulation. Don't do that. It's pretty idiot-proof, but that doesn't factor alcohol or harder drugs. Tear your implants right out of your body - brain stem gives up before we can get you in surgery, it's... Just.... don't do it, okay?"

She catches herself. Falls steady again.

""Yeah, so, the Omegas have got these little things called planetary accretion fields in their early phase of formation. Imagine the tanner belt, but on fire, and filled full of half fusing rare earths. You're talking several thousand degree particles being rammed at cruise fractions of the speed of light - now our shields can take it from weapons fire, but we don't know how they'll hold up under sustained battery in the deep omegas. We've gotta' keep our shield life expectancy up if we're... y'know..."

"Going to rescue those couldn't save. There's thirty thousand Unioners unnacounted for somewhere in Coalition space. Unioners who got freed from their life sentences only to be put to a worse fate as slaves of the Coalition. Unioners who were shot down by those they hoped were their family. Were their friends."

"I'm going to burn Volvograd to ash to free them if I have to. You're going to help me."


"So yeah, uh. Go over the shield grid and point out any flaws for long duration drain. Can't piss in Premier Selim's eyeball if we can't fly through the Omegas without getting a little toasty. I figured with your history amongst the Zoners you'd have had your fill on working on ships from those parts."

"You say you've repaired twenty five thousand ships, one for every hot meal I've had? Buddy, here's your chance to make that lie seem believable."

"Get it done, and I'll buy you a beer."

"If you'll excuse me, brother, I've got a suicide mission to work on in the heart of enemy space."

"Oh. Thanks for the assist out there. You looked after my life like it was your own; We'll make a Unioner of your yet."

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The birdclock croaked when it saw the sun, tethered to a spring.
G.Riehl.
Wedel's Remnants.

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Transmission Complete

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Scrambling access point...
Decompiling neuratrace...
Signal lost.

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

Information | Recruitment | Message Dump |
Feedback | Diplomatic channel

(Links pending redevelopment).

[Jayenbee]

Incoming Transmission...
Decrypting User ID...
Displaying Message...

---------------Welcome, Arbeiter ---------------

Terms of use

This message is highly encrypted using syndicliga proprietary encryption cryptography through intranet-publicneralink drops and are functionally untracable if no sender address is given. Abuse of Intranet functionality commands community service punishments as listed in regulation five three seven gamma six. security is assumed. Any deliberate or otherwise location triangulation method successfully employed against anonymous transmissions will receive either a one billion credit reward or immediate incarceration dependent upon disclosure and motive. The revanchist council requests that Arbeiters do not squander valuable neuralnet bandwith on the consumption of CNS articles, adult content, or gambling, and advise that the relevant arbeiters employ public terminals for such use, rather than the secure line. Communal enforcement may differ between Reichsarbeitergesellschaft der Alsterian and Landwirtrechbewegung cells. Consult your admin for technical support or contact your resident Neural Technology Help Specialist at www.totallypacifica@notAHacker.net. The Union reminds Arbeiters that "trolling" is not an acceptable standard of political debate, unless aimed at capitalists, fascists, militarists, etc, who lack the neurological prerequisites to engage in such discourse. Southern Unioners are encouraged to remember that the average Unioner's literary age is roughly analogous to a twelve year old on PCP, and are encouraged to avoid engaging in difficult subjects, and are suggested to stick to familiar subjects, such as the market value of cardamine, bundschuh-based footwear puns, and the general terrible quality of life aboard wedel mining station.

Have a glorious day, Comrade user. - Unity, your resident Neuralnet VI.

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To: That Hellion kid
From: Kalle Niska, AKA 'Methusulah'
Subject: Took you long enough.

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Niska adjusts his hat so that it rests just above his eyes and kicks his boots up against the console, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly as if to exaggerate the red glare from his bionic right eye, shifting a cigar about in his mouth with his tongue. Taking out what appears to be an old gas lighter of unknown origin he flips it open, striking a light to ignite his cigar; the warm glow eerily illuminating the old man's withered features. He takes in a deep puff of the cigar, exhaling through his nose, staring the camera down all the meanwhile.

"Y'know, you talk too much kid. Where I come from, that gets people killed."

He takes another brief pause to puff on his cigar, as if purposely taking his time to make a point.

"That said, you have my attention. This 'RELA' of yours is some interestin' stuff, but what made you assume I gave a damn about doin' somethin' familiar hmm?"

Yet again, he pauses for another puff on his cigar, holding stern expression on his face. After a couple of seconds his expression quickly softens, being following by momentary coughing-laughter.

"You got it kid, I'm happy to take a look and take a look I did. What we got here is high-grade crap, it's gunna take a bit of work and I can't do it alone. Besides, you sure I'm qualified for this? I mean, I know, but; you hear a guy boast and suddenly you wanna give him a chance? That's some rare trait of yours right there, kinda admire it."

Niska stretches, lifting his arms up as he does so, revealing a partially cybernetic right arm. From the looks of it, his arm must have been pretty mangled once upon a time and the cybernetics themselves have likely have seen better days. Upon lowering his arms, he leans forwards slightly staring deep into the cam, taking several cigar puffs.

"Y'know, this'd be easier if we just stole some Zoner, Hessian or Coalition tech right? Reverse engineered it, combined it with our own... just sayin'."

He leans back and shrugs, taking his cigar out of his mouth for the first time, toying with it in his four fingered cybernetic hand.

"And about that havin' your back an' all that. Think nothin' of it. I just didn't wanna lose a potential drinkin' buddy."

A great big grin spreads across his bearded face, revealing a set of poorly maintained teeth, many of which potentially being his own, before placing his cigar back into his mouth where it belongs, taking another deep puff in and then out of his nose.

"Keep me updated kid and I'll do the same, we'll get this crap in workin' order in no time, save our indentured colleagues and live to tell the tale with a pint in hand."

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Scrambling access point...
Decompiling neuratrace...
Signal Lost.

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When contending with a monster, you'd be wise to give the devil his due.