James Beam: Colonial Traitor

[Politus]

Born a few years before his brother, Timothy Beam, in Crayter, James's family was one of the lucky few to earn a spot aboard the sleeper ships. Where Tim was a simple lad at the time, entranced by the world of sports, just learning about girls, and doing averagely in school, James was enraptured by, and obsessed with, the knowledge and philosophy of humankind up to that point. James was 16 then, his brother was 12. James had, for the previous few years, pored over the philosophies of Locke, Voltaire, and Rousseau; Contemporary Crayterian philosophers such as Smithson and Osman, all supporters of the old democratic institutions of the Golden Age of Crayterian Civilization.

At that age, the two were forced with their parents aboard the sleeper ship. He had never confronted death. His brother was too simple-minded to make much of the soldiers trying to keep the rioting throngs from the landing pads, but James watched, his eyes unfocused and distant, as the queue slowly shuffled aboard. In his mind, they were heroes. The rioters, the soldiers. He felt like he was fleeing the greatest civilization in the universe, and for all anyone knew, it was.

His family, the last in line, finally got to the entryway. He heard a shot ring out, from the middle of the crowd, and a soldier went down. The crowd surged, and the soldiers fired into the crowd, stun-guns rattling off a rapid brung, brung-brung-brung as the crowd grew even more violent. The sound punctuated screams of rage, pain and fear. The soldier at the hatch ushered his family in, and with his mouth quivering, looked at James, whose mouth hung open slightly. There's nothing we can do, son. J-just get on. We need to go.

The hatch closed behind them, and they entered their cryo-pods. The journey began, and as the sleeper ships launched, their engines released waves of death upon the civilians who were, by that time, clawing at their sides. James didn't hear any of this, save for the blast of the engines as he fell asleep.

Eventually, the sleeper ships found Sirius. He continued school, as well as his independent studies, ignoring girls and other things healthy boys his age were interested in. That last scene of anarchy, of a desperate wish for salvation, that only he and a few others remember, haunted him, drove him to the edge. He became obsessed with the Golden Age, and the government of the time. It was his vice, his addiction. As the government of the Colonial Republic became ever more militarized, more domineering, more strict, he closed up. At the same time, he became malnourished, gaunt, his eyes sunk, but became fiery with purpose. At age 22, 6 years after arrival, he was a shadow of the rest. He was constantly reading; philosophy, political treatises, empirical looks at practical political science.

He started writing. He graduated from the only real Colonial institution of education, valedictorian, and only showed up to the graduation ceremony for a short time before leaving with his doctorate in political science. He continued his writing, scathing criticisms of a militaristic regime, and watched with horror as his brother became more and more jingoistic, eating up the propaganda broadcast by the government. When Richard Lampkin rose to power, he had brief hopes for a more enlightened lifestyle. These hopes were dashed upon Lampkin's fall from power, and he continued his writing, eventually subscribing to Lampkin's political movement. For an official job, he did some limited work as an escort, which he took on because his growing paranoia made him fear being inside his government's jurisdiction.

With the exile of Richard Lampkin and Jack Harper, he left too. He faced treason charges of his own, and flew his Roc out into space. He looked back with fiery eyes and gaunt frame, his ceaseless obsession to return the Republic to its Golden Age democracy as of yet unappeased. He looked back once, and from there sent out subtle feelers, looking for a way to contact the CFF. He had to help. He had to win. His conscience demanded it. Everything demanded it.

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"Things will not calm down, Daniel Jackson. They will, in fact, calm up."