Entry#: 131
Date: 15 - 01 - 819 AS @ 22:17 SUT
Title: Untitled.
Here I was thinking for a ironically brief period that our lives had regained a vague semblance of originality to them. Locating, sorting, collecting and recycling bits of the leftovers of the Dallas Incident. The old salvager earned herself some time away from home, flying all of us to the mining site deep inside the heart of the dark matter cloud.
Everything seemed to be going along rather routinely. We were scanning and collecting the most valuable metals and parts and stowing them away for "cleaning", whence they are made safe for handling. The dark matter outside would instantly kill any organic being were it not for the thick slabs of anti-radiation shielding the ship posesses. In relative comfort we combed through three-century old debris, scooping up whatever took my fancy.
The general ambience of the region is total deadness. Nothing lives, very little moves. Only vague whispers of light penetrate the cloud excepting the sporadic electrical discharge. As such, one particular and rather surprising standout in the day's encounters was a ship containing a living, breathing pilot, moving under its own power.
We all took some time to re-organise ourselves after being so taken aback by the appearance of this unknown entity we thought we'd seen a ghost; then we sorted out just what the hell someone else would be doing out here.
Much like us - the pilot was looking for something of value to them. After some... casual... greetings swapped beside the wreckage of Dallas Outpost, we extracted the man's actual target - A luxury liner of some description.
It just so happened by absolute chance I'd flown past one prior to the appearance of the lone pilot...
I first didn't pay it any real attention. It was a bit too big to haul off for scrapping as it was, and would have not had anything worth the risk of cutting it up. So I just left it where I found it and moved on.
I figured it was a prison liner that had been caught in the blast wave of the Dallas Incident like everything else out there; turns out it's only a very recent addition to the maelstrom, at least according to the fellow who'd found me.
He very politely threatened my life and, after letting him sweat in his poorly-shielded fighter/bomber thingo for a bit, led him to the wreck site.
Of course he once again very politely requested that I assist him to haul the entire thing out of the dark matter cloud and also very politely suggested I keep my mouth shut about it.
Whatever.
I got paid for it all, so it's no big deal.
That and... the data I flogged from Dallas is probably worth 50 times more than a towing job anyway. You wouldn't think hard drives would survive 3 centuries in a radioactive deep-freeze, but I guess Ageira did - the box they were in was only about 50 feet of solid lead thick...
As for every other matter in my life.... well, little Misaka is sound asleep in my lap with our daughter beside us doing just the same. I find myself - in between paragraphs - gently running my hands through her hair and wondering both how such a perfect angel fell onto a rotten apple like me and who to thank for such a thing ever happening.
Entry#: 132
Date: 22 - 01 - 819 AS @ 18:34 SUT
Title: Untitled.
I had almost begun to miss this sort of life.
Rummaging around deep inside a radioactive, pitch-black pea soup of dark matter searching for anything which may be of value to us. Dodging the long-dead remains of numerous ships, stations, all kinds of man-made solar bodies... turning upside down the final resting place of thousands of people who lost their lives to what now pays my way.
It really is astounding, and chilling, to ponder what it must have been like when the disaster occured here. One moment life continues as it always does, the system alive with the miscellaneous, nondescript shuffling that makes up any core sector of space... people going about their daily lives no differently to how they did yesterday nor any different to how they would have conducted their "tomorrow" - had their tomorrow ever arrived.
To be snuffed out in an instant by the unending waves of radiation and energy that spewed out of the jumpgate in its final moment, to not even be aware of what had taken your life... to drift forever more inside its clutches. Never rescued, never returned home. Abandoned.
Some of the things I have seen in this cloud... tore my heart in two. A single, lone transport, seething with radiation and dirt - yet - without so much as a single scratch upon her hull. Dating from the time long before rampant piracy and terrorism demanded capable shielding, this ship would have become the tomb of her crew within seconds after the gate's cataclysmic collapse.
The insignia upon the side of the vessel indicated her name to be the Fort Worth of Deep Space Engineering. It now rests indefinitely inside the cloud, one of many, many ships lost that day - but - this one tugged at my emotions moreso than any other I've seen to date.
If one were to remove it from the cloud I am almost certain it would start up with nothing but fresh fuel added to the tanks - and that is why it hit so close to home. Nearly everything else out here has been damaged or destroyed, hence losing its emotional pull... but the Fort Worth is something else. If you look at a random chunk of steel, you see it as nothing more. But a complete and aesthetically intact vessel is just so much more...
I stood there in silence taking in the lines of the ship in front of me for what seemed like hours before Misaka pulled me out of my daze, appealing for her orders in a business-like manner. A ship in that sort of condition would no doubt be worth millions... a point I stuck on for some time. But I just couldn't force myself to disturb it.
We eventually embarked to locate other remains inside the cloud, slowly navigating the laden tugboat through the swamp of unidentified scrap; being careful not to damage the armour plating that was protecting us from the acidic radiation surrounding us.
Slow sweeps of the innards of the field produced remarkable results, the cargo bay of the salvager quickly filling up with highly valuable alloys and precious metals. Gold from computer and superconductor components, alloys from ship and station hulls, tonne after tonne of copper...
The major issue holding up the quick sale of the materials is, of course, the fact it's all irradiated. Were it afflicted with nothing more than the background radiation of space, I could move and sell it easily. The payload we carry needs special handling and treatment before it can be considered safe.
It's perfectly safe locked up inside the hold of the tug - being purpose built to handle radioactive materials, but anyone who were to enter would be dead within hours. About the only organisation that can process this stuff are the boys aboard Culebra Smelter - specialising in the processing of radioactive materials. I of course will have to eat the decreased buy-in price to cover all of this, but, the sheer tonnages I can bring in will more than cover it.
I cannot wait until we have enough loot to fill the bays and get out of this cloud. We're all starting to get a bit.... loopy. It ain't no place to be raising a child, either.
Entry#: 133
Date: 27 - 01 - 819 AS @ 20:07 SUT
Title: Untitled.
Of course it couldn't last very long. Life just doesn't work out that way.
I'm now sitting... somewhere... I don't know where I am. It's a gas cloud of some kind in Kansas, pitch-black. It seems we're hiding out from a chasing swarm of Recyclers. Why, I have no idea. They're rather fragile. I guess if you get enough of them together they might just be a threat but whatever. I have a family to protect and it's better to be safe than sorry.
The Alsatia sits idle, ready to evacuate at a moments' notice. Slowly chewing through not only fuel but also supplies... I didn't really pack enough for a camp-out in deep space.
The tug floats around next to us, tethered with a chain so it doesn't drift away. Bolted to the back of that is what was left of the Maelstrom that I apparently managed to sneak out with in the chaos after the... incident.
I remember sitting in Puerto Rico mouthing off at someone and then... nothing. I... I just snapped. It's all a total blur. The next thing I remember is Misaka screaming at me, ripping me off the controls of the cruiser. Burning ships around me... screams all across the radio, the vessels left alive running for cover...
I don't even remember why I opened fire.
Leaving that all beside for the moment, I must now deal with the consequences of my actions. I'm no longer a Junker, no longer welcome on any of their bases and no longer part of the network.
Adding to that I seem to have upset members of the Liberty Rogues. Knowing full well what happens to people who do that...
On top of that the Maelstrom is now levered against me, since it is still under their influence.
I also have word from the people still with me that I've earned myself another bounty, except it's a bit bigger than anything previous, beating the one the Joker put on my head after we smashed one of his goons by several orders of magnitude. A billion credits... just for me.
Entry#: 134
Date: 29 - 01 - 819 AS @ 21:11 SUT
Title: Untitled.
Another hectic 48 hours pass and this time I find myself smack-bang in the middle of nowhere in the Kansas system. I managed to locate somewhere to hide myself and everything I own - a small, desolate moon in the system.
The lower gravity well and lack of atmosphere make it possible to bring the Alsatia and others down to the surface without any major dramas. In contrast to many of the smaller classes of ships and indeed the more... "esteemed" transport classes, none of my ships are capable of atmospheric "flight" as most people see the concept - that being using wings for lift alongside horizontal engines for thrust.
The Alsatia herself is able to clumsily manoeuvre around with the VTOL rockets - but that is tedious at best and consumes vast quantities of both time and fuel. I won't even go near the Maelstrom's capabilities. She'd fly about as well as a brick. The tug is the same.
But out here none of that matters. I can just glide down to the surface and with only minor adjustments to the throttle and engine directions everything landed safely. There may have been some paint traded between the tug and Maelstrom when they landed... the latter being dead-weight at the time - but that doesn't matter.
The important thing is I found a place to calm down and assess the situation I now find myself in. It has become apparent there are a large number of supporters of my apparent war effort against the Congress. A small swarm of not only other Junkers but also people I'd never even heard about before and of course some of my employees, all jumping up to say "I can help".
One stand-out follower, however, is the owner of my new pet Spyglass, a young fellow named Xii. His primary features are naivety and innocence - showing a complete lack of understanding when me and Rachel tried to assault him earlier.
That and he doesn't seem able to talk normally. He has some kind of voice box thingo which he carries around his neck; I guess he has something wrong with his throat or lungs. Not that it really matters, he can still get his point across and it's certainly not the worst modification to a human I've seen in my life.
He still reacts like a human to two young women trying to remove his pants, so I've no doubt underneath the slightly off persona he presents he's no different to anyone else.
A point which moves me on nicely to the next part of the recent events. Two young girls, apparently twin sisters, showed up literally at my door whilst in low orbit over my new home in of all things a Bretonian Shetland. After wondering what the hell something like that was doing out here and very nearly ordering its' termination we eventually drew the conclusion that it had been sent under directive of Bret - my old friend from Liberty.
Apparently he'd heard about my.... misconduct and immediately taken my side of the drama. The last known location the Congress has of me was flying off into the Kansas system; I suppose he used that information to track me down. The story from the sisters was that they'd been sent to the old Neo-Terran station in the asteroid belt, had gotten bored of waiting and gone exploring - finding us by blind luck.
They offered us a supply of materials which we accepted after a somewhat heated negotiation, sending the ship on its way with a guarantee of discretion. The cargo was transferred to the newest and undoubtedly shiniest abode in my lifetime - a DL-series Borderworlds Transport.
Despite my best efforts to hide over the past week, a number of high-profile people have managed to find me - the highest of these being Admiral Hale. This transport, which we're currently aboard, is my present for ensuring Remus got himself back home in one piece, among other things.
Hale somehow managed to sneak his way into Kansas and by pure chance stumbled into radio range of the Alsatia. A short conversation led us to an agreed meeting point in the open expanse of the sector where the ship was transferred to my control.
Hale, myself and my girls somehow ended up in the cargo bay together, all admiring the newness of the ship. Hale didn't want to outright admit it, but it was damned clear he'd put a mountain of effort into the thing. It was absolutely brand-new. The walls were all stainless steel... chequer-plate steel floors, hell, glass panels in the walls linking adjacent rooms for crying out loud. The thing looked like a abstract, futuristic mansion - something an art designer might come up with.
And don't even get me started on the mechanics.
Nuclear.
Fusion.
It has a freaking REACTOR on board. I nearly had a bloody heart attack. Then it dawned on me that this was a properly engineered craft and that it was unlikely to go into immediate meltdown upon startup...
After wiping my drool off the controls Hale lead me and my girls around the halls and corridors showing off the facilities he'd painstakingly procured. For a ransom payment it's pretty luxurious - full, variable level artificial gravity... leather seating, cruise control and fully-ducted air conditioning with enough beds to comfortably sleep 12 people - including a proper king-sized double bed in the captain's quarters.
I of course never minded sleeping buried in Misaka's boobs locked up in a teeny tiny little sleeping bag free to drift around in a weightless barracks-styled room, but this is just something else. A real bed....!
One final story to tell, a love-child of my avocation for juvenile day-dreaming; an underground facility blasted into the cliff face that currently buries my property in ice-cold shadow. It'd be fairly simple and basic - stores for resources and supplies, some small living space and a landing pad on the smooth base of the valley we're in now.
The more I think about it the less ridiculous it sounds. When one considers the amazing feats of construction that abound in humanities' part of Sirius already, a cave dug into a piece of rock isn't that far-fetched. With some fairly basic machinery and the skilled workers to build it...
Entry#: 135
Date: 07 - 02 - 819 AS @ 21:20 SUT
Title: Untitled.
What an utterly amazing week this has been. Here I am, watching over my creation taking shape, growing, becoming real. The force I have managed to assemble at my fingertips... is simply breathtaking. Sometimes in a quiet, personal moment... I find myself observing this feat from an outsiders' perspective and I cannot help but allow my favourite wicked, deviant smile to cross my face.
Simply taking in the sheer capacity of what I lord over is a difficult task at times. I could run off ships, people, contracts, assets and finances for days without running dry. Even thinking about it now.... my hands are shaking.
The installation itself... I watch over as if it were a sibling to Sanya. I guide those men and women working for me to construct something that they, and I, can be proud of whilst sitting atop a two-square-kilometre slab of concrete that now forms the landing pad, which was created in mere days of constant operation.
The base itself, besides having a foreboding blast door for an entrance, is currently little more than a hole in the side of a cliff. Tunnel borers work overtime to dig a shaft down under the surface, far enough away to render itself impervious to attack. Once that is completed, they will bore sideways, creating rooms.
A warehouse for supplies, barracks for crew and family members. Basic amenities and a light mechanical workshop are all in the pipeline.
The volume of materials already consumed by my endeavour pale in comparison to what must yet be spent. When I consider the cost... well.
I don't like thinking about that. What has made life easier in that regard, however, is the swathe of favours, gifts and offerings of aid and assistance that have poured in from all sides - even places I never knew existed.
Admiral Hale himself has passed on In Silico, something of great value to us. There are the existing members of the MCF who are now working hard to earn their pay for a change. Billy, Rachel, Kai, among several others. I have received communications from a great number of people who are against the Junker Congress organisation for one reason or another. Some of them, less subtle than others...
A man by the name of Roger Claymore, whom is apparently a well known thorn in the Congresses' side, delivered several shiploads of supplies via. proxy to the base as a showing of unity and support for my operation.
The commander of my new pet Spyglass, the Metropolis, that ever-so-sweet and utterly adorable gentleman going by the name of Xii has gone well out of his way to lend his assistance to my cause. The mere presence of this juggernaut in low orbit over the base not only serves as an intimidating sentry but also a not-at-all discreet showing of force and power.
One of the less boisterous suitors I've encountered is a man whose only known fact is his codename - "Mr. K". The voice in the transmissions he's sent is clearly faked, rendering it useless for identifying him. I don't know much, rather, anything about this person beyond the fact he is interested in bringing pain to the Congress as much as I am.
He believes that the ties I have to Liberty and the information I possess are of value to him. I've let him know that my sole interest at this stage is raw materials to expedite the construction of Alsatia.
That brings me on nicely to the name for the base - identical to the transport that brought us here. The meaning of the word is simply, undeniably, the most suitable for what I am creating.
"A place where law cannot reach".
Putting that aside, the creation of this sanctuary of mine has not been without its own hiccups. Although I am lucky in that I have not to date lost a life, I have been required to write off a number of machines and equipment to unavoidable mechanical stress fractures - or in some cases - stupidity of their operators.
A selection of such assets stricken from the records are a two-wheeled rover bike and an Eagle fighter craft, both of which were introduced to each other by their block-headed owners Billy and Rachel.
Rach, as sweet as she is... is not a good pilot. She ditched her ship into a sand dune only moments after taking off. She escaped unharmed, which while fortuitous did not change the fact the ship had taken a massive amount of micron-sized sand into every exterior mounting. The entire external weapons array and all of the ancillary devices are now inoperable.
Billy managed to implant his equipment into the sand in much the same fashion - falling out of the sky. I don't believe giving him that thing was a good idea, any more. He was well enough to argue with Rachel after stacking it, but it's still equally broken.
I am contemplating leaving the slag piles where they are, in order to give these two something to play in.
As much as I wish to continue running over this past week, Sanya is now demanding my attention and she is simply not something I can avoid. Although she is a beautiful girl whom I love dearly, when she starts crying the gates of hell itself open up to release their vile siren.
It's a good thing she is a very simple, easy to read existence. She's hungry. And she knows where to get fed, too. As often as I have tried, conducting business whilst breastfeeding a baby is simply not feasible. Thus I shall end here.
Entry#: 136
Date: 14 - 02 - 819 AS @ 21:43 SUT
Title: I'd forgotten this thing had space for a title.
I suppose I should update on the passage of notable events over the past week.
First and foremost is my rather awkward encounter with the Hellfire Legion. Something which started out as idle surveillance of a fight that wasn't mine has somehow led to me being the babysitter of a supposed Captain and member of the Legion's upper hierarchy.
I can't even jot down an accurate recount of how this came to be because I really have no understanding myself. If I were to pinpoint where everything started to go pear-shaped it was when Blake tried to take me to dinner on the Incursus.
I do remember feeling sorry for the poor bastard because I had been sorta-kinda stringing him along for a few days, as one does. But then he threw down a significant fleet of "dead bits of cow" - to use his own words - right in front of me which I had no real choice but to guiltily enjoy.
The air turned awkward when I spilled out the fact I had a girlfriend. The very shimmer of his eyes disappeared the instant the remark hit home. After that I ended cleaning up after myself whilst he sulked about the place. I feel I should lay down the disclaimer that I did actually tell him I "wasn't worth chasing" and that he shouldn't bother trying by throwing all this food in front of me.
My guess is he was lost in puppy-love and what I was telling him didn't quite register. Not the first and probably not the last heart I'll've broken. It seems to be less of a shock every time it happens...
Anyway. After that when I was leaving the twit managed to fall over and smash his head on the elevator... and then things got weird.
The Incursus' AI system.... forgot what it was called - but it was made in honour of some old guy, I think - started laying down attitude. The highlight of our little cock-waving contest was it telling me to strip naked and threatening to fill the entire flight deck with gas if I didn't. With it's own damned commander unconscious on the floor.
Honestly. Who in their right mind would program an artificial intelligence with issues like that? I've never had one and likely never will. But my idea of an AI is something which is polite, reliable and most importantly submissive. Not a remake of some wanker who thinks it's worth it's weight in gold.
I hate computers. I really do.
Moving on.
Blake, the commander, ended up being taken back to Alsatia with some rather serious injuries after being thrown around by his AI system and dumped in the back of my fighter. I treated some of his injuries and "assigned" him to a bunkhouse. I think I'm meant to hold onto him until the Incursus comes back...
It damned well better, too. Since Blake realised he's not lusting for my body any more he's become a real asshat. If I didn't have any care for other human beings I'd've thrown him out the airlock by now.
Besides that... I'm tired. I really wanna sleep.
But there is a certain little "angel" here who thinks right about now is the perfect time for lunch break. Then she'll drop it out the other end an hour later and no-one will get any sleep for the next four.
If she wasn't so damned adorable she'd be joining Blake on the one-way trip out the airlock.
She has.... her fathers' eyes. That much I can see already. She's a departure from family tradition in having these wonderful olive-green eyes that the Rall lineage boasts - the eyes that I feel head-over-heels in love for... but I can tell her hair, skin and facial features are going to be all McDowell.
Hopefully she uses more of mum's personality and less of dad's. Someone looking like who she will when she's of age needs to be witty and opportunistic enough to take maximum advantage of it. It's the only way any of us are able to get our heads above water. Mum did it when she was my age and, well, my actions over the past few years speak for me.
Which of course, moves me on to the advancement of the construction of Alsatia. In the week that has passed since the last entry, we have managed to blast our way into something which now resembles living space underneath the surface. At this stage a single large room exists, lit by temporary strobes and kept air-tight by the completed and sealed airlocks at the front.
Slag trucks slink in and out of the front door, tanks of pressurised oxygen and recirculation systems keeping the base habitable during this critical stage of its development. Despite this all of my men and women are forced to wear full hostile-environment space suits even when inside the base after a minor incident which so very easily could have caused the deaths of dozens of people.
That is one thing I consider paramount over anything else. I have had injuries, I have had accidents and near misses. But no-one has died nor suffered any permanent damage whilst at Alsatia. This is a hallmark I intend in embedding into the entire project. I do not want to bear the cross of any man or woman dying by my hands here.
The flow of supplies from not only contractors but sympathisers and even aspiring romantic suitors shows no signs of faltering. The credits the remainder of my company brings in are devoted entirely to financing the project., I actually have not spent a credit on myself in over a month.
Donations from groups like the one led by Mr. K and other such organisations are assisting greatly in producing a healthier bottom line although loose credits are getting harder and harder to find, something that cannot be denied. I work relentlessly to drag in as much business as possible to ensure the smooth flow of the operation.
The trade of information on members of the Junker Congress has been adding a nice tax-free boost to the company finances, too. Fortunately for me they just fall into my traps over and over like the dogs they are. Each successful snag brings in one or two containers of cargo which are quickly dismantled and purposed around the base.
Entry#: 137
Date: 20 - 02 - 819 AS @ 10:10 SUT
Title: Untitled.
A couple of things.
First off, the deal with Mr. K dried up as quickly as it fell to my feet - which perfectly coincides with the recent armistice set out between Kusari and the Junker Congress. I kind of figured this out earlier but this Mr. K is probably someone from the Kusarian seat of power. That's about all I'm ever likely to learn. For all I know now I could have been talking with the Emperor or a Fleet Admiral...
Aside from that, my most recent captive has been dumped at Freeport 4 with "Undeliverable - Return to Sender" stamped to his forehead. Where Blake goes from there is not any of my business. Nor is the whereabouts of that stupid Incursus.
Whilst we were out there, I had my dear associate Xii in his gunship terrorise, pillage and plunder another of those unguarded mining transports I adore so much. After the captain's expected refusal to politely "spill his bay", Xii wasted not a moment in opening it for us. Thousands of tonnes of unprocessed gold ore fell into my possession and were furtively ushered away into the confines of the Silico.
That ore alone will pay the wages and supplies needed by my employees for over a month. Not bad for a single day's work if I may say so. We returned to Kansas with the ship full to the brim. Later on after the heat has died down we'll be setting a course for Liberty to launder it.
Upon returning to Alsatia we held a minor celebration regarding the pressurisation of what will become the bases' main warehouse facility. I haven't yet worked out exactly how big it is but it's pretty close to the same size of the cargo bay of the ship sharing it's moniker. The blast doors were locked shut and after running through a long list of checks and procedures I personally released the stopper on the tanks of compressed air we'd been storing inside.
The air recirculation system we borrowed from a merchant transport is working faultlessly, the completely electric device pumping air through ducting affixed to the roof by whatever means possible, including but not limited to a rope of cable ties strung together and wrapped around it.
I do have something resembling a plan laid out for the final shape of the facility, but for the moment things are simply being placed "wherever seems like a good idea". Currently standing are the primary airlocks at the entrance - two doors both sealed around and through to prevent air loss and the outer shielded with ablative armour plating to prevent unwanted guests. On the atmospheric side of the inner lock is a small landing cut out of the dense, rocky ground which houses things like space suits, emergency air supplies and so forth.
After that a 30-meter passageway deep into the cliff face opens up into a large open expanse filled with a plethora of cargo containers, scrap of all varieties and of course the men and women who are working tirelessly to finish this project. Strobe lighting haphazardly installed into the raw ceiling brightens the unfinished, jagged features of the walls. The floor features a thick layer of concrete over the otherwise equally rough rock bed below it, the final result proving unexpectedly level and true when the... "skills" of those tasked with laying it are considered.
For the moment the main priority now is expanding outwards from this central establishment. The barracks is top of the list for the next stage to be constructed. A small corridor is currently being worked on leading off the warehouse which will have another blast door installed at the entrance.
One thing that is forever crossing my mind is the fact that any breach of this network could cause complete loss of everything if not properly isolated. I have assembled blast doors, air locks, emergency air supplies, space suits and no-return valves amongst a selection of other safety measures to prevent what I believe to be the single worst fate imaginable.
Humans need three things to survive. Air, food and water.
One can live for three weeks without food.
Three days without water.
Three minutes without air.
Food is easy enough to produce and store. Water is the same. Put them in a box and you're fine.
Air is a completely different ball game. Supplies are easy enough, yes, but even a relatively small leak in this closed circuit could easily prove fatal. I have seen with my own eyes... what happens to someone who is evicted into a vacuum unprotected.
It is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy.
As the construction continues, I find my heart racing every time one of my people step outside Alsatia's protection. Each time the airlock opens, I lord over these people to ensure their safety.
Having this much life in my hands is not a new thing to me. But wanting to protect it rather than demolish it... is new. It's not something I've experienced before.
It's stressful at times, but, I think I enjoy it.
As for why I'm writing so early on a Sunday morning? A certain little demoness decides my waking hours now. The matter is no longer in my control.
Entry#: 138
Date: 25 - 02 - 819 AS @ 20:58 SUT
Title: Untitled.
I now find myself in two uncomfortable situations. The first and foremost is the destiny of the Alsatia - that is, the transport. Since In Silico's addition to the fleet, the old battleaxe has done little but sit on the landing pad taking up room. The only purpose she serves now is a storage facility for scrap metal and garbage - and even that duty can now be served by the installation itself.
Now, logic and reasoning tells me to put her to sleep. Scrap the ship and delete her infamous profile from the skies of Sirius forever more. The ship is marked - and not just the name, which she still proudly bears upon her flanks; but by her deeply seeded reputation throughout the universe.
Yet, of course, I am not such a logical being that I am able to do this without hesitation. The Alsatia is still dear to me, something beyond a simple vessel that moves one from a place to another. As with all of her predecessors, I cannot so easily throw out what I consider an extension of my own personality.
Throughout my life as a pilot the craft I have owned and flown have all changed to reflect me as their owner. The tiny little CSV, when I got her, was a bland, boring piece of utilitarian mediocrity. When I was done with it, it was a razor-sharp, high-speed dispatcher capable of out-turning, out-running and out-shipping vessels with credits sunk into them several orders of magnitude greater.
My all-time favourite, the little Bactrian. Sometimes I sorely miss that little she-devil. Feminine only by cause of the tradition held amongst spacefarers to consider all craft as such, that bull-dyke of a freighter proved a loyal and hardy companion during those early days I occasionally reminisce about during private moments. It started out barely able to move under its' own power, yet when I was done with her she was one of the fastest ships in her class in Sirius - and I was proud of that.
The Alsatia... I cannot even remember how she was when I first bought her. What I do remember is the amount of effort put into bringing her into line with my personality.
She may bear scars across her skin, be missing the odd tooth and be sorely in need of a bath at times, but, the old girl has never let me down in our time together. That is something I just cannot ignore. Even if she does nothing but sit on the landing pad, her batteries slowly drain to nil, the life support system shuts down and the vessel dies from the inside out... I simply cannot bring my hand to strike her out of my life.
Next issue.
A certain someone decided to show up at my front door Sunday night. A certain someone who I had been trying to block out of my consciousness for close to a month with limited success. A certain someone who I was expectant to never see again for the rest of my life.
A certain someone who... I thought of every time I looked into our daughter's eyes. That was what hurt me the most. Sanya is a baby. She can never be held to blame for how I feel. But she has "his" eyes. Those deep, olive-green eyes of her father that I would often lose myself in. I felt awful... holding an infant at fault for something that she has no control over. There were times where... I couldn't even look at my own damned child without crying.
The unending heartbreak I forced myself through for the past month all came rushing back to me when I saw "him" floating above Alsatia. The fires of anger lit in my psyche as I took to the skies to intercept him.
But... I was weak. I could not, even as I was, with the weight of the entire ordeal leaning on my shoulders, coaxing me into the fray, bring myself to bear arms against him. I screamed, yelled, cursed and swore. My head hurt but I still kept going. I opened my heart once more and let every pent up emotion flow freely.
"He" just sat there, taking every punch I threw, watching over me like a boxers' training partner. I threw blows at the console and window of my fighter, my eyes welled up with tears and I filled the radio with words and sounds that I did not know I could produce from a source inside me I did not know existed.
I completely lost track of time up there, floating in orbit over the icy wasteland I had claimed as my home. I don't even remember most of what I said.
After I had finished... we continued a conversation much more akin to the ones we'd often shared previously. Perhaps not as casual, but, with mutual respect for each other.
The walls I had built around my persona all crumbled to dust, I was doing what I had told myself I would never do.
Entry#: 139
Date: 5 - 03 - 819 AS @ 18:56 SUT
Title: Untitled.
There are currently four people privileged enough to share my bed with me. Those people are Misaka, Sakura, Sanya and when he's feeling manly, Gunther. Nearing the top of the "People I never thought I'd share a bed with" list are many, many people whom are there with just cause. However, one of the very highest members of this list betrayed their status as such this week.
"I never thought I'd share a bed with Fleet Admiral David Hale."
Well, alright. It was nothing more than two people lacking in energy with no chair to sit on handy but still. Admiral Hale was on _my_ bed with _me_ next to him.
Yes, that also means he knows all about the construction of Alsatia. I would like to think that he won't be bringing the Durango out here and pulling a creeper on me. He seems to like me enough that he won't do that.
I somehow managed to blindly run into David on a mission in his fighter in New York on the way back from Manhattan with a full load of supplies. Perhaps he had been following the ship, perhaps it was blind luck. Either way, he instantly recognised the ship upon seeing it and made use of the encrypted radio it boasts.
After some idle schmoozing, David decided to escort us for the duration of our convoy back to Kansas. I forget exactly where along the line I allowed it to happen but he eventually ended up in orbit over Wichita alongside the Silico. From there he was given a guided tour of the new Alsatia, the trip culminating in a visit to the master quarters embedded into the stone base of the moon.
Of course by that time we were both pretty wasted, having endured the arduous flight across _absolutely nothing_ that Kansas presents to people. One thing led to another and the poor guy ended up crapping out on the bed for a while before being forced to float off home by his duties. I do hope he made it back in one piece...
After getting the main facility air-tight and pressurised, priority turned to making the facility self-sufficient. For the duration of the project to date, food has been imported from a variety of sources, in various and occasionally dubious quantities and qualities. Short of buying myself an entire biodome, which is somewhat unlikely, I've decided to invest in a hydroponic setup to grow enough basic food to keep the bases' permanent staff supplied. As large as the current population is, it is comprised mainly of labourers who will dissipate once the bulk of the construction work is completed, leaving only a handful of people behind - basically me, my family and a small selection of the company's employees.
As for other matters. Little Sanya is growing up much faster than I remember babies doing so, already boasting a full head of blonde hair and an ever-increasing body weight. When I hold her in my arms I can tell she's going to become a white devil just like her mum - and I can't wait until she does so. She is, for the most part, a quiet and good natured baby - apparently in contrast to how I was. I am not holding out for the status quo to remain as it is, however - McDowell women are known for being... temperamental. I already know what she's like when she doesn't get her breakfast. She doesn't quite understand that she needs to share those things with other people.... greedy little tart.
One item of note is the apparent return of stability to the McDowell harem, a concept that had been sorely missed for some time. Misaka has become a loving, doting mother in her own right - despite her young age. She gets along wonderfully with our little demoness who despite sharing no biological link with, has adopted as her own daughter entirely.
Sanya's "big sister", Sakura, has continued to be a bastion of happiness in what has occasionally been a very stifling, stagnant environment. That little girl's smile is capable of dragging any and all of us out of the pits of depression and support us through our troubles no matter how grave they seem. She is also acutely aware of the fact her birthday is coming up, something the little angel enjoys imparting upon her elders in the family with regularity. So in about 3 weeks we'll be throwing her a huge party to celebrate.
Rachel, the newest member of the company, has taken on the role of babysitter and nanny to the girls when, for whatever reason, the two of us are unavailable. It is somewhat difficult to sneak away for some private time together when there are two children, a swathe of workers and an armada of other labourers dotted over the base all seeking your attention immediately.
Although I feel confident in leaving Rachel to nursing duties, I am hesitant to lend her to any other task. She is sweet, caring and loving but... her practical skills are sorely lacking. The poor kid can barely fly and after the last farce involving one of her blonde moments, I feel she's best suited to maternal tasks.
Most of Alsatia's framework is now in place and the majority of the heavy work has been done. Already a few people have been sent packing with their earned credits in tow, stripping the workforce down by almost a quarter. As more and more of the project is completed, fewer and fewer tasks will be outsourced - the heavy labour requirement being replaced with the need for technical skills. That is where we will step up our involvement.
If you'd told me a year ago I would be where I am now I'd've laughed at you and called you an idiot. Every now and then I take a step back from everything and look at it from an overview - and it really does amaze me just how much I have accomplished here.
I mean, just how many Junkers can lay claim to an underground moon base, after all?
Entry#: 140
Date: 19 - 03 - 819 AS @ 21:26 SUT
Title: Untitled.
Two weeks... guess it's about time for a diary entry.
I suppose I should start with the most important of the previous fortnights' events - Our little Rheinlander decided he had to go away on secret men's business again. At least this time he stuck around long enough for a bit of a cuddle before leaving.
After having this much time to collect and sort my thoughts I've come to the realisation that he probably won't ever stay on solid ground here. With that said, I believe that so long as his body holds life he'll drag it back every now and then. Regardless of the problems he has in his life I think he genuinely cares about the well-being of his daughter, in the least. What he actually thinks of me I probably won't ever know.
The door will be open when he decides to pay me and his girls a visit. That much I will guarantee.
Moving on to other more pleasant events;
Alsatia is, for the most part, complete. We have reached a stage where I believe the heavy construction is over. From this point on the focus is turning this installation into something I could call a home. I ensured that my own quarters reflected this from the very start, or else I'd've never been able to sleep properly. Now it's time to makeover the whole base the same way.
These bare concrete walls need a facelift badly. I am sick of seeing Gray on all 6 sides of any given point I find myself in. The challenge is finding a colour that works with the theme of the place.
I was thinking that a soft, baby-blue might work. But it's so close to Gray it probably wouldn't make a difference. White was suggested for utilitarian value but it has the same issues. Then the idea of crazy stuff came pouring in. Fluorescent Green, hot pink and all those. If not for the small girl suggesting them I'd've slapped someone stupid.
This is purely hypothetical at this stage but I am leaning towards a creamy off-white colour for the walls and brilliant white for the ceilings with plain concrete for the floor. No point painting something that's gonna get trodden over by a bunch of dirty miscreants like ourselves and the company we keep here.
Just need to find someone who can lay bricks and mortar worth half a damn.
Actually. Speaking of Company.
I have the suspicion I have neighbours on Wichita. I've picked up a small but obvious assortment of ships bound for the planet in an inexcusably direct pattern. I think I should send them a warm greeting in the near future but... looking at the scanner results of some of the heavier ships I'm not sure I want to. Rather scary looking guns on the front of some of them.
Just hope they don't come knocking over the condition of the side fence.
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