My parents saw fit to give me a less than masculine name at birth; that comes from my dads' side; he worked Liberty military for most of his life.
The moments I remember him, he wears his military colours, and gives me advice on 'the proper course of action'. He was an officer first, and a father second; so I seldom saw him.
So the job of raising me was split between my uncle Sagara, and my mom; Karin. It was my uncle who came up with t4b, since he hated calling me tarquin (and so did I), apparently after some guy who lost a hand.
My parents had planned out a course for me; being the business minded folk that they were: they had my education set out and affirmed since I was but a twinkle, and so I began what could be recounted as life in academia, which led to an interesting career in Cryer Pharmaceuticals.
The Nomad war began, and signing up with the local navy came as a welcome relief from the studious grind. Most of my time there was spent running supplies to the lines. Pow-wowing with the other recruits was an awkwardly rewarding experience; most simply lusted for combat against the alien menace. Dad died in the war 'honourably and in service of Sirius: though there seemed nothing honourable about leaving us to sweep up the pieces. I mourned til I was numb, and I think a part of me may mourn him still, but I tend to compartmentalise those feelings.
My mother was an enigma; she said she and my father met after a misunderstanding,
whilst she was transporting goods from Kusari. She was born and raised there, and as such the other kids would give me a hard time for my 'split' heritage. My mother said "it's a harsh verse, and space is unforgiving; be alert, quick, and prepared." She pretty much lost it after my dad died; that's when she turned to cardamine.
By the time my mom was a cardi, I was old enough to pilot and spent a portion of my time with uncle Sagara. My uncle was a frank man, who punctuated his sentences with expletives. He worked trade and salvage, which though less glamourous than my folks; he attested was an honourable profession. His trade meant he had to take chances, but he was careful not to stick around if things got messy.
More than once I'd been on ship with him, and we'd had to rabbit: I can still recall the sound of the impacts on the shields, and the hiss of escaping gas from the asteroids struck nearby, as uncle whooped and swore, as we careened through the belt.
Unlike my dad; his outlook was more of a "do what you can to get by. Sometimes rules can
be bent, so long as innocents aren't involved."
I returned home whenever I could, to try and help my mom off the cardi, but those visits
often ended ... badly.
During the march of 806 as, I received news that my mom had been shot on a street l.a,
it looked like a deal-gone-bad, she had been shot 3 times in the chest.
I shook with rage and loss, at the thought of the bastichs that did this, and those that
supplied her weakness; and swore that I would find those responsible. I took a sabbatical and worked toward finding out more about my mom's contacts; greasing greedy palms in seedy bars, and trying to maintain the façade of making a living. It occurred to me during my investigations that I was gonna need a lot more help: one ship wasn't gonna be enough; I needed allies who wanted to see the cardamine runners pay. I continued to build upon my contacts and met some decent people in the process.
In the November of 816, I received an unsigned wave, announcing that my uncle had "died in transit, his body was not recovered." I spent 2 days crying, til I was empty with grief; it seemed the verse wouldn't stop taking people from me, nor would it give me closure; it was trying to tell me that vengeance will consume us. And so, after getting myself together, I set out to try and find out what happened to my uncle too. And So I was out there solo, but for the handful of pals that stuck by, we hung there, on the raggedy edge.
So, there i was on my merry way in omega 3; having just picked up a promising cargo of polymers,belly full and systems happy; i decided to head to a station in the distance, which turned out to be Douglas station.
An amused voice scratches through the speaker,it sounds like their systems are fried; since the voice
is too distorted to be normal. The voice sends a chill down my spine,as 3 hostile contacts pop up on nav.
I try to keep it together, telling them there's nothing of value here, but the voice creeps in, telling me i am their business; and my limbs stiffen,as i dash for safety.
Two clicks from the station, and cruise seems like a crawl;i hail the station at 1500 and literally screech into the bay, I toss a few thousand the deck-crews way, and head back out to face fear,
in a big metal ship.
i come out firing, trying to keep it close, trying speed against the insurmountable: but the enemy are devastating. whilst toying with my fighter, I can still hear their chatter, like giant-insects scraping talons on glass, within moments the cabin blows, fire greedily flares up, and dies, pieces of my ship fly past, and the cacophony nearly deafens me.
Gripped by panic; I eject; space tumbles around my pod, and i know then that these predatory pilots will capture, torture, and dissect this shabby frame.
--So it was with some suprise that i found myself being dragged towards the station, as the 3 nightmarish ships moved off. I suppose they simply thought me dead, or else has their fun and searched for worthier prey. Either way, i almost fell in love with that deck crew, as they hauled my stinking, shivering body from it's pod, onto that gloriously dirty bay floor.
After a spell in the medical bay, hours of subsiding twitching, and a few stiff drinks, I visited the station master to see what he could do for my wreck; the prognosis was reasonable; worth every credit. I visited the deck crew in their off hours, they were a good lot, with a keen eye for machines. joe pineapples advised i invest in sumthn bigger if i was ever gonna bring him those multiplexers; i told him it'd be a long while before he saw me this way again, but i'd do what i could.
I left the omegas faster than a body on leeds, and prayed that i'd never run into those three nightmares again.
Note to self; if you see a phantom, pray the verse sends you a miracle.
--end log--
--Neural log excerpt: 817 as--
So, after some time skipping around the borderworlds, I returned to a freeport, where I ran into a ex-equipment dealer named Nagara, who, after much talk of shields, weapons, and armour, and nagaras' wife Joan,(a trader-mechanic) had some intresting information for me about my uncle.
It seems my uncles wreck had turned up: another salvager had sold the blackbox, along with the salvage, and the enterprising dealer (Nag) had combed the systems looking for nav data, and found some scratchy details pertaining to the ships current state. We visited his shop,and he uncovered the torn-chassis.
"This burners completely shot, i could maybe fix that, but it'll only sell
for about a thousand more; looks like maybe neutron damage. you can see on this port flank, where the weapons fire tore through the cargo hold.."..the tragedy of Sagara became painfully clear to me, and it was no small effort to hide my emotions from nag.
But then Nagara said 5 wonderful words that lightened my dark mood; "..and the ejector seat's missing..". So Uncle Sag could still be alive somewhere? perhaps he was taken hostage? perhaps he was rescued and resides planet side somewhere? in any case, the news renewed my vigor and focus.
After working through the wreck, a transmission was patched through from port command, it was nagaras wife, her ship was badly damaged, and she was coming in under fire; still clicks away. Nag and i rushed to the ship, and drifted out. Unfortunately by the time we arrived at the co-ordinates, al that remained were pieces of debris, and a few cargo pods of consumer goods. Nagara went pale, then vomited, i tried to keep my mind off the worst as i went through the scanners. As luck would have it, i managed to locate Joans escape pod, and exclaimed as much to the wreching nagara, as we approached and tractored her in. Nag pushed his hair down, wiped his face, and ran to the hold, quick as a bunny. His wife was a little worse for wear, and down a ship at that; after the joyful renunion abated, and we returned to the freeport, i put it to
the couple that they could work on the vessel, until they got back on their feet.
Maybe it was the claustrophobia of base life, or their dangerous locale, either way, they accepted, and so began the recruitment of my sorely needed crew. -end log-
After a long journey across the length and breadth of Sirius, I eventually made enough contacts, and dug up enough information to realise that I was not going to be able to infiltrate the cardamine rings. I had been away long enough, and decided that a more 'head-on' approach would be the best way to progress. I was transferred onto Cryers 'Longevity Drug' project; aiding their efforts to understand cardamine and its effects; it also seemed my best chance at doing anything for my mother, as well as making a dent in the enormity of outcast operations. I've had to learn fast and make some hard decisions, and deal with some questionable characters; it takes a strong stomach working r&d.
The Work: Basically, we're exploring the relationships under different conditions between the the human being, alien organisms, cardamine, cardi addicts, and nomads (or nomad parts). Underlying in all of this we will find a pattern, which will not only lead to a non-narcotic drug capable of extending human life expectancy significantly, but will also explain the link between nomads, cardamine and cardamine addicts; and the genetic alterations made by cardamine. Of course the study of the drug will hopefully help us create a legal, non-narcotic substance, which could substitute the current drug in addicts.
--Neural fragment: Betchell: Cryer--
We can deduce from nomad lore, the events during the war, and the trent log fragments; that that a symbiosis is possible betwixt alien and human DNA.
(it would be beneficial if we could capture a wilde pilot or one of these hybrids; if only to observe their aging process & cellular decay rates).
We can also see that the nomad relic of cardamine makes genetic changes to human dna; which we hypothesise, will be similar (if not provably linked) to the changes in made in human/nomad hybrids. Kappa:
After some heated negotiations, i managed to convince a smuggler to scout out Kappa; records shows that he was out there for about 45 seconds, playback shows one Larger nomad vessel & 2 nomad warrior caste organics stationed at the jumphole exit.
Such a large nomad vessell must use huge amounts of synaptic material to function, to say nothing of the power needed.. The facts suggest that an expedition wing would require no less than; 2 bombers, 2 Vhf's, and a liner or gb. Each ship will of course need the latest in hull plating, shields, etc.. and a small consignment of cryocubes may be in order for storage purposes.
In the event of the expedition faring well, this should also serve as a diplomatic mission to any zoner outposts that are rumoured to be in the area.
It has also occurred to us that a diplomatic mission needs to be arranged to gallia, however due to the current political situation, this will not be possible until a later date; let us hope that things move favourably, after all Gallians must need medicines too.
Work has begun on equipment in Cambridge, as well as required heavy machinery on denver; soon the testing will be at a significant level to warrant a expansion in research personnel. -End Log-
t4b--neural log--19 july 817as--
The crew and I we're running through shikoku today, on a standard run through to kepler. Something happened a nightmare i thought could not recur, a run in with the phantoms.
Not a group like the last time, but a single vessell dubbed 'pitchfork'. I heeded my lesson of last time and wound the engines immediately, i was looking to get out and fast. i burnt a huge amount of cm's as i desperately tried to get the crew and mittens to safety.
But the phantom wouldn't have it, seems it wanted our kitten; and badly, So after a few clicks of fleeing and running around the deck like loons; when escape looked less and less likely, and the liner had taken a battering i asked nag to return fire; he was shaky but scored a few hits and bought us a few seconds, we gunned the engines for deshima: with half the hull gone it was apparent we couldn't reach the kepler gate. nag had managed to ruin the beasts hull, but had hit a wall; and as we hoped our destination would embrace us soon; the creature decimated the hull, laser fire tore through the decks as people ran screaming for the pods.
I managed to dash into a pod, and as the doors were closing i spotted mittens bounding in the confusion, i held the doors automatic closing mechanism open with one arm, as i desperately reached for my beloved kitten. But as the ship was going up, a piece of debris from an explosion shot through the gap, and flew straight into my head, i was thrown backward with the shock, and the door auto slammed, as i stared out with my one good eye as mittens was cosumed by destruction.
As i luckily drifted out toward deshima my first thoughts weren't of the huge losses in cargo and arms, they were of how i'd failed and the last thing i'd seen; little mittens caught in the blast, frightened and alone.
They say that the penumbra or slipstream is the harbinger of a larger fleet, i wish i was mistaken, but given the recent activity around col, kepler, and shikoku; i feel something inevitably dire approaches and they're going to take more than just kittens and eyes.. BlackBox 1 Satellite 1
Betchell's Neural Log -- Somewhere in December, maybe January..818 A.S
So a lot of has been going on that has been making demands on my time, needless to say; I don't have time to go through all of it now. However, it looks as though I may have to spend more time cruising around for a while, now that Helen has been struck down by a most interesting, If inconvenient, illness. Since I have to dash: I leave you with this disturbing recording: Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: Hello there Cristobal.Cortez.: Buenos dias again. WHat's your destination?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: freeport 2 Cristobal.Cortez.: Ahh, far road..
Cryer|T.Betchell: helen: aye, not too far though hopefully
[color=#2323Cb][b]Cristobal.Cortez.: Wait a minute, annoying hunter..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: seems these hunters are giving you a hard time Cristobal.Cortez.: Uhh. They're just annoying. Cristobal.Cortez.: Can't kill me, and trying to do something..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: well, i imagine so..do you know the sails cortez? Cristobal.Cortez.: Si, I'm.. I was member of the Brotherhood myself.
Cryer|T.Betchell: helen: O? and what made you leave ? Cristobal.Cortez.: Long story.. Cristobal.Cortez.: Vendetta, in short.
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O, I see - rough business.. Cristobal.Cortez.: *sigh*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: so did you want a contribution to your cause ?
[color=#2323Cb][b]Cristobal.Cortez.: Huh? *raises an eyebrow* Cristobal.Cortez.: Are you kidding, dear?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: well, a couple of the sails have hit my colleagues up here.. Cristobal.Cortez.: I'm sorry for their actions.. *sigh*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: So we're we.. Cristobal.Cortez.: I'll try to do something with them.
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O really, there's no need Cristobal.Cortez.: Are you sure?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: well, I mean, I can't make those kinds of decisions Cristobal.Cortez.: Who's your superior, ask him or her.. I can wait.. *sigh*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: well, I think I overheard my boss said something about making a deal, to supply leon with some meds perhaps..
Cryer|T.Betchell: helen: we heard you get some sick peoples there
Cristobal.Cortez.: Heh, should be cool. Cristobal.Cortez.: We've got also injuiries at Etna.
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O ! I hear that's a warzone
Cristobal.Cortez.: As well as Cadiz.
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: well, I'll send the board about that for sure Cristobal.Cortez.: Well, my voice isn't voice of the Elders..
Cristobal.Cortez.: So, talk to them first..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O.K. I guess that's best - anyhow, don't let me hold you up ..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: I'm sure you have bad people to shoot
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: which we appreciate by the way Cristobal.Cortez.: I always have.. espeassially..people.. *sigh* Cristobal.Cortez.: ***...entities..*destoy* our shells*..(sadness)..** Cristobal.Cortez.: Uhh, again head hurts..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O my ! have you been out in the omicrons recently ? Cristobal.Cortez.: Something's wrong? Cristobal.Cortez.: Uhmm.. No. Cristobal.Cortez.: Exept for Crete, of course.. Cristobal.Cortez.: What's wrong?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: would you like a free physical ? Cristobal.Cortez.: Physical.. What? *raises an eyebrow*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: perhaps we can figure out what's wrong with you ? Cristobal.Cortez.: Hmm.. I'm not sure..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: just a little examination - nothing ~too~ invasive .. Cristobal.Cortez.: But I need permission to dock on your ship first.. from your superior..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: can I book you in for an appointment ? perhaps - he's away right
now Cristobal.Cortez.: Umm... No, I don't think so.. *sigh* Cristobal.Cortez.: *( You see weak illusion of your superior...)*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O my ! what was that !? Cristobal.Cortez.: *( Your vision goes purple-blue, and you feel weak
unknown presense in your mind..)*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O dear yes, I feel all queasy
Cristobal.Cortez.: *(..strange music fills your mind.. it's slow and silent..)* Cristobal.Cortez.: Take some coffee?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: like when you've had too many hallucinogens - *vomits* Cristobal.Cortez.: Ahh, you're using that company stuff? Cristobal.Cortez.: Mari-juana?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O goddess! *wretches* no I don't like *vomits* that stuff really .. Cristobal.Cortez.: *(...illusion starts to move...tries to speak...)*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: Doctor ?! *reaches out* Cristobal.Cortez.: *(..and you hear: Dear, who's that man? You're again wasting our telephone bills?!..)*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: no daddy it's fine - he's a doctor ! *wretches then vomits*
Cristobal.Cortez.: What? What you're talking about?!
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: I don't know anymore ! nagano - take us in - i need some help Cristobal.Cortez.: ***...(laugh echo)...we *enjoy*..*** Cristobal.Cortez.: What's going on, dear?!
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: there it is again ! can you not hear it ? *vomits ..again* Cristobal.Cortez.: Is that always like that - you're starting to talk with some chick - and she's gone mad..? Cristobal.Cortez.: Aw..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Nagano: taking her in helen : don't you worry Cristobal.Cortez.: Hear..what?
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: the voice ...
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: can't you hear it - so loud Cristobal.Cortez.: *(..Director screams..and dissappears, strangely...)*
Cryer|T.Betchell: Helen: O ! *screams* doctor ! Cristobal.Cortez.: Lady, why are you screaming, what's going?!
Cryer|T.Betchell: Nagano: we're treating her now Ms Cortez, she's goin to be in for a few days Cristobal.Cortez.: Miss Cortez?!
Cryer|T.Betchell: Nagano: I'm sorry - is it sir ? Cristobal.Cortez.: *cough* Cristobal is male name..
Cryer|T.Betchell: Nagano: I do apologise, i can't hear too well after being in so many explosions - the old ears tend to get a bit weak
Cryer|T.Betchell: Nagano: I should get some replacements really
Cristobal.Cortez.: Caramba.. Happens. Well, I need to get to Yanagi, I've got some dealer in place.. See you all. Adios.
Cryer|T.Betchell: Nagano : Adios senor, may your deals go smoothly
It's been a while; bad things have happened: Helen died of neural trauma. We suspect it was due to a combination of certain mental conditioning equipment (which she volunteered to have fitted) and her last exposure to an alien influence. A wing of a library for orphans was named in honour of her memory and recognition of her humanitarian efforts. Emily-Jane Cryer was declared deceased too; after being missing for so long. Death has cast it's pale shadow over this last cycle.
Business has us frantic at the moment; there seems to have been an increase in everything from: obscure viruses, combat related injuries, sexually transmitted diseases, to the fields of classified research. Consultants tell me that demand for custom or 'designer' drugs has also risen, as well as cybernetic enhancements and living organic products.
***
The board convened on the matter of a license for the Independent Neural-Net Department and I saw a few people that I hadn't seen for a long time, some of whom even had a better address than I.
I traversed the beautifully adorned lobby, and nodded mutely to the secretary as she breathed 'Please go in doctor, they're expecting you' Her words carried by the heady scent of strawberries, orchids and oestrogen. As I stood before the finely detailed carving of the double doors to the boardroom I knew a moment of staggering trepidation as it dawned on me that someone beyond these doors might be more fashionably tailored than myself. I braced myself against the wall as a giddy wave of nausea rode over me. 'Is everything alright doctor? Can I get you some water?' the concerned secretary asked.
'If you'¦wouldn't'¦mind: Oh, and - could you'¦ask my assistant to *cough* call me in twenty minutes with '¦with an update? Thanks' I chokingly uttered. The secretary elegantly returned with the promised liquid. As she deliciously re-seated herself I popped a couple of Cloveritol and washed them down before straightening my beautiful Didier Sachs jacket and entering the boardroom.
***
The room had a stylish, severe minimalism; crisp lines and flawless surfaces were the first features to strike the eye. A solid layer of cloudy white glass lay underfoot, gently lit from some hidden source. The gently curved white walls arched high above the centre of the table, their sheer surfaces revealed small areas emanating a dull blue glow. The span of the ceiling stood in contrast to the otherwise 'Spartan' room since it featured an epic mostly nude portrait of Max Cryer extending his hand toward a depiction of God, or possibly Santa, in the style of Michelangelos' Sistine chapel. Soft light cast shadows around the figures seated in a widely spaced circle with their respective entourages and trappings, revealing twelve familiar faces.
Adam Carter stood at the door, a mean, complex looking device held in his massive hands. It was rumoured that the device created a vacuum within its chamber in which the late Dr Philips' head exploded after he had been found guilty of embezzlement from his department. Betchell stared at the imposing figure as he was frisked, sized up, and given a short nod in acknowledgement before being allowed to pass.
At the opposite end and head of the table sat Steed, his cane propped against the table beside him. Hartford sat to his left, evidently distracted as he tinkered with datapad illuminated by schematics. Next in line was Lloyd Stewart, conferring with two analysts stood behind his high-backed chair. To his left; the seldom seen Ms Matterson also distractedly manipulating some kind of three dimensional puzzle device which occasionally vented gasses. Avion was next, nodding in greeting, then returning to browsing the agenda.
On the opposite side of the long table sat Jones; arrayed before him were a peach, a tall Sunbucks and box of assorted doughnuts. To his left the admirably tailored Palmer paced to and from his seat whilst berating a brow beaten secretary and pimping like a mac daddy. Next was Cabulb and his assistant, he waved his assent and returned to reciting to the lady as she hurriedly transcribed. Next stationed at the seat of Guildmaster Raikoke of the Gas miners' guild: very convincing three dimensional holo-projector rendered the Guild-Masters' face; her confident stare surveyed Betchell then quickly took in the other faces to gage reactions. Callahan, to her projectors left, sat preening a small armadillo looking gaian mammal.
Also attending via technological means was Dr Vannacut, his holographic image seemed frozen as his pale, drawn face remained fixed upon the poised orator Carrie. Suddenly a disembodied voice crackled over his feed: 'Doctor Vannacut - Raise your arms slowly and put your hands where we can see them! Do not make any sudden movements!' an officer squawked. Vannacut rose slowly turning around as he opened his blood spattered shirt, his voice quaked: 'My-y body is a ~roadmap~ of pain.' Suddenly the feed from Vannacuts' location burst into chaos; as uniformed officers swarmed the view-field in a blur of arms and batons.
'Doctor vannacut, we are arresting you on fifty-six counts of suspected murder, you have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something that you later rely upon in court, You have the right to legal defence and counsel, if you do not have the means to procure one you may be appointed counsel by the court'¦' the dehumanised voices of the officers cut through the thudding of the very audible beating, carrying over the feed as Vannacut was dragged off to face charges, the feed terminated. Betchell sent a quick message to Joan; requesting the best legal genius for Vannacuts' current pickle, though the Doctor was no stranger to fending off allegations.
'*Ahem* Good evening; it's good to so you all so'¦well' Betchell uttered, smiling and glancing at the faces about the table as he approached acutely aware only now that he was wearing suspenders under his excellently designed suit.
'Alright, now you're all here; lets' get down to brass tacks' Steeds voice cut through the chatter. 'Those not in attendance, will be abstaining concerning these matters except for Raikoke who you can see is attending remotely. You've all seen the agenda by now so Carrie: would you please begin with the first item'¦' The orator Carrie began her entrancing announcements; her voice smooth and calming.
***
The proceedings were neither quick nor easy; each session brought up more controversial points, as each of us attempted to convince others of how crucial our departments or projects were. Ground was given, and every 'favour' had a price: for example I basically agreed not to 'suggest' to cybernetics that 'the release of their latest line of eyes should be delayed for further testing' if Avion in logistics would move to re-allocate funding from transit-storage to transit-security. I knew that the delay in the eyes release would cost logistics; which in turn would affect Ike Avion: and Ike could move money in logistics, in order to put pressure on marketing to agree to organs shipments using outside contractors.
Manoeuvring of that nature took place all around the table; assuming that I was reading between the lines correctly. After the fifth day it had become apparent who was actually backing the deal, who was opposed, and as the days dragged on I heard the phrase 'I think you should re-consider Betchell' with increasing frequency. I found myself buying an excessive amount of ties in some vain attempt to comfort myself, and so I sought other distraction during the precious moments of recess.
It was during one of these intermissions that Ike Avion happened to wander into a room in which Ms Baiul and I were engaged in a rather compromising form of intimate recreation: I almost spat the gag the gag from my mouth as Ike stood dumbstruck for a moment ''¦this isn't astrometrics' he said, averting his eyes as he backed quickly from the room. After re-dressing I returned to my quarters to find something wasn't right: I couldn't put my finger on it; had something moved? Did I leave my suits in that order? It made me suspicious so I had Joan consult the access logs: no one save housekeeping had been in all day. I put it down to the hotel staff and began digging for some leverage to counteract my unfortunate exposure.
Betchell walked along a broad cat-walk which passed for a plaza on Cadiz, the perpetual drone of incoming traffic drowned out the bawdy shouts and generally alarming level of life on the corsairs enclosed super-city.
He had been milling around the giant construct for days, considering the architectural merits , variety of fashion, foreign liquors and cultural niches of Cadiz. Each day had required more in the way of chemical levellers in order to cope, todays foray had taken him hazily to previously undiscovered reaches.
Music blared out from a nearby bar as a dozen or more bodies spilled out onto the plaza, almost on top of betchell, the gathering seemed to be involved in a brawl. Suddenly betchell was enveloped by the travelling fray: limbs spun and struck in a whirling staccato and it wasn't long before betchell was hit, and retaliated in the chaos. As things often do, the situation escalated quickly, curses died down as blades were pulled and blood was shed. In an instant Betchell went from meandering doctor to casualty as a blade tore into his lower-back, slipping through muscle and into kidney. A heartbeat passed before his vitals alarm registered the trauma and the signal was sent. Betchell lay on the ground bleeding, gouts of blood sputtered from his mouth as he attempted speech.
Hours later the wounded doctor awoke In a medical bay on the yacht. A pleasant nurse frowned down at him, her mask hiding her smile. 'Ah Doctor, you live! Went and got yourself stabbed again huh? I count this as your third visit this week: dermal fix, left ulna seal, and a kidney. You should be more careful doc. The other you is on the line.'
Betchell coughed and groaned a reply as he felt the taut pull of new flesh 'Yeah I'm fine thanks. Say kid, you got any Ambien?'
'Now now doc, you know that won't stop the inevitable.' she reproached 'I'll put him through...'
Betchell inclined the bed as a screen was swung into view, the original betchell looked back at him from a dark office. "Hey, it's three a.m here and I get a wave telling me you got stabbed again. What the feck man? Are you ~trying~ to sabotage this meeting?! If you don't wanna go, I can always find someone else, but you know how that would upset the board...' 'You think I did this on purpose!? That I like getting stabbed?! Gods we must both be insane.'
Donor Betchell erupted into a minute of laughing, joined by his clone moments later 'Alright alright: I don't know what I was thinking, I guess I knew you didn't do that."
'Yeah I got it, You know they have a drink made from nomad here? And the nightlife, let me tell you...' the pair resumed their laughing before the younger made what passed for a report between the two:
'...what looked like silk stitching. The trousers to that piece had discreet half length pleats, and the ensemble was tied together with a neat waistcoat and chain ' which I thought was nicely retro. Anyway: sending visual.'
'That's pretty sharp, and this is just their fringe: I wonder what the brass of crete will be wearing. Anyway, keep it up: and try not to get stabbed again. See ya Betchell.'
'Ciao T.'
Betchell sat across from his cunning opponent, his nerves on fire with tension as the game intensified.
He quickly laid another card and waited for this devious bastich to make his next move.
Their game had been getting faster as time progressed: each move twisting betchells understanding of gamesmanship and reaction time; the creature opposite him had obviously been well-schooled in both for years. Betchell suspected that the player might be the next stage in evolution, with neural capacity and processing speed way above human limits. Finally the game came to close.
'Snap!' the five year old child shouted, climbing onto the table.
'Dammit! aces too! alright you got me Larry: sharp as a pin ain't ya?'
Betchell rose with a cigar held between his teeth and patted himself down for a light.
'You got a light kid?'
The child laughed whilst mimicking betchells gestures. The doctor cursed as he pulled unwanted items from his pockets and discarded them. A yo-yo, a garter belt, a tiny book, rubber ball, and a tube of lime synth paste were tossed to the ground before The doctors search ultimately yielded a small pouch of cigars and lighter. He handed the child a cigar 'Here ya go kid ' that's gallic, so savour it. Toodles snap-larry.' Betchell sauntered from the cafeteria in search of other distractions.