(Indian) Summer 195 No. 47
Yes, the infamous Powell Horn, former Governor of IND Pittsburgh, was rescued just as this rag was going to print. More on that later... (tease)
Can you believe that summer is over already? Between all the fighting and verbal garbage flying about, time sure passed quickly. This edition was supposed to be out four- no, six weeks ago, but things happen. Stuff like hard drive crashes, printer crashes, personal problems you don't want to hear about, interviews not going off as planned, our intrepid cub reporter getting beat up (again) by some thugs in Shiny Helmets (tm), etc. Anyway, it's done and in your hot little hands. Oh, and by the way-
Guess who's a starcaptain now?
Boys, Girls, and Alien Folks, this edition of the Bone was written aboard a brand-new starship run by yours truly. Got my starcaptain's papers and all that.
Unfortunately it isn't mine, but I'm in charge of delivering it. Ensign Harold Hedd, IND. To put it frankly, I was stuck at Petroom and I needed the money and a trip home.
I rode the ICN Hagen out from IND Werth to cover the Imperial plan to deal with the Flagritz invasion. I figured it'd be like all the other IMPie operations of the past few years, namely to stay about two steps behind, while Star Admiral von Ludendorf gathered intelligence by stuffing one-stellar bills into dancers' g-strings at his favorite nudie joints. Oh, and a certain Company faction captured a few more colonies and reprogrammed outposts.
The trip out to Petroom wasn't bad, except for the constant announcements and weapons drills, and that the limes ran out three days from Werth. S'okay... I'm a hardened journalist... I can accept that... (sob!).
We got to Petroom about the same time that everyone and his illegitimate cousin decided to join the act. Something about free stimbrew and combat pay. I just sat there in my comfortable VIP stateroom and looked at the monitor, shaking my head. It looked like a used-starship lot. I could imagine GTT PD Whispers sitting in his bunker, looking at the orbital displays and giggling his fool head off.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, our favorite alien dictator, the congenial and ever-so-friendly Den of Earth waited until enough warships gathered to outnumber him and then decided to attack. When the dog-and-pony show was all over, the Flagritz had gotten their collective asses handed to them, smoked and well-done (note to Duckbutt: check to see if the FGZ really do have asses...). Guess the old saying " all good things come to those who wait" didn't apply in this case. Looks like the Flagritz didn't waste any time picking a new leader either. Last I heard, Den was selling used pitchforks in Foelian space.
Among those on the Petroom butcher's bill was EEM Star Admiral Dax Krieger. He'd bought the farm in a lopsided battle with the Flagritz a week or so before the big event. My new Ass. Editor, Juan Mora-Tyme got this tribute in the mail from Noa Krieger and forwarded it to me. It was amazing that a pointy-headed scientist can write this well. I don't generally re-print stuff from the List broadcast, but this one is really well done. For all his bluster and 'Das Bruderschaf' attitude, Dax Krieger was a good friend and a straight-shooter with me.
Requiem
SCENE: Nighttime; a large office overlooking a huge and bustling starport with dozens of ships in orbit and landed. Thousands of people coming and going even at this late hour; working, relaxing, dealing with each other with a frenzy of activity unparalleled anywhere. All of it ignored by the solid, powerfully built man behind the desk. He runs his hand through his blonde hair while he turns sad blue eyes on an old fashion 2D picture in a metal frame that he holds in his other hand. It shows a group of people, mostly men, posing for a picture. Almost in the center, the man sees himself standing next to another slightly taller man also with blonde hair and blue eyes. In the exact center of the picture, is an old woman with fire still in her eyes. He turns his chair slightly and gazes out the window at the stars...
SCENE: Nighttime; outside of a very modern building. Behind the building stretches a large, quiet colony that has settled down for the night. A man and a woman stand silently together as the woman gently places her arm around the man's waist, as if for support. The night wind stirs her auburn hair as she looks up into the face of her husband. Even under his black beard she can tell that his jaw is firmly clenched and she can see the pain in his brown eyes as he stares up at the stars...
SCENE: Nighttime; a bitter, freezing wind blows methane snow over the environment domes of an enclosed colony. Another man holds a picture in his hand, except this one contains a single individual; a very attractive woman with black hair. The man's deep blue eyes mirror regret often felt, but now suddenly become more intense. He places the picture back on its honored spot on the office wall and moves to stand by a view port. Even through the swirling snow, he can make out the stars above...
SCENE: Third Watch; a bridge of a huge cargo ship, normally filled with hard working crew-persons, now almost deserted except for a chief petty officer and a half-dozen ratings. The chief turns at the sound of the bridge hatch opening, ready to chew-out whoever would dare to enter without permission at this late hour. She stifles her retort when she sees the form of the ship's captain entering through the portal. For the hundredth or thousandth time she wonders how someone so young could have the rank of Lieutenant and command a ship of this size. And, as always, she remembers the young man's lineage.
"Anything wrong, sir?" she asks.
"No, chief, carry on." is the quiet reply as he sits in his command chair. The chief notes, while trying not to, that the Lieutenant's brown eyes are unusually bright and he blinks rapidly like one who is trying to fight back tears as he stares at the ship's view screen to the stars ahead...
SCENE: Nighttime, a single moon casts its pale glow over a large estate situated on a mountain that dominates the surrounding valleys. Two people, a man and a woman, can be seen standing at the battlements of the highest tower. Both seem to be as old, but as ageless, as the worn stones of the tower itself. The man is tall, his frame unbent by the years that it carries, with thinning black hair and piercing black eyes. The woman is much shorter, but she seems to stand just as tall as the man next to her, so strong is the life force within her that her eyes seem to glow with an inner fire. Both stand quietly for a while and stare up at the stars...
...and from them and others scattered on many ships and worlds throughout the systems, a single thought is cast toward the stars at almost the same instant...
"You will not be forgotten."
And the woman quietly adds "...my son."
Aloha, Dax. At least you've had the class to stay dead.
We were supposed to have an interview with Vizier Ganemeyo, who has the slightly insulting title (to me, anyway) of Samillian Minister for Barbarian Affairs. But then the SAM decided to go to war with the Imperials and were so busy capturing colonies (with help) that the Vizier didn't have time to play "Twenty Questions With the Racist Insectoid". Then they got their thoraxes handed to them at Bome and finally accepted a treaty of sorts. The Vizier still hadn't taken my calls, so I figure he's busy picking up battle debris, or waiting for an excuse for a new declaration of war or sumptin'.
But don't think we were just sitting around on our butts doing nothing. Our first brainstorm was doing an issue around that most fantastic of inventions- the Curry Tube! You know, designs, history (do you realize that the Curry Tube is standard equipment on all WCE warships? It's an affiliation advantage, y'know.) We even managed to get an interview with the designer of the Curry Tube, Ivan Bowelhav Movenitch.
But our test audience hated it (as well as the frequency that their cages were cleaned). So we went to our second bright idea: a "Babes of BSE" Summer Issue. It soon ran smack into whatever passes for reality around here.
We first tried to get the Tiffster (the Mallbabe of SMS fame) to do a live broadcast, but no luck (there was a conflict with a scheduled power-shopping trip). She did, however, send us this nice letter written on her personal (and perfumed) stationary:
LIKE, NO PROMOTION PARTY!
Bummer, dudes!
My crispo momster sez I *CANNOT* have a kegger for you to like celebrate my upcoming promotion! (Yep! This mallbabe is soon to be an LCDR!!) she sed, "I will not have this perfectly respectable colony overrun with pirates, merchants, politicians, journalists, and lawyers, and you can tell them that list is in order of increasing undesirability!"
Anyways, since I like got everything that any young babe could wish for (starship, Subspace radio station, a commission!....) I wuz thinkin' that all you guys could make way bitchen charitable contributions to any of the following list of Werthy organizations, in like my name, 'K?
The Will Scaflock Emily Post Society
The Lord Nicholas Van Rijn Institute for Extended Convoluted Eccentric Extended Dissimulative
Sophistic Extended Rhetoric
The G'Tarlk home for Flagrantly pregnant humanoid mothers
The Don Guido Permanent Retirement Home for evree udda kinda Mudda
The TCA Association for Navigational Excellence
The Harold Hedd Temperance and Exceptional Journalism Guild
The Rlo Krieger Linguistics Society
The Widows and Orphans of Bome, Secudus, and Jasil's Landing Committee
The Foebian Annual Hunting and Fishing Tournament (Northcape Branch)
and last but not least, The Hepto Balthazar Commission for Intergalactic Peace and Harmony.
XXXXXX and OOOOOO to all
- the Tiff-ster
I couldn't reproduce the actual letter (perfume and all) for you; there's a limit to technology. But we'll display the real one in the Ringbone Gazette lobby at Werth - under armed guard (watch out, G'Tarlk!).
Next we thought about talking to Lace Dalton, but we remembered she's got this hate thing about guys. Our only female staffer, Society Editor Kinki DeWins, is still working under Rlo Krieger as Werth Press Secretary. The official word was "She's really, really busy.". Funny, I was never that busy when I was Werth's Press Secretary.
We did get an interview with one of the other Babes. Who better (and nearby at the time to boot) than Hanna Bailey?
Lieutenant Hannah Bailey is the starcaptain of the ICN dreadnought, the Hagen. She and her crew had ringside seats during the Petroom battle. The Ringbone Gazette's intrepid editor and combat journalist, Harold Hedd, was on board the Hagen and filed this interview:
Bone: How long have you had command of the ICN Hagen?
Bailey: I took command of the Hagen on 195.48.1.
Bone: Up until Petroom, what has duty aboard the ship been like?
Bailey: Actually, it has been pretty exciting for me. I always dreamed of captaining a ICN dreadnought, and sometimes when I wake up, I pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.
We spend most of our time drilling. It is not only good for improving combat effectiveness, but does wonders for morale. A bored crew is a dead crew.
Bone: What type of starcaptain do you perceive yourself as?
Bailey: Well, first and foremost I am loyal to von Schulenburg. He has always been good to me, but VERY firm. The one thing I have learned from him is independent action.
I pride myself on knowing when to deviate from standing orders to gain an objective, and accept responsibility if I screw up. I may not be an Oberon, but then again I can kick ass with the best of them! I might add, regardless of how I see myself, my crew is the best definition of my abilities, and by the way, it's the best damn crew in the fleet!
Bone: What was your impression of the battle against the FGZ?
Bailey: Well Mr. Hedd... umm... I am still surprised at the FGZ. I just don't understand what the Ataman was thinking. Why would anyone park a known hostile invasion fleet in enemy territory and then sit there? And don't tell me "blockade". One blockades with overwhelming forces. The FGZ fleet was more like a Picket... I'm sending the Ataman a copy of Sun Tzu.... he would do well to read it. It seems the FGZ, and I can't emphasize this enough, seriously underestimated the will of the Imperials. It's a lesson many governments should heed.
And any of those nasty rumors about me causing "brownouts" while I was in the Captain's cabin of the Hagen are an exaggeration. It was caused by my old blender- yeah, that's it...
Anyway, we searched high and low to find more Babes for this issue. Do you realize how few of them there actually are? At least the ones that would talk to us.
My Ass. Editor (in desperation) even suggested contacting the drag queens of the USS Third Fleet. But there are so many of them, we didn't know where to start. Besides they get so bitchy when you stack 'em up against the real ones.
Just as we were going to press, we got this tape from the Oberon Clan Public relations Office. I think it sums up the last of the Babes:
Dateline: ICN II Saganic Mass, somewhere in the Periphery
<....fade from black, live feed from the command deck of a ship, a young blonde, apparently standing in front of a holo-cam holding a microphone with the logo of ONN....>
"Good Evening! This is TeAnn Laylor, Oberon News Network, with an informative report on one of the newest and youngest groups to enter the arena of the Capellan Periphery. As with all good journalism, we are here to answer a question.
"The question? Does Clan Oberon have a death wish? One only has to stand on the bridge of the battleship Saganic Mass, an ship of the Imperial Capellan Navy, as her starcaptain orders an attack on a RIP baseship to know the answer....HELL YES!! GET ME OFF THIS TUB BEFORE THIS LUNATIC GETS ME KILLED!! SHE'S OUT OF HER BLOODY MIND!!
<....two huge female Imperial marines arrive from stage left, tackle the hysterical reporter and all disappear stage right. Several seconds later another women, tall, green hair, blue eyes, beautiful and extremely deadly looking, even larger than the marines, dressed in a custom, form-fitting uniform of a lieutenant of the ICN, walks into view of the camera, reaches down and picks up the dropped microphone.>
"I am Larissa Anna Oberon, starcaptain of the ICN II Saganic Mass and, before Miss Blondie there soiled her good underwear, I was the one she was going to interview. Since Laylor seems to be indisposed at the moment <...a muffled cry, followed by sounds of fists meeting flesh...> I guess I'll have to do this myself....as usual!"
<Picks up a sheet of paper from the floor> "Now let's see...first question....'Why did Clan Oberon move to the Periphery?' Hmmm....well you might say His Majesty suggested it....rather strongly I might add. Seems we ruffled a few feathers of a High Born family. Cracked some heads, actually.
"Now don't get me wrong, the Clan has always been pro-Empire, but really, some of the scum His Majesty lets walk around, well they should have been aborted BEFORE conception, believe me we tried!! So the suggestion that we seek new frontiers and serve in His Majesty Services, well an offer we couldn't refuse!"
"Next....'What is Clan Oberon?' Well, it's a family. A large, unruly, disharmonious, argumentative, and basically vicious bunch, but a family. There are actually several different family lines within the Clan but every member is an Oberon. And a piece of advice, never pick a fight with a lone Oberon at a bar... because he ain't as alone as you think! What with cousins, nieces, nephews, uncle, aunts, heck, we're an army wherever we go."
"Hmmm.....'Why do so many members of the Clan serve as military officers?' Easy- we are warriors. Fight at the drop of a hat. Spit in our eyes and we'll rip your throat out. Or die trying. We served the Emperor in the Inner Empire doing...well, never mind what we did...and now we have pledged our Clan to the Imperial Services out here. We fight for the Capellan Periphery and to uphold the Imperial Laws. Our enemies we kill, our friends we defend. Simple ain't, it?"
"Next: 'Members of Clan Oberon seem to tend toward the very large, very tall, very muscle bound, extremely attractive, and totally vicious. Aren't there any small, short, weak, ugly and timid members of the Clan?' Well, of course not. We ARE genetically superior specimens of the humanoid.....of the human race after all. Only the best genes, no defects at all. We are the warrior superior. Of course, when it comes to a brick wall, instead of going over or around, we tend to go through.....but hey, you can't have everything."
"Another question. 'Many members of the Clan have died in battles, battles that range from Northcape to Galactix, including the Battle of Petroom Square. Does the Clan have a death wish?' "No, of course not. We love to live life as much as the next guy."
"But Life IS Battle!! Without it, it's an empty, useless existence! You never feel as alive as when you pit your skills, knowledge, bravery, your very life against your enemy...and rip his lungs out!! I'm telling you when that RIP baseship blew, I nearly jumped the boatswain's mate and dragged him to the floor! What a rush! The excitement, the thrill, the killing, the blood, the, the........"
<...with a wild look in her eye, Larissa throws the microphone down, reaches out and drags a male officer into view, throwing him to the floor, out of view below the bottom of the screen. Shedding pieces of her uniform, Larissa also drops out of view. As the screen fades to black, you hear, "No, Larissa, NO!! NOT AGAIN!!!"......>
(In an office on the Imperial colony Stinkbug, a man, his face lit by the glow of the viewscreen he had been watching, his face in his hands, shaking back and forth as if to deny what he had just seen....)
Remind me to be very, very busy if Larissa shows up at the Bone office to take me to dinner. Oh, we tried to get the final Babe, Tami Krieger to talk to us, but the official EEM word was that "she is very busy doing humanitarian work at Dr. Jose Q. Armpit's Clinic for the Chemically Imbalanced". So the Kriegers have their own clinic - figures.
WHAT ABOUT POWELL HORN???
I'll get to that later- there's so much else to take care of like the Letters to the Editor:
Dear Editor,
How many Oberon's does it take to defend the Empire? Answer: One, and the chisel's point is on the Rock of Honor.
Sincerely,
D.K. Oberon
Okay, D.K., fine, whatever. Life must be real exciting out there on that rock in Galactix if all you have to do all day is ponder those types of deep philly-sophical questions. But I have a couple of questions as well. If it takes only one, then why are there so damned many of them dying in the process? Don't you folks train them enough? Next letter:
Editor:
Yes, I am still dead. Dead, dead, dead. Blown-to-bits dead.
But I'm not complaining, mind you. I went the way I wanted to. In the heat of battle, and not cowering in fecal matter in some damned Curry tube!
What I am complaining about are those damned Valkyries here in Valhalla. They fly around shrieking all the time. It really disrupts my concentration during the slugball games.
Waiting for Will Scaflock to show up so I can kick his sorry skinny ass, I remain,
Star Admiral Dax Krieger
What can I say? Some guys are just plain consistent. And finally, here's this one:
My dear Pundit,
I, too, would like to subscribe to the Ringbone Gazette, if you would be so kind.
A fan of yours,
Lt Ivan Plotnik,
Surveyor Chas Ivana
Hey, anything for a fan! It's a bit late to get you on the mailing list. But tell ya what- I'll send you Hagbard Celine's copy. He/it isn't going to get another Bone - ever.
Remember that Quman ship that ran around TCA space creating all sorts of mayhem? Supposedly it was a so-called journalist on a fact finding trip. Well, unbeknownst to even that amateur hack, the Bone had secretly placed a correspondent on board. No, he didn't do nasty things like hand out motor oil to underage AIS maintenance units to get them to spray graffiti on the highport. He simply gathered information, gossip, all sorts of neat stuff. One of the juiciest pieces he smuggled back from TCA-land was the secret Zolmani Code (found on a placemat in a fast food joint):
1. Anything worth doing, is worth doing for money.
2. Buy for less, sell for more.
3. Always sell at the highest possible price.
4. A bargain usually isn't.
5. When someone says "It's not the money", they're lying.
6. Peace is good for business.
7. War is good for business.
8. Never buy anything you can't sell.
9. Never use stellars where words will do.
10. Go where no one has gone before; where there's no reputation, there's money to be made.
11. If it works, sell it. If it works well, sell it for more. If it doesn't work, quadruple the price and sell it to the EKN as an artifact.
12. There is no profit in revenge.
13. Honor and an empty wallet is worth the wallet.
14. Buy, sell, or get out of the way.
15. A friend is a friend until you sell him something. Then he's a customer.
16. Necessity is the mother of invention, but Greed is the father.
17. The difference between a pile of crap and a pile of stellars is commerce.
18. Never spend your own money if you can avoid it.
19. Never give away what can be sold.
20. Borrow on a handshake; lend in writing.
21. If they accepted your first offer, you asked for too little or offered too much.
22. Stay neutral in conflicts; that way you can sell supplies to both sides.
23. Always know what you're buying.
24. He that speaks ill of your products will buy them.
25. Blood is thicker than water, but it's harder to sell.
And they say we only drink and pontificate- hah! We drink, pontificate and print this junk. So there!
HEY- WHAT ABOUT POWELL HORN?
Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it! Sheesh, can't an editor do a lead in? Those clowns at Stormgate News Network can get away with it... Okay, here it is. In Week 36 a covert operation rescued Powell Horn, former governor of then-IND Pittsburgh, from Hoylex under the noses of the SMS.
The story started when I was left behind on Petroom while the ICN Hagen went off to get its hull repaired. I covered the Petroom dog-and pony show from there, and sorta dinged the ship leaving orbit of Werth ( but that's another story).
When I stumbled into the GTT starport's bar, I found that PD Whispers celebrated the victory by raising the drink prices. At least he didn't charge rent for the booth.
Anyway, I'm sitting in this booth, nursing a much- watered-down margarita, when the bartender ambles over. The crooked name-tag on his stained tuxedo shirt read "Jetro Beezer".
"You Hedd?"
"No," I replied, "me an ass if you listen to Hagbard Celine," Jetro the bartender gave me a blank look.
"Yes, I'm Hedd."
"Good!" the bartender said, "People been looking all over for you. You've gotta message. Manager's got it in his office."
I picked up my watery margarita and went to the back of the bar, half-expecting a troop of Shiny Helmets (tm) to be waiting with a personal "Die, You Bastard-Gram". But the only thing I got was a short message from "a friend" at SMS Pittsburgh. It read:
HEDD: HORN TO BE RESCUED. WANT TO COVER IT?
So began the Bone's minor and observatory part in the covert mission, Operation Sousa (Sousa- Horn, get it? never mind...). The newest member of our crack staff, Homer Q. Duckbutt, got the task of covering the rescue.
By Homer Q. Duckbutt
I was cleaning the press when the Ass. Editor called me in and gave me the assignment. Me? Cover the rescue of Powell Horn? It was something every cub reporter dreamed of. It was also a ticket to prison if I got caught. So I packed my reporter's bag and set out to the meeting point in a local hotel.
Werth is a Free Port, meaning it's also a good place to meet people. My contacts turned out to be "Tsunami", a colony governor of a major Company, and "Gryphon"; a moderately well-known retired senior officer. After many years, Gryphon had decided to take his skills as a warrior and starcaptain to the private sector.
Tsunami had been asked to head up the project as a favor to Horn. He would be the front office, handle the financial aspect of things, and give the operation a an air of legitimacy. The governor had never done this before, he told me, but he was willing.
Gryphon was honest with me as well.
"This was is my first job doing this."
"You mean as a mercenary?"
"Uh huh. If things don't go well, there's a chance we'll end up in an SMS prison- or dead." He grinned at me. "You still want to come along?"
I wasn't too keen on either, but I had a job to do. So I gritted my teeth, set up my portacomp and began to record all the goings-on.
It was slow goings-on at first. After several weeks of late-night calls, they had formulated a plan. The limiting factor was stellars: there were two donations that totaled a bit over *100,00, plus some limited funds at Tsunami's disposal.
The biggest problem was getting a ship. While there were a few small ships available for hire or purchase, an IND vessel showing up over Pittsburgh would have triggered alarms, not to mention a few SMS missiles. There was also the problem of letting an unknown starcaptain in on the plan. Tsunami didn't want to use one of the ships at his disposal. They twiddled their collective thumbs and argued with each other another couple of weeks trying to come up with a plan. I wondered how Horn's air supply was holding out.
Gryphon came up with a solution. He used his connections and managed get a Company warship to make the run to Hoylex. The ship's starcaptain was an ensign long overdue for a promotion, and she was interested in a quick and lucrative retirement. It cost *30,000 for her and another *30,000 for the crew, but we had us a ship. Best of all, it was running "anonymous"!
Things began to move quickly. Tsunami made arrangements for me to go along with Gryphon to meet the ship at a colony in the Capellan system. Gryphon and I were to travel with the ship.
The warship landed in the starport a couple of TUs later than planned. I wasn't too impressed with it; it had the hangar-queen look of a ship that had been inactive for a long time. The hull was tarnished and weather-beaten. Gryphon told me that according to the records, the ship had gone into mothballs right after it had been built.
We met the starcaptain at the gangway. She wasn't human, but there was no mistaking the hard-bitten expression and the faint air of bitterness. Gryphon had told me on the way over that she'd captained various ships, including one in the Draconian sector in its early days. But she'd never made it past lieutenant, and it always seemed that she ended up with dead-end assignments. The offer of fifty thousand stellars was enough for her to begin her retirement.
The inside of the ship was clean but the air still had that long-stored smell. The crew we passed on our way to the captain's cabin had that same beaten-dog attitude the starcaptain did. All we got was a few disinterested looks.
Once inside the cabin, Gryphon made his briefing short and to the point. He handed the starcaptain a navigation tape and a set of jump calculations. I noticed that while the space square was correct, the jumps stopped one system shy of Jemian. She looked at the tapes briefly, then smiled as she watched Gryphon make a 30,000 stellar transfer to the ship.
"Half now," He told her, "Half when we finish."
"No problem," she told Gryphon, "when do we leave?"
"Ten TUs. Will there be any problem with the crew?"
"No," she smiled coldly, "if there is, they'll take an unplanned walk. I have extra crew on board on board."
* * * * *
Five TUs later we were ready to take off. As I secured the portacomp in the stateroom set aside for me, I could hear a couple of the crew talking in the passageway outside.
"So waddya think?"
"Thousand stellars is a good piece of change."
"Waddya think we gotta do ta earn it?" the first voice asked.
"Hey," the second voice snorted, "Long as we aren't shooting up stuff or cozying up to the Foelians, I don't care what we gotta do. But the navigator says it a pick-up of some sort. Some high muckety-muck who doesn't want to be seen."
I heard the first voice make some sort of comment, then there was laughter. As it faded away, the intercom blared out "make ready for takeoff". I strapped in.
Except for meals and the occasional trip to the command section, I stayed in my cabin. Gryphon had taken the starcaptains's cabin near the bridge, but he pretty much did the same thing.
It was early in the first watch when I was awakened and told to go up to the bridge. Gryphon had just handed over the last set of jump coordinates. The starcaptain smiled as she read them.
"Hoylex, huh?"
"Yes," the mercenary replied, "and scan for other shipping when we enter and orbit. If it's clear, we land."
"Where?"
"I'll enter the sector coordinates in myself," Gryphon told her, "just have four crew and an extra suit ready when we land." The alien starcaptain looked hurt.
"S'matter? Don't trust me?" she demanded.
"The less you know, the less trouble you get in," the mercenary said quietly as he drew his sidearm and held it next to his thigh, "You can take us in, or you can take the half share you got now and spend the remainder of the trip in your cabin."
She glared at Gryphon, then barked orders to her navigator.
There were no ships in orbit, and Pittsburgh and ROC Liability gave us their usual scans. The descent was quick but the landing was slow, about twice normal. We were coming down near a crater and there were too many rocks scattered about.
Finally we set down with a gentle thud. Gryphon called me to the back of the bridge.
"Ready to go out?"
"Me?!!"
"You." he replied, "Someone has to stay here if our starcaptain gets nervous and wants to cut out." He pulled a map out of his coveralls and spread it on the bulkhead.
"See this rock formation here? Lock your suit's direction finder on the ship's transponder and head out on relative bearing 320 degrees. Take a light with you. The signal is one short flash, followed by one long flash. The answer is three short flashes. Repeat that five times. Horn'll show up."
"What if things go wrong?" I asked.
"Tell 'em who you are. Say you're on assignment, writing about those ground parties that disappeared when the SMS took over Pittsburgh. Ask a lot of questions. It's not in their territory, so they might back off. If not- hit the alarm key on your radio. I'll deal with it then."
I was going to ask him how he was going to deal with it, but figured that I really didn't want to know. So I headed toward main to get into my suit.
* * * * *
The last time I wore a spacesuit was during the emergency drill on the liner out to Werth. It took me damned near a half-TU to get into the thing. The suit was an older model, so you had to put on those waste tubes and stuff yourself. The rest of my ground party was waiting patiently by the airlock.
Hoylex is a dump. There's nothing there but rocks and dust, topped with more rocks and dust.
In one crater we found the remains of thirty or so people. Their spacesuits were dust-covered and from the looks of things they must've died from lack of air. We didn't go near them, but I marked the spot in my suit's computer. Maybe the contact at Pittsburgh would want it.
One of our group found the rendezvous point and we set up shop. With three of them standing watch, I pointed my light at the specified bearing and started signaling every fifteen minutes for three minutes. A TU passed, then another. At the 5 TU mark I started to worry. We had another couple of days' worth of air, but no food and only our suit's supply of water. I could tell the crew in my party were getting nervous. But Gryphon had told us the agreed -upon time window was one day. I picked up my light, sighed and began signaling again.
Four TUs or so later, a lone space-suited figure showed up in the shadow of a low ridge.
One short and one long flash. Three short flashes. Same answer when I flashed again. The figure drew closer and I could see he was armed with a blaster. I repeated my code and got the same answer.
Powell Horn walked slowly up to us, the blaster dangling from one hand. His suit was badly scuffed. Most of the paint on the helmet was chipped off . Through the scratched faceplate, I saw that he looked haggard and drawn. Slowly Horn smiled and made a sign that his radio was out. Then he collapsed into the arms of a couple of the crew.
It took the better part of a TU to carry him back to the ship; trying to stay to the low areas and watching for trouble. I half-expected to see an SMS ground party at every turn with weapons drawn.
A medical team met us a half-klick from the ship and we practically ran to the airlock. The starcaptain lifted her ship off even as Horn was being carried to the sickbay. I stripped off the suit and went up to the bridge.
"Nice job," Gryphon said as I walked in.
"Nice that it's over." I said and gave him a rundown of the mission, including the bodies we found in the crater.
"Colonists from Pittsburgh," the mercenary said, "must've been from one of those groups that fled when the colony got captured. Most of 'em were picked up, supposedly."
"Guess we found some of the ones that didn't make it." I replied. Gryphon didn't say anything.
The trip out was uneventful. Gryphon sent his messages and the balance of the stellars was transferred. He'd made a nice *30,000 on this deal (Tsunami got the other ten grand) Horn was very weak, dehydrated and thin, but he'd live. He was awake when I walked in .
"Hi, Minister. Care to answer a few questions?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at me.
"The press?"
"Uh, huh. Ringbone Gazette." I set my portacomp on a nearby table. "The boss-man, Harold Hedd, wanted to ask you a few questions if you were up to it."
"Good a time as any." Horn replied. I made the secure link and Hedd came on the screen:
Bone: Hello, Powell! How are you feeling?
Horn: It is with great relish that I greet you. I have heard much of your exploits during my "exile". I can think of no other person that I would like to discuss issues with. I am feeling well, although a prolonged diet of space rations and the occasional shot of beef jerky makes me want to never see either again!
Bone: How long have you been hiding?
Horn: I have been hiding on the moon Hoylex for more years than I can count! It was just before the fall of Pittsburgh that I created an extended living quarters in a remote cave on the planet. I was able to store enough food, water and air to last 10 people for 5 years. As it turned out, I was the only one to make it there, so I had (gasp) 50 years of food, water and air!
The trick was getting the mini-cloaking device installed in the cave to prohibit being found out by colony recon planes. SMS Pittsburgh never found me, but I don't think they really looked for me too hard either (rueful smile).
Bone: What brought this exile about?
Horn: My self-imposed exile was brought about by the fall of IND Pittsburgh. It all came about when a good friend in the RIP asked to get maintenance done on his ships for a GREAT price. The problem was, all of a sudden he returned to the Inner Empire, leaving the ships sitting in my starport! I was not informed of his departure to the Inner Empire until it was too late.
Bone: Is it true that you went from IND to RIP? Why?
Horn: I was forced to turn the colony RIP. I thought as long as I was IMP-posted, I might as well get the combat bonuses for RIP since I was going to get attacked anyway.
After another 2 years as RIP, the IMP/SMS finally decided to "do something" about me. During that time, I had built up two separate class-5 colonies, one next to Pittsburgh, and one in Ryerson (2nd Foundation). Had I not branched out, I believe that I may have made it MUCH more tough for the IMP/SMS to throw me out. (grins)
Bone: You were SMS, then IND for years, right?
Horn: Yes, I was IND for a long time. When the RIP ships were spotted, my 3 years as IND was at an end. This all went back to the way the SMS as a company and myself as a person were treated by the Inner Empire corporate office in the waxing days before the "great time slowdown".
The process leading me to IND were a series of events. It started when a new company the PDC, appeared with some SMS-specific abilities that I had personally researched and was told by the "Head Office" were "impossible to implement".
This then followed immediately by a strion outpost in the Old World system that without reason changed from a yield of 22 to 2.2. It seems as though the 'gods' struck the outpost with lightning or something (something about "a bug in the mining program").
The icing on the cake was when I spent hundreds of hours on exploring the planet TX-27 in the Old World system. My SMS GPI's showed an "other ore" probability of 1%, which, when I was completely finished, had NO other ore on the planet!
Bone: Any truth to the rumor that you were thinking of joining the IMP?
Horn: Me join the IMP? Well, believe it or not, just as I quit the SMS in disgust and went IND, I was approached by some IMP members and asked if I would consider joining the IMP and possibly assume a leadership position in the IMP, I think it was ICN PD.
I was completely flabbergasted. I had NO combat experience, being in charge of a bunch of Dirt Haulers. However, after I showed an initial interest in the job, I was informed that my services would not, after all, be desired.
It seems as though the IMPs did some background checks, and found out that in the Inner Empire, I happened to have lived in close proximity to some RIP/FOE/DTR leaders (called the "Virginia Beach Gang"). It was determined that I could not be trusted, as my close proximity to them was too tempting to divulge state secrets! Well, that sure got me cooking, and I started to cultivate RIP ties instead.
Bone: Did you always have a "hide-out" set up?
Horn: As I said before, I really didn't have a hide out set up until the late stages of the Pittsburgh Blockade.
Bone: There were others who fled with you. What happened to them?
Horn: I had arranged to have 60,000 colonists of Pittsburgh flee to the IMP/SMS ground assault forces, but they just left them to sit outside the colony's domes to DIE! I regret I never heard what happened to them. There were three ground parties named "We Surrender". [The Bone's investigation revealed that "officially" the colonists in the three GPs were captured. The Hoylex expedition showed that not all of them survived to be taken - ed.]
Bone: So what happens now? Are the SMS still looking for you?
Horn: To the best of my knowledge, there never was an official arrest warrant by the SMS or IMP for my person. They never looked for me, at least that I know of.
I was able to keep in touch with the outside world by the portable comm unit I kept with me, and was able to monitor the public band widths. The darn SMS went and changed all my codes for the computers at Pittsburgh, so I wasn't able to maintain much on the private bandwidths. They forgot to change one little-used maintenance frequency, which I used VERY sparingly over the years to keep in touch with some RIP vessels/colonies.
Well, I am tired. I need to rest. There are some old documents I managed to keep with me, you may do with them what you wish. It goes back to my earliest SMS days. The first two are on some planetary research methods, and some info on some moons in the Ryerson system. When I get more rested, I will pass on more info.
Bone: Thanks for the interview, Powell. Good luck.
Horn: Thank you for your time.
________________________________________________________________________
As I finish this report, we're on our way to drop Horn off. A friend of his has agreed to put him up at a nice estate until Powell decides what to do next.
Gryphon hasn't said what his next job will be. The market's gotten a bit more crowded now though; I mentioned the O'Brien clan to him and he laughed.
"They have a different client base than I will. There's plenty of work."
As for me, I'll head back to my tiny office/broom closet and go back to work. As a flunky.
Ten to one, nobody's cleaned the press since I left.
No, we didn't clean the press. And make sure you wash the floor as well. Great sufferin' *BOB*- you give these new reporters an assignment and they think they're Sara Bursar or something.
WK 17, 197. The MYR announce that former Gummer-ball All-Star Sar "Scratchy" Ter has retired from the MYR Merchant Fleet. During his 3-year pro career, he led his team, the Leapin' Sawbusters, to the finals twice and a championship from 191-193.
Scratchy, who got his name from a victory swing he used to do after scoring, met with a freak accident that fractured his leg in several hundred places and ended his stellar athletic career. After a year of rehabilitation at the Cheeki Medical Facility to heal his broken leg , Scratchy entered the Myrrian Merchant Fleet and tool command of the MYR Placentia.
Most of Scratchy's service is considered classified, but it did include checking out one suspicious-looking ship which turned out to be harmless. Unfortunately the accelerations of space proved too much for Scratchy's health. So on Week 17, Scratchy landed the Placentia at DTR Alamo, where a small retirement party was held to honor his achievements. He has taken up permanent residence at Alamo, which has a lower gravity and is easier on his injury. Scratchy did however bring a little bit of home with him; 1 MU of food was delivered in case he didn't like the human stuff.
Scratchy's former command the Placentia, has been sold to the Detinus Republic.
Always glad to have news from TCA-way, especially from the MYR.
Lastly here's one of my favorite sections of the rag. culled from the List, various and sundry scruffy unverifiable news sources, legitimate press releases, and folks simply with an axe to grind. It's the Bone's:
- A one-million stellars is being offered by a private citizen as "hit money" should an IND ship be destroyed by the USS as a result of their policy.
- An IND fleet of six or seven capital warships (DNs, DVs, BSs) has been purchased from various sources, along with an unspecified number of transports and smaller ships. Most of the ships have been specialized. "Officially", they're supposed to be some sort of volunteer force, but another source claims the fleet is a "deep-strike force" on a revenge mission.
- There have been high-level meetings between Imperial officials and certain groups at various places in the Periphery . One rumor says some systems may be allowed autonomy (an old Ludendorf plan). Another says that a few systems may be ceded outright by the Stellar Empire.
- The Community may be making a comeback, or at least a faction of it. At least one COM colony may exist.
- A highly modified ship crewed by volunteers is being used in a long-distance travel experiment. Rumors have it as either a converted survey cruiser, or an alien ship design.
- Marriage is in the plans for several notable figures in the Periphery for early 197.
- With the Dominion announcement came news that one, possibly two races/governments have agreed to exchange intellligence information in return for territory.
- Another nefarious plague has been developed. Nobody knows who it's meant for, or how it's supposed to be transmitted. Several sources do claim that it is "tailor-made".
Guess we can call this one a wrap. Many thanks to those who contributed in one form or another. And many thanks to you readers who got this far without falling asleep, tossing the rag in a far corner, or using it as emergency toilet paper (maybe the Flagritz can use the Bone instead of squirrels for their amusement, eh?), thanks for subscribing. The Bone's reader list is almost at the levels before the BCFTW (Big Change For the Worse).
We're working on a few more interviews for the next issue, a chapter (hopefully) from the Oberon saga, and perhaps another bombshell or two.
Speaking of bombs- our beloved saki-swilling curmudgeon Radman, has departed for the Inner Empire. Something about a new business venture. So no "THE RAD" for the foreseeable future. Maybe we can hire on some of his staff, or Mr. Boschlet.
In any case, as always, literary (or not) contributions are accepted, provided they're written in character and aren't too weird. Send the news stuff to the CPT tho.
Oh yeah, our e-mail address is [email protected].
See you in the End of the Year (Fall) Issue- which is about an't that far away! Good grief, I'd better get moving!
Tiffany McBride (SMS Mallbabe deluxe)
Oberon News Network
Governor Drak K. Oberon, IMP Stinkbug
King Komehameha, RIP
Command Staff, Imperial Capellan Navy
LT Hannah Bailey, ICN Hagen
Hizzoner Rlo Krieger, IND Werth
ADM "Gryphon", IND
Lord Vader, FGZ Der Laul, MYR
D'zk Ki'Krrr-ba, KZK (Northcape Coord.) Golden Tail Cafe at Redloc
White Silk Coffee Shop The KriegerPress
THORLIUM: Got too much of the stuff? Looking for good deals on large quantities in CP or TCA. Payment in stellars. You call- we'll haul. Contact Aoki c/o Ringbone Gazette ([email protected] or snail-mail address).
THE CAPELLAN PERIPHERY TIMES The official newsletter for BSE. Submissions wanted (news, ads, etc.). Articles should be 2100 characters or less, in ASCII text (.txt) format and in character. Send submissions, comments etc. to: CURRY PUBLICATIONS ([email protected]) or THE KRIEGER PRESS ([email protected]). CPT is written by Curry Publications and published by Krieger Press.
The Ringbone Gazette is a long established role-playing newsletter covering characters and events of Beyond the Stellar Empire (BSE) . The Ringbone Gazette is published four times a year (more or less quarterly) by the Ringbone Press. This rag is an unofficial role-playing publication of BSE and should not be construed nor remotely interpreted as being official BSE-gospel nor representing the views and policies of Rolling Thunder Games (RTG), its gamemasters, or anyone else official-like. All submissions, letters, articles etc. are done in-character, unless clearly stated otherwise. The Ringbone Gazette is copyrighted 1996 by the Ringbone Press.