Nerd Rant

This morning, @ 5 am, on my way to work, I realized that many people are on about Luke Skywalker's involvement in the upcoming film.

I don’t care.

Luke is a sham hero.

He enters the film as a whining teen who is lazy and unambitious. He doesn’t want to do his chores, and seems bored and unenthusiastic even when buying new droids, clearly a rare event in his slow, farm boy life. He’s so weak willed that C3PO talks him into which robot to buy with virtually no effort.

Then he sees a hot chick, and hares off into the uber dangerous desert to meet with a known weirdo. He gets back home, cries his eyes out, and wanders off with Ben Kenobi in shock, with promises of glory and power in his mind, but he can't even handle a bar fight.

Still fixated on Leia's image he rescues her, with a LOT of help, but is more comfortable with the idea of her than the reality. He is generally a dick to her until he gets back on his space warrior fantasy kick and barely cares that her HOME PLANET was blown to hell.

Luke was born with power, and even his first lightsaber was literally handed to him.

Han Solo on the other hand, is a self-made man, earning his living out on the fringe, dealing first hand with a greedy and deeply corrupt government, and the gangsters who rule the spaces in between.

He takes risks, sure. At any time, he could lose his ship, which is both his home and livelihood. He negotiates with a Jedi and gets a good deal, if said Jedi was not lying like dogs, which of course he was. ‘Cause Jedi lie.

Still, Han makes lemons out of lemonade and goes in to rescue Leia. Sure, she’s a stuck up brat, and below the age of consent, but she’s got money. So if he can live through being caught with a pack of know fugitives, who are also, according to the Empire, religious extremists and terrorists, he may at least get a pay day.

In the end, he even comes back to help, because he knows that it’s a just fight (despite Luke’s flaws) and uses his Civilian Freighter to fire off a few shots to buy Luke some time.

Luke owns nothing, so his risk is less meaningful.

He runs forward spurred by the invincibility of youth and fervor for a religion he does not understand. Han chose to return to the fight against all sense, again, because he knows it's right.

Sure, he's a rogue and scoundrel. His world sucks. He was faced with the choice of being a peasant or an outsider; he chose freedom over the leash.

Did Han shoot first? Of course he did. Faced with death, I would too. So SHOULD you. Violence begins with intent, not action.

So, who cares about a whiny nerf herder? I want Han back.

Comms update, Valka Thorsdottir.

We are about to meet Valka Thorrsdottir. Nice Girl, too.

She's got that girl next door face, a tomboy's grin, a few freckles, hiding under a mess of bond hair she tried to braid under her helmet. She's a little Tall for her kind, about 6'11", and a lithe 320 lbs, solid muscle. A girl likes to keep in shape, no?

Born on a world that actually breed up a group of "Biggies" on purpose, she left home to make her way, but her way turned out to be guard work.

Feel free to sketch the lady, she's 25, young, and fairly good looking if you like'em tall. Sketch contest ends OCT 1, I'll write and extra update in OCT for every sketch turned in. Inspire me people. Also, going back to 2 updates per month. I gotta get this done!!

Comms Update _ October and Racism in the future.

Sorry, it's been a while since the ship broke a system boundary, so no data loads for some while.

So, Progress has been slow, but it is there. Sharren is still alive, and she is about to meet some new folks. One of the tones i have had to deal with recently is racism. Tough subject, and one only approached from a side ways angle in the book. Still, i thought i would put down a little about what is happening in the story world in terms of racism, and how it is expressed.

First off, I need to note that bigotry and prejudice are actually more important terms, as they are the real factors at work here.   Earth it self is a pretty nice place to live and work, and "race" as we know it is not a major concern in most humans daily lives. With travel being fast and cheap, the work force being highly mobile, and industry being largely off-planet, people of all colors and origins interact frequently, and end up working on the same space side facilities.

Also, the wars of the story's past were costly, and left Africa and South America in very strong political/social positions at the beginning of the new age. Religion is not in fashion, so many former cultural problems have migrated to a new form of elitism, and good old fashioned classism.

This closeness, and the reduction of language and religious barriers has largely eliminated color based bigotry.

Classism is quite simple. Earth folk tend to view new colonies much like 18th century Britain viewed Australia, as a penal colony. They look at deportees with a mix of pity and distaste, and are likely to lump such folks all together into one heap, the heap of poor criminals. Earthers also tend to assume that folks from any other planet are poor, at best. One of the more commonly held negative beliefs in this setting is that the chaff falls to the bottom, and it's a good thing we can use them on the colonies, because they have no place here. Levels of classist behavior of course vary from one individual to the next.

Elitism is a different, but related problem. the most common forms are the earth first attitude held by many earthers. This is a simple belief that earth is just better, and that any one, from nay where must recognized this fact.

The most culturally shared bigotry, however, is anti-posthumanism. There are a large number of people, especially on the more religious colonies, who hate post humans. they argue that giving up, or deeply modifying your body is some kind of unforgivable sin. This applies equally to Chimeras, bio-moded people, and cyborgs. Thus, most biggies, greyhounds, goblins have had some kind of negative or strongly negative experience growing up.

the Character Keeva in Avi's stories is a good example, as her father was run out of office and black balled because of marrying her mother, a Greyhound class chimera. The simple act of marring a fully human looking person, but one that was a gene-mod from a war that happened before h was born, ruined a man's life.

One would hope that bigotry might have ended, but like all things, it merely changed.

Comms Update - Pirates

So, what do interstellar pirates do? Why would they go to the rather hefty expense of acquiring a ship, and maintaining it, just to thieve and extort?

Well, they don't do it to steal space ships. Once away from a planet, it can be rather difficult to catch a star ship. Space is pretty big, and it is relatively easy to see some one coming and run away. Add to that the dangers of ship to ship combat, and space-born piracy is both difficult and unlikely to be profitable.

Most pirates make their living stealing essentials like food and water from newer colonies, or selling black market equipment to established but under-supported colonies. It generally depends on how desperate they are.

A lot of pirates start out as legitimate business folk such as miners, long-haul traders, or floating hospitals. When these businesses inevitably fail, the crews sometimes get desperate. food, water, and the desire to be free are strong motivators. Desperate folks do desperate things when survival is on the line. Some just establish themselves as colonists, using the resourse thier ship provides as leverage to join a new colony. Others take what they need and leave, often by force or extortion.

The violent ones usually target very new colonies, and steal food, raw ore, and people. Yes, sadly there is a market for people out there. The less violent act as illegal traders and "defenders", extorting protection money from the local population. either way, pirates tend to be underfunded, and often stay away from any place they know to be defended. A real military or militia can often drive them away with ease.

As the UNCN garrisons more and more fledgling colonies, the pirate element grows more and more desperate,

Comms Load 22- Death of a cyborg

This is the end of Sharren's first scene, redone please let me know what you think!

---

Henderson saw it burst out of the back door. It was huge, and fast, and carrying a big gun. He was ready for it. He led the target a few feet and fired a grenade at it. All his time at the range paid off, he scored a direct hit, rocking the beast on it's heels and sending a shower of glowing shrapnel washing over it.

It turned towards him and leveled it’s rifle, but nothing happened. He fired again, but the beast side stepped, shrapnel harmlessly skittering over it’s armor. It dropped it’s rifle, and drew a hand cannon the like of which he had never seen.

The cyborg sprinted towards him, jinking left and right, firing at him with that massive gun. The first hit caught him in the shoulder, and he spun, losing his balance. He tried to recover a shooting position, but several more rounds slammed into his armor. Warnings were flashing in his visor. The only thing keeping him alive was that no two rounds hit him in the same place as the heavy rounds made him dance like marionette.

the hail of bullets let up, and He dropped to one knee, finally able to level his gun, but it was too late. It had closed the gap.

---

Sharren ripped the gun from the marines hands, and pressed her own weapon into his face with her left.  The smooth white face of his helmet reminded her of self.  As she squeezed the trigger,  time slowed to a crawl.

Warnings screamed in her HUD. One of the other marines saw her, and her peripheral sensors warned her he was firing. The grenade slammed into her side, just under her left arm. He armor would have stopped a frag grenade. The white hot thermite lance of the armor-piercer was a different matter.

The heat and pressure sliced through her armor and washed over her internal systems,  melting and blasting her them askew. She slew sideways, feeling her limbs go weak, barley able to take a step as tried to catch herself.

The second grenade hit her in the small of her back. She went numb, and fell. Darkness came upon her like a wall, and she was gone. 

Comms Load 21. Sharren Re-do.

been doing some serious editing lately, here is the most recent update, a complete redo of chapter one. Vastly improved.

comments re more than welcome, they are encouraged. 

She was enjoying the rain, the sound it made as it fell to the ground. It played out across the landscape in whispers and plops, a random pitter patter that gently washed away the silence of the colonial country side. While the soft white noise of shipboard life was pleasant, it was not loud enough to drown out her thoughts. The rain was.   

She paused for a moment, enjoying the peace. She held out her right hand, and caught a few drops, watching them splash against the flexible polymer skin of her palm. They were to light to feel, but telltales scrolling along the edges of her peripheral vision showed her that it was a cold, heavy rain; the kind she would have hated as a child. Different times, she thought. She quickly brushed the thought aside; her father had taught her better than to dawdle when there was work to be done.

She was crouched low, her double jointed legs compressed tightly and leaning forward on her left hand.  She was at the edge of her targets’ property, having come on foot through the forest that hemmed in the large farm. She was taking cover behind an earthen windbreak at the south edge of the fields. Her feet were sunk several inches into the mud.

The other side of the artificial ridge sheltered some kind of cabbage. Vile stuff, she remembered. Why do I only remember things I didn’t like? Sharren shook the memories away again, wondering why they came unbidden at times like this.

There was work to do. She crawled forward like a giant cat, moving carefully on all fours.  The windbreak was only a meter or so high, and it took an effort to stay low enough as she crept closer to her goal. The ridge ended some 50 meters later, Sharren dropped on her belly and  slid her body as close to the edge of it as she dared without exposing herself.

A thin aerial slid out of her left shoulder, no more than 2 millimeters across.  It was tipped with a series of tiny camera beads, hardly larger than the antenna itself. She extended it to its full length, allowing her to peer  over the edge of the ridge without risking the rest of her body. The only way these hillbillies would be able to see it at all in this weather would be with thermal imaging gear.  She was wiling to bet they had no such thing.

She let her point of view change from that of her head to that of the camera. She had gotten used to the sudden shift years ago, but it still took her a moment to adjust.  The night was dark, and aerial’s optics were not as good as her primary system.

Her onboard Virtual Intelligence was showing her a composite of night vision and thermal mode. The view it created was a pretty mix of green tinged with thermal hot spots overlaid in reds and yellows.  There was a farm house across a large unkempt lawn, and a barn further to her right, nearer the other corner of the field. The house was glowing hot on the thermal spectrum, but the barn was cold, and there were vehicles parked near it.

She focused her attention on the house.  Her VI started to bring up relevant structural data in the lower left corner of her vision, but she ignored it. The main house was a prefabricated model, standard on most UNW colonies. It was a single floor, with one door in front, and one in back. The windows were a thin light-weight plastic, with simple internal locks.  The owner had added a two story wing on the eastern side of the house. He had used local wood and stone, the effect was quite pretty. The siding panels had been painted in alternating blue and white horizontal stripes.  

The main door was clearly the original prefab’s front door. There was a pretty little garden wall surrounding a quaint yard in front of the house, about 5 by 5 meters. There was a guard near that door, and a window just to his right. He was the only person in sight.

The guy was leaning against the house in a feeble attempt to avoid getting rain on his face.  The heavy poncho he wore made it difficult for Sharren to determine if the guard was wearing armor. The poor bastard was just huddled under the eve, trying not to shiver in the cold, sloppy rain.

The house had some external lights, but nothing like a search light. The glow they cast did not reach far beyond the garden.

 Sharren’s lips would have curled into an evil smirk, but she had not kept her face in the last upgrade. You poor, dirt-eating hillbillies. These are your security measures?  She shook her head. I can’t belive they expect to stand up to us. She felt like the villain in a children’s story.  The people, they were the villagers.

Why do they do this? She thought. Captain Marcotte had given these locals five days to come up with a metric ton of untainted food, and at least a kilo of gold or platinum. He had come armed. He had been specific, with the usual death threats and show of force. He had even calculated in advance what these people could afford to lose, using data from orbital flyovers.

These goat-fuckers had messed it all up. They had not paid. Now they had to be shown that defiance was more expensive than compliance. Her orders were clear: Find their leaders and make an example of them. Tear them limb from limb and leave behind a nightmare; those were the words Captian Marcotte had used.

Sharren looked the area over one last time. Her VI calculated the distance to the door and feed it to her Heads Up Display, almost exactly 112 meters. She retracted the camera, and checked her rifle as the ariel slid back inside her shoulder. It was an older Prussian model, a heavy 12mm bull-pup set up with an excellent optics package.

The rifle’s scope had been hardwired to her VI through a data connection in the gun’s grip. She could see ammo quantity, gun status, and point of aim through her H.U.D., showing her exactly where the gun was pointed via a little red X. She preferred simple graphics over some of the more modern versions.

Despite the system showing her green lights, a manual check of the gun made her feel better. She released the plastic ammo block, and confirmed the first round had already been chipped off.  Sharren slapped it back into the feed and checked the chamber, then made sure her side arm was secure in its magnetic holster on her left leg. Once she was sure everything was in place, she waited for the storm.

The storm did not disappoint her. Lighting flashed, and brought with it the thunder she had been waiting for.

She was ready for it. Her powerful electro-polymer muscles launched her two hundred and forty kilogram frame over the ridge and into a sprint, the rolling sound of thunder hiding the noise of her foot falls. Sharren cleared the distance in just over five seconds. The guard saw her as she skipped over the garden wall, he let out surprised yell and tried to raise his shot gun.

The gun never reached level. Sharren used the momentum built up on her sprint to deliver a stomp-kick to his chest.  Ribs collapsed beneath her armored foot, and her talons scrapped against the house as she pressed his corpse to the ground.

It seems he was not wearing armor, she noted to herself.

Without looking at her handy work, she side stepped and punched through the window nearest the door. The clear polymer sheet gave way to her fist, leaving the window a spider web of cracks. She released a flash-bang from her forearm and whirled around. Her VI knew what she wanted, and detonated the grenade remotely, not waiting for its timer to expire. Sharren turned her attention back to the door, and kicked it. The door’s bolt failed under the force, slamming it open. Her forward momentum carried her across the threshold like death's bride.

She could see the people in the main room easily, despite the dark. Most of them were reeling, blind and deaf from the flash bang.  The ones that could see were stricken with fear, wide eyed and open mouthed in shock. They hid behind makeshift barricades of over turned furniture.

She rose from her usual combative crouch to her full seven foot height as she strode one more step into the room, letting the light fall on her demonic armored form. Slowly and deliberately, she  swayed side to side. She had seen a snake do this once, and enjoyed the way it menaced folks.

“Do you have our payment?” She vocalized. Sharren was using a voice she had calibrated just for such occasions, female, but harsh and dark. No one moved, and for a moment the world seemed frozen. Distant lightning highlighted the open door behind her, and its thunder passed by a moment later.

The Locals were trying to study her face, but there was nothing to gauge but an unmoving armor plate, sloping back from a central riser. Her armor was red and black, in a camouflage pattern, except for her fingers and hands, which were solid black.

“Well? Does this end here, or do I need to make good the Captain’s words?” She vocalized the last line slowly. Internally, she had assigned her VI to assume control of her right hand, and prioritized targets for it to shoot. 

The man closest to her seemed to find his courage. He was still young, but perhaps old enough to be called a man in some places. He had his right hand on a pistol butt, and squared up his shoulders though his eyes were still watery from the dazzle of the flash grenade.

“Fuck. You. You come here and demand our crops? Our money? What are we supposed to eat after you clean us out?” The young man stood his ground, glaring at her and seething with rage.

“Life is hard little boy. We need to eat as well. We have the strength to take what we need, so we do.” She softened her voice a bit, in hopes he would back down.  “It’s a small price, compared to the alternative. Last chance to buy peace, little boy. Will you pay or will you die?”

The defiant young man started to drawn his gun, and some of the others began to follow his lead. Sharren did not even think about it, 30 years of experience made her an old hand. She grabbed the boy, her left hand shot out quick as lightning. Her VI used her right to begin shooting the others. She paid the gunfire no mind as she slammed the boys head in the ceiling one handed. She felt his skull crack, so she tossed him aside like a broken toy. The room was silent.

The after image of the boy reminded Sharren of herself at his age. Things almost worked out better for you, eh boy? Back to work. She chided herself. These distractions were going to be a problem if she could not lock it down.

Five seconds, six bodies; not bad work she thought.  The VI was trying to put names to faces, but none of them matched the Mayor's picture profile.  More work to do.

The VI was letting her know there were thirty rounds left in the gun’s ammo block as Sharren noted the stairway on her right. It seemed to go up into the newer part of the house.  She moved carefully towards it, the floor softly creaking under her weight.

There was a closed door blocking her view. She listened for breathing, but the rain was giving her too much white noise. She put two rounds through door, and got what she wanted. A startled yelp slipped out of someone, a someone which her VI highlighted faster than thought. She sent two more bullets that way, and heard the target fall over.

The pushed through the feeble wooden door and saw a male body, holding some kind of heavy fire arm. It was big enough to have possibly put a hole in her.

This is why you never advance blindly. These folk might be a challenge after all.

She slung the rifle and it magnetized itself to her back. She picked up the dead man’s boom-stick and fired through a wall, leaving an enormous hole where it blew through, showering the room inhabitants with wooden splinters.

Or maybe not, the thought as she tore the rest of the way through the wall to finish her work. 

New post coming shortly Folks!

Comm Load 20 - thinking back part 2.

We'll be taking a break from Sharren for a bit, and have a brief interlude.

As always, critique and comments are welcome and encouraged.

Her thoughts drifted to her old life.  Her father had trained her to be a survivor. He had sold his gun arm for credits for over twenty years, mostly in service to the colonists of Gaia III.

As Greek ethnic colony, it was underfunded from the start, and new colonists were scarce. The locals had been happy to trade land for a protection contract.  

It had been a nice place. Gaia III was a little cold, but it had trees, and rivers. There was even local plant and animal life, tough nothing intelligent. At five thousand two hundred light years from Sol, Gaia was rarely resupplied by the UN. The UN could not spare the 250 day trip very often, it seemed. Colonists made do with what they had, or they did without. For the most part, it was not so bad. There were no real predators to worry about, and the arable land was well suited to Earth flora.

Still, one bad year could wipe out a homestead. Medicine was a guarded commodity, as were fuel cells and high tech goods.  The UN ban on auto-doctors meant that medical training was also in short supply on the colony.

She had learned young that only the strong survive, and ‘luck’ is the word lesser people use to describe skill. She had spent hours each day working the farm, cooking and maintaining the equipment her father had worked hard to acquire. Her father taught her basic mechanics, as well as math and history, such as he could.

Her mother had died in childbirth; she had been old enough to remember it. Her baby brother only outlived their mother by a few days. Her father was the only family she had.

His work defending the locals had been easiest when she was little. Gaia III was a far flung colony in those days, and bandits were scarce. Still, not everyone who took up work as a hauler or miner can make it, and the dispossessed have to go somewhere.   

As in the ancient times on Earth, desperate people would take to raiding to supplement their own failing fortunes. When Sharren was twenty, free trader ships started to show up, usually two or three ships each year. They had tech, medicine, data loads, and fancy booze. Everything folks needed.

One such ship touched down near her own stead. They had come in without any cargo, but were looking to leave with a full hold. Her father had gone to meet the ship, to make a show of keeping order as he always did. When he came home, Sharren had ben able to tell right away that something was wrong.   

“Bandits, my dear,” was all he had to tell her.  She set to helping him, as he had trained her to do. She set out their small collection of fire arms, mostly cheap, locally built jobs. She checked her knife, and honed it’s edge. Her father saw to his body armor, and the better of the rifles.

“They’ll be coming here first” He had told her. She remembered that. He had always believed in meeting problems as head-on as possible. He had set her up in a blind near the garden.  Her Job was clear, only fire if he engaged them first.

“We need to talk them out of this if we can. If it comes to fighting, it will be a hard one. ” He never really seemed to believe he could, though.  “They will come in force, so surprise is our game. “

They had not talked much more about it. The Bandits arrived early in the morning, rolling up in a clean but old looking cargo vertol. It settled in for a landing in their front lawn, between the house and the garden, partially cutting her off from where her father planned to meet them.

They piled out of the vertol in a military like pattern, fanning out from the side and rear cargo hatches, looking on all directions. Their gear was new looking, but poor. Resin and alloy turtle shells over a web rig, heavy resin helmets, and nifty looking shin guards. Neat looking, but most likely made aboard their ship. Their fire arms were no better than her own shoddy rifle.

The pilot got out last, bringing the total count of men to nine. They approached her father, who had donned a poncho in the cool morning air. Hopefully, it would help to conceal his armor, which was a fair shade better than theirs.

The bandit captain and her father talked for several minutes, but she could not hear them very well. She was a good 60 yards from their position, and her blind was only good for visual observation. One of the better equipped bandits broke out a thermal imager and checked over the house, and the captain became more angry. Her pushed her father, a hard shove to the center of his chest.

The captain was clearly not very observant. Her father’s armor was old, but it was a power assist infantry model. Her Father threw his left arm up under the captain’s right arm, and snapped the man’s arm at the elbow with a classic standing arm bar, even as he stepped back into a weapon retention stance and drew.

Sharren heard him scream in pain. Her father was a quick draw, and a veteran mercenary. He shot the two men nearest him, his high end pistol barking out three shots. He retreated to the shed, looking for cover as the Bandits opened fire. Their assault rifles had good ammo, and the concrete walls of the shed sprayed stone and dust and they were torn to shreds.

Seeing his cover erode away, her father made for the house, trying to use the shed as visual cover for as long as possible. The six men still on their feet moved in an organized pattern, two checking their wounded, four splitting up to circle the shed on both sides.  Sharren moved up from the blind, and took careful aim, shooting one of the ones closer to her father in the hip, just below his armor. The man dropped, and the other hesitated only to be shot by her father a moment later. Dad had switched to his carbine. The heavy 7mm round knocked the man to the ground, and her father shot him a second time to be sure before heading to the house.

The other four regrouped, and moved behind their vertol for cover, dragging the wounded with them.  Sharren moved to the other side of the barn, hoping for a better angle.  She heard a few more shots while she was moving.  Her father had seen them move and circled around, she had thought.

The bandits had moved to the back area of the vertol, and were taking shelter in the cargo bay’s opening, still dragging their wounded aboard. She fired a round at one of the bandits doing the dragging. It caught him center mass, and his armor held. He returned fire one handed, spraying his rifle in her direction. Sharren dropped to the ground, and shot at him one more time. This time she missed. She rolled closer to the barn as one of the other fired on her as well.

She shot him in the leg, and he went down in a shout of frustration. Sharren did not wait, and tried to crawl backwards, to get at least visual cover form the barn. The bandits began to fan out, flanking her in. she fired and missed again, and she remembered thinking that the bandits should have had her number.

Her Father had flanked them as well, and shot each one of them in the back with his heavy carbine. Seeing her on the ground, He forgot his training and ran towards her, crossing he cargo bay as he did.

Sharren stood, up, thinking it was over, when one of the wounded bandits inside the vertol sprayed a burst of fire into her Father.  He fell like a puppet with its strings cut. She screamed, and moved to where she could see into the vertol. She shot her lest round into the head of a bandit who was reloading his weapon. She drew her revolver and shot each of the other two inside 3 times. She kicked the man she had wounded in the leg, but he had grabbed her leg, less wounded than she thought.

He struggled to bring her down, but his grip was unshakeable. She fell Hard on her ass, but her father’s training showed through her fear and surprise, pain and anguish. She drew her knife, a simple affair of hull alloy. She slammed the point into the Bandits arm, but is glanced off, sparks scattering as it scored a mark along his fore arm.

His sleeve fell away to reveal an enhanced prosthetic arm. The bandit crawled over her legs in a single drunken effort, and punched her hard in the stomach. Sharren wanted to vomit. She had never been hit so hard in her entire life.

She focused through the pain, riding high on the adrenaline wave. His mechanical arm was still clutching her leg, and he drew back his other arm to strike her again. As he brought it down she slammed the edge of the knife into his forearm, hoping to at least deflect the punch. This arm was flesh. The knife held a razor edge, the arm was fileted from wrist to elbow, flesh waving like a flag on the wind.

She lashed out at his face, again and again, until it was over. 

Thinking back - Comms load 19

So, what is a war frame? Post humans can suffer from a certain degree of alienation when dealing with baseline humans. The less human the body, the more likely this is to be a problem. War frames are combat oriented cyborg bodies. Generally designers forgo things like eyes, faces, necks, and other fragile human features. also, these bodies are frequently tall, sometimes as tall as 2.5 meters, though 2 is more common. 

Having such frightening outward forms, and a great deal of physical power can lead these warriors to believe that humans are inferior, and develop deep psychological problems. 

In order to avoid these problems, some 'borgs maintain less monstrous frames, to use when "at home", where ever that may be. These lighter, more human bodies are often referred to as ship frames. This comes from the fact that most 'borgs only use such frames aboard ships. such supplemental bodies can be run remotely, or by directly mounting the brain into the frame. For this reason, modular life support is very common in heavy cyborgs.  Most cyborgs are nervous that their shipframe will be hacked if it is under wireless control. 

- - -

The next few weeks had a remarkably familiar routine, after she had sorted out the details with Dicemen.  She was not allowed into her war frame, but she had always maintained a separate ship frame. It made life easier in the close quarters of a crowded vessel. And it was easier to deal with the crew when you are the same height as everyone else.

She painted a camouflage scheme on her warframe, and ran several diagnostics. It was nice to be so close to it. It felt more like home. The new systems were interesting as well. It gave her a lot to consider.

Sharren rebuilt her Virtual training environment to help her train on the new features. The techs aboard the UN ship were helpful and loaned her some fairly decent code. The VI hostiles were better than she was used to, and she felt the training environment was most helpful. It also served to pass the time.

This was still a prison, and she wanted out. She knew that this was death sentence, but once she was free of this ship, it could at least be death on her own terms. She could not ignore the hope of escape, either. Freedom was why she had swapped out her body in the first place.

The crew she was to rendezvous with looked well enough on a spreadsheet.  The crew of 20 consisted 16 combatants and 4 pilots. One of them was a post human, like herself. Not as monstrous however, he had kept his face and some other bits.

Most of them were Prussians, caught in the web, just like she was. The gear was not too bad either. Midrange PAX arms stuff. No fancy ammo, but if this was half as easy as Dicemen had described it, that should not be a problem.  

The UN crew stayed away from her unless she sought them out. She was restricted to the bay where they were storing her warframe. she hat a cot setup there, and she had over two weeks of food stored in the ship frame they had given her. 

Her thoughts drifted to her old life.  Her father had trained her to be a warrior. He had sold his gun arm for credits for over 20 years, mostly in service to the colonists at Gaia. A Greek ethnic colony, it was underfunded from the start, and new colonists were scarce. It was a nice place though.  It was a little cold, but it had trees, and rivers.

Life there was harsh. At 5200 light years from Sol, Gaia was rarely resupplied. Colonists made do with what they had. For the most part, it was not so bad. One bad year could wipe out a home stead, however. Medicine was a guarded commodity.  The UN ban on auto-doctors meant that medical training was also in short supply on new colonies.

She had learned young that only the strong survive, and luck is the work lesser people use to describe skill. Her mother had died in childbirth; she had been old enough to remember it. Her baby brother only outlived her mother by a few days. Her father taught her to farm, and hunt. To defend their property against bandits.

There were not many bandits when she was young, but as she aged, more and more dispossessed would take to raiding to supplement their own failing fortunes. When Sharren was twenty, free trader ships started to show up, usually two or three ships each year. They had tech, medicine, data loads, and fancy booze. Everything folks needed.

One such ship touched down near her own stead. Her father had come back empty handed, which was rare. The traders were extorting the local, and wanted 100 kilos of fresh foodstuff from every one in 100 klicks.

She was ready when they came to her door. 

Comms Load 18

When she woke up again, Sharren found herself in a simple, white washed office. She was in a light weight mechbody, not her own.  The desk was tidy, if well used. There was a man sitting at the desk, looking a work screen, but from her seat, she could not see what he was looking at.

He glanced up at her. He had a winning smile and understated features. She could not tell his age, and his hair was a perfectly highlighted shade of brown. She knew the type. 2^nd or 3^rd generation gene-mod. That meant earth born. He had on a white ship suit, with grey lettering.  His shoulder chevron proclaimed his rank as commander.  Like most earth folk, he had no jewelry or tattoos that she could see.

“What is your name?” he asked. His tone was warm, not the interrogation she had expected. “Your first name will do. I just want know who I am talking to”

“My name is Sharren” She ended on a note of surprise. The voice coming out of this body was a flat, boyish voice. She searched for a control feature, and found it quickly enough. She spent a short moment a selected a husky female tone form the default setting list. “My name is Sharren” she repeated with more confidence.

The Commander smiled again, and made a note on his work screen.

“I am commander Mills Dicemen. I am surprised that you are female. Most body jobs are, or were, male”. His smile never wavered. He slide a data tablet across the desk, with in her easy reach.  “Well, Sharren, you are in a rough place. Law requires me to destroy your war frame, and send you down to a level III indenture in the body you have now.” He gave her a knowing look, and the tablet in front of her flicked to a display of what she assumed was the mechbody she was in now.  She looked it over briefly.

“This thing is a piece of crap” she said flatly. “It’s inferior to flesh, and fragile. I’d be killed on a Level III”. She Thumbed her way into the more detailed specs, but found little to endear her to this shell. Low power supply, no strength, limited acceleration, and a weak plastic exterior.  Flesh humans were more dangerous.

“Indeed” Dicemen began, after a moment. “That’s what we are here to talk about.  You like being a monster, don’t you?” He did not pause, but while he spoke he changed the display on her tablet to her war frame, the mechbody she had lived in for over 15 years. “I can put you back in there. I can even set you loose” he looked up at her, his smile widening.

“The UN navy does not use cyborgs” She replied flatly. “How could you possibly use my war frame?”

“I need an incident to respond to.  I have a team of mercs ready to do some pillaging, but they need more punch” He was still cordial, but his expression was more guarded. 

“It doesn’t take much punch to pillage…” She was glad the frame she was in had no face. Sharren was not in the mood to frown.

“This a tougher nut. I need a glorious mess, and images of an unstoppable monster.” He brought up some news clips on her tablet. Scenes of burning prefabs and colonists firing shotguns at powered armor.  “This sort of thing. Keeps the dirt farmers paying taxes.” He glanced at her, a bit less of a smile on his face, and then made some notes on his screen.  Her display changed as well, highlighting certain parts of her war frame. New sensors, active armor panels with q-mag screens.

“Upgrades? I thought you would just leave me as I am.”

“I need you tough enough to do the job, and escape.”

“I do this, and I just leave? No follow up?” She made her voice skeptical.

“Until we catch you again. Then you own me more work. You stay out of my way, and you’re just another merc, one more fish in the sea. “Dicemen smiled. “ You are my job security”

Sharren didn’t like the thought.  Still, this was the work she’d been doing for years. Her troupe would land on a new colony and use force and terror to extort from the locals, and leave.  Not a lavish life, but one that was familiar, and could lead to a lot wealth. The improvements to her frame were substantial. She’d need more fuel, but in saver mode, the unit could run for over a year on one F-cell.

“How do I get off world?” she asked after a long moment. “This frame is good, but it can’t fly”.

“You’ll have a team, with a ship and a good lander. They’ve been give and similar deal, and we have a commissar aboard to make sure things go well.” He was smiling again, and looking pleased. “The commissar will bail out as soon as you reach anywhere civilized again. UNCN intelligence will get her home again.”

Sharren was skeptical, but her tablet was now showing the specs of a DEVIL DOG class dropship, and small cargo jumper, one that was new enough not to attract negative attention form most police forces. Either ship was worth a fortune, and the dropship was armed.  DEVIL DOGS were good landers, better in many ways then the Spencers most ships used. She could even go legit with ships this nice.

“What’s the catch” she asked. Her tone was back to neutral.

“This mission is brutal, and you will have one shot to make it work.” His smile change subtly. He grinned with malice now. “You’ll probably be killed, and we will not support you.”  He moved new information onto her tablet. The name on the colony was highlighted. Sharren now understood the catch.

“I’ll do it. Get me some paint for my war frame.“

The commander smiled, and guards escorted her to where her frame was. A tech had set out a paint sprayer. It’s on now, she thought. 

Comms Load 17

So, Sharren Vickers art contest comes in with a victory for Justin (chester the jester).

So, here is every one's favorite armored monster, your own 7 foot love machine, Sharren!

For Next Month, I hope one of our brave artists will have a go a piece of equipment, the "hotbox" Surface to Orbit shuttle.

The hotbox is a Prussian design, with all the brutal efficiency that they are known for. These are long bodied, short winged Vertol that have more in common with an attack helicopter than an airplane. The engines are mounted on either side of the cargo/troop area, which is where it gets it's name. The over sized drives tend to heat the ships interior to 90 plus degrees during combat ops.

See what you can do, and email me your entries!
redwolf.79@gmail.com

Jesse Out.

Comms Load 16 - 2013

Well, we're 383 years from the beginning of most of these stories, and much much closer to seeing the Role Playing Game that goes with them completed.

While were waiting, I thought I'd share a little more about Sharren. Turns out she was very popular with the readers of this blog.

Also, I wanted to remind you that the current sketch contest is for the best Sharren, our own 6'8" female cyborg. She is a bit of a monster, having retro-grade knees, and she keeps hidden behind an inch of heavy armor. She's also a big fan of 12 mm assault rifles. Really, who isn't?

As always, please leave comments, it gives me more warm fuzzies than looking at the page view counter. that thing is really bland. It also helps me improve my writing.

with no further ado, here's our favorite bad girl.

--

The boot screen was a shock. Her mother had told her killers end up in hell. Sharren was pretty sure she was dead. She tried to blink, but the boot screen remained, cycling through it's diagnostics. She mentally went over a brief recap of her last moments. She had slipped a grenade into her own damaged chest, and detonated it. There was a flash of white, then black, then nothing.

The boot screen was still cheerily spitting out data on her vitals and body condition. it was taking a really long time. then she realized, of course! Hell is a eternal boot screen, never reaching 100% on the load bar. Damn. that was not at all what mom had described. She shook her head.

Or rather, tried to shake her head. there was no motor response. She tried to curse, but there was no verbal or comms response. Wow. Hell was thorough. as soon as she thought it, the boot screen gave her an all clear, and vision kicked in.

It was disorienting, just like after her first body-swap. The room she was in was very white, and there where men and women in matching white jumpsuits looking over her body. Her body was in front of her, in what looked like a very expensive cyber-maintenance chair. It looked in good order. There was some minor carbon scoring in some place she did not remember, but the torso had clearly been repaired.

More importantly, she was not in it. she was across the room looking at it. Now she understood hell.

"Hey, your awake." the voice came from a younger man, who had paused to glance down his data tablet. "I bet you thought you were toast. You surprised the marines, popping off one of your own grenades." He crouched down level with her vision. "Well, you're here now. Look, you want back in that monster rig over there? You'll get your chance."

Sharren's mind raced for a moment. she was not sure what they would do to her, but holding her body as collateral was terrifying.

"Calm down there lady" The man said. the UN wold not spend good money patching that thing up if they weren't gonna put you back into it." He stood up and walked over to the body. His had brushed it's elbow, like a new car salesman does to a sleek new model. "Your getting this back, it's just a matter of what we let you do with it. That however, is between you and the Commander." He smiled with a bit a malicious delight shining is his eyes.

Sharren reconsidered hell.

Comms load 15 - End drawing contest 2, begin contest 3!

OK, so we ended with just one entry for the Hawk & Keeva Contest. Thank you Justin! I liked this one. Keeva's clothes were awesome, especially. I like the pose too. It might have been fun to see her all black eyes, but, all in all, a solid piece.

Clothing is important in the setting, as it varies strongly from place to place, with Drifters and Haulers cultivating their own personal styles. I like the black widow bracelet. Very nerd chic.

So, to wrap up this art drive, lets start the next one! (or you can do this one and I'll add you submission, see load 13)

This time, we are looking for Sharren Vickers, a 7 foot tall cyborg killing machine. Think of her as a faceless armored demon, Her face replaced by a heavy armor plate, with pin-hole cameras spread over it rather than eyes.

To further distance her self from her humble human beginnings, her legs are set up different as well, with backwards knees. This give her impressive jumping ability, despite her weight. Sharren does not have many built in guns, but she does like her 14 mm assault rifle. She also like engaging in hand to hand fighting with normal humans, though this is a horribly unfair fight.

Thanks again for all you help!

Jesse Out.

Comms Load 14 - Glory days III

Rich loaded up a few choice items into the runnabout. It was an older model, a mercedes all wheel drive. It fit right in with the other beat up trucks and ATV runnabouts on the streets of landing city. With the 4 passengers and his crew, it was a tight squeeze.

Molly the intern rode on up front, squeezed between Richard and Doo Min Park, the ships head mechanic. Becca and Horse rode in back with the other 3 passengers. Rich liked the way the girl smelled. It was rare that rich got on with women so young. Or ones from earth.

Molly was 26, and in an advanced xenobiology program. Like most traveling kids from earth, her daddy was richer than bacon soup. The girl had spent over $ 200,000.00 UN to get out here, as well as 4 months on his ship. Her boss was out here to study the local wild life. Rich was more interested in studying her.

Tonight would likely be his last chance at that, so he figured a grand send off was in order.

The Green Knight, the lodge that he had chosen was only a few minutes deeper into the city. It looked much like the rest of landing city, durable prefab walls, dirty from 20 years of rain and wind, but other wise undamaged. The front doors had a scene of a knight in green armor beheading someone.

There were a handful of other vehicles outside. Nothing special, just the usual mix of ford and subaru electric trucks. It meant one important thing to Richard however. It meant that there would be locals drinking there tonight. Rich considered that to be free advertising. the sooner folks know that a merchant is in town, the sooner he can get down to business.

The interior of the bar was about the same as the outside, stout and worn, but well kept. It was early, the equvalent of 4pm, but the locals seemed to be in dinner mode. Most of the patrons were bent over plates of food, or enjoying a pale colored beer at the bar. Rich checked his Dattoo, it told him this was a bit early for dinner by local custom. Rich put it aside for later. He'd have to update his data on this system if custom had changed.

Rich looked over at Isaac, the college professor, and smiled. back to business, he thought.

"Isaac, let me buy you and yours one last meal. It's the least I can offer by way of farewell" Rich knew that Isaac would have to say yes, Earth folk a prickly about etiquette  Besides, he thought, this had been the most interesting group of passengers he'd ever moved. Or at least the most fun.

 "I suppose I'll accept" Isaac responded in his London accent. 

"Good, good" Richard smiled "Sort out a place for us to sit, and I'll arrange for some good food. YOur journey should end with better fare than protein cubes" Richard felt his own palate deserved a break from ship food as well. Those things get bland pretty quickly.

Richard sauntered over to the inn keeper, and put on his most winning smile. the  innkeep was not a fat man  which meant he was careful with his money. No splurging on food for him self.

"Hello, Richard Higgins, Cap'n of the Glory Days.  We just landed and were hoping to crash here while we did business in town." Richard felt confident, he had done this several times before, and usually got a good deal. The Innkeeper had a good poker face though, this might be tougher he thought.

"Carl Talent, " the inn keeper said, offering his hand. "I have rooms, but they ain't cheap. I get a lot of business here."

"No other ships in orbit, it can't be too crowed just now." Rich spoke freely, he figured the folks on parzifal were not the sort to mince words. "but to tell you what I think, I usually make pretty fair trades at the place I stay." He reached into his travel coat, and old all-weather duster, and pulled out a bottle of Capital Brewery porter, good stuff. "I brought several kegs of this from Orion on my last haul. I can show you the manifest and brew dates, it's good stuff" Richard handed the bottle to the Inn Keep, who looked it over carefully.

"Well, this may be worth some time in my rooms" Carl was smiling. Not the broad beaming smile of a child with a new toy, but certainly the smile of a man about to get paid. "You have a keg of it with you now?" he asked, opening the beer as he looked up.

"Tell me if you like it first. This bottle is on me" Rich replied. It always looks better to share samples freely. Carl took a short pull from the bottle, then a second, longer draw. He looked at the bottle again, regarding the art on the label.

"I like it" Carl replied. "I'll give you two rooms for two days for the keg, and call it fair. We really are crowded  Carl regarded Richard with cool eyes as he took a third pull from the bottle. This was the deal Richard wanted, so he saw no reason to get greedy with the man.

"Fair enough, provided I get a discount on tonight's dinner. Charge my crew as you will, but I have to feed a lot of folks tonight."

"I'll knock down the bill, but not by much. Foods getting short, and the main harvest looks like it won't be happening " Carl's face was still mellow, though the beer seemed to reaching him a little. Strong stuff.

"What's going on with the harvest? the welcome committee that met us at the pad implied the colony is having some serious trouble." Richard trailed off. Carl's face had taken on a different set, sad more than upset.

"See that rack?" Carl said, pointing at a gun rack near the door. It was full, with a few more leaning on the wall below it. "Nine months ago, you would have seen one or two pieces on there." Carls eyes drifted to one of the patrons that Richard had not paid much attention to. The man only had one arm. "Somethings got the Jackalopes stirred up, and the Apachesaurs have been coming in droves to hunt them. ain't even a little safe in the fields, and we kill four or five critters in the city every day. We've lost over a thousand people so far. it'll be Worse when we miss the harvest."

Rich let it sink in. that's a huge number of people. Clearly, there was a real problem here. Now, how to help and profit at the same time.....

Comms load 13 - Chimera drawing challange!

Hello my loyal following! The "Biggie" drawing contest has brought us one step closer to the goal of completing the RPG. I had two submissions, and here they are!

Nick has given us a highly detailed, high tech character with an abundance of storage places on his body armor. This guy would be on the rangy, thin side for a Biggie, but the drawing conveys the 7 foot height. Not all Biggies choose to work out and stay buff. Here we have an explorer/biologist, used to working in hostile environments. Nick completes the image of the explorer/scientist with a sensory enhancement/air filter mask.

Justin has given us a view of what the Biggies looked like after the reformation wars. This guy is in great shape, and has manged to get himself on the October page of 'Man!' magazine's charity calendar.  Seen here in a preserved section of old Chicago, Ip Cheng is trying to look "historic" and "sexy" at the same time. Yes, he is leaning on a blue mail box.

The rifle is a recent model from Colt, the HAR-89, firing the vaunted 12x130mm assault rifle cartridge.

I like both approaches; I think Nick had some great tech ideas, and Justin really nailed the sense of size. Comment and tell me your thoughts!

Biggies wear a bio-tech answer to early powered armor, used in the Reformation War as shock troopers. While they were not quick to produce, they were notably less expensive, and required far less maintanence than the powered exoskeltons of the day, and could operate in the field much, much longer.

No one ever thought they would be able to produce children (or that any baseline woman would be interested in trying it). However, after the wars, those that were transitioned into civilian life often had children, and the genes that make them so large are dominant. This led to the continuation of the line into modern times.

Standing 7 feet tall, and weighing in excess of 350 lbs, these guys can do some serious damage in a fight. However, their natural dexterity is not any better than a base line human's, and they are known to be a little dim (though this may be exaggerated by prejudice). Off of Earth, they tend to find work in mainly labor and security jobs, again, due to prejudice.

THANKS AGAIN GUYS! All caps, because I mean it!

Next Challenge - Hawk O'Hansen and/or Keeva "Smith." They're a couple.

Hawk: Description - Star ship pilot/owner who likes to wear cowboy hats, known for having a western flavor to his mode of dress, but still has a habit of wearing his ship suit while aboard his vessel, the Mike Tyson.  He's on the taller side, and has a sturdy, but not exaggerated build. He is ruggedly handsome, unscarred, and wears a smug look most of the time. His dattoo (data tattoo) is typically displaying a hawk on his left forearm when in screen saver mode.  He loves to fly, and favors a bit of a five o'clock shadow when Keeva is not around.

Keeva: An attractive woman, with strong, angular features. Dark hair with lighter highlights and jet black eyes (bio-grafted IR/UV/low-light adapted eyes, iris takes up all visible area) set her apart from the crowd. She is a Greyhound, and therefore in epic physical shape, and likes to show that off by wearing her ship suit open to reveal her...feminine assets. She has a collection of sunglasses to guard her sensitive eyes when ever she is planet side or in brighter ship environments.

Comms Load 12 - Hackers

So, we have here another art piece by Victory B!

After he read a little bit about hackers in the RPG source material, he decided to draw us this rather dapper one. It seems that while some hackers go the post-humanist route and install computers in their own bodies, this gentleman is going old school.

He is wearing data glasses, clear under most conditions, but then they opaque and become a full immersion display when one is fully online. His glasses have a hard wire in case he gets hit by a data feed disruptor, which can create electromagnetic white noise and upset wireless connections. Most such glasses are wireless (this also means the glasses themselves can be hacked, though they have limited memory).

He is also wearing data gloves, which allow him to interact with his sim (simulated) environment. He keeps his data tablet (his computer) inside his many-folded top, to keep it out of the way.

Many hackers choose to dress nice, and look rich. Firstly because dressing nice is a staple of Earth culture, and this man is clearly from Earth by his mode of dress. Secondly, many hackers are either well paid professional security specialists or successful criminals, and not rough and ready street thugs.

Hacking is a job for the subtle, the quick witted, and the intelligent. At least, this is the attitude that prevails among the elite hackers of Earth and Orion. Other colonies have slightly varying attitudes. I'll post up Vic's notes on this later on, he had more to say about what inspired him. Also, the "Biggie" challenge comes to a close this week, so if you have a submission for a 7 foot tall Asian either in civies or war gear, lemme know, cause I was gonna post the results on Friday!

Comms Load 11 - Mercenary art!

Hiya Gang!

More art from Victory! This is the style we are working towards, and I want to thank our artists for their contributions! Keep it coming please!

This merc is boasting some medium weight full body armor from Panzermann, a New Prussian company that specializes in non-powered body armor. The panels are semi-rigid, forming a nano-materiel that absorbs energy and is self-healing (it flows to fill in holes as they are made). The under layer is a ballistic fiber that is semi resistant to sharp objects as well. Overall, this armor can stop most handguns, and shrug off bites and scratches from aggressive fauna under 50 kilos in mass.

She's holding a sterling arms SS-42-mkII assault rifle, which fires the PAX 7x45mm rifle cartridge. This ammo is very common and is sold nearly anywhere. While not as feared as the 5x45mm caseless cartridge, and not fitting as many rounds in the magazine, caseless ammo is often not available on the gods-forsaken worlds and colonies this young lady finds her work taking her to.

Her pistol however, is top of the line; an H&K PD-2380. Their flagship pistol of that year, it fires 10x20mm caseless, a hyper-velocity round. Accurate at 80 meters, with a muzzle velocity of 750 M/s this pistol hits very hard, but has a matching recoil.

Comms Load 10 - Sample of Avi's work.

Hello readers!

This is cut from our main fiction project, a book for which we don't have a title yet. This is the 4th chapter, and we're pretty happy with it so far. Please share your thoughts by commenting! We really like the feedback, and you can help us make the story better! So please speak up!

Anyway, Hawk and and Keeva only recently met, and they are not from the same colony, not at all. Hawk is from Gliese, the oldest human colony, and it was founded by some very dedicated research scientists. The culture there is very open and pragmatic. Also, the gravity is rather high, so our good ship's captain is stronger than most Earth folk, though not used to the outdoors as Gliese is a frozen ball of ice.

They are on their way to Michi Gami, a new and under-serviced colony, looking to sell vapor collectors at a hefty mark up, and Keeva is getting a tour of the ship. The hangar is off limits to the ship's passengers.

-----


“So how you getting along with Jimmy?” he asked, the contempt leaking into his voice seemingly of its own volition.  Fuck! he thought to himself.  Yup, that’s jealousy alright.

Keeva glanced over at him, her face registering a small amount of surprise.  'Is that jealousy I hear?' she mused.  This time she was mentally laughing AND hugging herself, but judging by the look on his face she had to tread carefully.  Jim was an interesting diversion and clearly had information she could use, but Hawk was the reason she was here in the first place, the reason she’d finally left the Rok and put her past on hold.  She wanted him around and she wanted him interested, not angry.

“Oh, he’s alright, I guess…for a kid who I caught trying to hack into your shuttle bay.”  She’d pegged Hawk for someone who reads people pretty well, so she knew this nugget of info she was tossing his way could be old news to the captain, but she’d also guessed he’d take it for what it was: an expression of interest.

“Was he now? It’s rude to go peeking behind locked doors in ‘nother man’s home…” Hawk gave her a little smile. “Too bad for him these old locks use different software than newer ones.” Hawk seemed unfazed enough that Keeva guessed that she was right in her assumptions, and Hawk already knew something.

Hawk was keeping a tight grip on his emotions, as tight a grip as he could. That little shit was sneaking around, who knows what he’s looking for, but aboard Mike Tyson, there’s plenty to find. The shuttle bay was the least of all his worries on that score. ‘Later,’ he thought.

“Wanna see why I keep the door locked?” Hawk gave the lady a knowing wink, as he led her down the spinal corridor, out of sight of the common area. She had to admit, she was curious, and though Hawk seemed genuinely irritated it was just for the shortest of moments.

“I was a pilot,” he continued hesitantly, “for the United Nations Colonial Navy. I was pretty good, they said.  Too good to do what I wanted.  They had me set on a course for drivin’ space fighters.”  Hawk shook his head, a look of frustrated nostalgia coming over him as they rode the lift up to the shuttle bay.

“Thing is, it ain’t like the entertainment sims, it’s boring. All you do is drift towards a target, and hope your stealth systems don’t fail. When you get close, or think you’ve been spotted, ya rush in, drop your sharks, and cut ‘em up with your laser until you get tagged by point defense, or your sharks hit something, and you run away back home.”

Keeva laughed a bit. “It sounds like the sims, to me,” she tried politely. The lift stopped, and they headed into the large bay, meant to house any number of different shuttle types. It was divided into four sections, each with an airlock. The bay was old style, which meant that there was a lot of open space and equipment to refuel and repair smaller craft. The two aft bays were empty, but the lights were still dim in the forward bays which were clearly linked to motion sensors. They kept walking forward as Hawk continued.

“Except for the really boring, slow ride in to the target, and the really boring ride home, and the part where you program the ship to do everything ‘cause you’re too far away to actually see the bad guys.”

“Sides, there aren't wars any more, right?”  Hawk smiled.  “A man like me, he needs to feel himself flying.  I wanted to be a surface fighter pilot, or an STO driver; a job where I’d be out doing work, instead of sitting in a sim pod, playing with myself and pretending to be a combat pilot.”

Keeva smirked at that, desperately wanting to make a smart-ass remark, but she stowed it in favor of letting Hawk continue his narrative.  Everything he was saying confirmed what little she knew of him.

“I got washed out.  They wouldn't let me re-up unless I stayed on fighters, and I was not gonna have it.  I wanted the rush of STO flight, the feel of defeating gravity, and to actually fly.  That’s why I got HER,” Hawk finished grandly, as he gestured to the shuttle lurking in the starboard hangar area.

He had timed it well, the lights flicked on just as he raised his hand to wave at the ship. Keeva had seen a fair number of zero gravity shuttles, as well as countless versions of the Spencer, the most common STO shuttle in the UN, but the beast crouched in the starboard bay was none of those things.  It was long, sleek and aggressive, something she had only seen before in sims.  The shuttle in front of her was all engine with a long tail, plus two massive air breathers and Stubby wings that seemed like an afterthought. Brutally efficient. 'No way,' she thought.

“AL-356-Model 2 HOTBOX surface to orbit shuttle. I call her 'Maybelle.'” Hawk beamed at his baby, showing more than a sprinkle of pride in the New Prussian combat shuttle he had parked in his hanger bay.  “She’s nearly twice as fast as a Spencer and a helluva lot more maneuverable. She’ll break orbit in vertical flight, if you open the throttle all the way, but that will trash the local environment." He grinned as he turned back towards her. "Her gravity compensators make it so even a low-grav softies like yourself can ride her at full speed without gettin' killed.  She’s also got better protection than the Orion Governor…not to mention she’s awful pretty.”

Keeva was suitably impressed, and Hawk’s obvious delight in his shuttle was infectious, but she couldn't resist ribbing him a bit on that last remark.  “Pretty, huh?  Pretty holey from the looks of her.  She’s got more marks from AA fire than a veteran combat cruiser.”

“‘She may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts, kid,’” Hawk quoted and quipped.

She threw her head back and laughed freely.  “Is that right, Han?  I mean Hawk,” she teased with a smile. “I like the pin-up girl on the intake,” Keeva said as she pointed out the slightly scorched dark-haired woman painted under the forward wing. “Looks like you have a type….” she trailed off playfully.

“Well, what if I do? Not my fault you look like her,” he smiled. “Every good fighter is named after a cantankerous bitch or a pretty lady. That lady was both.” He looked at the picture up and down. “You’re right though; I gotta get Willy up here to patch her up some more. Bought some replacement parts back on the Rok.”

He scratched the back of his neck, and looked over the ship a moment, delaying the inevitable. Hawk was a bit uncertain of how to phrase the next question, but he decided it would be best just to plow ahead.

“So that’s me, a combat pilot turned hauler, looking for a good rush.” He sighed and walked towards a collection of crates, strapped down with cargo netting. “So, what have you got under the hood?” He had a sexy grin, but a harder cast to his eyes.

“You wanna see it again?” she asked coyly as he leaned against a rolling tool cabinet. She made as if to play with the seal on her ship suit. Hawk smiled for a moment, but Keeva knew it was not a show he was looking for.

“How is it that a slender lady like your own self can take down a trained, mod’d body guard in hand to hand combat? I know you’re strong, and how.” He was still smiling, but it was clear that this was a business smile, and Keeva knew he really wanted some answers. “That boy you broke?  At the very least he had wired reflexes and a pain editor. I was gonna die for sure, ‘til you fixed him. He was too fast for me.” Hawk softened just a bit.  “Thank you for that, by the way.  I owe you one.”  He gave her a half grin, which she returned, their ‘thing’ of quoting Star Wars together showing no signs of getting old.  Clearing his throat and letting the smile of camaraderie drop from his face, he began again.  “Still, I gotta know who you are if you’re gonna ride on my ship.”

Hawk saw Keeva tense up and kicked a rolling work stool her direction, his way of proffering her a chair and the only thing he could think of to keep her from bolting.  He sat down himself, waiting for her to begin, or run.  Her past was obviously a touchy subject to say the least, and he didn’t want to push her too fast, but regardless, he had to know.

Keeva slowly took a seat, her mind in turmoil.  No point in running when stuck in space, and not many men would offer a dock side hooker a front seat into their life and livelihood; Hawk must have some semblance of an open mind.  On the other hand, he was UN military. The UN was not known for its social tolerance.

She chewed the corner of her lip as she filtered through her thoughts, her black eyes reflecting the running lights on the floor.  What to tell, what not to tell…

“I’m a Greyhound,” she heard herself say.  Her own shock at just blurting out the truth was mirrored on Hawk’s face, and in different circumstances the look on his face would’ve been pretty damn funny, but Keeva wasn’t laughing.

“That…explains a lot,” Hawk said slowly.  Greyhounds were Chimeras: genetically engineered people, bred for war and not much else. Greyhounds were one of the first types ever created, back before the colonization days.  Though he knew of them, and the prejudices most Earth-folk held against Chimeras, Hawk personally had never met one before as none had settled on Gliese. Clearly, her ability to fight was closer to the Sims then he had thought.

When she kept silent, her black eyes attempting to bore a hole through his skull, he prompted her with a soft voice.  “Go on, Keeva; I think there’s more to tell, and I ain’t running.”

She blinked at that.  Was this man for real?  Smoking hot, dynamite in the sack, a Star Wars lover, and now he takes a bombshell piece of news without freaking?  She blinked again in attempt to hide her non-existent tears.  “Half, really.  Half-Greyhound,” she clarified at his raised eyebrow.  “Dad was baseline, more or less. Mom was the Greyhound.  Mostly pure, so she was what you’d expect, strong, hyperactive, and not much bouncing around her skull besides a fixation with shiny objects and a continuous urge to kick some ass. She was real pretty, though.”  Keeva couldn't keep the sorrow out of her voice. “She had a good heart.”  Keeva’s face took on a  look that matched her voice as she remembered, something she rarely let herself do, and never in front of other people.  “Dad loved her, and she him.  Don’t see it very often, what they had.  He would've done anything for her, and he did.”  She paused, her expression hardening.

Hawk ached to see such love and loss on her face, and like a Shakespearean tragedy he almost didn’t want to hear any more, guessing what must come next.  “Dad hid what she was best he could from the neighbors and such, but they found out in the end.  Mama never told me what they accused him of, but we both knew it was our fault.”

“How could it be your fault?” Hawk was a little stunned. Earth folk acted like elitist pricks some times, but could they really be like that?

“How could it not be? No one likes Chimeras; something I always knew but never understood why.”  She spat out in reply. She was looking at the tread of the deck plating as she continued her story, studiously avoiding Hawk’s gaze. “Earth’s been shipping Chimeras off-planet since they passed the involuntary resettlement act.  Dad ran in big money circles, elite people. They found something to pin on him. That’s what they do. I was seven when they took my father away from us…”  Keeva kept her face looking away, reigning in her emotions.

“Mama didn’t have much choice,” she started again. “Without Dad, we had to make our way off-world. It’s too hard for our kind on Earth. She was too hyper to hold normal work, and the taxes, well…We’d end up like dad did. She made it her mission to find him,” she grinned devilishly in recollection, “and that woman was always better with a good mission.”

“I can imagine she was,” Hawk added, seeing Keeva’s pride in her mother, the fighter, seeing her strength and determination shining through her daughter, the survivor. “But I had no idea it was so bad on Earth.”  Hawk fixed with a serious expression.  “It’s not like that on Gliese.  We live side by side with Chimeras. The Cats have it better than baselines; they're adapted to the environment.”

Hawk was still a bit aghast at Keeva’s tale, not quite able to grasp the concept of such blatant hatred.  Could it really be that bad back on Earth?  Unfortunately, it explained all the negative comments about being a Cat-fucker and the like, phrases he had simply chalked up to hazing when he was back in basic training.  Keeva was not done, however, so he brought his mind back to her narration.

“We ended up on Alpha Centari, and somehow my mother found Olav.  Or he found her; I never was fully certain how that came about.”  This time both Hawk’s eyebrows found his forehead.  Here was an interesting piece of intel, and it made a few more tidbits click into place.  The little devil who hung out on his shoulder, the one who didn’t like Hawk all that much, whispered how that was the only reason Keeva showed up in that firefight: not to save his ass, but to settle some score with Olav.  But she was here, telling him this.  That had to mean something, and he was holding onto that hope that he was more than a vehicle to revenge.

“Either way,” Keeva continued, oblivious to Hawk’s internal struggle, “She did what she could to find Dad.  And then she died. She must have been nearly 60 by then. We don’t live much past that.” Keeva added that last part as an aside, a little pointed. “She never discovered where he’d been shipped.”  She stopped to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. “I resumed the mission.”  Keeva stared at a point beyond Hawk, lost in thought.

“You find your pa?” Hawk couldn’t help but ask, needing to know how this part of the story ended.

She gave a terse nod, her mouth set in a thin line.  “Yes.  They sent him to Aurora. I found out a few years after a colony pox had taken him.  Olav did his damnedest to keep that from me as long as he could.  Several years of labor’s worth, point of fact.”

“That fucker.”  Keeva’s head snapped up to look at Hawk as he spoke, she was startled by the iron fury in his voice.  “Gotta say, I’m mighty glad he took a bullet to the head.  The kind of man who would string along a young girl’s hopes of finding her father, ain’t a man who deserves to live.”

Keeva felt a grin begin to creep on her face again.  How did Hawk constantly do that to her?  She had not smiled so freely in years.  “No argument here, Hawk.  I have to ask though, you carry ship-safe rounds in that gun?"  The look on his face was all the answer she needed. “I just wish that bullet was enough to shuffle him loose.  He’s got more than mod’d out goons as protection from the elements,” she explained at his questioning glance.

Hawk nodded with a frown.  “Guess I should’ve figured he be mod’d himself.  But a man’s gotta dream, right?”

“And what do you dream about, Mr. O’Hanson?,” Keeva asked with a seductive grin, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.  Her ship suit was still somewhat unsealed and the generous view of her cleavage was more than a perk, it was an invitation.

Hawk picked up on the change in atmosphere, immediately recognizing that share-time was over.  He was fine with that; she’d given him more than he thought she would.  Plus, a man had to have his priorities.

He mimicked her posture.  “At the moment?”  His gaze turned molten.  “Re-discovering what that spot between your breasts tastes like.”

Her breath hitched.  “Can’t say I’ve tried it myself,” she said with a smoky voice, “but I reckon it’s gotta be better than that sludge y’all call tea in the mess hall.”

He could help it: Hawk barked in laughter.  “Ain’t no doubt on that score, darlin’,” he managed between guffaws.  “You’re a straight shot of sexy, and that tea’s a straight shot of caffeinated shit.”  His laughter slowed as he looked at her, taking her in.  “Good to know we got more in common than a trilogy of old flicks and a fondness for dancing without clothes on.  Thank you for talking to me, Keeva.  Means a lot.”  His voice had dipped again, conveying his sincerity.

Keeva looked almost bashful for a moment.  “Don’t mention it, sugar.”  Then she was back to being a hard ass.  “Ever.”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells, darling.”  Hawk gave her a wink.  “Lucky for you, I don’t either.  Secret’s safe with me.  That bottom lip of yours, however, really isn’t.”  His gaze zeroed in on the affore mentioned lip as he started to roll his chair closer,  she had set him on fire without even touching him.

Comms Load 9 - Further art!

The UN law officers don't always go around in their armor. In places like the flotillas of Alpha Centauri, or Orion, or some of the middle aged colonies, the locals consider themselves a proud part of the UN. In such places, police still wear their white jump-suits, but without the armor, they are somewhat less menacing.

Still, the white uniform has came to mean that the UN is in charge where ever it is seen. I should note that in places that are not at risk of "secessionist activity", the UN tends to send nicer, more complacent police, with attitudes akin to those of 20th century police.

On wilder worlds, or worlds that have attempted secession, the UN deliberately sends rougher, less tolerant police. They do so as a show of force. this approach has had mixed results. It helps them hold onto colonies, but does not usually go a long way towards building good will.

Also, this a challenge to any artists out there, I'm hoping to get some pics of a "Biggie", a 7 foot tall Chimera, essentially a giant Asian person, with lot of muscle and bulk. It does not have to be a soldier type, though the original Biggies were bred for war. Let me know, and email any submissions to me here at the blog!

Thanks for reading,

J

Comms Load 8 - New Original Art!!

So, here we have the games first bit of original art! I am very excited with how this turned out, and could not have asked for a better personification of UN Law!

For those of you who have not read the RPG book (sorry, that's in beta right now, so not many copies exist), I'll fill in a little bit about Earth, so you know the context of this picture. 

Earth is the seat of the United Nations, an intra-galactic government that according to itself has the best interests of all mankind at it's heart. It also claims dominion over all human settlements that do not have "sufficient" self-governing capacity. 

Once any given colony gets big enough to support the purchase of Earth made goods, the UN Begins sending police, school teachers, and indentured labor to establish the basic infrastructure of society. As newer colonies develop industry, the UN arranges to purchase food stuffs, ore, luxury items such as jewelry and furniture, and sells industrial equipment and vehicles and the like, keeping the good (that is tax-paying) citizens happy, while the UN keeps up its tax revenues. 

It's also important to remember that once the UN moves in its police, the police enforce UN laws, and often work to undermine local laws that are not in line with the UN's own agendas. In most cases this is not a problem, but there are cases where it has been. Mostly, the use of UN protocol drives home how far many developing world have to go before they are as "civilized" as Earth. 

Thanks again to Victor, the artist who drew this. I'll post the other police picture shortly, the other cop in more "day-to-day" dress. This one is in full duty uniform. 

The "full duty" uniform is completely white with some darker grey highlights, and the glasses are also white. The uniform is extremely stain resistant. The one pictured here includes light body armor, which will stop most colony manufactured hand guns, and will resist rifles, knives, and most wild life better than 20th century fibrous armor. The glasses provide visual connection the officers data tattoo, as well as the local area data network. This connection is very important, especially if the officer in question does not have cybernetic modifications that allow him to have such easy data access without the visor.