In the lawless void, in the fading light of liberty and the growing shadow of hated empires, our story begins.

The void of space

The endless black is freckled across it's visage with pinpricks of light. They are dim, fading things that appear ready to collapse into that darkness and forever disappear. It's in that darkness that something moves. It's not wayward debris nor rogue comet, but a titan of void-steel.

It stretches two kilometers from bow to stern, it's thrusters burn a dull orange, indicating it's idling allowing the currents of the void to take it along for a cosmic ride. Not that there is anything to see, for it is the space between spaces. It's a lonely, solitaire existence, one the ship, the Eliza seems content with. 

It's a colony freighter, a vast ship intended for the creation of a whole colony. The haul meant to be able to be landed and moored upon the world of its crews choosing and allowing for the quick terraforming and settling of whatever chosen ground it happened upon. The four great spires that run across it's midsection, now crisscrossing with docking ports, were intended to be modular, able to be disconnected and reconnected in void to allow for easy loading. 

The Eliza will never birth a colony, however, as it's owners seek to use it for other means. Means that would prevent it from never, ever coming even close to a habitable world. It's existence cursed to be here, in the space between spaces, forever alone, save for the brief moments of a tender ship arriving to resupply it. 

Thousands of leagues away from the lonely ship, reality begins to fold in on itself. Another ship emerges into the silent void from nothingness. It's boxy hull races toward the Eliza with haste, it's engines burning white as it closes the gap. 

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Aboard the Eliza

Ruger Hyaline adjusts the slide by nanometers to get a better view. The sample is sub optimal, but considering the conditions he's under, he won't complain. If anything it gives him fond memories of youth, of his university days. Working with whatever he got, and still coming out with results. He remembers his art professor telling him the best art comes from adversity, and while it was a pointless elective he took, he still remembers Professor Sumy well. 

He returns to the present, neatly tucking away the memories of yore and carefully adjusting the microscope. The cells remain dead, the nerve tissue has begun to fray and he spies the tell-tale signs of bacteria bursting its proteins across the slide. He spies the virus, his foe. It remains still, unmoving, the hexagonal entity then spins to life and latches upon a nerve cell, the cell turns dark red before restoring itself and starts the process of rewiring itself and it's connected siblings. Before it can propagate, Dr. Hyaline purges the samples and falls back into his chair. 

He looks up to the grey ceiling, his hands reach up to his eyes and rub them, part of him wishes to tear them out of his head out of frustration but the thought is, again, neatly folded and put away. He reaches down to his shirt collar, retrieving his glasses and putting them on. His hands run through non-existent hair, his college days of having a full head of hair feel just in reach, and are yet so far away. As far away as the stars are. 

He looks down at his workstation, mulling over what the next course shall be. They're running out of samples, and a new batch will be... difficult to precure. The captain, Sul, already told Hyaline that it's time to look for fresh pastures, mostly due to the pirates and another due to the bounty hunters they attract. 

'Like flies on shit. We don't want them, we don't need them,' Sul had said in his thick, Euro accent. 

That would mean less time testing, less time testing meant wasting these researchers time, and they were getting long in the tooth. Hyaline wouldn't ever dream of leaving this behind, it's all he had left. The rest of them were young, and had opportunities elsewhere. The few that would stay would be the burnouts and the dunces, 'scientists' who had long left ambition behind  for the desire of a stable paycheck and a way to hide from the law. 

"Doctor?"

Hyaline doesn't look over, he knows exactly who it is, and it causes him to silently cringe, "Yes, Mill?"

Dr. Mill Yarbrough is a mousey konii, with long ears and black and white fur which stripes across her body, common and natural for her species, and while she is an accredited Doctor of Pathology, he often doubts it. Her lack of confidence is something he doesn't wish to deal with, nor does he quite like how he has to always hold her hand doing anything complex. There's always a mistake, always, and the rare occasion she's done it correctly, it's usually nothing too interesting to Hyaline. So as he adjusts himself in his chair, he braces himself for mediocrity. 

"The tender ship has made contact with us," Mill fidgets with her left ear, scratching around the new piercing she got from one of the security officers she's been fraternizing with. 

That causes Hyaline to pay attention. He thumbs through his mind and remembers quite well that they already made contact with the tender ship a week ago. The stores are full, damn near bursting, even the fuel reserves threatened to overfill. So why? Why come back?

"What's it's designation?" Hyaline asks.

"Hmm," Her ears flop against her head as she thinks, "I think... I think it was the Memento? Yes, yes the Memento Mori."

"Ah, I see," Hyaline says nodding. 

He knows what the ship really is, and he knows it's already too late. The name gave it away, although Hyaline likes to think that's on purpose, a subtle nod to the doctor that it's over. The powers that be figured him out and they're now here to wipe the board clean. He feels his hand tremble as he takes off his glasses, feeling them one last time as he cleans a smudge off them.

"Dr. Hyaline," Mill enters the room, concern in her eyes, "Is... Everything alright?"

He forces a smile, "Yes, sorry, the dead ends are just getting to me." He stands up, removing his lab coat and neatly hanging it up. He takes a moment, really trying to commit what it looks like to memory before turning around, "If you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to call it early today."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Oh, uh," Mill is taken aback by this, "Well, is there anything I can do? Maybe I can get you another sample--"

"That won't be necessary," Hyaline forces himself to walk calmly, even though his mind is already counting the minutes he has left, "Why don't you take the rest of the day off, enjoy yourself."

"Oh! Why, well if you're offering, sure!" Mill nods, "Thank you, Dr. Hyaline I--"

"Yes, yes off with you now, youth is a precious thing, don't waste it."

"Oh, right, bye then," Mill slinks out of the office and around the corner, leaving Hyaline a moment to take in the lab for a moment. 

For all the faults he could find in Mill, he couldn't fault her for being slobby. The lab shines, even the floors reflect back the sullen and worn face that Hyaline wears. He takes a moment to look over the various stations, taking in the matt grey table tops, the viral tanks which glow with gentle blue UV light, and the desk that goes up the middle, papers and data-tabs lining it orderly. He takes a moment to commit it to memory, and turns off the lights one last time. 

It's a slow walk out of R&D that day, most of the staff is still committed to work, and Hyaline wouldn't have it any other way. He's much more comfortable this way, silently knowing what is going to happen. He is well aware of the panic it would cause, and will cause, once the identity of the tender ship becomes known. He knows there will be questions, pleas and attempts to take him to safety. All of that would be useless, he knows what's coming and he knows better than to think he'll escape this alive. 

"Hey boss! Hey!"

Hyaline turns to face his colleague, Dr. Ray Haussen. A portly human, with a single cybernetic leg that clicks and clangs as he hurries after him, his salt and pepper hair lightly gleaning with sweat. The strange odor of machine oil and greasy food wafts over Hyaline as he approaches. 

"Whatever it is, Dr. Haussen, it can wait till tomorrow." Hyaline waves him away, "Much too tired, I'm afraid."

"Huh, ain't that odd," Haussen caught up to Hyaline, "You don't strike me as the slacking kind."

"I am not," Hyaline did his best to hide his frustation, "Just, uh, bad samples, putting me in a mood."

"Yeah, yeah I feel that," Haussen's expression sours slightly. 

Hyaline knew that the man was a bit soft, in a physical and spiritual sense, never understanding how dire things were and the need for 'fresh' samples outweighed the moral quandaries. Haussen fought tooth and nail to keep the clone tanks, which Hyaline had pointed out introduced it's own set of moral greyness. Hyaline could tell Haussen had quietly quit after that, and a not too small part of him hoped that Haussen is here to hand in his resignation from the team.  

"Wanted to ask you about something on the database. A file, your name's on it." Haussen explains, "Taking up almost an exabyte worth of space."

"I don't know what you're talking about, now, good day." Hyaline hastens his walk slightly. 

Before he can round the corner Haussen cuts him off, placing a thick hand against the wall, his brown eyes narrowing at Hyaline. 

"I don't know what your game is, old timer," Haussen starts, "Being honest, I don't really give a shit what your... off-the-clock activities are. My issue is whatever it is seems to be more of an interest than working with the rest of us."

That gets the Hyaline, "Are you insinuating that I'm disrupting the work?"

"You're the lead researcher who doesn't share his notes," Haussen motions broadly to the research wing, "Would be nice if you did your job and led us."

"I'm not your professor, nor your mother," Hyaline growls, "Do not think you have any right to speak to me--"

Alarms ring and red lights flood the research wing, soon after a roar echoes through the halls, and gun fire joins it soon after. The animosity growing on Haussen's face vanishes, clearly, he knows what's happening, and knows he's a dead man walking. Around the wing cries and shouts barely register under the blaring alarm. The first couple researchers and techs come out orderly, but as the gunfire intensifies, they start running, their panic getting the better of them. They push and shove, some fall to the ground and are trampled while others rage against one another as they fight to escape. 

"Pirates. Out here?" Haussen's shock comes out muted, he blinks and the shock is gone, replaced with cold detachment, "We need to get to the safe rooms, activate the beacons." 

"Go on ahead." Hyaline motions, "I'll be in my quarters."

"What?" Haussen's confusion lasts for only a moment, before realization falls over him, and his gaze turns dark. His meaty hands latch onto Hyaline's neck and presses him against the wall, "I was fucking right! You sold us out--"

A panicking tech pushes into them, Haussen is sent to the ground, and as more techs and researchers rush by, Hyaline sticks to the wall and walks away. His usual walk to his quarters would've been far quicker had there been no panic. He estimates that Haussen's attempt at getting answers out of him will delay him by a minute or two. Which is a shame, he thinks, it means he will probably not have the time for a smoke. 

As he leaves the research wing armsmen rush past. Clad in black and blue armored voidsuits they stomp by, wielding hard-light shields in one hand and rapid fire SMGs in the other. One of them takes a moment to look at Hyaline, his helmet tilting slightly before shaking and returning to the formation. Marching behind them, bulky security drones march along in the narrow hall, nearly stomping upon Hyaline's feet as he barely dodges the ion blaster that is one of it's arms. 

He makes his way into residential, which is mostly empty, much to Hyaline's relief, he didn't want to deal with another crowd. As he rounds the corner to his quarters he sees a group of armsmen are setting up a weapon platform of some sort, one of them sees the doctor and pulls his visor up. The felius fur is a soft red, making his green eyes shine all the brighter. His fur has been dyed to mimic shooting stars across his face. A part of Hyaline grumbles internally, they really were scrapping the bottom of the barrel, he thinks to himself. 

"Sir!" He hisses, "Please make your way to the panic rooms! You'll be safe there."

Hyaline knows that isn't the case. Everyone on this boat is a dead man. He could lecture the young sapient on that, but chooses not to. He has very little time left anyway. Hyaline then opens the door to his quarters and steps in. 

He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it by the door and unbuttons the collar of his shirt, removing the tie and placing it with the rest of the laundry. He puts his shoes up in the hall closet and walks through the sitting room. There he finds a clean glass sitting next to a full service bar. He reaches past the other liquors and hones in on one dusty bottle. 

'Rawne's Reserve,' the label is written in gold leafy font, the 'r's swirling around and connecting to one another. He had hoped to open this when they had a real break through, but that wouldn't be happening, not here anyway. The plastic covering the cork falls to the floor and the bottle opens with a pop. 

The amber liquid fills the glass, he takes a moment to hold it up to the lowlight of his quarters, the sound of gun fire and alarms fading into obscurity as he brings the glass up to his nose and sniffs it. He commits the smoky, peaty smell to memory before taking a sip from the glass. He lets it play across his tongue, and as he swallows it, he admires the smoothness of how it all goes down. He takes the glass to his study, sitting down in his chair before his terminal. 

He checks the drawer as the computer boots up, and finds the loaded revolver inside. It's an antique, with pearl grips and polished steel plating. He checks it, ensuring it's loaded, and then sets it on his desk as he opens up a connection to his contact. As it loads, he finds the data cord connected to his terminal and plugs it into a slot right at the nape of his neck. He sees a menu pop up, recognizing him and begins the process of analyzing and copying his memories. 

The gun fire intensifies outside, clearly, the battle has reached his doorstep. A shame, he had really hoped for a cigar. The screen flashes green, a notification that the program has finished running. He checks and sees he's established a Liminal Link with his contact. He then initiates the upload, the file Haussen was interested in begins the process of uploading into and then through the Net. 

Hyaline toasts the monitor as the computer does it's work, draining the glass. He then takes the revolver and pushes it against his temple. He hesitates for a moment, but finds the strength to put his finger on the trigger and pulls.

"WARNING! CONNECTION FAILURE!" Is the last thing he sees.