CHAPTER 01: HUIS – A VIEW AWAY FROM THERE
"I AM WHAT YOU HAVE MADE ME. TAKE ALL THE PRAISE, TAKE ALL THE BLAME; TAKE ALL THE SUCCESS, TAKE ALL THE FAILURE; IN SHORT, TAKE ME."
— PIP, GREAT EXPECTATIONS
Von Schmidt, who had been observing the holographic display of the four escapees’ adventure, stood as the scene paused—cutting off the leader mid-sentence, just as he got his first good look at the "big blue snowball."
Huis Hohenzollern, holding the flexipad with the pause button, smiled ear to ear. He could see Von Schmidt’s normally stern expression twitch, betraying a flicker of emotion. That meant the old man recognized what he was looking at.
“The Caitlin’s Comet Dyson Sphere,” Huis said, his grin widening.
“I thought it would make for a good Replay. I implanted AVP in those four before shipping them off to prison, just to see if they could escape—for entertainment. While it didn’t exactly turn out to be edge-of-your-seat thrilling, their accidental discovery of the Xipetotec Mining Station gave me an even better idea.”
Von Schmidt’s eyes narrowed. “So it would seem. And what do you expect me to do about it?”
The stout German rose from his seat. Huis stepped aside, eager. “I’m very glad you asked. To preface—”
Von Schmidt cut him off with a sharp look, his discomfort evident. Huis slowed his enthusiasm, realizing he was losing his audience.
He tried again. “My business is about entertaining billions of jaded working-class humanoids with chronic compassion fatigue.”
Von Schmidt said nothing, so Huis continued. “These days, it’s almost impossible to find something real enough, unique enough, to stand out. Everyone can watch anything, anywhere, anytime.”
Von Schmidt mused, “These AVPs... They seem to be more than mere holographic projections. I presume the acronym stands for ‘Audio Visual Phenomenon’? Old spy tech from the good ol’ bad? So, you record this phenomenon and broadcast it systemwide?”
Huis nodded eagerly. “IR—Instant Replays. We call them Replays. You see everything the subject sees, plus the world around them.”
“They’re the new frontier of entertainment media, surpassing even holographic curtains. It’s the same concept, but we hyper-impose the AVP from the individual it’s recorded around. Maximum immersion without experiencing what they do.”
To Huis’ surprise, Von Schmidt didn’t seem impressed. For someone so imperious, Von Schmidt was unaware of how widespread this once-clandestine technology had become. Then again, the man lived like a hermit, off in one of the worst, barely habitable places known to man. Yet he thrived there, in luxury.
“I have a new Replay idea. But before I present it…” Huis gestured to the shimmering holographic curtain in the center of the room. “If you want to see more, there’s some reconnaissance by the escapees that might surprise you.”
Von Schmidt showed no outward sign of annoyance. He simply sat back down in the oversized leather-like chair Huis had imported from a Dolemitian furniture trader on Jupiter’s third moon—back when it was still the second moon.
“I feel I’ve been away from the party long enough. May I leave the Replay running for you?” Huis asked.
“I just press this to resume?” Von Schmidt took the flexipad from Huis.
Huis nodded and spun on his heel, heading back to the party.
Huis understood that if he wanted Von Schmidt’s cooperation, he needed more than just a flashy entertainment proposal. Von Schmidt wasn’t the type to be swayed by trivial fame or petty wealth; he was a man who saw the bigger picture, and that’s exactly how Huis planned to sell this. The Replay was valuable, sure, but tying it to something with political weight—something of real consequence—was the key to catching Von Schmidt’s interest. That’s where the lost comet mine came in.
Offering Von Schmidt the intel on the mine’s location wasn’t just bait—it was a carefully calculated opportunity. The mine wasn’t just lost; it was a goldmine of scientific and economic potential. Time was crucial, though. If the location leaked, the MAPC could swoop in, or worse, the Russians or some independent scrappers could claim salvage rights, ruining everything Huis had worked for. No, it had to be Von Schmidt, the man with the influence to secure it.
Huis knew the scientific community would salivate at the prospect of this discovery, but his vision was simpler, darker. This wasn’t about discovery; this was about spectacle. He would send celebrities to the mine, put them in real danger, and record the entire thing through AVP. The unpredictability, the real fear—they were what would make it irresistible to viewers. It wasn’t just a show; it was a new frontier in entertainment. Real people. Real danger. And Huis was going to be at the helm of it all.
Huis understood one critical, unsettling truth: Von Schmidt had no real obligation to entertain his proposition. The man could take the intel, brush Huis aside, and claim the mine for himself without so much as a second thought. Huis had no leverage, no power over the German; if Von Schmidt decided to shut him out, there would be nothing he could do to stop him. The cold reality of his vulnerability gnawed at Huis, but he also clung to a small hope—Von Schmidt had a reputation, however faint, for maintaining a certain level of honor. It was a quality that Huis himself lacked, but in this moment, he was banking on it.
Huis had spent months combing through the labyrinth of social media archives, meticulously piecing together a list of candidates for his next grand spectacle. He wasn’t just looking for faces—he was looking for pawns, each with ties that could lead him straight to bigger opportunities. Each guest at this exclusive gathering had been carefully vetted, not just for their wealth or status, but for their connections to a suitable "cast member." These were the individuals who could hand him someone ripe for exploitation—someone whose death, packaged as "entertainment," would generate massive profit and interest in his show.
Huis had been strategic, ensuring no guest brought someone who might stir trouble. No entourage attachments or conflicting loyalties that might complicate the clean execution of his plan. His rule was simple: everything had to be isolated. No unnecessary ties between guests that could lead to suspicion, drama, or (worst of all) interference. His show thrived on chaos, but only the kind he controlled. Chaos with boundaries—messy, but within the safety of the invisible walls he had built.
Through skillful maneuvering, he ensured that each potential "contributor" to his scheme would walk away with nothing to point back at them. The deaths of the show’s participants would appear natural, accidental, or even self-inflicted. The guests wouldn’t just be participants in his conspiracy—they would be accomplices, their hands as dirty as his, even if they never realized it. And to Huis, that was the art in all of this: getting the powerful to participate in their own undoing, all while smiling, drinking, and toasting to their future profits.
Everyone invited believed they were the predator in the game, but Huis knew better. He had been setting the trap long before the first invitation was sent. The party was a carefully orchestrated venture, designed to gather the agents and benefactors of the stars he needed. But protection from outside forces? For that, he needed Von Schmidt.
Huis' ship had once been a grand hotel, sitting at the heart of the tense, fashionable streets of Rome, a place where aristocrats and magnates rubbed shoulders during its heyday. It had been a cornerstone of Terra’s elite society, a symbol of opulence. Centuries later, its once-storied walls had been deconstructed by advanced machines, atom by atom, to be rebuilt far from Earth’s atmosphere. What had stood as a towering landmark on Terra was transformed into the Hohenzollern Excelsior, a breathtaking interplanetary luxury cruise ship that could glide across the void of space as gracefully as it had once reigned over Earth’s most glamorous city.
The ship retained its old-world elegance in every curve of its sleek, alabaster hull, though now it stretched across kilometers of steel and glass. Entire floors were designated for ballrooms and gardens, with simulated atmospheres to mimic the feeling of being on Terra, a deliberate nod to the aristocratic past it had once served. Every detail of the ship screamed extravagance, from the chandeliers that still swung in the dining halls like relics of the Renaissance, to the marble columns that lined the promenades, now floating through space. The ship’s long and storied history had been molded into something new and rare, a beacon of high-class luxury in a universe that had largely forgotten the old world.
Huis stepped into the corridor beyond the media room, glancing both ways as he pondered where to begin. It was time to start “scouting”—selling his idea to the guests. He was still deciding where to make his first approach when a familiar face stepped into view, bowing deeply before him.
Snapping back to the moment, Huis greeted him with, “Ta-kun! Ogenki desu ka! How you doin’?”
The zaibatsu representative, dressed formally in black, looked slightly disheveled. His long hair had slipped from its topknot, and his vantablack suit was unbuttoned, with his shirt partially untucked. He was also a little drunk.
One of Huis’ favorite aspects of working with the Japanese was the absence of “L” sounds in their language. Calling Tadakashi by the first letter of his name—"Ta-kun"—was perfectly appropriate for a host addressing a guest, while Tadakashi, in turn, was required by politeness to refer to Huis as “Hohenzollern.”
Tadakashi-san straightened up from his bow, sweating slightly, and said, “Konbanwa, Hohenzollern-desu.”
Tadakashi flushed, visibly embarrassed, but managed to laugh along, his pride seemingly intact. It was always dangerous to offend the wrong Japanese corporation, but not Ogon Corporation—the entertainment company Tadakashi represented. Ogon was a moderately influential firm in the music industry, nowhere near the power of the system’s great corporations.
Huis could afford a little irreverence, and he indulged in it.
After a few seconds of small talk, Huis realized he might be a touch too sober for this particular conversation. He gestured to the lift at the end of the hall. “Would you join me for libations at my Starside Bar?”
The bar had once been located on the roof of Huis’ hotel back on Terra, but now it sat atop his spaceship, beneath a transparent dome of meter-thick Glass VI. The glass was so dense it weighed more than the entire ship combined and was several times harder than even hyper-diamonds.
The rooftop bar, while technically still enclosed, extended onto a vast patio beneath the stars. The decor was all opulent yellows and golds, with a highly polished hardwood floor. The ceilings vaulted high above, and at the far end opposite the liquor bar stood a tower rotunda, its doors barred by a gentle anti-kinetic field. Numerous tables and chairs dotted the space, with many seats occupied by Huis' guests. The bar itself was busy, the bartenders moving quickly to keep up with the demand.
Huis steered Tadakashi past the bar, considering briefly whether to slip between the Olavi Corporation vice-chairman—Hal Something-or-Other—and his probable date to flag down a bartender for drinks. But his thoughts drifted elsewhere, and he continued toward the doorway leading to the rotunda. If you want to catch a big fish, you have to pick the right spot.
The anti-kinetic barrier wasn’t dangerous, just a soft nudge against trespassers. Anyone who tried to pass through it would feel an intangible resistance, barring further progress. Huis waved his hand, bypassing the field easily, and gestured for Tadakashi to follow.
Inside, the rotunda was lined with racks of wine and liquor. Huis grabbed a bottle of sake, peeling off the seal as he began his pitch. “So, you wrangle idols, right? How’s that working out?”
Tadakashi took a sip of the sake Huis poured for him, then responded with a deep breath. “I represent the post-marketable idols sponsored by Ogon Corporation. Idols whose careers have been overtaken by younger talent. My job is to generate as much profit as possible from their remaining marketability, despite their diminished ability to produce high-demand entertainment content.”
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Huis knew exactly what Tadakashi meant, but he still quipped, “Oh, like selling day-old donuts? Hawking used goods? How do you sell human furniture that’s gone out of fashion? That must be brave work.”
“It is a career destined to lead to great shame.”
Huis returned the sake bottle to the shelf, shaking his head. “Let’s not get lachrymose, my friend. Sake may be your vice, but mine lies elsewhere. Come, let me show you.”
They moved to the opposite side of the room, where hundreds of wine bottles were nestled into the walls. Huis had just begun rattling off his collection of vintage wines when he was interrupted by a polite but deliberate cough—one meant to draw attention.
Huis handed a bottle to Tadakashi, who nearly dropped it before fumbling to catch it. After a brief juggling act, he managed to secure the bottle and read the label. “Quality,” he said, with a touch of admiration.
Huis chuckled at the way Ta-kun had said “quality” as he shifted his focus to the figure standing at the entrance to his liquor turret. It was the Olavi Corp executive from the bar, now alone. Grinning, Huis skipped over to the anti-kinetic field and waved it away to let the man in.
The executive, Hal, stepped through, carrying a tumbler of something brown. He wore his "fancy pants," but his jacket was missing, and his undershirt, though tucked in, had its sleeves rolled up. His face was flushed from drinking, and the redness creeping over his pale bald head made him look like a squid.
“Hal! Hal So—” Huis began, before breaking into laughter.
Hal gave him a look. “Somdinathoether,” he slurred.
The trio spent the next few minutes exchanging impetuous banter, their laughter growing louder and more slurred as the drinks kept coming. Reality began to blur for everyone except Huis, who discreetly thumbed his bracelet, releasing Maat nanomachines into his system. The machines sobered him up instantly, though he continued to feign drunkenness, suppressing the shiver that came with the sudden clarity.
Drinks flowed effortlessly in the softly lit room. The low hum of conversation set the perfect backdrop for Huis's true purpose: to quietly lay the groundwork for what was to come. Tadakashi was balls-deep in sake, his nerves as frazzled as ever, his eyes darting around like he was waiting for something to go wrong. Hal, flushed and already half-gone, sidled up soon after, his greedy grin widening with every sip, eagerly babbling about how much money there was to be made.
Huis, ever the charming host, had started the evening casually—just a few close conspirators sharing drinks like old friends, pretending that the weight of his darker plans didn’t hang in the air. But as the night wore on, more men were pulled into the circle, lured by alcohol and the intoxicating cloak of privilege that bound them all.
It was subtle at first. A rare Scotch here, a vintage cognac there. Huis didn’t push—he simply poured, and they came. First, Tadakashi, whose inability to meet anyone’s gaze told Huis he wasn’t just thirsty for whiskey. Then Hal, grinning as though he could already feel the fortunes that lay ahead, his face growing redder with each glass.
Jehosevat Jones appeared, seemingly summoned by the scent of opportunity and self-interest. The Former Reverend-President’s clone smug sneer etched itself permanently onto his face as he joined the circle, spouting self-righteous nonsense no one cared to challenge. But he too accepted the glass offered to him, the liquor smoothing over the rough edges of his ego.
Soon, Dayson Moray and Migesus d'Azmat II had joined them, swirling their drinks, murmuring quietly, but firmly, about what each man stood to gain. The conspiracy took root with the clink of their crystal glasses.
Dayson Moray, CEO of Aerospace LogiX, slid into the conversation with quiet confidence, his well-manicured fingers tightly gripping his glass. His son-in-law, Richard, had become more trouble than he was worth, a rogue element threatening to destabilize his pristine corporate image. Huis could see the tension buried behind Dayson’s composed exterior, the small worry lines on his face betraying his calm demeanor. Richard was a mess, and Dayson was here to clean it up—no matter the cost.
Migesus d'Azmat II, the powerful Tetecuhtin of the MAPC, wasn’t quite as subtle. His authority carried an air of invincibility, but the faint lines of desperation were visible in his eyes. His son, Mike, had gone too far, and the thought of his family’s reputation being dragged through the muck of interstellar tabloids weighed heavy on him. Migesus didn’t come for casual drinks—he came for an absolution that only Huis could offer. The bourbon Huis handed him wasn’t just a drink—it was a promise.
By the umpteenth bottle, Huis had woven his web, pulling them all in. They had their own secrets to bury, and as the drinks flowed, so did the confessions.
“I’ve been drinking since my venture to lease idols as high-rate companions failed,” Tadakashi said with a bitter laugh, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. “The customers complained because the idols couldn’t hold conversations. Genetic manipulation made sure they weren’t unintelligent, but they were never taught the basics. It used to be enough that they were pretty and pliable. Now I have to come up with a gimmick just to sell their gimmicks.”
Huis considered briefly connecting Ta-kun with one of his friends who dabbled in more illicit ventures but was interrupted by Hal, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin.
“Gimmicks, huh?” Hal said, his face growing redder with each word. “Let me tell you about gimmicks. You know the Olavi twins—well, the one twin now. After Amberlee died, we made more money selling grief than they ever made with their so-called genius. All those years building a fashion empire, and their real fortune was in tragedy.”
Huis smiled, still playing drunk, but privately amused at the depth of their ambition.
Dayson sipped his drink quietly, his eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of tragedy. Richard’s death could play out much the same way, and Huis just knew the thought had already occurred to him.
Tadakashi, though still chuckling, wiped more sweat from his brow. “Same thing with Hajime Mashite. She’s worth more dead. Insurance payout alone would clear her debt. No one wants an idol that can’t even hold a conversation anymore.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. All that tech, all that investment, and she can’t even talk to the clients. What’s she good for now?”
Huis cast a glance over Tadakashi, noting how his hands fidgeted nervously with the edge of his silk handkerchief. Tadakashi wasn’t just in for the payout—he was drowning in shame, and Huis could see it.
Jehoshaphat Jones wasn’t far behind. The Reverend-President’s symbolic status hadn’t dulled his narcissism, and his voice carried through the room as if he were giving a sermon. He didn’t even mention Shephatiah’s name when he spoke, but everyone knew who he meant.
Jones growled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a sneer. “The stupidest mistake I ever made. You know, I created her, right? Thought I’d make the perfect clone of myself, only female. Thought she’d be like me, but cute–soften my public image. Turns out she’s nothing but a waste of time and money. Stupid. Expensive. If I were allowed to hate, I’d hate her.”
Jones took a long sip, letting the liquor wash over his tongue like a balm for his frustrations. His disdain was a permanent fixture, and even the others shifted uncomfortably at his words. Yet none of them spoke up—this was Jones, and confrontation wasn’t worth the effort.
As the night deepened and the conversation drifted towards darker, unspoken agreements, the Grandmaster Abbot of the Wu Tang Clan appeared in the doorway. He didn’t make an entrance so much as his presence simply filled the space, the quiet weight of his authority undeniable even in a room filled with powerful men. His movements were slow and deliberate, his face calm as always, as though he had already judged everyone and found them wanting.
Huis, noticing the shift in atmosphere, offered the Abbot a glass without a word, though the older man waved it away. He was not there to indulge in Huis’s pleasures. The conspirators turned their attention to him in a quiet, reverent way that seemed involuntary. They knew who he was, what he represented—a lineage as old as the music they all adored.
Tadakashi’s hand shook a little as he set down his glass, the sake spilling slightly. He wiped it with his silk handkerchief, but the nervous energy remained. Dayson, usually the most composed, shifted uneasily, his fingers drumming softly against his knee. Even Hal, perpetually brimming with confidence, fell silent in the Abbot’s presence.
The Grandmaster Abbot gave each of them a measured glance, his eyes lingering briefly on Tadakashi before he spoke. “Potential,” he began, his voice a low rumble that carried through the room, “is a dangerous thing. Too much of it, unchecked, and it becomes arrogance. Professor Darnell always had potential, but he let it fester.”
He stepped further into the circle, taking his place among them, though he remained standing. His hands rested lightly behind his back, his stance reflecting both authority and contemplation. “He thought he could stand alongside us—beside me—without understanding what it means to truly be part of the Wu-Tang Clan.” The words were delivered slowly, like the passing of a sentence. “It is disgraceful.”
The men around him nodded in agreement, though none dared to interrupt. Even Jones, who moments ago had been brash and loud, remained silent as the Grandmaster spoke. The room was filled with a sense of quiet deference. It wasn’t just respect—it was fear.
The Abbot’s eyes settled on Hal for a moment, as if he could see through every false smile and hidden motive. Hal, ever the opportunist, tried to mask his discomfort with a faint grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“He had the popularity, yes. But in the end, that was his downfall. He believes that is enough.” The Abbot paused, his gaze flicking to Huis for just a second, before returning to the group. “But potential is nothing without humility. And Darnell… he will learn that. Whether by choice or force.”
Huis, sensing the weight of the Grandmaster’s final words, raised his glass, breaking the heavy silence. “To lessons learned.”
The others, almost on cue, lifted their glasses as well. Even the Abbot gave a small nod of acknowledgment, though he did not partake in the toast. The moment passed, and just like that, the Grandmaster Abbot melted back into the shadows, leaving behind only the gravity of his words.
The room fell into a heavy, reflective silence. Each man had something to gain, and each of them was willing to betray, erase, or dispose of the person standing in their way. Yet, for all their individual ambitions, there was a shared understanding. The clinking of crystal glasses and the quiet murmurs of agreement weren’t just a part of the night—they were the sound of a conspiracy taking shape.
Von Schmidt entered the private cache area like a force of nature, the weight of his presence palpable. The security systems were meaningless to him—he didn’t need Huis to deactivate anything. With a single, deliberate motion, he breached the room as though it belonged to him. His gaze, cold and commanding, swept over the gathered conspirators, and the room fell deathly silent.
“Huis Hohenzollern,” he said, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. “I do not appreciate being led by the nose, by you or anyone, even if it’s for a good idea.”
Despite their status, no one dared speak. It wasn’t just respect—this was a man who carried more power than any of the agencies or aristocracies in the system combined. His reputation alone silenced them. Von Schmidt was a man who could topple governments and crush corporations with a simple decision, and everyone in the room knew it.
The atmosphere shifted as Von Schmidt continued, his tone softening just slightly, but the edge never leaving his words. “Your suggestion has piqued my curiosity, Huis. We’ll do this together. But remember—keep it respectable. And know this: I get what I want, even if you do not. You may put on your show, because it will serve as reconnaissance that spares any risk to my people. I’m willing to tolerate it, in gratitude for this information.”
The others—Migesus, Dayson, Hal, Tadakashi, and even Jones—remained utterly still, pale as ghosts, their previous bravado evaporating in Von Schmidt’s shadow. The realization of what they were truly involved in dawned on them with terrifying clarity. This was no longer a casual conversation about possibilities; this was a conspiracy with consequences beyond their understanding.
Huis, however, grinned like a jack-o-lantern, relishing the tension. His hands spread out in a mock-welcome, enjoying the moment. “Are these they, Huis?” Von Schmidt asked, his voice slicing through the silence.
With a sweeping gesture, Huis turned to his entourage, the grin never leaving his face. “To all my new friends here tonight, beset with uncertainty, allow me to introduce—”
Migesus d'Azmat II, despite his station, interrupted, his voice trembling as he uttered Von Schmidt’s name. The reverence in his tone was unmistakable, and the significance of that name was not lost on anyone. It was the name of the man who held their futures in the palm of his hand.
Von Schmidt's gaze shifted briefly to Migesus, a subtle but deliberate acknowledgment, before turning back to Huis. His power hung heavy in the air, a reminder that all of them were merely pieces on his board.
Huis smiled to himself, reveling in how far he had come from his humble beginnings. Back when his days were spent fishing for piscoforms on a creaky skyhook, hovering in the oppressive, cloudy Venusian skies. That was the Venus of old—no sleek metropolises or glamorous stations, just the dense, muggy fog and toxic air, effectively the Ozarks of space, a backwater for all the galaxy’s forgotten folk. Those days, the smell of sweat and grease hung heavy, his fingers raw from hours spent hauling in nets, dreaming of something bigger while the world turned its back on him.
He didn’t miss it. Not the grimy deck beneath his boots, nor the way his skin burned under the constant yellowish haze of Venus’ skies. Now, he walked on glass floors above pristine gardens in orbiting luxury liners, his drink filled with liquors that cost more than some men made in a lifetime. Every small sip tasted like revenge on the poverty he’d left behind. Where he once clawed at the ground for survival, now he could pluck the stars from the sky with a wave of his hand. The only thing thicker than the air of his childhood was the slime that slithered in the pockets of the powerful men surrounding him now—men like Hal, Tadakashi, and the rest, who lived on the backs of the misfortunate and desperate, much like those Venusian farmers he once fished for. They were all just piscoforms now, waiting for the hook.
“Gentlemen,” Huis began, his voice smooth but filled with the weight of intent. He made sure each man in the room was paying full attention, pausing for dramatic effect. “I am, as you know, a producer of entertainment media. But more than that, I’m a visionary. And I have brought you all here tonight because I have an idea—a big idea—for a new Replay.”
He allowed himself a grin, sensing the intrigue building among his guests. “You’ve all heard of Disastronauts, right? My most successful show to date? Well, gentlemen, it’s time for the next evolution in immersive entertainment.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “So here’s the pitch. Disastronauts: Celebrity Edition.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, allowing the idea to sink in, each guest's reaction betraying a mixture of curiosity and unease.