CHAPTER 09: HUIS - A SOUND THAT WAS HIMSELF

"The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it's profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery..."

— Frank Zappa

Huis reclined in the plush seat of the executive lounge, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, watching the android Martinas glide past the room with their flawless precision. Their slender, sculpted forms were designed for elegance, but Huis was more interested in their aesthetic appeal than their functionality. He turned toward Professor Darnell, who was eyeing one of the Martinas with his trademark smirk.

"You know," Huis began, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "when I ordered my Hominem Mobilia, I went for the extra sexy models. Figured if I’m going to be stuck in a floating hotel with these things, I might as well have something to look at."

Professor Darnell snorted, unimpressed, his eyes lazily following one of the Martins as he passed by. "Extra sexy?" He raised an eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Bro, if that’s your definition of sexy, I think you need your eyes checked. Sure, they’re shaped like people, but they ain’t go no ass. No cheeks. No roundage down-under. Hell, it’s a waste of technology."

Huis grinned, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. "Hey, I’m not saying they’re the height of desire or anything, but they’re functional. Efficient. They don’t complain, and they sure as hell don’t get into any trouble."

Professor Darnell shook his head, letting out an amused laugh. "To be fair, that’s exactly what I look for in a woman. No soul, no sass, no spark. Just functionality."

Huis rolled his eyes, sipping his whiskey. "They’re not supposed to replace people, exactly. They’re tools, accessories. You think I care if they have ‘spark’? I’ve got enough going on without worrying about whether or not my furniture can crack a joke."

Professor Darnell shrugged, leaning back again. "Hey, if that’s what you want, then fine. Just don’t go around calling them sexy if they ain’t. I’ve seen sexier sexboxes."

Huis glanced down at his bracelet as it began to vibrate softly against his wrist. A message flashed on its surface: 12 HOURS TO DESTINATION: COMET 401/P. He allowed himself a brief smile. The anticipation of what lay ahead hummed through him, and it was time to stir the others from their slumber. The rest of the cast had been resting in their designated quarters, conserving energy for the coming expedition, but Huis preferred to stay in control of the ship’s functions from the lounge, keeping an eye on everything from a distance.

"Looks like we’re almost there," Huis muttered, drawing Professor Darnell’s attention from the Martinas. "Time to wake your fellow castmates."

Professor Darnell, lounging with a drink in hand, raised an eyebrow. "What, you got an alarm clock for that?"

Huis grinned, tapping the surface of his bracelet. "Something like that. But I like to keep things subtle. Don’t need anyone freaking out or waking up all cranky. Watch this."

He swiped through a few screens on his bracelet, his fingers moving with precision as he accessed the ship's environmental systems. "You see," he explained to Professor Darnell, "I can adjust the climate in each room, control EM fields, even the lighting. Make it all feel natural. People wake up when their bodies think they should, not because an alarm's blaring in their face."

"You're about to play god with the thermostat, yo?" Professor Darnell smirked, leaning forward with interest. "Alright, let's see what you've got, Butterscotch."

Huis adjusted the ambient temperature in the sleeping quarters by a few degrees, ever so slightly raising the warmth. "Humans are sensitive to changes in climate while they sleep," he said. "A small temperature increase, just enough to trigger their body's natural waking mechanisms. No jolts, no sudden shocks—just the subtle suggestion that it’s time to start moving."

He swiped again, altering the electromagnetic field in the quarters. "This," he continued, "will stimulate brain activity. It’s like telling their subconscious that something’s shifting in the atmosphere. Makes them more alert without really understanding why."

Professor Darnell nodded, impressed despite himself. "That’s slick as shit, yo. So they’ll think they’re just waking up on their own, huh?"

"Exactly." Huis leaned back in his chair, watching the display on his bracelet. A visual readout of each cast member’s room popped up on the screen. He could see their biometrics in real time—their heart rates gradually increasing, breathing patterns shifting as they stirred from sleep. "They’ll wake up naturally, feeling refreshed. No grogginess."

Professor Darnell chuckled. "You really are something else, man. Control freak, but efficient. You been watching me do shit with this, ain’t you? It’s aight, long as you hook me up with a recording after all this shit."

Huis smiled, pleased with the results as he watched the bars on the readout continue to rise. "You can have whatever you want like that, when you get back."

With a final tap, he closed the system, the gentle stimulation already working its magic. Soon, they’d all be awake and ready for the mission ahead.

“Go off and do whatever, and close the door on your way out, Professor Darnell. I gotta do Producer shit for a minute, that ain’t no fun to be around.”

“Aight.” Professor Darnell rose and did as he was instructed, and then Huis was alone.

Huis activated his AVP, and within moments, Von Schmidt’s sharp, commanding features appeared, projected in flickering holographic form. After they had made their accord, Huis was taken aback by how quickly the German’s interest veered from curious to oddly intense. Von Schmidt was a man of calculated ambition, but something about his reaction to the mine felt unusually personal. Huis hadn’t expected this—he couldn’t shake the surprise from his mind. Of all the possible treasures and relics on that comet—the lost technology, precious metals, and other resources ripe for the taking—Von Schmidt only seemed to care about one thing: a dead alien in a jar.

It was bizarre. Huis had expected the comet to excite the German because of the potential profit or political leverage it could offer, but instead, Von Schmidt’s singular obsession was this preserved specimen. It made no sense to Huis.

He’d seen men lust after wealth, power, influence—but never had he seen someone so fixated on a lifeless, long-forgotten creature. That single, preserved alien seemed to hold more weight in Von Schmidt’s eyes than any fortune the comet could provide. It made Huis uneasy, as though he were missing some vital piece of a larger puzzle. What exactly had they uncovered, and why did it matter so much?

Huis had heard rumors over the years—whispers in the more secretive circles of Von Schmidt's dealings. The man was not just a mercenary commander or power-broker; he was known to be a collector of rarities, the kind of artifacts that most people didn’t even know existed, let alone could get their hands on. Priceless historical relics, unique biological specimens, one-of-a-kind pieces of alien tech—Von Schmidt had a collection that rivaled even the wealthiest collectors in the System.

“ Herr Von Schmidt, we’re twelve hours out. Waking up the troops,” Huis announced.

“Ja?” Von Schmidt’s voice was clipped, as always.

“Ja,” Huis echoed with a smirk, playing along.

“Wunderbar.”

Huis leaned back, getting to the point. “I’ve got Emily on task to find your dead alien.”

Von Schmidt’s expression tightened slightly. “The idioblast is best left untampered with by any one of them. Even Emily Smith. Perhaps her especially.” His tone was stern. “There are only three known to exist, and this is my only chance to obtain one for myself. From the time of your arrival, please conclude your business there within 24 hours.”

Huis scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s a pretty tight window, buddy.”

Von Schmidt’s voice remained cold, dismissing the concern. “There are vultures circling. My Herbsters are in your shadow, aboard a very small craft, nearly impossible to detect. They are guarding you.”

“Who?” Huis sat up, his interest piqued.

“Rozovoi, probably. Pirates.”

Huis couldn’t help but grin at the absurdity. “I gotta get that on the show somehow. Shit. Goddammit! Maybe not... Well, shit beans. Alright, you swear they won’t mess around with my show?”

Von Schmidt sounded confident, his clipped accent adding to the certainty. “They will likely wait until you attempt to leave before hijacking your ship. If or when they do, my men will board their vessel with a combat mechanoid and take control of it. Worst case scenario, my men loot a pirate ship.”

Huis let out a low whistle. “Hot damn.”

“Indeed,” Von Schmidt responded coolly before abruptly cutting the connection.

Huis stared at the now-empty holo-feed, a mix of excitement and anxiety bubbling inside him. Pirates, combat mechs, a rare alien artifact—his show had just taken a wild turn, and there was no way he’d let it go to waste.

Huis stood at the center of the circular lounge, the castmates arranged around him on one giant, comfortable circular sectional sofa, each seat facing inward to emphasize their little gathering. The room was bathed in soft ambient light, but the real spectacle was about to begin as Huis queued up the AVP displays, each introduction accompanied by its own theatrical flair. His trademark shit-eating grin played on his lips as he surveyed the room, fingers tapping his wrist bracelet to trigger the introductions.

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

“Alright, alright,” he began, his voice smooth and playful. “Let’s make this official. We’re hours away from the comet, so it’s time to introduce the crew. Starting with... the legend herself... Amberlee Olavi!”

The AVP fanfare for Amberlee was suitably dramatic—a cinematic orchestral swell filled the room as her hologram flickered to life, showing scenes from her career: action-packed sequences from her films, dramatic close-ups, and a memorable shot of her standing alongside her sister, Molly Cat. There was a polite applause cue in the background, but Amberlee’s expression remained detached, her eyes flicking briefly toward the images of her past.

“Next up,” Huis continued, “our musical genius with a mind built for entertainment... Hajime Mashite!”

Hajime’s hologram appeared in shades of pastel pink and white, swirling lines of musical notes and symbols dancing around her like an aura. Her fanfare was a soft, robotic melody that evoked precision and a strange sort of kawaii charm. She blinked twice, acknowledging the introduction with a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Huis grinned. “And also, our sharp-shooting diplomat... Mike Azmat!”

The AVP sparked to life again, projecting a futuristic neon-green target grid, followed by brief clips of Mike in action, using a combination of speech and gestures to effortlessly negotiate with alien species. The fanfare was a fast, pulsing beat, like something out of a competitive game show. Mike scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly embarrassed, but offered a small smile to the group.

“Yeah, well, I’m just here cause my Daddy said so,” Mike muttered, but Huis waved him off, smirking.

“You’re too correct, buddy.”

Huis’s eyes gleamed as he tapped his bracelet again, ready for the grand spectacle. "Next, we have the man who needs no introduction... but I’ll give him one anyway. The one, the only, the unstoppable... God Love Omega!"

A booming electric shockwave of neon blue and silver erupted as God Love Omega's hologram projected scenes from his legendary Siege matches. He dodged, darted, and demolished opponents in the zero-G arena, showcasing his prowess both as a Striker and an Enforcer. The fanfare was intense and bass-heavy, pounding through the room as God Love Omega’s name appeared in sleek metallic letters.

God Love Omega lounged casually, looking up just long enough to give a slow, confident smile. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

Huis raised his glass slightly in a playful toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, if there’s anyone you want on your side when the shit hits the fan, it’s this guy right here. Give it up for the one-man army, God Love Omega!”

There was an enthusiastic murmur from the group, some clapping, others nodding in recognition of God Love Omega’s reputation.

“And of course, we couldn’t forget our leading performer in chaotic energy and diva charm... Shephatiah Jones!”

Shephatiah’s hologram sparkled to life with glittering gold lights, showing clips of her performing on stage, storming red carpets, and a notorious tabloid scandal where she stormed off mid-song. Her fanfare was all bombast and attitude, perfectly matching her personality. She gave a dramatic flip of her hair as the applause played.

Huis flicked his bracelet again. “And finally, the fastest woman to ever circumnavigate the solar system... Emily Smith!”

Emily’s hologram showed her sleek ship zooming through space, trailed by a comet’s light. The fanfare was adventurous, a heroic tune that made you feel like you were about to dive headfirst into a grand quest. Emily smiled, giving a casual two-finger salute to the group as her hologram faded.

“Last but never least... Professor Darnell!”

The AVP system fired up once more, showcasing a collage of Professor Darnell’s greatest moments: his holographic music videos, talk show appearances, and a cheeky wink at the camera. The fanfare was funky, matching his oversized personality as he took a playful bow to a backdrop of applause.

With a grin that radiated satisfaction, Huis clapped his hands together. “Alright, folks. We’ve got one hell of a crew assembled here. We’re about to make history, so buckle up.”

The hologram of Caitlin Daisy—the comet they were fast approaching—flared to life behind him, casting long shadows as it rotated slowly in the dark expanse of space.

“Alright, Disastronauts,” Huis said, pacing with purpose, “this is your playground. Xipetotec Station—stranded for centuries, no one’s been down there in two lifetimes. And now, it’s your turn. You’ve got 24 hours to explore, uncover, and survive.” He paused, letting the tension build. “Let’s see what y’all’re made of.”

Amberlee was the first to leave, already unimpressed, but Emily seemed focused, gathering the others for some kind of planning session. As always, Huis watched, pleased with the chaos he’d just set in motion.

Huis leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the group fidget under Emily’s sharp tongue. She was in full command now, brow furrowed and voice cutting through the air like a razor. It was almost amusing, seeing how quickly they snapped to attention.

"Alright, you lot," Emily barked, her tone heavy with Victorian authority, "sit yourselves down and listen up. We’re not going on a bloody picnic here. We’re stepping into the unknown, and I won't have you wandering around like a bunch of wet blankets. So, sit."

Huis smirked as God Love Omega clapped his hands—one sharp crack that echoed through the lounge and made the others jump. Mike, Hajime, Shephatiah, and Professor Darnell plopped down onto the circular couch, wide-eyed and uncharacteristically silent.

Emily stood tall, pacing in front of them like a drill sergeant in a corset. "Omega, you're on point. You’ve got the muscle, so if anything comes at us, you handle it. Clear?"

God Love Omega nodded slowly, his massive arms crossed. "Yeah, I got it."

Emily’s gaze swept across the others. "You three—" She jabbed a finger at Mike, Hajime, and Shephatiah. "You’re staying in the middle, between me and Omega. No straying off. No ‘adventures.’ We move as one, until I say it's safe to spread out."

Mike opened his mouth to ask something, but before he could even form the words, Emily cut him off. "No. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. We stick together, we follow the plan, and no one does anything daft. Got it?"

Huis had to stifle a laugh. The way she commanded the room was something else. Even Professor Darnell, usually full of jokes, looked like he’d been properly chastised.

The group exchanged glances, some nervous, others begrudgingly obedient, but no one argued. Emily had them in check, and Huis loved every second of it. She was whipping them into shape, and for once, they actually looked ready for whatever might come next.

Huis thought to himself how much he loved the look on Emily Smith’s face when one of her friends died. Maybe this would be Emily’s final episode? He hoped so.

Huis Hohenzollern finished his business and stood up, adjusting his collar and trim, glancing casually at his waste floating in the spherical glass septic tank built into the wall. He nodded approvingly. His chiropractor once told him that floating stool was a sign of good health.

“Why would anyone ever want to see their own shit?” Huis muttered to himself, amused.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he had a custom-built septic tank with such a visible design. Maybe it was curiosity. After all, no one was around anymore to tell him not to look at it. He supposed, if he wanted to see his own waste, there was no one to stop him.

The only thing he'd eaten in the last 24 hours was an expensive Ganymede lobster. He knew it had cost his company a lot of pesos—whether that meant literal pesos or was just a flippant way of saying "a ridiculous amount of money" didn’t really matter. What mattered was that by his own accounting, it was probably the most expensive shit he'd ever taken.

He pressed a button, which activated the system to separate the water from the waste, freeze it, and vibrate the remains into atoms before blasting them into space. Simple, efficient, expensive.

Huis could have easily had his body augmented to eliminate the need for eating, sleeping, or even defecating—practically anything nature designed humans to do could be bypassed. But everybody else did that. The longer Huis abstained from those augmentations, the more he felt he had an advantage over the others. Peer pressure didn’t work if you had no peers. Huis prided himself on being different, living inside his head, detached from the world outside. Sometimes he imagined manipulating his body like a hologram projected in real time—an extension of his will.

He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and smirked, feeling that rare, private thrill of ownership over himself. This body, this face—he owned it. He could remember himself at every stage of life, but in each memory, his eyes—the dark, piercing gaze—remained the same. His true self, the real Huis, was behind those eyes.

He shifted slightly, appreciating the warm air now issuing from the heating duct beneath him. The thought struck him suddenly: he owned this air. All the air onboard this ship—his ship. He grinned at the wicked idea of cutting off the passengers’ air supply with their AVPs still recording. It would be easier than what he had in mind for them already. But then again, too predictable. Could spaceships even do that? If not, he’d have the system modified.

Huis swatted away the thought and returned to preening in front of the mirror. His moment of self-absorption was interrupted by his own recorded voice.

"Four AM. We have reached our destination. Initiating docking procedures."

Annoyed, Huis muttered, “Fuckin’ A.” Law was meaningless in space.

With a flick of his wrist, a holographic projection of his ship emanated from his bracelet. Inside the cyan wireframe model, tiny pin-shaped icons represented the crew and passengers. They were scattered about the ship—some in clusters, others alone. He zoomed in, tracing the paths of his little captives, their lives playing out inside the vast structure he controlled.

Satisfied, he swiped the hologram away, returning the display to his command console. He activated the dimethyltryptamine glyph, but then thought better of it, slapping the console closed.

He closed his eyes, retreating inward, into the coiling galaxy of his memories. A swirling mass of orbs, each one containing a fragment of his life, stretched out in front of him. From a distance, the spiraling structure was awe-inspiring, a cosmic repository of everything he had ever been.

To move quickly through his mind, he leapfrogged from memory to memory, hopping to the highs and lows that had shaped him. He landed on a familiar ecstasy: the moment he realized he was wealthier than he ever dreamed. Then he jumped back further to the moment he first tasted hopelessness, when he was poor, desperate, and hating life for the first time.

He was eleven again. Staring at his childhood self, scribbling on a desk in his bedroom with a photon-tipped pen. He etched the words "I hate life" into the wood alongside a doodle of a squiggle-man stabbed in the chest. He remembered his older brother’s failed attempts to scrub it off, the scolding that followed. Huis hadn’t cared then. He didn’t care now. His brother was dead anyway.

Back then, Huis was obsessed with dragons and role-playing games, long before he discovered the thrill of manipulating reality itself. Life above Venus, in the dense atmosphere of the Midwestern Skyhook, had been dull and repetitive. But there had been one bright spot—his pets. Or rather, the creatures he captured and sometimes tormented.

Huis grinned as the memory of chasing isopods through the clouds came back to him. Those skyfish-like creatures were his playthings. He would chase them to the railing of the platform, sometimes daring to look out past it, though the idea of falling terrified him. His mother had once told him a story about a woman who disappeared after swimming too far into the clouds, and that fear of vanishing haunted him for years.

But that fear was nothing compared to the power he felt later when he bred the isopods in an aquarium he convinced his mother to buy. He named them, played with them, sometimes killed them. The thrill wasn’t in nurturing—it was in control. He’d always been fascinated by how life, in his hands, could be manipulated, destroyed, or set free at will.

And that was what had driven him ever since. Control. Absolute control.

Huis opened his eyes, feeling grounded once more. His memories, like the ship, were his to command. And in a way, so were the passengers on board, because his only command for them was to go off and just do what they’d do. And that was the very heart of his Reality AVP show, really.

He was going to spend the next 24 hours in a time-dilated ecstatic fugue, thanks to his nanobots’ influence. It would feel like waking up on that Christmas morning when his mom had started dating her new boyfriend—the one who, desperate to impress, had gone all out. It was the first Christmas after his dad had taken custody of his brothers, so that morning had been a whirlwind of over-the-top gifts and forced cheer. It wasn’t the same the next year, of course—the magic had faded, and the boyfriend had settled into something far less generous. But that first year, the rush of it all had been intoxicating. This was going to be just like that. He booted up his AVP and selected a particular IR.