CHAPTER 17: HUIS - A WORD TO THE WISE
"It’s all just one big game, honey, and the only rule is: don’t get caught."
— Lucille Bluth, Arrested Development
"If you can’t be a good example, then you’ll just have to be a horrible warning."
— Catherine Aird
In the soft, amber glow of his liquor rotunda, Huis observed the conspirators gathered around him with a sense of satisfaction. They stood amid the elegant chaos of opulent shelves, bottles of rare vintages, and timeless decanters. Each man had his drink of choice in hand, their collective presence an emblem of power consolidated into one space. This was a gathering of rogues, each one holding the grudge explaining the participation of a different cast member on Huis’ Replay.
Dayson Moray, Founder and CEO of Aerospace LogiX, stood by the far wall, sipping a modest glass of bourbon. He had a weathered dignity about him, one that Huis both admired and found laughably dated. The man wore the burdens of his corporation like a tailored suit, and yet, despite his stoic demeanor, Huis could see the smoldering embers of resentment in his eyes. Dayson was a man who valued order, who believed he could carve morality into his work. How amusingly naive.
Next to him stood Tadakashi Osoda, his vantablack suit catching the light just enough to hint at its costly fabric, yet absorbing it so fully it seemed to blur the outline of his form. Tadakashi’s expression was as tightly controlled as his attire. He nursed a sake glass with the kind of reverence Huis found intriguing, bordering on fanatical. There was a darkness in his gaze, a cold calculation as he discussed the profitability of his idols, like merchandise at a warehouse sale. Huis almost pitied the man for his need to cling to notions of honor in such a depraved, fractured world.
Hal Somdinathoether, Olavi Corporation’s vice-chairman, was already three drinks deep, and the flush of his face matched the crimson undertones of his wine. He leaned against one of the shelves, half-talking to himself, half-baiting the others with his stories of financial exploits. Hal enjoyed the sound of his own voice, particularly when speaking of profit margins and ruined lives in the same breath, as if the two were as casually linked as a wine pairing. He reminded Huis of a wild animal, eager to bite anything that came too close, yet desperately in need of a leash.
Migesus d’Azmat II, resplendent in his MAPC insignia, held his glass with the air of someone above the need for such indulgences. His wine remained untouched, a mere accessory to his status, while he spoke in clipped tones about diplomatic events that felt worlds away from the chaos they were conjuring here. Migesus possessed a restraint Huis found almost comedic—an adherence to a code that had long since crumbled under the weight of humanity’s ambition.
Jehoshaphat Jones, “The Reverend President,” stood apart from the others, his glass of whiskey nearly untouched, held like a ceremonial object. Though his office was largely symbolic now, his presence still commanded attention. Shephatiah had inherited his audacity, and though she wasn’t with them tonight, it was clear her father’s influence pervaded this gathering. His gaze swept the room with a quiet disdain for those who pretended at power, knowing full well that, even as a figurehead, he could still bend public sentiment when it suited him.
The Grand Master Abbot of the Wu Tang Clan lingered at the edge of the group, his hand wrapped around a glass of vintage sherry, held with the care one would give a sacred relic. He was a contradiction—at once serene, yet undeniably fierce. His piercing gaze moved through the room with a quiet judgment, as if weighing the sins of those present. His presence was both calming and unnerving, a reminder that even the pious could be seduced into the most sordid of alliances.
Huis allowed a smirk to curl across his face as he raised his own glass, a crisp martini, its cold bite a perfect foil to the heat of ambition in the room. He caught each of their eyes in turn, savoring the moment. Here they were, seven men from seven worlds, united by a shared conspiracy.
Huis’ bracelet chirped at him so he checked it out. “If I may have all ya’ll’s attention, I would like to mention that I just got word that the food is good to go.”
The table was set, and the room was dimly lit, with shadows stretching over the faces of the conspirators as they indulged in Huis’s carefully curated menu. Jehoshaphat Jones, Tadakashi Osoda, Hal Somdinathoether, Dayson Moray, and the Grand Master Abbot of the Wu Tang Clan were all present, each man’s expression ranging from mild interest to outright disdain, yet Huis savored their collective attention as he began his rant on the meal.
An array of artisanal space-cured meats adorned the table, including zero-gravity-raised pork, vacuum-aged venison, and starship-smoked duck. The main course—succulent zero-g pork belly—was served alongside seared “starfish,” an affectionate term for juvenile chornoi aliens, which had the tender consistency of terran champignons. Side dishes of hydroponic greens grown on the moon added a hint of freshness, and for dessert, a panna cotta infused with vanilla essence and berry coulis added a rich, celestial sweetness. They drank exoplanet coffee with quantum froth, enhancing the experience.
Huis barely tasted any of it, having been on space cocaine all day, but the sight of the lavish spread made his mouth water. He stuffed a mouthful of pork belly into his mouth, and with barely a pause to swallow, he started in on his monologue.
“Do you know why these pigs taste so good?” He gestured broadly, waving a piece of meat on his fork. “In zero gravity, the animals don’t feel the same resistance as they do on Earth. They grow differently. The fat is evenly distributed within their bodies, creating a unique texture, a richer, more satisfying experience.” He punctuated his words by chewing loudly.
The Grand Master Abbot gave an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes fixed on the meal in front of him, while Tadakashi-kun politely kept his gaze averted. Dayson Moray, however, looked at Huis with a barely concealed sneer.
“Not feeling adventurous tonight, Abbot?” he asked, savoring his next bite with theatrical pleasure.
The GrandMaster Abbot met Huis’s gaze, his expression steady, a hint of quiet amusement lurking in his eyes. “I don’t consume the flesh of beasts, Huis,” he replied, his voice as calm and unflinching as ever. “Nor do I indulge in what has to be… coaxed from creatures by force.”
Huis raised an eyebrow, then burst into a peal of laughter, loud enough to echo off the towering shelves of fine wines lining the rotunda. “Well, more for the rest of us then! You’re missing out on some of the best-tasting beasts this side of the Milky Way, my friend!”
The Abbot simply gave a slight nod, a faint smile on his lips. He folded his hands, leaning back as Huis continued his relentless praise for zero-g-raised pork, while the others carried on with their meal, savoring the delicacies that had been spread before them.
Huis continued, undeterred. “And it’s not just that. Even after they’re slaughtered, the meat is marinated in zero gravity. No gravity means the marinades penetrate the meat entirely, giving it a complex, nuanced flavor profile.”
Hal took a slow, disdainful sip of his espresso. “Can we get to the point, Huis?” he said, breaking the silence with a dry, almost biting tone.
Huis glanced up from his plate, catching the impatient glances passing between his guests. Hal’s expression was particularly pointed, his raised eyebrow practically daring Huis to cut to the chase. With a dramatic sigh, Huis tossed his fork down onto his plate, the silverware clattering against the porcelain with a humble sort of finality.
“Fine, then. You want me to get to the point?” He leaned back in his chair, hands spread in mock surrender. “They’re dead. Every last one of them.”
The impact was immediate. Tadakashi-kun froze, his glass halfway to his lips, before he placed it down slowly, a smile creeping across his face as he took in the news. His head dipped slightly, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Dayson Moray’s reaction was subtler—he merely nodded, a slight smile crossing his lips as he folded his hands together, a gesture of appreciation for a job well done.
Dayson said, “My daughter will be devastated by the news, but it’s for the best that this happened.”
Hal’s face lit up with a sharp grin, and he barked out a laugh, raising his glass in an irreverent toast. “Finally, some efficiency around here!” His eyes sparkled with dark amusement as he took a long drink.
He tipped his glass, swirling the amber liquid as he grinned to himself, lost in his own machinations. “Imagine it,” he muttered under his breath, almost savoring the thought more than the drink. “Olavi Corp, gone in a glorious blaze of scandal and tragedy... The sympathy alone, the media frenzy? I could leverage that pity into endless sales. The entire brand, immortalized in amber—legends cut short, every product turning to gold overnight. And the Olavi name? I’ll milk it dry.”
He raised the glass, catching his own reflection in the dim light. “Once I’ve rinsed them for every last penny, I’ll take the fortune, vanish off the grid, and live out my days like a king.” His smile grew wider as he imagined a life without oversight or obligation. “No more board meetings, no more corporate calls. Just me, a beach, and enough wealth to make the world spin on my terms.”
Migesus d’Azmat II, still and composed, inclined his head in a show of reverence, his cruel smile revealing a hint of appreciation. He murmured, “So, it’s done. Mike is just gone?” He nodded again, as if in respect to the clean closure that had been delivered.
The GrandMaster Abbot closed his eyes, taking a measured breath. When he opened them, he looked at Huis with a calm, inscrutable expression. “I take no pride from having done this with you, sir. But I will say that your artistry lives up to its reputation.”
“Only the finest,” Huis replied with a grin, spreading his hands as though to present his work to an audience. “I promised a spectacular end for each of them, and I delivered. Every death, a masterpiece.”
Jehoshaphat Jones leaned back, crossing his arms and scowling as he spoke. “Shephatiah," he sneered, "the stupidest mistake I ever made. Figured if I cloned myself, made her female, I’d avoid all the problems that come from the usual nonsense. Thought, well, I’m no whore, so she won’t be either. Guess that just goes to show what you know about raising someone out of your own image. Put all the best parts of me into her,” he scoffed, shaking his head, “and she turned out to be nothing but a pretty little parasite.”
He leaned forward, fingers steepled, his face growing red with fury. "Every time I think of the money, the influence, the name I built, and what she’s done to drag it all through the mud, it boils my blood.”
“Here’s to the end of their stories,” Huis said, raising his glass with a flourish. “And to the rise of the new legends they’ve created in their wake.”
Migesus did not toast anything, his eyes narrowing as he leveled a gaze at Huis. “So, tell me, Huis, how did it happen? How did my son die?”
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Huis raised his brows, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I could tell you…” He paused, letting the room settle into an expectant silence. “Or—” he leaned back, drawing out the moment, clearly enjoying it, “you all could see it for yourselves. I have a rough cut.”
The other conspirators exchanged glances, the intrigue palpable. Then, leaning forward with a theatrical flourish, Huis added, “The show’s all ready to go, gentlemen. I guarantee,” he said, his voice lowering to a menacingly amused whisper, “it’s a spectacle none of you will ever forget.”
His hand hovered over a nearby tablet, poised to begin, relishing in their curiosity and impatience. “Gentlemen, prepare your AVP to receive my transmission.”
GrandMaster Abbott cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, if you’ll pardon me,” he said with a composed nod, pushing his chair back slowly. “I find myself in need of rest, and as captivating as this promises to be, I believe it wise to retire to my cabin.”
He stood, casting a polite, almost weary smile around the table. “You’ll understand, of course. At my age, one must prioritize one’s stamina.” With a respectful bow, he turned and made his way toward the exit, robes trailing softly behind him. The others watched him go, an unspoken question passing among them—was his departure merely a result of age, or a discreet withdrawal from what they were about to witness?
Huis waited a few steps behind the GrandMaster Abbott, respectfully watching as the man moved toward the elevator to his cabin. Only when the lift doors had closed did he allow himself a satisfied smirk. The old man’s departure suited him just fine; fewer spectators meant fewer unnecessary questions.
Huis found a quiet corner, choosing a spot by an expansive viewport. Through it, Caitlin’s Comet stretched out in an almost surreal display, a testament to the human achievement of ages long past. The massive Dyson Tree, a vibrant network of sprawling, legria-hued branches, wove its way across the comet’s rugged surface, forming a living tapestry against the starlit void. Wispy, almost ghostly clouds lingered around the comet, hinting at the breathable atmosphere it maintained, enveloping the tree in a soft, otherworldly haze.
The tree’s leaves shimmered like stained glass, catching and refracting the faint light from the nearby stars. At this distance, the comet looked like a floating jewel wrapped in green and gold, each branch and leaf seemingly reaching outward as if the tree were growing toward infinity. Huis tapped his bracelet and initiated a secure line, not letting the spectacle of the scene distract him.
A familiar voice replied, crisp and unwavering. "Huis, are you calling to say your business has concluded already? We’re not even twenty-three hours in."
Huis allowed himself a slight chuckle. “I’m a man of efficiency, Herr Von Schmidt. Professionalism—one of the rare constants in this universe.”
There was a pause, and then Von Schmidt's voice, edged with something approaching caution, replied, “Don’t stray far. The Rozovoi vessel still shadows us, and we’ve yet to ascertain its intentions.”
Huis nodded, uploading the AVP data, feeling a ripple of pride in his preparation. “Just a little something to sweeten the pot, Von Schmidt. I’m confident I’ve located your dearly departed alien’s final whereabouts. I’m sending you the details now.”
Von Schmidt answered with a satisfaction that seemed to vibrate across the line. “Ah, splendid. But take heed, Huis, as my dear Sterneisenfaust said, 'To squander existence is to squander the rarest of gifts. In the aftermath of chaos, seek not amusement but enlightenment.' You wield destiny with a reckless hand, my friend. Just remember—when sparks extinguish, we lose not just lives but a wealth of cosmic revelation.”
Huis’s smile thinned, but he inclined his head with deference. “Words to ponder.”
Von Schmidt added, “Stay precisely where you are until I finish.”
Huis gazed out, his eyes drawn to the stealth craft shimmering into view above the spaceport—a ghostly ship from Von Schmidt’s fleet, its contours blending almost seamlessly with the darkness of space. The craft hung there, silent and ominous, like some great specter. Its underbelly began to glow, casting a faint, otherworldly light downwards, as though it were marking the spot for something extraordinary—and deadly.
The Herbsters floated down in disciplined silence, their presence as cold and unyielding as the void itself. Huis felt a flicker of admiration as he watched these spectral harbingers—clad in matte-black armor that seemed to drink in the faint glow of the beam, dissolving their forms into shifting shadows.
These weren’t mere soldiers; they were Harvesters—Herbsters—descending to reap the final yield of this sinister experiment.
The name fit perfectly, he mused. They moved like the scythes of some unseen cosmic farmer, harvesting whatever souls lay in their path. Every Herbsters' step as they touched the ground was a silent testament to their deadly efficiency. The railguns in their hands, dark and cold, hummed with the latent energy of weapons designed not just to kill, but to annihilate. They advanced as one, faceless, nameless, bound by the purpose that Von Schmidt had set before them.
Huis’ attention shifted as a soft chime echoed from his bracelet, followed by a faint vibration. An update appeared, projected from the device—a surge of energy detected in the lower hangar. His eyebrow lifted in mild curiosity as he traced his finger over the 3D blueprint projected in midair, navigating through the ship’s decks until he located the source of the anomaly.
He noted the spike in energy but shrugged, almost dismissively. It was likely a malfunction, or perhaps one of the systems simply rebooting. Still, it was odd. He tapped the spot in the blueprint, highlighting it for future reference, his gaze lingering briefly. For a second, he considered calling someone to check it out—but with the Herbsters already here, what could go wrong?
Huis strolled casually to the entrance of the dining hall, and as he approached, he caught sight of Tadakashi-kun stepping out, dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief. His fingers moved swiftly over a flexipad, eyes glued to the numbers, as if he were already calculating the fallout. Tadakashi glanced up, noticed Huis, and hesitated. Finally, he spoke, his voice strained, “Would it be possible for us to recover the idol’s brain? We’ll need it if we’re going to make the insurance claim on Hajime’s PAI module. Without that, the whole plan is…” He trailed off, looking increasingly uneasy.
Huis responded with an amused laugh, casually dismissive, “By all means, Tadakashi-san. You’re welcome to go down there yourself and look for it. No one’s stopping you.”
Tadakashi turned pale as a ghost. He mumbled something about “meaningless” and hastily took his leave, still muttering under his breath as he vanished down the corridor. Huis smirked, finding a twisted humor in the man’s realization—he was far more likely to find his own head rolling than Hajime’s.
Moments later, Hal emerged, flushed and red-faced, an almost manic gleam in his eyes. “So, how long till we’re back in the System? I’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t plan on hanging around this deathtrap.”
Huis shrugged, hands spreading in feigned helplessness. “Out of my hands, Hal. If you’ve got issues with the timetable, you can take them up with Von Schmidt.”
Hal visibly stiffened at the mention, and his excitement dampened instantly. Muttering a quick goodbye, he scurried off, obviously uninterested in stirring the pot with the German.
Jehosevat Jones emerged from the viewing room with a carefully composed expression, the practiced mask of a man used to sidestepping the ugly truths surrounding him. He didn’t spare even a passing reference to his daughter’s AVP—his focus was elsewhere entirely. Striding over to Huis, Jones wasted no time launching into a tirade.
“Now, Huis, let me tell you, I believe there’s a fundamental sickness eating away at the heart of society,” he began, his voice booming with self-righteous indignation. “And it isn’t just the usual degeneracy, oh no. It’s the people who think they can take and take and never give back! Providence doesn’t single out defrauders for its special treatment. No, if I were allowed to hate, I would hate people who are in financial debt who spit in the eye of their government’s largesse.”
He paused, glancing at Huis as if to measure his reaction. “And that’s where you and I can do something truly transformative, Huis. It’s these charity initiatives we’ve got under the MAPC—they’re more than just tax shelters, my friend. They’re opportunities. Take the Righteous Hands Relief Fund, for example.” His voice softened, as if he were sharing a sacred secret. “We’re expanding System-wide, helping those less fortunate. But, of course, to make the real impact, we need strategic partners willing to put their faith—and their capital—into something larger than themselves.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, as though conferring some great favor. “You’ve got the resources, Huis. And if you were to join this effort, well, you’d have the goodwill of the MAPC itself. And let me tell you, there’s no protection like it. There’s something to be said about a cause with both righteousness and a tax benefit.” Jones let out a humorless chuckle, clapping Huis on the shoulder with a practiced familiarity, the kind that made his entitlement feel as though it were a blessing.
As Jones droned on, Huis allowed a polite smile to creep onto his face, every word reminding him why this man had once wielded influence with a sickly sort of charisma that blurred the lines between righteousness and utter moral bankruptcy.
As Jones turned and strode away, Huis reflected with a shudder that the very worst part of their exchange had been when Jones leaned in close, the pungent scent of something unmistakably vile—like stale perfume mixed with a hint of pussy—lingering on his breath.
When no one else followed, Huis found himself loitering by the entrance, glancing back into the now-silent hall. His fingers drummed on the doorframe. He was just about to step in when Dayson appeared in the doorway, his expression somber and resolute. He looked at Huis, pausing before he spoke, almost as if he were trying to absorb what he had witnessed.
“That was a hell of a scene,” Dayson said. “I watched the Instance Replay four times. I really experienced Richard’s end. And you know what? For the first time, I was actually proud of him. Spin all this so that he really looks like a hero so my daughter has an easier time with his death. Oh, also, by the way…”
Huis raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the unexpected sentiment. He tilted his head, inviting Dayson to continue.
“Tetecuhtin d’Azmat?” Dayson said rhetorically as he pushed the door the rest of the way open, so Huis could see in.
Huis’s mouth curled into an uncomfortable smile as he peered inside the room. There, lying face down on the polished floor, was the body of Tetecuhtin Migesus d’Azmat II, blood seeping in a dark pool around him, the hole in his skull a stark punctuation to the entire sordid affair. He felt a moment of almost clinical fascination, the finality of it settling in as he observed the grotesque stillness of the scene. A fusion pistol was still held in his right hand, finger on the trigger. Huis looked up on the wall and quickly found the blast burn–a little round dark circle on the alabaster.
“Well, that’s one helluva first test audience review,” Huis muttered to himself, stepping back from the doorway, leaving the room in its morbid silence as he turned back to the hallway.
What now? Huis paused as his bracelet vibrated against his wrist, displaying another alert from the hangar. He frowned, glancing at the notification: Unauthorized presence detected. A scowl crossed his face as he muttered to himself, “That’s impossible. Nobody can just appear in a ship’s belly like that—not without an access point.”
As he turned around in the hall towards the elevator, Dayson took notice, his eyes lighting up with a hint of curiosity. “Something wrong?”
“Stowaway, maybe. Fuck if I know. Maybe just some kinda cock up.” Huis was started to feel annoyed.
They began their way down the hall, and Huis brought up the 3D map projection from his bracelet. He scanned the layout, pinpointing the location of the intruder. The figure was moving, meandering through the lower deck like they knew their way around. Huis narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the projection. He was certain it had to be an error—no one had that kind of clearance.
Huis glanced sideways at Dayson, noting the grip he kept on the handgun holstered at his side. He could practically feel the tension emanating from the older man—probably eager to redeem himself after letting Huis handle his dirty work.
A cold sweat prickled down Huis’s spine as he reviewed the map again, the little blip marking the intruder still pulsing, a silent taunt from the depths of his ship. He paused, realizing with sudden clarity that perhaps this wasn’t just some anomaly or glitch—what if Von Schmidt, tired of all this grandiose nonsense, had sent someone to end him?
The notion seemed absurd, yet it tightened a knot of anxiety in his chest. If Von Schmidt wanted him gone, he’d have plenty of options—why bother with a mercenary on board when he could simply have the Hohenzollern Excelsior blown to pieces from a comfortable distance? Yet the chill of possibility gnawed at him.
Better safe than sorry, Huis thought, activating his bracelet’s direct access to the environmental controls. His fingers flicked quickly through the settings, overriding the current climate with one designed to scrub every bit of oxygen from that compartment, pump in a lethal dose of carbon dioxide, and drop the temperature to levels only a machine could endure. As he set it, he allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction, almost forgetting Dayson’s presence beside him.
He checked the map again. The blip had stopped moving. There we go, he mused, letting a sly grin tug at the corner of his mouth.
With a half-smirk, he gestured down the corridor, “Tag along if you’d like. You might get the chance to use that gun.”