Excerpt

ONE

Personal Narrative (language: Neo-Contex)

Signed: Razor

Found: Cell #7, Targite City Prison

Dated: 3101, Third Span

When people ask me about Keen Draden, I always lie.

The truth is, I never really knew Keen. He wasn't the kind of person who let you in. There was always a wall. You knew he was pushing against it, trying desperately to break through. In the end, it crumbled around him and bared his soul. And yet, that still doesn't tell you anything about him.

I was angry when we first met. Part of it was a youthful stampede, galloping over anything in my way. But it was also the result of an oppressive world. I was molded from the struggle of hard rock, dry sand, and grit. The desert wind blew through my blood. From an expanse of dunes, I learned to speak arid words.

We were all that way, those of us raised on Kol 2 and not lucky enough to live in the Fins. Out in the sands, life wasn't about tariffs, trade, and eco-tech competition. It was about scrapping and surviving.

We, however, had something that no one could take away: a reason to endure. Our culture, our land, and our subsistence had been stolen from us. And because of that, we sought revenge. The bullseye of my vengeance was Keen Draden.

It's a complicated and costly endeavor, seeking retribution. When I think back on those who didn't make it through our struggle, I'm reminded of the way the credits roll at the end of a beautiful tragedy. The nostalgic music makes it all seem worth it, as if everything was meant to happen. That every life lost was given so that the way things ended made up for it. Maybe that was the case on Kol 2.

But the tide of tragedy wanes. Pity grows tired. Those of us who survived convince ourselves that justice is the expected consequence of sacrifice. That loss is what it takes to receive something worth the suffering and grief.

I don't like to remember Keen that way and I know he wouldn't like others to either. As I said, it's complicated. Keen would have preferred to leave it before the finale when the threads of our lives and those we fought were still tangled in a balled mess.

Maybe that's the best way to describe Keen. His life was in perpetual stasis, mired in the third act. He'd tell you it was bogged down in the middle of Act II, but that would be another lie.

The third act. Just before the end. His wall had crumbled but that gave him the strength to finally accept himself and do what was right even if it was too late to turn the tide.

Keen is gone and I endure, my cold plate of revenge served long ago. This is my story, and therefore his as well, remembered by the one who despised him, resented him, and sought to destroy him.

And I did.

I'll never forgive myself, though I desperately want to. That would be enough for Keen.

TWO

Keen Draden wasn't one for welcoming parties. The feigned hospitality and diplomatic bootlicking did nothing for his overinflated ego. His self-importance was already spilling over the rim onto his exterior. It showed in his ostentatious attire and the casual arrogance with which he chose his words. At this point in his career, a welcoming party only delayed the road to more important (and not, coincidentally, self-indulgent) occupational rewards. Skip the formalities and get straight to business. That had been his motto for over two decades.

The irony of the personal credo wasn't lost on him. The part of the job he hated was the job. He was a Notos Ambassador, charged with negotiating energy trade between star systems. There was no avoiding the endless parade of gestural formalities, greeting lines, and obsequious groveling at every stop throughout the Sagittarius Arm.

Today would be no exception. The planetary delegation on Kol 2 were extraordinary hosts. Despite their vicious business acumen and strained relations with other colonies, the lone inhabitants of the Altiron system had a knack for diplomatic flattery. Isolated by over 40 light-years from their nearest neighbors, they were apt to be gracious with guests, especially an official visit from a member of the Sag-Arm Council. Whether Keen liked it or not, he was heading for an overblown ceremonious arrival.

"Brace for atmospheric re-orientation, Ambassador," a voice announced over the intercom.

Keen picked up on the subtle singsong speech unique to Kol 2's inhabitants. So, the shuttle pilot bringing him out of orbit was local. That was good. It meant familiarity with the planet's turbulent flying conditions.

The pilot's roll of the "r" on "Ambassador" in neo-Contex, the official language of the Sagittarius Arm, lingered in a way unfamiliar to his ears. He'd only heard the formal diction of delegates who'd made the trip to speak at Council Headquarters on Ceron. The diplomats who represented Kol 2 in Garassit, Ceron's capital and the political nexus of the interstellar Garassian empire, spoke with less inflection. Perhaps it was a dialect or reflected a less official, vernacular mode of speech.

He tightened the chest straps against his portly belly. A crease appeared on his ambassadorial robe where the belts rested. Ring-laden fingers gripped the white fabric, pulling it taut to erase the fold. It refused to settle.

"For the sake of…"

Keen huffed and gave up, releasing his grip. The wrinkle wasn't worth his time. These backwater zealots were too crude a culture to notice or care. The whole visit was nothing more than a time-consuming performance to please the Council and once again allow a failed diplomatic effort to serve as evidence to justify all-out war.

He pressed the refill button on the armrest, watching as chilled quicksilver bubbled into the cocktail tube from the interior beverage system.

There was a time when my trips mattered.

Keen slammed back the elixir and glanced out the portal as the transfer pod banked into Kol 2's rushing winds. The shuttle's internal stabilizers absorbed the brunt of the turbulence. Little more than a mild vibration ran through his corpulent body in the fluid-shelled passenger seat. He'd been expecting worse.

Carpati technology's finally making a name for itself. About time, considering the investments we've made.

A few miles distant, the wind-shielded landing tarmac on the edge of Targite, Kol 2's capital city, edged into view. Straight ahead to the horizon was nothing but blue-grey arid and barren wasteland. Kol 2's cloudless, rose-hued atmosphere met the rolling dunes in a rich color juxtaposition like an evaporated sea at permanent sunset.

The shuttle completed its turn and five long, sleek buildings intruded on the emptiness out the portal. Their geometrically precise forms ran along the planet's sands like stealthy aquatic creatures breaking an ocean's surface. Inside each, a hidden cornucopia of biodiversity and affluent human culture countered the harsh outside realities of the isolated planet.

Soothed by the quicksilver, Keen's attention shifted from Kol 2's uncouth exterior to thoughts of upcoming delights at Targite's sheltered oasis. He edged up in his seat, eyes following the slender, mirrored structures as they ran into the distance. The legendary Fins. Miles back at their terminuses, colossal circular capture tubes curved upward and forward to face the barrage of raging air during the Wind Tides, channeling the wayward currents to power the city.

Even though Targite was considered a rival energy manufacturer, he couldn't help but admire their innovative and pioneering enviro-synchronization. Without Targitian ingenuity in the early years before the Patent War, eco-technology would still be centuries behind its current innovations. There would be no Third Revival. No Hamut Alliance. No resurrection from the ashes of the last galactic civilization in the Sag Arm. And no Consulate to give him employ.

The vibration ceased as the pod completed its arc into the headwind. Mild turbulence gave way to a subtle sensation of deceleration as the craft fought against the tenacious jet stream. Out of the portal, beyond Targite's five blade-like city ridges, lay nothing save empty ripples of blue-grey dunes.

Kol 2's waterless ocean. Let's hope you don't ruin my visit.

Keen knew accepting the Targitian invitation of an on-site inspection of turbine-capacitors was risky. It wasn't the harsh conditions or wind amidst the planet's vast and largely uninhabited landscape that worried him. It was the Motes.

Council Security assured him the Targitians had driven the rogue nomads back into the Rock Hills enough times that their raids were now few and far between. Their weapon technology was nothing more than a mash-up of flotsam and jetsam from their scavenger lifestyle and no match for the sophistication of Sag-Arm defense systems. Between their crude arsenal and hit-and-run tactics, the Motes were nothing more than anachronistic sand pirates.

Specks of dust refusing to give in to the inevitable… They'll sober to the world or die fighting against it.

Keen didn't care either way. The time of resistance to eco-tech monopolies ended over two decades ago. His resistance, along with everyone else who'd fought in the Patent War, had passed as well. Like a rogue wave on a placid sea, that momentary revolutionary fervor rolled out to crash on some other's distant shore.

But it hadn't swept everything away. Like barnacles clinging to submerged timbers, decisions hold fast for decades. By now, in 3049, the tide of war had ebbed long enough for fate to resurface.

Keen's hand went to the milky green medallion on his chest, circling its metallic trim. The fallout of his choice lay hidden inside the jewel's interior chamber.

"Would you like a headshielder, Ambassador?" Stao, Keen's AI assistant, appeared in the aisle holding a transparent circular capsule. The bipedal droid blinked and smiled with its usual overly polite deference. Keen did his best to restrain his annoyance. The AI's demeanor was a hint of the social game to come.

"No, Stao. I've got Eye-Dusters." He held up the two pressure-suction lenses, peering through the parallel slits at the humanoid's face. "Plus, I want to get a taste of Kol 2's wind."

Why? I've no idea… lost youth rising through stubborn waters perhaps.

Keen gazed out the portal. A trail of dust caught his eye, far off to the North. A smile pushed his heavy cheeks upward.

To be back in my youthful glory, a Talon Caster in my hand and nothing but a drink waiting at the end of each day. Before it all went wrong…

"That's a Windcutter, Ambassador," Stao said, leaning down and peering out the portal.

"Mmm," Keen grunted. He was looking forward to stillness, not speed on their arrival. He'd been in hyperspace for a week and on this pod for almost two hours. He expected the upcoming landing to be the roughest part of the flight. His back hurt and though he knew he should move around more, all he wanted was to move less.

Keen hit the refill for more quicksilver and ran a hand through his long, brown curly locks. With dramatic flair, he re-positioned the two cascading manes onto his chest, so they lay equally between his Ambassadorial medallion. The pendant, worn by all Notos diplomats, echoed the green hue of his eyes. His thumb and index finger, a deep olive, arced over his elegant mustache before gliding down his black and gray goatee, fingering the ruby pendant tied at its base.

These backwater wind-eaters better have a decent sense-chamber in-suite. And an impressive stock of ferments, considering the amount of tariff blood they've squeezed out of half the Sag-Arm.

The diplomatic visit to Targite originally on his schedule for Council politics was now a professional layover en route to a more important and personal destination. One he dreaded but needed to reach, at least since his conscience made an appearance and broke up the party. Keen had wrangled that beast before. He knew how to break through its guard and send it reeling back into the bottomless depth whence it came. It wasn't last call yet.

If he did his job today, he'd be fine. Get out to a turbine field, look around on-site and make enough of a show pushing to inspect the internal mechanisms (which he and the Council knew the Targitians would refuse), and return to their capital. One obligatory evening inside the city making his way through the diplomatic niceties of a dinner reception and then on to the Nushaba system. He'd wrap up his private matter and be back on the Cruiser for the long ride home to Ceron and the comforts of his residence in the Garassian capital. Guilt-free and ready to resume the party.

The Council would have what it needed to wage war. Keen didn't agree, but he didn't care. This was his last run. He'd retire rich. Very rich.

Keen knocked back the quicksilver and returned to the view out the portal. The Windcutter in the distance tacked left to ride the wind's edge, zigzagging its way to the horizon.

"Speed is approximately 162 mph," Stao said. "If it stays on its present course it will reach the closest turbine field in a half day's travel time."

"We're not going on one of those, are we Stao?"

"No, Ambassador. Council Security negotiated… excuse me, demanded that the Targitians take you in a Dustcarrier Transport with four Windcutter escorts."

"Good. You're coming too, I hope?" Keen stroked his goatee, still gazing out the portal.

The transport will remind them of my importance.

"If you like, Ambassador. I know that…"

The Windcutter tacked right, its trail of dust mushrooming as it came about in the wind. Keen's eyes squinted as he picked up movement at the horizon.

He leaned closer to the portal. A series of black dots spread into view, moving towards the Windcutter.

They look like mites.

Stao hadn't finished his sentence.

"You know what?" Keen asked. He squinted to focus on the distant specks on the horizon.

Stao didn't respond.

Not mites…

"Stao, are those…"

"Motes," a voice said. It was the same quirky accent he'd heard earlier over the com.

Keen turned. The AI droid was down on its knees, the hair of its head gripped in the hand of a tall person with spiky red hair. Onyx skin and the telltale green and yellow Targite pilot uniform left no doubt that they were from Kol 2.

Keen looked at Stao. The droid's face held a lifeless stare that indicated deactivation.

The pilot raised their other hand and Keen found himself staring down the barrel of a blaster. Red Dunemarks on obsidian knuckles stretched as they tightened their grip. His stomach dropped.

Mote.

"Actually, Ambassador," the pilot said giving him a mocking smile, "you won't be going on that Dustcarrier." Ice blue eyes shot to the empty cocktail tube. "Good, you've had some quicksilver." Their hand released Stao, who crumbled to the floor. They pressed the button, refilling his drink, keeping the blaster aimed at him. "Have another," the pilot said. "You'll need it."

***