Tusk Origins: Part I
From the data excerpt titled: “Tusk: Origins” Serdevanika Split — Part I
Log ID: 2⁰¹⁹⁶
The transit corridor that stretched from the Respite Quarter to Maintenance Bay 1212 was packed to the brim with spacegoers of every possible description: bounty hunters in hard silver, consulates in heavy, fine robes; the odd towering Ustur, a whole host of military personnel. Lermnis Nader had made the same trip every morning for the last year and a half, and he’d never seen traffic like this. He huddled against a wall, as far from the mass of swaying bodies as possible. Eyeing the passers-by silently, he hoped warily that time might thin their numbers. Lermnis hated crowds.
He whistled nervously as a cohort of stiff, upright MUD units trod past in a long column, their insignia gleaming proudly beneath the corridor’s harsh light. They were flanked by two officers, though the one closest to Nader was hardest to miss. He stood six foot five, maybe taller, with a wrestler’s neck and burly, sinewy arms that hung down near his knees. His uniform seemed to be ripping in several places, the seams at odds with the man’s unusual bulk. An Oni lancechain hung menacingly from his belt, its glowing links jingling as he trudged his heavy boots down the metal corridor.
Unusual armament for an officer, thought Lermnis, though he was quick to avoid the big man’s eyes as he skulked past. When the column had faded down the corridor, Nader let out a long sigh, unaware that he had been holding his breath for some time. He made to step back into line and down the corridor, when a loud babble of tourists forced him back against the wall.
He had just finished glaring at them when something slapped him hard on the shoulder. Lermnis wheeled with an affronted glare and stopped, staring dumbly. The stranger’s handsome face was creased by a wide, child-like smile, and the arm that grasped his shoulder felt more brotherly than threatening.
“Uther?” Lermnis asked, unsure if his words carried over the corridor’s din. Though his chin was peppered with gray stubble, and his blue eyes shadowed and gaunt, there was little doubt.
“Uther Beamond, man. It is you!” he exclaimed, and he beamed as he took the man’s own shoulder. The pair embraced in a tight hug, and for a moment Lermnis forgot that a flood of bodies still cramped the corridor.
“What are you doing now? Let’s grab a drink!” shouted Beaumond over the uproar, clapping his old friend on the back as another column of MUD soldiers filed past.
“Damnit, I can’t! I have a shift to make. Bay 1212 — I’m second to the foreman there, tinkering on old Pearce skeletons.”
Beaumond turned to walk down the corridor and nodded for Nader to follow, “Let me walk you there, at least!”
Lermnis hurried after his friend peevishly, side-stepping through a crew of medics.
“Two coincidences my friend, each greater than the last!” laughed Beaumond, “here I am looking for someone who knows how to weld a ship, and I happen to run into a first-class ship welder! Not just any, but the only bloody one I’ve ever trusted. Nader, man, what are the odds?” asked Beaumond, shaking his head.
They had finally reached the end of the transit corridor, which opened to a parapet above an enormous, bustling center-hub.
Swathes of engineers in black maintenance uniforms like the one Lermnis was wearing hurried back and forth along a vast, channeled walkway, carting tools to and from the many hangars and armories that littered the hub’s circumference.
Every manner of ship filled those hangars — spindly, ONI fighters with wings like scales; Calico small-classes painted in utilitarian-gray, offset here and there by a few bold-red Medtechs. Airbikes of every description chortled and backfired, sending the odd pop and crack through the general raucous. Pearce vessels seemed to claim the majority though, mostly X5 and X6 fighters. Some were retired or half-functioning, rusting idly amongst other scrap, though a fair few looked new as the day. Engineers huddled around them, autowrenches whirring and screeching in the din as they worked the fighters to perfection.
Beaumond stared intently, and then frowned. The Pearce fighters all shared the same bone-white and royal-blue paint job. The Commodore’s colors.
“Well I don’t have to ask if you’re a tourist,” Lermnis mused, hands in his pockets as he rocked on his heels. Beaumond blinked at him, then smiled.
“I mean I’ve seen some of it, just haven’t seen it in a while,” he said, holding out his hands to measure the width of the panorama.
“Took some getting used to, that’s for sure,” said Lermnis, staring absently at the star-like globe that acted as the station’s centerpiece.
“But there’s new craft coming through everyday, and that does stop the work from getting stale. Hell, the west-wing can collapse into a capital-hangar. Had a Pearce C9 sitting flush in there for half a year. The whole damn engineering core worked on it…” He trailed off and shook his head.
“A capital, eh?” asked Beaumond, grinning slyly, “I’d give two fingers to set foot in one.”
“More cramped than you’d think,” said Lermnis as they began walking slowly down the long, central walkway. They passed several open bays, the fizzing and grinding growing louder as they drew deeper into the hub.
The sound of marching boots grew louder from behind them, and the pair of men made a narrow column as a line of soldiers justled past them. Lermnis turned to see the same thuggish lieutenant from earlier, stalking along the metalwork beside his troops, wolfish snarl bared to the world. The company moved eastward, toward the hangars housing the Pearce fighters. Beaumond watched the column march off, shaking his head slightly.
“MUD boys for those Pearce fighters, I’m guessing,” he said, and cocked an eyebrow at Lermnis.
“Yeah, the Commodore’s men. That’s his second lieutenant, I think. But those X5’s and 6s aren’t the real fighters,” Lermnis told him, half-smile forming.
“Lermnis Nader, you cheeky bastard! I had the feeling you knew something! Just what do you mean those aren’t his real fighters?” asked Beaumond, tilting his head and shoving his old friend’s arm playfully. Lermnis said nothing, but winked and continued walking northward along the walkway. A hologram reading Bay 1212 was the only thing that stood out about Lermnis’ assigned hangar. Behind the sign, a medium-sized hangar loomed in the dim light, piles of circuitry and wires strewn before its doors. A display above the entrance read, Vacant.
Beaumond watched his friend as he skirted over a box to reach the console beside the bay-doors.
“You down and out Nader? Taken to living in a hangar have we?” teased Beaumond, nodding at the display. Lermnis remained quiet while he punched a code into the console. He looked over his shoulder like a thief, and when he was sure he was unwatched he hit a final digit. The bay-doors hissed and slid open. Beaumond stepped into the hangar after his friend, just as the lights were flickering on. He stopped and swallowed when he saw the hangar’s only occupant.
A Pearce F4. But not any Pearce F4.
A marvel of enhanced engineering, if I bloody say so myself,” said Lermnis, eyeing the ship proudly. Every aspect of the patrol vessel had been tinkered with, reinforced and made more deadly. Two extra hardpoints were fitted into her wingtips, sleek turret-heads jutting out ominously. A retractable grip-line had been embedded near her rear thrusters, flanked by modified tail-fins that stretched twice as long as the stock-standard F4’s. The hull seemed to ripple strangely, no doubt wrought of something doubly reinforced.
“Oni hardcoat,” said Lermnis, watching his friend gape at the ship.
“Totally chip-proof, and can act like a light shield under plasma fire,” he continued, patting the F4’s hull affectionately. Beaumond’s face had grown serious.
“Lermnis… is this the Commodore’s ship?” he asked, his voice thin. Lermnis frowned at his friend, his smile falling away. It might have been more of an answer then he was willing to give.
Beamond’s mouth was twisted with worry.
“Uther? You okay? You look pale as bone,” he said, frowning deeper. The taller man said nothing for a while, just stared gloomily at the ship.
“It was good to see you, Lerm. Really was. I gotta split though,” he said finally, and turned to make for the hangar entrance.
“Huh? Thought you needed a welder?” Lermnis called after him, though Beaumond was already jogging down the channel toward the main walkway. Lermnis watched him go, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He was about to jog after him, questions bubbling in his mind, when a sudden whoosh and boom echoed somewhere outside the spaceport. The F4, the hangar and the entire engineering hub shook with sudden impact, toppling Lermnis to his knees. After the dust settled, he stood up shakily, hearing the shouts of military commands echoing from nearby hangars. One utterance rose clearly from the gloom, barked by some blaring sargent:
“Ship down! Patrol ship down!”
About the Author
A love for video-games has fuelled an extensive lore-writing project that has resulted in Daniel’s first published works, the “Captain’s Log” and “Distant Conversations” series. These ‘data logs’ are part of a collaboration with Star Dust Economy that aims to highlight the pioneering spirit being cultivated in the video-game, Star Atlas.
