SCIARVIATSYNDICATE
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The very emphasis of the Commandment: "Thou shalt not kill," makes it certain that we are descended from an
endlessly long chain of generations of murderers, whose love of murder was in their blood as it is perhaps also in ours.
[ Sigmund Freud · Thoughts for the Times on War and Death ]
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The Sciarviat Syndicate, the Sciarviat Svyazeva, the Honor Bond of Little Boots.
A collection of personal, familial, and entrepreneurial connections, bore from demand, fostered by supply, and confined by countless centuries of tradition, honor, and social morality. In the eyes of some, it is simply the natural consequence of a world of wanderers and nomads, running from star to star, planet to planet, seeking first survival, then life, then fame and fortune; to others, it is a blight, an element of social squalor, a failed, silent state drifting between the well-traveled paths and routes of cultural and commercial migration, skirting the civilized swathes of space as if they were merely hazards meant to be avoided.
Even so, a select few, a small sect of those knowing, look on and smile, for they know the truth, and laugh at the ignorance of those who are beyond that privilege. As the Sciar are want to say: “Cannot have one without the other.”
Glitter, glammer...
Wealth unimaginable; breadth of power to challenge the crown of the stars. An endless parade of gems and shining trinkets which twinkle like eyes on the quilt of the heavens; sycophants and bowing courtesans to tend and sway to the tune of a young man made tyrant. A life spent juggling the demands of one's personal responsibilities and the infamous reward for succeeding in such an eternal act of balancing and weighing; day-in, day-out spent spun around the arms of beautiful women and discussing the fortunes to be made in steel-lined, smoke-filled chambers and bulkheads. Fine glamor and luxury mitigated by reckless and wanton disregard for the wants and desires of those which squabble at one's heels; a life of debauchery and desire, tempered by the limitless opportunities and the equally-unbounded opportunism which makes such glory possible.
No species, no nationality, no religion, creed, or philosophy is turned away; all are welcomed to the Bond – all asked to serve so that they may reap the benefits, the rewards, of their service. Ask not what you can do for the Bond, ask what the Bond can do for you. A simple act, the casting aside of prior allegiances and the forsaking of the simple and mundane luxuries of territorial space – a simple price to pay for the unbridled freedom brought to one's table upon acceptance. Is it not the desire of every man to see the stars, to travel far and wide, and to taste of the delicacies of foreign and alien worlds?
All it takes is time; all it takes is patience. All it takes is a favor for a friend - a little whisper to the maître d', a little grease to loosen a palm. Call it “vice”, but what is the price to do as one wills without regard to the consequences? What is an appropriate, negotiable price to pay to be free of restraint, free of law, free of order, and free of the morality of a distant and forgotten center of power that cares only for the numbers, not the names?
A family, a unit, an organization of trust, honor, and merit - to benefit those who love and those who share, those who build and those who create. A tradition built on the backs of men who toiled, sweated, and bled for their place and station in life; a world built on the foundation of sacrifice and sanctity, erected as a burning beacon against the individual despots and backward conventions of imperial and colonial power-brokers. There is no concern for a misstep, no worry on the utterances of the tongue, no criticism too harsh nor an opinion too profound; it is equality, and it is eternal.
...grit, and grime.
Endless torment; means which always justify the ends, profits that tower to blaspheme all things just and sacred. A perpetual, criminal enterprise, a masquerade lead from one star to the next, holding forward in charade slavery and servitude as liberty and love. Ruthless and cruel masters, kings, and gods-amongst-men to whom life is meaningless and its sanctity a comical conclusion; an entrenched boot digging into the jaw of the oppressed merely to exploit, bottle, and sell the tears which flow from one's own. Hour-upon-hour spent in flight, one's own person declared non grata and fugitive, one hand clutching the grip of a pistol, the other merely a single grasp from the gnarled cuffs of the law. A life spent in eternal strife; a continual vying for power and the avoidance of predation, even as that very predatory nature benefits the success one's own and the victory of all others in periphery.
No law, no taboo, no social more, ethical creed, or expense is acknowledged; all are broken for the sake of the almighty credit and the eternal appropriation of capital. No rest, no reprieve, and a lifetime spent on the edges of civilized space, worrying if the next day might be the last, or if the next call of a friend might be a death knell rung in the stillness of the night. Day-after-day spent in servitude, questioning one's own existence as each and every knock upon the wall equals in sum the quivering of the spirit and the soul. An act of apostasy, treason, and terrorism, never so simple to cast aside one's family, brothers, and children; yet made in jest and harlotry, like water drips from a faucet and the pools of scarlet life eventually cool and congeal.
All it takes is a single life; all it takes is damnation. All it takes is a favor for a friend – a few cards of Synth smuggled, a few women ripped from life and shoved into the depraved dens of perverse and lecherous dogs. Call it “virtue”, but what is the cost of a life spent wronging those with so litte without regard for their own needs and well-being? How can the murder of a child, the auctioning of arms, or the death of innocence be labeled the “cost of business”? How can one be free when held beneath the yoke of merciless men who care not of the names, but only for the accumulation of numbers?
A syndicate, a gang, an organization of crime, deceit, and bloodshed – to benefit those who steal, those who in depravity destroy and in malignancy massacre. A tradition built on the backs of the repressed and exploited; a world built upon beds of bone and ash, standing as a monolith to the lengths to which men will go to accrue power and fortune – regardless of the costs. There is no concern for whom the blade falls upon, no tears shed for the families shattered and the lives upturned in wakes of devastation and assault, no critic left alive and no voice left loud; it is evil, and it is eternal.
Greed, guns, and guts.
Not a lie told, not an omission left to be discovered. Perhaps truth is purely in the eye of the beholder, and to the eyes of criminals, the Bond is a sacred order arising from the ancient past, leading a trail of liberation and enlightenment into the future. To the governments, both domestic and foreign, the Honor Bond is little more than another mass of criminals working to wrong the rights of civilization and unwind the countless scrolls of law and order written by men in order to safeguard life, love, and liberty against the bastardized frontier and all assault made for profit and power.
In the eyes of the Sciar, the discourse of opinions matters very little. Truth is merely the lowest price for any given cost – the least effort required for the greatest possible value. Vice is virtue; virtue is vice. All that rings true eternally, all that cannot be negotiated, delegated, or bargained, is that power grants perception, perception creates profit, and profit generates power...
The study of crime begins with the knowledge of oneself. All that you despise, all that you loathe,
all that you reject, all that you condemn and seek to convert by punishment springs from you.
[ Henry Miller · ”The Soul of Anaesthesia,” The Air-Conditioned Nightmare ]