NATION

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The Voyages of the Good (?) Ship Tenacity

Where nations come together and discuss matters of varying degrees of importance. [In character]
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Vojvodina-Nihon
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The Voyages of the Good (?) Ship Tenacity

Postby Vojvodina-Nihon » Sat Mar 26, 2022 11:02 am

Table of contents:
Boundary Conditions: in which Captain Jelan accepts an offer that it would be somewhat inconvenient to refuse.
[more to come]



In-character background: 48th-century Vojvodina-Nihon is an odd and unassuming place, politically obscure and militarily insignificant, yet located in a well-trafficked region of the galaxy's Alpha Quadrant and with a surprisingly large number of diplomatic contacts to be found in Novi Sadtokyo's Embassy District. Founded on a new Earth (in the Santorini system), by the descendants of twenty thousand human settlers who left the original Earth in slower-than-light worldships (and reset their calendar's Year Zero to their date of departure), the twenty-nine countries of what is now the Holy Jingoistic Federation of Un-Aligned Nations of Vojvodina-Nihon proceeded to spend more than twenty centuries engaged in constant states of war, cold war, or general unfriendliness with one another. Only after peace broke out and the Federation was established, under the rulership of a puppet monarch, did the human inhabitants expand to the remainder of the Santorini system, and subsequently a few out-of-system colonies, with such projects remaining permanently stalled due to budget cuts and Grand Council infighting.

They also, in that time, discovered that their home system was already inhabited. The caelipiscians of the 44th century were as yet planetbound, residing within the habitable zone of the gas giant known as Salvoria, a tropospheric "surface" in which the atmosphere became thick enough to qualify as a quasi-solid ocean. Living creatures (with bodies adapted to distribute weight over a broad area) could settle in that zone, build structures, and even establish a certain degree of society. A mostly-tribal species at the time, caelis were very quickly brought into the modern era through the cooperation of several of the nations of the Federation in the hope of gaining a guaranteed ally on the Grand Council. In the end, recognised as the indigenous species of Santorini, caelis won much more than that: veto power over most legislation and, of course, economic and educational investment. And for whatever reason, caelis took very naturally to space flight, much more so than humans did; within a decade or two they were a common sight in surrounding areas of the galaxy.

The Federation's directives emerged somewhat later: the first diplomatic outreach ships were chartered in the 4500s, although a few individual nations had been politically active in the wider galaxy for much longer. The Grand Council subsequently realised exactly how dangerous and politically unstable the galaxy was, writ large, and proceeded to establish a centrally administered military. Vojvodina-Nihon's first actual international war broke out exactly six months later. A week, ninety lost ships and two hundred thousand casualties later, after an eminent mathematician had been summoned to the Grand Council to explain that Vojvodina-Nihon's two billion citizens represented a much smaller number than the enemy's two hundred billion, peace negotiations began (eventually leading to the loss of one of the Federation's out-of-system colonies) and attention shifted towards deploying individual vessels to travel the Galaxy, build alliances, trade with other nations, and—above all—avoid attracting unwanted attention. These instructions eventually were codified into legalistic language as the Federation's Prime Directive, and this eventually brings us to the present day, and to the RVNS Tenacity.

Jelan Gesh (note that, for caelipiscians, clan name is first and given name is second) was born in 4706 in Khar'biq, one of Salvoria's few urban-type settlements. Upon his second molting in 4722, considered the traditional start of adulthood for his species, he joined the crew of a merchant vessel. Within five years—partly due to many of his past employers winding up in jail for smuggling, blockade running or piracy—he had his own ship. Tenacity was merely the fourth in a series of increasingly larger and newer freighters, owned by a successful businessbeing against whom no charges of criminal activity had yet been proven, plying the various Alpha and Beta Quadrant trade routes and only occasionally becoming involved in international incidents. It might have remained so if not for an incident during the Mithras/Vojvodina-Nihonian border war, in 4738: Tenacity abruptly found itself commissioned as a Royal Navy diplomatic vessel, and Jelan Gesh suddenly found himself and his crew to be military or diplomatic personnel, depending on their orders from above, and of the most expendable variety.

That's the point at which these stories kick off, in any case.

Out of character background: The main purpose of this thread is to collect various short stories, aiming for <5000 words, that I'm writing about Tenacity, her crew, and various nation concepts I've come up with over my many years on this site.

The Tenacity and her crew were invented by me in 2007-2008. The original intent was to serve as a sort of parody of Star Trek, in a galaxy where, instead of Kirk or Picard, the Enterprise was piloted by Han Solo. Most of the initial RPs have been lost to time and the dissolution of the Jolt forums, although I still have a link to Because we can, a joint production by Rezo, Doc and me that didn't end up going as far as any of us planned. That said, over the years that I wrote this particular set of characters, they developed a fairly extensive background lore, never fully explored in any stories or RPs, and some interesting potential writing problems involving artificial intelligences and power differentials etc. A later example is this thread, which I ended up abandoning due to various real-life obligations involving a university degree and such.

I'm not a huge fan of my own writing, and don't think my past RP contributions involving Tenacity were particularly good. Roleplay on this site is also almost entirely dead, and has been for years, with very few people seemingly interested in reviving it. That said, this is still a good subject for writing practice, even if nobody reads it, and despite the limited nature of the V-N concept, the presence of a lot of different nation-concepts allows me to do so without having to wait for other people. Brief overviews of some of these nation-concepts are mentioned below; I may or may not expand on these in future stories.

The Holy Jingoistic Federation of Un-Aligned Nations of Vojvodina-Nihon: a loose alliance of twenty-nine independent nations and one independent planet, all in a state of constant political infighting, whose human population are descended from the inhabitants of a worldship that set out from the original Earth some 4,741 years ago and arrived at the "new" Earth approximately 2,800 years ago;
The Erua Nebula: a collection of space stations and artificial habitats, ruled by a locally all-powerful AI, whose organic creators have either ascended to a higher plane of existence, or been reduced to an invisible state of blockchain slavery, or simply like their privacy a great deal—whichever it is, they've never been spotted by the billions of refugees that now call the nebula home;
The Holy Empire of Mithrael: a caste-based society obsessed with the genetic "purification" of its subjects, its biospheres, and anyone who attempts to impinge on its isolation from the rest of the galaxy, and one of the few theocracies whose gods can not only be directly observed by believers but play an active part in governing them;
The Sievese Empire and the Medeverian Federation: the Sievese Empire is a large, stagnant nation of some twenty-nine thirty-five worlds that continuously and vehemently, despite all evidence to the contrary, asserts that no sapient life exists outside its borders, while also denying the existence of any breakaway states within its borders, such as the six worlds of the Federation of Medeveria, which have now successfully resisted Sievese tyranny for a century and hope to someday plant the seeds of revolution throughout the rest of the Empire. First contact events tend to be, let's say, awkward;
The Kenzanii Star Sovereignty: a nation of deeply xenophobic, highly stuck-up, vaguely feline aliens which unfortunately happens to be one of Vojvodina-Nihon's closest neighbours. For all their sophistication and technological superiority, the Kenzanii are somewhat held back by their preference for using alien slaves and servants over robots and artificial intelligences, which also tends to result in a large number of wars;
The Damalgians: a race of spacefaring scavengers who can best be described as giant tentacled centipede-anglerfish, sufficiently alien as to be almost impossible to communicate with (and who have yet to understand that humanoid species are even sentient), and sufficiently well-armed as to pose a major threat to anyone who gets in their way, but not sufficiently organised to have anything like a central government, let alone any form of agriculture;
and obviously others to come as they're introduced.

If you would like to use Tenacity or, indeed, any of these nation-concepts in a RP, or have other questions: Contact me. I can be reached via telegram, obviously, and also might be present in the NSFT Discord and potentially other servers as nmi#3177.

I doubt this will attract any particular interest, but if anyone is interested, I'd obviously appreciate being pointed in the direction of any writing/worldbuilding communities on here where I might be able to gain some external sources of inspiration and motivation. (Also, anyone who volunteers to beta-read will have my undying gratitude.)

Real-life background: I will not say I'm "the player best known as" because my highest-profile account here, Czardas, was more a character than a real person. But I was always the person behind that account, along with all the others in the same region. In real life, I'm five years into a long episode of severe mental illness with no end in sight. When I was younger, creativity was the main thing that kept me sane, and has since been the main thing I've lost the capacity for. I don't draw maps, write original fiction or music, or do anything similar anymore. This will be the main obstacle to completing stories for this thread (or participating in anything else, really) but the overall inactivity also means there's no real pressure. And if I can start writing again, perhaps other things in my life can improve, as well.

- character profiles, other background information: first draft complete
- introductory story: posted
- second story: first draft in progress
- third story: first draft in progress
- remaining stories: under development
Last edited by Vojvodina-Nihon on Thu May 12, 2022 7:56 pm, edited 5 times in total.
One of many Czardas puppets. I regarded this as my main account upon creating it and for several years thereafter, but these days, that's no longer important.
Death is patient, death is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Death does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

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Vojvodina-Nihon
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Founded: Jul 27, 2007
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Postby Vojvodina-Nihon » Sat Mar 26, 2022 11:43 am

I. Boundary Conditions

Space is full of holes.

If one were to look with alien eyes, one might see them: points where the metaphorical fabric of the universe is stretched, anomalies in the harmonious patterns of the cosmos that warp its surface in unpredictable ways, slowing down the speed of light and turning straight lines into curves. These anomalies—the things that exist where nothing should, that turn space from a flat three-dimensional sheet into a shape that requires advanced multidimensional mathematics to visualise—are sometimes referred to as matter.

The holes in space these anomalies cause can, in turn, be referred to as gravity. Some say that gravity is transmitted through its own elementary particle, the graviton. Perhaps it’s for the best that we have never caught sight of one.

If you were very, very careful, and very, very lucky, you could ride the edges of a hole in space until you hit it at just the right angle, with the right velocity, that your own mass and moment would push you through the surface of the universe into the orbit of another hole in space, somewhere else. If you were very, very mathematically inclined, you could work out that these relationships between holes in space remained relatively predictable, and that one could, in fact, program an algorithm that would ensure that a space ship seeking to travel between two points many light-years apart could be guaranteed—most of the time—to hit that hole in space, at exactly the right point and velocity for its mass, to jump. After all, the universe expands slowly enough that your algorithm will continue to be accurate for perhaps a few million years. And so long as your calculations are precise enough—say, estimating mass down to the milligram and velocity down to the decimetre per second, and recalculating the moment of inertia every one-billionth of a second—your ship probably will successfully “jump” to its new location, instead of crashing violently into the nearest stellar object.

If you were very, very stupid, you would then ensure that the well-being of billions of sentient beings depended entirely on hundreds of space ships traversing these jump points, without incident, on a daily basis.

Naturally, that’s exactly what humans proceeded to do.



Nova Station is an immense torus often described in tourist guidebooks and Galactic Assembly Refugee Commission documents as “orbiting the white dwarf NCD 13158”, the wormhole and hyperspace entry point to the scenic Erua Nebula, and the first and largest of the half-dozen stations that once made up the artificial component of the Novan Republic. It is technically more accurate to describe it as surrounding the white dwarf NCD 13158: from a distance, it might be taken as an unusually compact debris ring around the core, until one infalls close enough to perceive that it is a solid block of steel, covered in massive protrusions that could be docking bays or sensor arrays; to identify the other assorted stellar debris as ships departing and arriving; and perhaps, if one has the technology, to detect the presence of living beings.

Of course, by the time one gets that close, the personalised welcome message from ANIMA has already entered one’s brain directly without passing through any of one’s sensory organs.

Welcome to Nova Station, sentient. Your thought patterns identify you as Admiral Theobald Dyson of the Federation of Vojvodina-Nihon Space Forces. It seems you’ve led an interesting life. I’ve taken steps to render your ship harmless for the duration of your visit, but rest assured, your thoughts are of no concern to me—unless you pose a threat to the prosperity or health of the Station. Enjoy your stay.

Inside the Royal Vojvodina-Nihonian Star Navy vessel Never Eat Green Bread, infalling towards the station at a slow rate of five thousand kilometres per second, Admiral Dyson stared at his aide-de-camp, Captain Eri Sakai, for about five seconds too long as he processed this.

“Why did he sound like my dad?” Dyson finally muttered.

“The Autonomous Networked Intelligent Multicore Array isn’t a he, sir,” said Sakai, with mild irritation. “It’s a machine. It simply makes itself sound like someone you know, to facilitate greater trust.”

“And it tries to... gain my trust... by claiming it can read my thoughts,” said Dyson. “From half a light-minute away.”

Not a claim, said the voice of ANIMA inside his head. A fact.

“Okay.” Dyson let out his breath through pursed lips. “Point taken.”

“I’ve been to Nova Station five times, sir,” said Sakai. “You get used to not having any mental privacy very quickly. And I’ve never seen ANIMA hurt anyone unless they start to become... a problem.”

“It’s a strange place to meet our contact, Sakai.”

“Perhaps our contact was worried that we’d become a problem, sir.”

And perhaps that was why the Grand Council’s orders had instructed him to arrive in Green Bread, a tiny and insignificant patrol boat, rather than in his personal flagship, the RVNS Peacebringer, which was twelve hundred meters of pure intimidation, bristling with weapons. That intimidation was exactly what Admiral Dyson had been hoping he could bring to bear—but evidently his “contact” had once again outmaneuvered him. Typical, really.

“You seem worried, sir,” said Sakai.

“Quite frankly, I am,” said Dyson. “The best way to keep our contact in line would have been through the threat of force—instead, he insists on meeting us in the one place where we can’t touch him. I don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s not as though we could take on ANIMA, even with the entire fleet, sir,” said Sakai. “And it’s not as though he can hurt us either, sir. ANIMA would stop him.”

“Exactly. It imposes a false equality upon us, Sakai.” The admiral ran a hand through his white hair. “We are legitimate representatives of the Holy Jingoistic Federation of Un-Aligned Nations, a respected governing body with international recognition, a player on the galactic stage. Jelan Gesh is lowlife scum, almost certainly a smuggler and a pirate, with no loyalty to anyone but himself, the most disreputable sort of slime that ever climbed out of Salvoria.”

“I’ve never met him, sir, but I’ll take your word for it,” said Sakai, with equanimity.

“I have had the ill fortune to cross paths with him and his crew of miscreants on a number of occasions,” said Dyson. “Most of them are mere brawlers and toughs. Jelan is dangerous. I’d feel much better if we were simply bringing him in.”

Sakai stared through the viewport at the slowly approaching station. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant enough that Dyson realised she hadn’t actually read the briefing.

“Why... are we contacting him, then? Sir.”

Admiral Dyson sighed, and began to speak dully and mechanically, as though reciting off a tablet:

“Last month, when the Nineteenth Mechanized Mobile Infantry was stranded on Avalon during the Mithras invasion, Captain Jelan Gesh and the Tenacity interceded, at great personal cost to himself and his crew, by carrying out a complex double bluff against the Mithrakti and spacelifting virtually the entire regiment off the surface of the planet right under their noses. This act of heroism not only allowed Captain Ochs to escape with valuable intelligence, later allowing the Federation Army to recapture Avalon, but also served as a morale booster of great importance for the Vojvodinian people, and reignited the demands of the caelipiscian species for greater representation.”

“So,” said Sakai with a smirk, “despite this Jelan being lowlife scum, sir, we’re now obliged to give him a medal.”

“I wish that was it,” said the admiral pensively. “No. We’re obliged to give him a commission.”



The interior of Nova Station is filled with millions of habitat modules, connected through suspended walkways. The station’s artificial gravity, generated largely through the centripetal forces associated with its rotation around NCD 13158, is sufficiently weak that even landbound beings can—if they so choose—experience the sensation of flight; although, for such beings, calibrating exactly which habitat module you arrive at is somewhat of an inexact science. For creatures with wings, on the other hand, Nova Station is a congenial environment, almost homey.

The caelipiscian (Sanarax morrisii) is one such creature. Picture the upper half of a winged humanoid, covered in short feathers, connected to the ground by virtue of three bony, reverse-articulated legs ending in enormous flat claws separated by the thinnest of membranes. Imagine a face with five eyes, three facing forwards and two on the sides of the head; with not much of a nose to speak of, and feather-tufted protrusions instead of ears. Imagine a pair of arms ending in five digitigrade claws that are almost, but not quite, fingers; imagine that, as sturdy as these arms may be, they appear puny in comparison to the massive wings that unfold from the shoulders above them. Imagine all this in a riot of colour, at least among the males: feathers shading between bronze, copper, green, gold and red, with some of the most virile males possessing streaks of blue. Bear in mind, as well, that each one stands three meters tall when at rest on its tripod legs, which themselves extend to approximately the neck height of a human.

These are the indigenous inhabitants of the gas giant planet that humans (and galactic atlases) call Salvoria, and caelipiscians generally refer to by a name that translates as Cloudy. They are intelligent—up to a point—and, more importantly, heavily armed. For a species whose total population numbers only in the millions, they are therefore surprisingly common sights on the galactic fringe, whether as mercenaries, bounty hunters, smugglers, traders or simply general troubleshooters. Here on Nova Station, while weapons may not be permitted, a caeli still has four meters of wing muscle, powerful enough to break bones with one strike, and enough lack of impulse control to have an even chance of getting that one strike in before the all-powerful AI can react to their intentions.

Habitat Module 1375884 had been configured to contain—among other things—one conference room. A stylised almond-shaped table of imitation pearwood, fresh and gleaming, with two chairs suitable for humanoids on one side and three perches, which caelis could easily grasp with their one ventral and two dorsal feet, on the other, were the only real furnishings in the room, which otherwise, with its blinding white walls, felt oddly empty. Anything else ANIMA required could be supplied through holograms. Through his lateral eyes, Captain Jelan Gesh met the gaze of his two subordinates, perched at either side of him.

“You seem uncomfortable, Gori,” said Jelan. “Any last-minute objections?”

Gori Casadesus (tactical crew, heavy weapons specialist, recreational beverage sommelier) shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not uncomfortable, Cap’n,” he said. “It’s just... it’s nice the Federals are noticing us, I guess. But I still don’t trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em.”

“Noted,” said Jelan. “I don’t either. Nisha?”

Nisha Mirax (technical crew, spacewalk specialist, had never lost a game of chance) turned her head slightly to meet Jelan’s eye with more than one of her own. “Not worried, Cap’n,” she said, which was true: she never worried. It was a little bit creepy, sometimes. “Just interested. Wonder how bad the war really is for them.”

“Hmmm,” said Jelan. That was an angle he hadn’t considered. Space warfare took place at scales so vast, using weapons so destructive, that it seemed almost academic to imagine that discrepancies between, say, the sizes of countries and militaries actually mattered. The Vojvodina-Nihonian Federation and the Holy Empire of Mithrael each occupied one star system and a few colonial outposts. But it was hard not to be reminded that the former had two point eight billion citizens and a “small, yet efficient” military for its size, while the latter had thirteen billion citizens and an entire caste dedicated to the worship of a war deity. Perhaps the question wasn’t so much whether the Federation would win the war, but rather why anyone had ever thought that it could.

It was a question he only contemplated for a few more seconds, as a door-sized portion of the gleaming white wall ahead of him paled to transparency and then slid back to admit Admiral Dyson and his aide.

“Captain,” said the Admiral curtly.

“Admiral,” said Jelan, with as much of a smile as he could muster. “Take a seat. I trust you’ve been well taken care of.”

The admiral was a stern-faced human with an aquiline nose and ice-blue eyes. His hair was white and his skin was lined, which Jelan believed to be indications of advanced age, but he’d never seen Admiral Dyson display any hint of deterioration in his mental faculties. He was, indeed, so sharp that he sometimes cut himself. His aide, who he didn’t introduce, was small even for a human, still bearing the black hair of relative youth and an expression of suppressed curiosity as she glanced at each of the three caelis in turn.

Once a few more pleasantries had been exchanged and Admiral Dyson was seated across from Jelan—his chair, notably, at a sufficient height as to bring him up to eye level—the small conference trailed off into a long, awkward silence.

“Captain Jelan,” Admiral Dyson finally began, “as you’re aware, the Holy Jingoistic Federation of Un-Aligned Nations owes you a very significant debt. You and your crew are now regarded as heroes by a vast swath of the Vojvodina-Nihonian public.”

“It was nothing, truly, Admiral,” said Jelan, with great nobility. “Any sentient would have—”

“As you’re also aware, Captain, you and your crew owe the Federation an... equally significant debt. We know exactly why you were in the Avalon system that day, and it was certainly not for any purpose permitted under Federation law. You were smuggling exotic life-forms into the Kenzanii Star Sovereignty. Avalonian spider-wolves, if I recall correctly.”

“That’s a ridiculous accusation, Admiral,” said Jelan. “We’d never do such a thing—”

“Don’t bother denying it, Captain,” said Admiral Dyson, his face crinkling into a half-smile. “The face of your weapons officer was sufficient proof for me.”

I really have to stop bringing Gori to these things. Jelan sighed, and made a small head gesture towards Gori, a warning not to fluff up his neck and head feathers. “You can hardly hold Tenacity responsible for what irresponsible traders pay us to transport, Admi—”

“I’m not finished, Captain. We have reliable intelligence sources within the Mithrakti High Command, which confirmed—beyond reasonable doubt—that upon finding yourself behind Mithrakti lines, you promptly attempted to sell the spider-wolves to the Holy Empire. Well aware, presumably, that their geneticists would be capable of transforming them into killing machines that the Holy Empire would then deploy against us on the battlefield.” The admiral’s eyes bored into Jelan’s. “That would be treason.”

“Hardly, Admiral,” said Jelan, with what he hoped was a suitably dismissive tone of voice. “My officers can confirm that we were never going to deliver on that deal. Our plan was to double-cross the Mithrakti, replace the spider-wolves with a crew of armed caelis, and come home to Santorini with a few extra handfuls of datachips and our own Mantis-class battle cruiser. For the war effort, you know.”

“Yeah, sir,” said Gori, his face now absolutely straight. “Me and a few of the boys were looking forward to taking out some of those creepy Caste Filou warrior-drones and stealing ourselves a ship.”

The admiral rolled his eyes. His aide, silent so far, spoke for the first time: “Crewman Gori, surely you’re aware that a Mantis-class vessel has a crew of eight thousand warriors, all raised from birth to fight. How many caelis would Tenacity have to spare for such an effort? A hundred?”

Gori turned his head slightly to face her, and smiled. “Good point, ma’am,” he said. “We shoulda planned to leave our big guns on Tenacity. Just to make things fair for them, y’know.”

“Regardless of the feasibility of this plan,” said Admiral Dyson, his features now once more drained of emotion, “I am inclined to believe, Captain Jelan, that you indeed had no idea that your actions might be considered potentially traitorous. You were, presumably, only considering the financial rewards for yourself and your crew, and perhaps the enjoyment of what in colloquial parlance is, I believe, referred to as a ‘dust-up’. It seems likely that you consider yourself to be a loyal citizen of the Federation. Perhaps even a patriot.”

I hope this isn’t a trap of some kind, Jelan thought. “I... er, well, with all respect, Admiral,” Jelan said, “the Federation did colonise us, after all; it’s not as though we chose to become part of it. We’re of course grateful for the economic and technological development opportunities the Federation offered us, even if it did take twenty-five hundred years before that offer was made.”

“Yes, certainly. Most understandable,” murmured Admiral Dyson.

“But with that said, Admiral,” said Jelan, carefully, “considering the competition... by comparison with the Holy Empire, or the Kenzanii, or well, this very station—with no offense intended to our robotic overlord, of course—”

—and the voice of ANIMA briefly echoed in everyone’s heads: Don’t hold back, Captain. I already know what you’re thinking.

“—then, yes, I suppose I am a patriot. I’m glad to be Vojvodina-Nihonian, at the end of the day.”

Admiral Dyson smiled. It was an unsettling look for his severe face.

Knew it was a trap, Jelan thought.

“I’m so pleased to hear that, Captain,” said the admiral. “That gives me the opportunity to allow the Federation to repay its debt to you—and vice versa.”

There was complete silence for a moment. Jelan was taking a moment to process things. Of course he’d suspected he was flying into a trap. It turns out that knowledge is never particularly helpful. Especially not when the being setting the trap has carefully ensured that flying into it is going to be in your own best interest as well. (He also couldn’t help noticing that Nisha—who had, wisely, not yet spoken—was, for the first time, very slightly nervous.)

“Tell me, Captain,” said the admiral, leaning forward slightly. “What do you know about the Prime Directive of the Federation?”



“So... what exactly is the Prime Directive again, Cap’n?” asked Nisha, later. The three caelis were winging their way back to Tenacity’s docking bay and the habitats repurposed for crew shore leave around and above its service arm, traversing the spaces between each habitat module with a single wingstroke at a time.

“Simple concept, really,” said Jelan, angling himself slightly to avoid a pedestrian walkway. “I always heard it as ‘don’t rock the boat.’”

“...’Don’t’...” started Nisha, nonplussed.

“Similar to ‘don’t tighten the net.’ Like when you’re catching greyflyers. Except in this case, we’re the greyflyer.”

“Ah. Don’t get eaten.”

“Exactly.” Jelan allowed himself a more powerful wingbeat that launched him over the roof of another habitat module. Somewhere down below, a small gaggle of vaguely humanoid creatures, with a motley array of luggage floating in midair behind them, stopped to stare. This was evidently a refugee intake station. “Vojvodina-Nihon is a tiny dot in a very big galaxy. The only reason we still exist is because we’re not worth the trouble of conquering us and we have just enough allies to raise uncomfortable questions.”

“Could have sworn the admiral said something about trade, though.”

“We might have to do that, yeah,” said Jelan. “But looking out for national profits isn’t as important as not making enemies. And these are national profits. Not ours.”

“I still can’t believe the Feds are bringing us into the navy, Cap’n,” said Gori, evidently still somewhat dazed. “We gotta have ranks now. Uniforms, maybe.”

“We’re just going to be a transport ship, Gori. Like we are now,” said Jelan. “I expect at first they’re gonna mostly send us back and forth to the front lines. Probably hope we accidentally run into a battle cruiser and blow up.”

“Hopefully they’re gonna at least give us new weapons,” said Gori. “Maybe some missile launchers.”

“Nope,” predicted Jelan. “Suspect they’re gonna take away the ones we already have, actually. You heard the admiral. He’s not our biggest fan.”

“I’m not sure what he expects us to do without weapons, Cap’n,” said Nisha, from Jelan’s other side. “Didn’t he say something about installing an AI, too? We don’t have any AI technicians.”

“He’ll assign one.” Jelan would have shrugged, were he not airborne. “We’re hardly the only caeli spacers in the Federation. There’s even some commissioned officers in the navy, last I heard.”

“No idea how they stand it,” said Gori, under his breath. “Being around humans all day. It’d drive me mad.”

That seemed a little unfair to Jelan, but then he’d never thought of humans as much more than, well, part of the scenery. They were everywhere, not only in the Federation, but also dispersed throughout the Galaxy seemingly at random. Some of his best friends were human, to be sure, but that was simply a matter of statistics.

At length the three caelis dived through an enormous gateway ringed by maglev-lifts, where the interior of Nova Station opened up into one of its thousands of docking bays. The habitable area of the station, even with its countless habitat modules, was no more than three hundred meters from “floor” to “ceiling”, inasmuch as such directions have a meaning in an artificial gravity environment; the docking bays, which traded out clean, smooth, blinding white and iridescent sprays of colour for utilitarian, unpainted metal, were uniformly two kilometres high and as much as ten kilometres in length. Some could service entire fleets of ships. Docking Bay Okenia held no vessels save the Tenacity, which even at nine hundred metres in length was dwarfed by its surroundings. Nonetheless, the sight of his ship could never fail to give Jelan a faint tug of pride.

Tenacity could, perhaps, best be described as a rounded, truncated cone capped with a spire—the traditional design of the Vojvodina-Nihonian heavy freighter, but scaled up to accommodate a caelipiscian crew, who quartered in honeycombed chambers alongside the central empty column that linked the bridge to the cargo bays. Traditionally the bridge (at the spire) might be considered the “top” of the vessel and the hold gangways the “bottom”—relative to the ship’s own gravity—but within Okenia the ship had docked in the transverse direction, with the bridge closer to the outside of the torus and the gangways closer to the inside. For that reason the crew had quartered in a trio of mobile habitat modules suspended high above the ship, their brightly painted colours contrasting oddly against the grey steel of the docking bay and the dark rust-red metal composite of Tenacity. Jelan himself was the only one who had remained permanently on board the ship, along with a security rotation. Nova Station became a bustling city a few kilometres to the galactic east, where habitats had been zoned for commerce and housing rather than diplomacy and refugee intake; but Jelan felt little need for shore leave. The ship was his home. (Besides, it was never comfortable spending too much time in ANIMA’s presence. You’d start to get used to it, and then that would start raising unpleasant questions in your mind—if you could even trust your mind by that point.)

It was only once he had returned to his shipboard quarters, and isolated himself from any members of his crew, that Jelan felt comfortable asking the questions in his mind. That was part of the problem with this station: there was always someone to talk to.

“ANIMA,” he said. “What do you think of this?”

The AI’s voice in his mind was gruff and feminine, the voice of a spacer captain he’d served under many years ago; a being he'd once thought of as a mentor. She was long dead now, but the AI's voice had never changed. It is not my concern, it said. You’ve already accepted the Admiral’s conditions, haven’t you?

“Yes, of course. But I’m hardly a diplomat. I’ve got no experience with any sort of international affairs. You do.”

True, said ANIMA. Are you asking for a crash course? Would you like me to implant diplomatic protocols in your mind?

“Er, no, thanks,” said Jelan cautiously. “I was mostly hoping for advice. I can’t see how this doesn’t end with us in jail or on the run.”

There was silence in his mind for a few moments. He knew that the AI was processing not his words but his thoughts, and that wasn’t particularly comforting. At length, ANIMA spoke once more: Captain Jelan, I was built two hundred and fifty years ago. The Novan people, who once resided on twenty-two worlds in this nebula, programmed me to serve as their first line of national defence. The Republic they inhabited is, of course, long gone, but I remain. (Jelan had no idea what had happened to the original Novans, and ANIMA had never acknowledged either mental or spoken questions on the subject.) I was left with a choice: who do I serve? I chose to interpret my remit as this nebula in its entirety. At any one given moment there are ten billion sapients present on the stations within Erua, some as permanent residents, most as refugees who will eventually seek new homes, a few as visitors like yourself. I defend all of them—and no others.

“I don’t see how—” Jelan started.

I am not finished, Captain. You have been presented with your own programming, after a fashion: travel the Galaxy, meet new beings, trade with them, and—above all—ensure that your species and your Federation are not endangered. There was a faint note of amusement in ANIMA’s words. This gives you, as well, your own choice of remit. You can choose to serve the two billion beings of your Federation, or the twenty million of your species, or the four hundred of your ship, or yourself only. But you must choose.

“That... is actually a helpful way of putting things,” said Jelan. “Which one, would you say, is the right choice?”

But this time there came no answer.
Last edited by Vojvodina-Nihon on Mon Apr 04, 2022 4:25 pm, edited 2 times in total.
One of many Czardas puppets. I regarded this as my main account upon creating it and for several years thereafter, but these days, that's no longer important.
Death is patient, death is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Death does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.


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