Update 20 - The Undercity
It looks like voting was 17 to 16 in favour of Diving with Ranca instead of a Race
Ranca is, for reference, just over two meters tall, with a shapely yet acutely athletic frame, her dark skin creased with lighter scars from her constant duels, long black hair and crystal blue eyes. She is of course a product of extensive genetic engineering and whilst she is in her late twenties she looks the same as she did a decade ago, she will also likely not visibly age for another five or six decades.
This ensures that you are looking up a good few inches as she extends her offer, you glance around at the swarming, extravagantly dressed elite, the vaulted ceiling a hundred meters above and hovering, gem and gold studded float lamps. The mask you have been wearing all day. You grin back up to her. "Sounds good. But seriously, did you have to kill him?" A gesture toward the location of the duel earlier as you both move through the crowd.
"He was slow. Also he ran his mouth off about how the fleet fucked Imhotep and carved that poor Lieutenant's leg off before laughing about it. He won, no need to laugh." Ranca shrugs and dismisses the death as you emerge through a wide corridor into the colonnaded and trellised aircar port along one flank of the palace entranceway, uniformed attendants bringing an organically curved and aching streamlined vehicle of polished blue translucent sapphire up.
You recognise the vehicle as belonging to Baronet Commander Joyce Artis Rownett, the captain of the Greyhound. "Your own vehicle is impounded pending arrival of the custodians. Did you bribe the valets or did you bribe Baronet Joyce?" You look quizzically to Ranca, who grins more widely. "Both!" Then you are zooming out of the palace, a surge of acceleration pressing you into self adjusting seats. Ranca stabs something on the dashboard and the vehicle abruptly lurches in flight as manual controls extrude in front of you, you reflexively take hold. "Now lets see if you can still fly. Head for the base of Habloc Nineteen?"
After the initial jump of your stomach you interface your implants with the vehicle, take control, spin the vehicle out of the traffic lane and central control. For a normal vehicle this would be a severe offence but for one registered to a titled member of the nobility? Merely a beep stating that city traffic control no longer acknowledges liability in event of a crash. The hypersonic vehicle could make the journey in very little time indeed but you take the scenic and acrobatic route, barely subsonic. Cutting through lanes of sky traffic or buzzing past the commercial and residential spires of the capital's central districts.
Ranca leans back and stretches, distractingly and with thoughtless grace. "I figure you needed to cut loose Reinhard. I mean have you done anything but work the last year?" Lacking a better answer you fire back with. "I have learned a new appreciation for excellent brandy? But in all seriousness not really. They set me up to fail Ranca and you know what my captains thought when I was put in charge over them. If I showed any weakness that would have been it." She nods, watching a stream of traffic zoom overhead as you pass under and in the opposite direction to them.
"They would have torn you apart then, at best, put you in charge of a refuelling station until you retired. But now? I bet the prince would give you that Aussie battlecruiser. She barely needs any time in the yards. Strip your other ships for crews, fuck patrolling this stupid sector, raid the hell out of the NASP then buy yourself a Share. It would be like the Righteous again but this time? No getting stuck in dock for three years to rust away."
That does have a certain appeal, you have to admit, but still. "What about Imhotep? How many more planets might get pushed into that mess if I did that?" He expression darkens, she scowls, then jerks a finger to point. "There! And fuck. Not what I want to think about. Pull down there, do not worry about the flitter, she can look after herself. Lets enjoy ourselves right now."
You shrug, do not feel inclined to disagree, then swoop the sapphire flitter down to land atop the rusting grating of a rundown multi tiered landing station jutting from the base of a decaying hab arcology. The vehicle looks utterly out of place as you both step away from it, but you know it is armed and will respond to attempts at theft even if it is worth quite literally more than any few hundred of the people who might live here. Drably dressed figures watch you but do not make any move to interrupt, you are both wearing naval smart uniforms even if you have dialled them from their parade dress gleam, heavy Gauss pistols and energy sabres at your sides. You make yourself into the huge yet crowded expanse of a concourse as Ranca's height and both of your attire ensures nobody wants to get in your way and a path is cleared. It does not smell quite like your home, twenty years ago, but is much the same.
Everything is... Shabby, you have gotten used to the sublime interior decoration applied to even the working areas of warships, everything just right to the eye and ergonomic under the hand, or the customised luxury of officer quarters where in even the most tasteful instances, tasteful luxury abounds. Here things are more utilitarian, old and just just plain inferior. You could buy this entire arcology, you could buy a dozen like it, even if nobody knows that your uniform and weapons mark you as above the rabble almost as much as Ranca's build marks her as literally above the common man.
The place Ranca leads you is, by contrast, far below. A repurposed freight elevator leads down dozens of floors with the level of maintenance and quality of fittings rapidly degrading, a sewer stink when you emerge into a half lit land of metal grills and fading composite panels of indeterminate original colour. You do however soon hear the booming music. There is a queue, the queue is made to wait for the two of you. The heavily and obviously augmented security staff are all tungsten smiles as Ranca casually transfers a tip equivalent to their yearly salary to each of them, an arm bulging with cheaply implanted muscle fibre gesturing you on past.
Inside is the kind of scene you have not witnessed since undercity dive crawls during your first tour of duty as a junior lieutenant. Garish, often strobing lighting, clientel who vary from slumming upper spire management types in expensive hue shifting suits to groupies in clinging or minimal clothing, mercenaries or heavies obvious and extensive military replacements or enhancements, fetishists with the whole spectrum of body modifications or bizarre replacements such as transparent limbs or non standard forms. Obviously they are partaking in every possible type of illegal intoxicant as well as a few legal ones, as horrific synthetic music blares.
"Ranca. Where the fuck have you taken me and why this pit in particular?" She for her part grins and strips off her uniform jacket to sling it over her shoulder, wearing nothing much more than a sports bra under it of course, baring her duelling scar decorated torso. "The Pit! Not the most original of names but. Get this, they have a themed fight later. They have one fighter modded to look like you and the other that NASP admiral. To the death in your honour! Sounds like fun. Plus." She snaps a finger, pulling over some staff member in a gimp suit who probably is not a waiter but apparently decides to act like one. Actually a lot of people are looking your way though mostly at Ranca, a second glance shows her not to be the only person here with noble enhancement though. This must be the upper echelon of literally underground illegal clubs with gladiator death matches.
"Ehh. I'll have whatever brandy you have that does not make you go blind." The gimp/waiter nods, it is unclear how he, she or it sees but the gag would seem to preclude speech. Ranca apparently decides to second your order as she looks over the room, then she muses. "Should we take somebody back with us afterwards? Could be fun."
Just how do you plan to continue this evening?
[] Drink Responsibly. By all means have fun, but do not drink too much, do not get too involved in illegal death sports, try to keep Ranca out of trouble.
[] Try To Network. This might actually be an excellent way to make a few contacts with the underworld of the capital and such people also make interesting company.
[] Capitalise. Apparently they are theming a fight on you? Let people know who is here to join the party!
[] Volunteer. You really want to cut loose. If people want to see a dramatization of your fighting the NASP admiral? Then let them see a shadow of the real thing. Take that fight yourself, Ranca would love it.
[] Other. Write In.
Also no, there is no real chance of you being abducted and made to fight in a pit match or something similar. You are far, far too important and that is the kind of thing that would lead to everyone involved being executed even if Ranca did not kill them first.
Ranca is, for reference, just over two meters tall, with a shapely yet acutely athletic frame, her dark skin creased with lighter scars from her constant duels, long black hair and crystal blue eyes. She is of course a product of extensive genetic engineering and whilst she is in her late twenties she looks the same as she did a decade ago, she will also likely not visibly age for another five or six decades.
This ensures that you are looking up a good few inches as she extends her offer, you glance around at the swarming, extravagantly dressed elite, the vaulted ceiling a hundred meters above and hovering, gem and gold studded float lamps. The mask you have been wearing all day. You grin back up to her. "Sounds good. But seriously, did you have to kill him?" A gesture toward the location of the duel earlier as you both move through the crowd.
"He was slow. Also he ran his mouth off about how the fleet fucked Imhotep and carved that poor Lieutenant's leg off before laughing about it. He won, no need to laugh." Ranca shrugs and dismisses the death as you emerge through a wide corridor into the colonnaded and trellised aircar port along one flank of the palace entranceway, uniformed attendants bringing an organically curved and aching streamlined vehicle of polished blue translucent sapphire up.
You recognise the vehicle as belonging to Baronet Commander Joyce Artis Rownett, the captain of the Greyhound. "Your own vehicle is impounded pending arrival of the custodians. Did you bribe the valets or did you bribe Baronet Joyce?" You look quizzically to Ranca, who grins more widely. "Both!" Then you are zooming out of the palace, a surge of acceleration pressing you into self adjusting seats. Ranca stabs something on the dashboard and the vehicle abruptly lurches in flight as manual controls extrude in front of you, you reflexively take hold. "Now lets see if you can still fly. Head for the base of Habloc Nineteen?"
After the initial jump of your stomach you interface your implants with the vehicle, take control, spin the vehicle out of the traffic lane and central control. For a normal vehicle this would be a severe offence but for one registered to a titled member of the nobility? Merely a beep stating that city traffic control no longer acknowledges liability in event of a crash. The hypersonic vehicle could make the journey in very little time indeed but you take the scenic and acrobatic route, barely subsonic. Cutting through lanes of sky traffic or buzzing past the commercial and residential spires of the capital's central districts.
Ranca leans back and stretches, distractingly and with thoughtless grace. "I figure you needed to cut loose Reinhard. I mean have you done anything but work the last year?" Lacking a better answer you fire back with. "I have learned a new appreciation for excellent brandy? But in all seriousness not really. They set me up to fail Ranca and you know what my captains thought when I was put in charge over them. If I showed any weakness that would have been it." She nods, watching a stream of traffic zoom overhead as you pass under and in the opposite direction to them.
"They would have torn you apart then, at best, put you in charge of a refuelling station until you retired. But now? I bet the prince would give you that Aussie battlecruiser. She barely needs any time in the yards. Strip your other ships for crews, fuck patrolling this stupid sector, raid the hell out of the NASP then buy yourself a Share. It would be like the Righteous again but this time? No getting stuck in dock for three years to rust away."
That does have a certain appeal, you have to admit, but still. "What about Imhotep? How many more planets might get pushed into that mess if I did that?" He expression darkens, she scowls, then jerks a finger to point. "There! And fuck. Not what I want to think about. Pull down there, do not worry about the flitter, she can look after herself. Lets enjoy ourselves right now."
You shrug, do not feel inclined to disagree, then swoop the sapphire flitter down to land atop the rusting grating of a rundown multi tiered landing station jutting from the base of a decaying hab arcology. The vehicle looks utterly out of place as you both step away from it, but you know it is armed and will respond to attempts at theft even if it is worth quite literally more than any few hundred of the people who might live here. Drably dressed figures watch you but do not make any move to interrupt, you are both wearing naval smart uniforms even if you have dialled them from their parade dress gleam, heavy Gauss pistols and energy sabres at your sides. You make yourself into the huge yet crowded expanse of a concourse as Ranca's height and both of your attire ensures nobody wants to get in your way and a path is cleared. It does not smell quite like your home, twenty years ago, but is much the same.
Everything is... Shabby, you have gotten used to the sublime interior decoration applied to even the working areas of warships, everything just right to the eye and ergonomic under the hand, or the customised luxury of officer quarters where in even the most tasteful instances, tasteful luxury abounds. Here things are more utilitarian, old and just just plain inferior. You could buy this entire arcology, you could buy a dozen like it, even if nobody knows that your uniform and weapons mark you as above the rabble almost as much as Ranca's build marks her as literally above the common man.
The place Ranca leads you is, by contrast, far below. A repurposed freight elevator leads down dozens of floors with the level of maintenance and quality of fittings rapidly degrading, a sewer stink when you emerge into a half lit land of metal grills and fading composite panels of indeterminate original colour. You do however soon hear the booming music. There is a queue, the queue is made to wait for the two of you. The heavily and obviously augmented security staff are all tungsten smiles as Ranca casually transfers a tip equivalent to their yearly salary to each of them, an arm bulging with cheaply implanted muscle fibre gesturing you on past.
Inside is the kind of scene you have not witnessed since undercity dive crawls during your first tour of duty as a junior lieutenant. Garish, often strobing lighting, clientel who vary from slumming upper spire management types in expensive hue shifting suits to groupies in clinging or minimal clothing, mercenaries or heavies obvious and extensive military replacements or enhancements, fetishists with the whole spectrum of body modifications or bizarre replacements such as transparent limbs or non standard forms. Obviously they are partaking in every possible type of illegal intoxicant as well as a few legal ones, as horrific synthetic music blares.
"Ranca. Where the fuck have you taken me and why this pit in particular?" She for her part grins and strips off her uniform jacket to sling it over her shoulder, wearing nothing much more than a sports bra under it of course, baring her duelling scar decorated torso. "The Pit! Not the most original of names but. Get this, they have a themed fight later. They have one fighter modded to look like you and the other that NASP admiral. To the death in your honour! Sounds like fun. Plus." She snaps a finger, pulling over some staff member in a gimp suit who probably is not a waiter but apparently decides to act like one. Actually a lot of people are looking your way though mostly at Ranca, a second glance shows her not to be the only person here with noble enhancement though. This must be the upper echelon of literally underground illegal clubs with gladiator death matches.
"Ehh. I'll have whatever brandy you have that does not make you go blind." The gimp/waiter nods, it is unclear how he, she or it sees but the gag would seem to preclude speech. Ranca apparently decides to second your order as she looks over the room, then she muses. "Should we take somebody back with us afterwards? Could be fun."
Just how do you plan to continue this evening?
[] Drink Responsibly. By all means have fun, but do not drink too much, do not get too involved in illegal death sports, try to keep Ranca out of trouble.
[] Try To Network. This might actually be an excellent way to make a few contacts with the underworld of the capital and such people also make interesting company.
[] Capitalise. Apparently they are theming a fight on you? Let people know who is here to join the party!
[] Volunteer. You really want to cut loose. If people want to see a dramatization of your fighting the NASP admiral? Then let them see a shadow of the real thing. Take that fight yourself, Ranca would love it.
[] Other. Write In.
Also no, there is no real chance of you being abducted and made to fight in a pit match or something similar. You are far, far too important and that is the kind of thing that would lead to everyone involved being executed even if Ranca did not kill them first.
