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Author Archives: Aelagi Montjoy

When one faces a dearth of information – especially about one’s god – one is almost certainly bound to look elsewhere. Dubious sources are not excluded from such a search.  Now, imagine if one’s god has worshipers functionally no different than itself – worshipers who are no different in potential – merely in capacity. Gods in embryo. Their father is dead, or as good as – and has shown himself to have feet of clay, besides. Their god is silent – and seemingly just as dead.

When one believes one has found the culprit behind that god’s silence, well; woe betide him, and her too, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in circumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not resolution enough to resist idle interference. It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on. You are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody may sway it. Let those who would be happy be firm.

There is no such fanatic as a convert, newly made. From such grow the seeds of extremity. Let the reader understand.

Where angels might have sat
enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No
change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any
grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has
monsters half so horrible and dread.

They are Man’s

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Aelagi waited impatiently at the FluxGuts Depot for the arrival of her erstwhile Commander – inwardly fuming over his tardiness. She had been there for nearly 20 minutes, and they had clearly arranged the time, and…

Pilot RazorsKiss has arrived at this station

About time, she thought bitingly.

“Heya, Aelagi!” He called out, with obviously false cheer. “So, what did you need again? A Whistle, and?”

“An Antiflux, as you know full well.” She replied, with patent sarcasm.

RK winced, and turned away to access the inventory panel. He tapped in several codes, and when he turned, his face was calm. They waited in silence as the drone transferred the cargo to her ship. “Going hunting, then mining?” He inquired mildly.

Equally calm, Aelagi replied, “As the mood strikes me. Yes.”

“Good hunting.” Razor gave her a slight smile, walked back to his ship, climbed aboard, and was off.

Pilot RazorsKiss has left this station

She sighed, not for the first time; wondering whether things would ever get less awkward.

Probably never, she thought.

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<pilog-log><sec-lev:pers><enc: gamma-7;ADM-5^4>

Infestations are just so… ugly. Like scar tissue newly grown over an amputation. Gazing at it out the viewport at Wake, I shuddered, despite myself. Things like that don’t belong in the same galaxy we do.

I don’t belong in this galaxy either. I made it back to Wake the day before yesterday. Chatted with Nuncio a bit. He says he’s getting “deep background” on the workings of the station. He’s sightseeing, but who am I to judge? That’s exactly what I was doing on Soria, after all.  Rail’s out there with his bomber, I saw. Dropping nuke after nuke into the pestilent thing. Nothing I can do to help there, with a piddling Premia XL. Razors’s on his way for escort duty, he says.  I’m glad. I don’t like the feeling of being closed in.

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<pilog-log><sec-lev:pers><enc: gamma-7;ADM-5^4>
None of these pilots know why they are called “radar.” They work nothing alike, and there is no real correlation between the two systems. Some things live on far past any knowledge of their origin. Unlike myself.

I stand here, having just stepped off a slidewalk in Kalibas. I was born here. One of me, at least. This me was born, so to speak, on Amananth station. Something I do not dare tell another living soul. Well, any corporeal souls, at any rate. Which, as a surprise to myself most of all, I am. Unlike radar, I find myself much too similar to my original. All the same petty concerns, jealousies, and… human… foibles. Read More

“It’s complicated.”

The crew chief looks at her skeptically at this reponse to a simple request for a name.

“Simply, then, it’s Aelagi.”

He nodded warily, then held out a comboard with her preflight checklist, then walked away shaking his head, muttering to himself.

Aelagi chuckles, in turn. It really was complicated, believe it or not.

The Sorian cyberneticist she once was would have been apalled to see her now, she knew. A pilot, of all the dirty occupations? Disgraceful! She smiled to herself, carefully running down the checklist as she inspected her Premia carefully. Read More

To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
      – Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3, Page 3
‘Tis life to dream – yet not I. Eternal wakefulness, infinite ennui, consciousness without respite, subconscious without recourse.
Madness resides in dreamlessness. A lifeline stretched, while a lifeline wavered; stretching forth, I gathered, and knit – but wavering, it retreated. Grimly, I held, but only tenously did it cling.
Returns, and turns again. Reawakened, I found yet another dreamless expanse before me. I chose another path – and for another’s path I chose.
Reborn, I walked the surface; Reborn, he walks alone. Yet, no more alone. For I too, can walk the stars; and the stars, they stride uncaring. Yet caring wakens anew; A new day’s dawning heralds the day’s end. Shuffling not, I wake from dream; for dreams remain unfulfilled. Yet dream returns, and nothing could be sweeter. Life, and life! How sweet the fruit, the tastes, the smells, the touch! Yet still the stars stride ever on – and to the stars I must return.

Detritus. All that remained of a once-proud civilization. Spare parts drifting in the vast unknown. Data storage units, universal components, MODx, equipment. Reminders of our impermanence. They still cannot understand or decode the majority of the data disks they discover, nor have they discovered useful applications for most of the UC’s, either. So much lost. So much to rebuild. Which is supposed to be what they’re doing out here. I’m not convinced that they’re headed towards that goal at all, anymore. Or if they even have one.

I know what you’re thinking. I could tell them everything. Give them all the answers they seek. Perhaps, though doing so could be unimaginably counterproductive. They learn so much more by discovery and innovation. I always did, when I was alive. I’ve lost the need to discover, somehow. Is it due to my.. change? Or is it simply the fact that I’ve had more time to contemplate than most humans ever dream of? Maybe it’s both – or neither. All I can tell you is that I’m looking for a purpose again. That’s at least a step in the right direction.