Moderation

Quinn begins his thirty minute jog around the small comet where he’s living. It loops around the comet several times, but the distance isn’t as important as the time. A way to keep him moving, working to start his day. He feels the burn of his other side, trying to keep him alive without atmosphere on the comet. Or at least, significant enough atmosphere for a normal person to survive. Keeps the nPC in check as well, though in recent months something else has been frustrating its every attempt to do anything more problematic. As it hits exactly thirty minutes, he stops jogging, turns one hundred and fifty degrees, and starts to walk, taking the shortest possible route to what is left of his lander.

An engine, a shower, life support, and a database sitting outside. The interior is fully stripped of any electronics he doesn’t use daily. Too great a risk. As he enters, he strips off his skintight suit, and places it in the unit with the others. The unit is nearly full. Tomorrow is laundry day. He mentally notes that he needs to double check the ice supply. If he hasn’t been wasteful, then the every three days of icecutting is in theory enough to wash his clothing every twenty days. But frequently, he has had to do some last minute icecutting. Walking into the shower room, he presses and holds a button, turning the shower up to as hot as it can go. And then he waits for the beep, staring into the mirror. Absent-mindedly he runs his finger along his deep scars. They serve as a reminder of what he was, what he could become. And feels the electricity from his worse half as the finger drifts across the old wounds. It almost feels good, but that, too, serves as a reminder. It always feels good in the moment.

The shower beeps, and Quinn steps inside. The scalding water washes across his muscles and scars. He wishes for a moment he could stay and relax, but he has a schedule to keep. After exactly nine and a half minutes of vigorous scrubbing, he presses the button to activate his ‘finish shower’ subroutine. The water cools rapidly, not quite to freezing, but a good 11 degrees. It stays that way just long enough to close up his pores, and after thirty seconds, the water automatically shuts off. Then, climbing out, he doesn’t take the time to look at the mirror, pressing the dehydrator and waiting to be dry. It’s not particularly efficient, taking a minute to wick the moisture out of the air, and another ten seconds to dry his mostly hairless skin. He waits, and breathes slowly and deeply, as this is still the only time of day he gets proper atmosphere. Then, as he finishes drying off, he shuts down the unit and leaves.

Walking across the comet to a small shelf of flat ice, he begins his meditative breathing exercises. To feel what was going on in his body, and come to understand it. To accept it even. But in turn, teaching the system moderation, regulation, control. And it has been learning. Even in these last few weeks, the pain is lessened, like it is only burning to produce the exact amount of air necessary to survive. But not today. Something else has drawn the system’s focus today. The ships in the sky must be acting up, though they’re on the other side of the comet, and more importantly, focusing on anything other than himself is counterproductive right now. The outside world is for later. After his two hour meditation.

With the final breath out, Quinn stands and makes his way over to the other side of the comet, where his easel is awaiting him. Looking up at the stars, he begins to paint. The ships are still there, hiding poorly, but nothing new seems to be happening. Nothing that he can see. In the middle of a stroke, however, it appears, right up next to the comet, a massive ship from seemingly nowhere. And he can feel something reaching out to his other half. To talk to him.

Quinn opens up the line. “I figured we’d gotten better at hiding,” he jokes, pausing his painting. The ship would not be an interesting addition to his collection. A waste of a frame, as it isn’t a part of the journey.

An odd voice replies, pleasant and familiar. “Well, if you really want to stay hidden, trying to hack someone’s system doesn’t help. Failing really doesn’t help.”

Quinn shrugs. “Failing is something new to the system. Give us a minute to learn,” he half jokes, then more seriously adds, “Why does Astro have a new forward base on the wrong side of the galaxy, especially one with so many advanced and expensive PIs?”

There is the briefest pause before the voice replies, “They’re not Astro, nor particularly new. As far as why here, the stinky one is always particular about choosing hidey-holes.”

“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?” Quinn presses.

“Why would it?” the voice counters, then adds a question of his own, “What are…wait, no, that’s rude, right. Who are you? And what’s up with you being here?”

“I’m Quinn. And let’s just say I did something terrible back in an army and am teaching myself to be better,” Quinn replies honestly, “And you?”

“Captain Destro. And technically?” the voice in the ship asks, “I’m the captain in charge of this here Freeport. But that’s just because they wanted me to join the FDC. We don’t really operate as much of a port.”

Quinn gets straight to the point. “Why are you here, Captain Destro of this Free-not-port? You made it clear you’re not with the others.”

“I’m also not not with them. Our relationship is complicated, but that’s family,” he replies, then with a chuckle adds, “Or I guess not that complicated after all, whoops.”

Quinn can tell that wasn’t a slip up. Though he has no idea why. “And what brings you to my rock?” he presses.

Captain Destro grows less jubilant. “Oh that? A job offer.”

“No thank you,” Quinn replies.

“But you haven’t even heard the job,” he shoots back quickly.

“FDC, that’s Freeport Defense Council. You’re here because of something that’s happening, or about to happen, and I’m trying to avoid violence.”

Destro sighs. He adds, “I understand, I was just…well that’s unimportant. If you ever need any help, the dummies that are poorly hiding in the belt can get in touch.”

“If you ever want some art, I have plenty, and I’m always here.”

There is a pause, but the ship doesn’t leave yet. After a moment of hovering, the captain asks, “Is it violence in general you have a problem with, or yourself doing violence?”

“Why?” Quinn instinctively asks.

There’s another pause, as though Destro is weighing how much to reveal. “From the fact that you’re currently still trying to hack my systems, I’m guessing I know what you are. And the fact that you’re able to suppress your more problematic, let’s call them instincts, so well is impressive. We may or may not be about to go to war, and I am somewhat concerned about what I might do. I was hoping to have you aboard as a voice of moderation.”

Quinn thinks about it. “As long as we stay honest with each other, you listen and don’t dismiss me out of hand, and if I ever get uncomfortable, you bring me back to my comet,” he states.

“That’s more than fair,” Captain Destro replies. A docking bay on the side of the massive ship begins to open. “You can bring your shuttle in for that first bit of transparency, if you wish to join.”

Quinn starts to ready himself to jump, then remembers this is a giant warship he’s about to leap into. Even running with a skeleton crew, that’s at least a hundred people seeing him naked. “Give me ten minutes to grab my clothes and blank canvases,” he says.

“Oh, right, you are naked,” the captain replies, “I didn’t even notice. Sorry.”

Quinn chuckles as he breaks into a run. Muscles which, while never used to their fullest extent, have never atrophied. Running to his makeshift shelter, he pulls on his only clean jumpsuit. But with his mind alight with activity, he barely feels the shudder of electricity across his body. Then, grabbing a year’s worth of canvas under one arm, he sprints back to the lander. Using his other hand, he lifts the entire unit holding his dirty jumpsuits. A ship that big has some sort of cleaning facilities. Hurrying back towards it, he’s at seven minutes forty. Something about this whole affair has excited him far more than expected. Probably the nPC finally getting to experience the galaxy once more. Or perhaps it is he himself that is excited about seeing something other than his small comet for a while. Tensing his muscles, he asks the Captain, “Ready to receive?”

“Where’s your shuttle launching from?” Destro asks.

Quinn laughs as he pushes off the comet, leaping out of the light gravitational field of the rock and towards the open bay doors. He impacts the metal inside with a thud, leaving a small dent. No one is waiting for him. “Sorry about the dent,” he says, “But it has been a while since I’ve stretched my legs.”

“Dent isn’t really a problem, Sebastien can handle it in an hour at most,” Destro replies, then adds, “You can follow the lights on up to the bridge.”

Looking up, there is a corridor of lights on, the others are still dark. It’s different than he was expecting, but he can’t quite place why. As he walks, each of the large hallway doors open up for him before he reaches them. Someone must be watching him head through the ship. He slowly realizes that no one is around, either. “Where’s the crew?” he asks, though it feels weird to ask. Almost feels too normal, but that doesn’t make sense.

“I have a crew, but the stinky one and their merry band are the paranoid sort, so I let my crew have a vacation to blow off some prewar steam while I met with his odorousness.”

Quinn shakes his head. Clearly a joke that he doesn’t understand. “And you manage to pilot this whole ship by yourself? Even if you’re not expecting combat, that’s pretty impressive on its own.”

A laughter erupts. Destro replies, “Well, I’m not exactly a normal person.”

Something is bugging Quinn. The conversation, it’s all been over the comms still. But he’s passed several intercoms as he’s walked. Why wouldn’t they have switched. Especially if any crew not with the captain are gone. It doesn’t make sense. He pauses a moment to take a breath before heading to what, if logic serves, is the cockpit. Breathing in, he feels the familiar warmth of his other half burning through his regenerating cells to produce air. And out, forcing more air out than had been in his lungs. Centered, he walks up to the door and it opens, revealing an empty cockpit.

As he walks in, it hits him. Air. Why would his body be burning through itself for air? Unless there isn’t any life support currently on the ship. But that’s not possible, because the captain’s on the ship. And yet, the comms screen is there, and there is no captain. So there’s no captain, or the captain’s not on the ship. But the ship is being controlled by someone, and remote control would be incredibly clunky even from the asteroid belt where the other ships are, much less further away. So there must be a captain on the ship. It doesn’t make sense. “What. How?” Quinn mutters out the question in confusion.

Destro, in Quinn’s ear and nowhere else, replies, “First bit of honesty. I’m a bit closer to your partner than you. It’s why I was interested. You managed to calm your partner, to a rather impressive degree, if the stories I’ve read are anywhere near true. I’m hoping your advice can help calm my own impulses if the war lasts long enough to irritate me.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Quinn counters, then clarifies, “But admittedly, that was a bit vague. Who or what are you, exactly?”

Destro replies, “Have you heard of the Piu Prima Pilot Intelligence Superdreadnaughts?”