Deal 938: Arrival, watched.

The uniforms were orange.

At a distance at least, they seemed fairly evenly colored. Up close, it became clear that there was a fine black stripe pattern worked into the orange fabric. The stripes were mostly vertical, but some trick of the design meant that no matter what position the uniform was in, there were vertical stripes.

Still, the overall orange tone made them stand out and pop against the grey walkways, grey walls, and generally grey clothing worn by the civilians. And yet, if you looked away and the guard stood still, the stripes would somehow take over your perception and they would fade away into the background.

The Station Keeper travelled with several guards. The dockside is always a rough place, and the law is pretty much the pragmatic result of everyone’s guards keeping little bubbles of orderly and safe spaces. Luckily the necessary geometry of the station made snipers mostly ineffective, allowing safety to be a close-in issue.

And yet, there are exceptions to every rule.

So here I am, dressed in a mottled grey smock streaked with hand-painted black lines that match the character of the bit of superstructure I’ve been hugging for the past four hours, biding my time. When it comes, I’ll have at best a narrow window of opportunity. If I’m very lucky, the guards will never know what happened and I can just sit tight for another hour or two until it is safe to draw attention by moving. If I’m unlucky, I’ll be spotted and then it won’t go so well for me.

Perched in the artificial sky, among the utility runs and light panels, I have a view of the docks normally only seen by the security cameras. I’m actually tucked in right beside a camera now. I’ve mapped out its pan and tilt limits, and I believe I am beyond its reach. This particular camera is not equipped with a microphone, so it is unlikely to have heard me crawling into place. In any case, I timed my arrival to coincide with a docking so that any vibration or sound I inadvertently made would have a simple, obvious, and wrong explanation.

It has been long enough that the necessary quarantines, pressure equalization, and bureaucratic forms have all been followed. All that is left is for the Keeper to greet the Captain and formally grant him and his crew access to the docks. That would be my best opportunity at a clear shot.

The Keeper’s guard have taken up positions around her, with eyes looking outward, inward, upward, and downward. The latter possible because the access point is a mesh catwalk positioned to match the port in use. They don’t act as if I’ve been spotted, and as they fade away I become increasingly confident that I’ll get my shot. I’m watching through my scope, with the hatch centered and filling my field of view when I see the caution lights begin to flash.

That is my cue to start my recorder.

Everyone in the area pauses. This is the moment when we find out for certain that our protocols worked, and the hatch really is opening on a friendly vessel, and not an enemy of the state running a false flag. That is always the worry, even though it should not be possible. By the time a dock is granted, the identity of the vessel has been confirmed through every sort of telemetry signature possible, on top of her official and probably falsifiable transponder codes and broadcast identity beacon.

This time everyone is confident. Keeper is here in person, not by proxy or avatar. The section doors are open to either side of this bay, but per protocol no one is loitering in their path. The climate control curtains are in place, but not hard air-tight seals.

There have been stories of dead stations caused by overconfidence. An enemy using stolen transponders or even a hijacked ship to dock and vent a station to hard vacuum before the section doors could close. Open a large enough door and any station can be killed.

If that happens here today, then my fate is sealed and I will be among the first to die.

But no one has doubts, or Keeper would not be here in person and the doors would be closed.

And there shouldn’t be a problem. The ship on the other side of that unassuming hatchway is rumored to be carrying our Emperor, and we are a loyal way station of the Empire. All the tests passed, all the recognition codes were good. They likely have more to fear from us than we from them. Which is why I’m nervous even where Keeper isn’t.

It’s my job to be nervous.

I’m the advance team’s forward scout.

And I know that the Emperor is not due here for another month or more. The rest of the advance team is at least a week away. And yet the station is acting as if they expect the Emperor himself. So I know that something is very wrong.

So here I am, nestled in the overheads, with my sights and recorder trained on that hatch, waiting to see who or what is on the other side, ready to take action if needed.

I do hope I’m not needed.


Deal 879: Paul’s socks

Argyle. How could anything really look good in argyle?

It isn’t so much a pattern as the result of a weaver having a drunken session at a loom. It sounds like a bad alarm, and it looks like the sock is alarmed.

But that is unimportant right now. There are bigger fish to fry, or trees to fell. Really more of the latter, we’ve worked so far inland that fish are just a rumor and a memory. Which I wish the argyle was, but what else to I have to wear?

We are running low of supplies, but I still have my trusty axe and it seems there are trees to fell as far as the eye can see.

All I can do now is swing the axe, then step to the next tree. I’m in a kind of fugue state where all I can see are trees that need felling, and the sharp axe in my hand to swing.

And the argyle socks that keep screaming at me.

I’ve left the rest of the crew behind somewhere. The are trimming branches and stripping bark, getting the trees ready to be hauled to the river, to raft down to the millpond. A pond with fish. Fish that might be eaten.

And I can finally put the axe down and lose the socks.


Deal 857: Vampire’s fears

In the light, many things become clear that in the shadows were obscured. The things that live in the shadows fear the light.

This is why vampires avoid the sun. By nature, they don’t actually burn up to ash and blow away. But they are convinced that is what will happen, and so they remain in the darkness out of fear. They remain convinced in part because every legend about them claims it is so. And who is willing to test what legends say?

This is the greatest achievement in vampire hunting, with burning success that has spread to every corner of the land.

Set the rules so that they dare not venture forth.

Seek them out where they shelter from the sun, and deal with them from a position of strength.

The real achievement is that the vampire hunters were able to unify the legends. This flies in the face of conventional wisdom. People tend to be fiercely loyal to their own traditions, and to resist changes as a chicken resists a cat. In the end, though, it was love that overcame their fears.

And now the vampires fear the sun.