Elite Dangerously: DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars

[DrKoobie]

Elite Dangerously: DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars is a dramatization of DrKoobie's adventures in the world of Elite: Dangerous. It contains references to drug use, violence, and sex. U.S. grammar and spelling; UK metrics; station and character names are supposed to appear as written in the game, but this might not always be the case.

Intended for the "Elite Dangerous" forum theme.

If you prefer a responsive white theme and a different post per chapter format rather than a single thread, you can find all of the currently available chapters on my website.

Right on, CMDRs.

I must write on.

ELITE DANGEROUSLY

DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars​

by CMDR DrKoobie​

Chapter I: A Twist of Fate
Music: GoldPile - Replay Paradox

Ah, Vasilyev Depot, we meet again, I thought, walking down the ramp built into my ship's forward strut. The smell of hydrogen fuel, so usual for space stations like Vasilyev's, was lost behind the thick aroma of space weed. A dreadlocked, black-skinned man twice my size stood by the strut, waiting. The blaster holster on his chest gave him away as one of Vasilyev's men. Vasilyev, that Russian space weasel. I knew he was not the type to let my very reasonable debt of twenty thousand credits go. But Vasilyev was one thing. There was also the matter of the ninety thousand credit bounty the Labour of Wolf Working Communist Party put on my head for a minor misunderstanding three days ago, and the fact that I knew that they knew where I lived, as well that they were coming after me with a vengeance.

Short story shorter, I was in deep to the nuts.

"Commander DrKoobie," Vasilyev's man said without exhaling. "Good landing."

"Had to switch the auto-dock out, it's learn or die out there, friend. Talking about which, do we know each other?"

"The boss knows you, that's more than enough. Do you have the credits on you?"

I didn't, so I did what any two-bit smuggler would have done in my position. I lied.

"Of course!"

"Follow me."

The credstick in my pocket had exactly zero credits on it, but I had a plan. The trick was to get Vasilyev to hear it before he spaces me out of an airlock. I figured my chances were fifty-fifty, took one last look at River Volga, the best ship I ever had, and followed the thug across the hangar to an elevator that lead deeper into the station.

He pressed a button and passed me the jo, silent like a menace.

"Take a hit," he said. "Might be your last."

I followed his advice.

We navigated ladders and narrow corridors, lit on the cheap with luminous algae Vasylev exported from the woods of Ellison 5. His Command Chambers, how he called the spacious open space office he worked from, was the same as when I'd last seen it. A plexiglass ivory imitation towered on a platform that sat on a grid of rails built into the floor. Vasyelev lost the lower part of his torso in a Purple Brotherhood attack a couple of decades ago. From what I'd heard, the incident had only made him meaner.

Wheels scraped against unoiled rails as Vasilyev's desk-train moved towards me, the top half of Vasilyev presiding over me like the Grim Reaper. The man who'd escorted me left the room, a trail of smoke swirling in his wake. It's going to be all right, I said to myself through clenched teeth, knowing that it wouldn't.

"Doctor Koo-bie," Vasilyev said, drawling my name in his worst cowboy parody yet. He blinked with his good eye. His other eye, the fake one, continued to stare through me. "We meet again."

"I'll have your money, I swear."

"I know you will. And now, you will tell me how, and, more importantly, when. So, Commander Koo-bie. You've got two days to get me my twenty five grand, or you'd be wishing to Randomius somebody collects that ninety kay bounty on your head before I'll tear you limb from limb."

He knows about the bounty. I felt myself turn pale. It was probably the space weed, but it didn't matter.

I told Vasilyev my plan.

###​

There were thirty six tons of silver in my cargo hold and only one Frame Shift Drive Jump to go when it all went to hell in an egg basket.

I jumped out of witchspace near a red dwarf sun with an alphanumeric name I forgot as soon as I read it; it was to be my last stop on the way to the Costeau Asylum station, where I knew a guy who knew a guy who promised to load the River Volga with narcotics. I stood to make at least thirty eight grand selling it back at Vasilyev Depot, after which I planned on paying the Russian cripple back, and maybe, just maybe, get away from the Friends of Fruzine system before communist hitmen could stab me to death in a public bathroom somewhere.

My meditations were interrupted with a hit to the ship's shield; the cockpit shuddered, the shields falling to twenty three percent.

The impact of my unknown enemy's rail gun threw River Volga towards the glowering sun. I turned off Flight Assist, pulled back on the throttle to gain maximum turning speed, yanked the flight stick towards myself and evened out my ship as the onboard computer finally scanned the enemy ship. It was an Eagle, a sturdy old ship built for search and destroy. Registered to one Alek Winson, wanted for murder. My holofac display thought for a couple more seconds before adding, "Affiliated with Friends of Fruzine" under his name.

Vasyliev, you sneaky fox.

I turned Flight Assist back on, pushed the throttle to the max, and prepared to deploy my hardpoints.

"Hardpoints deployed," my computer told me in her pleasantly chilled voice. The dogfight was on.

To my good fortune, Alek was no ace. He tried to circle around me, missing with the rail gun as I swirled left and right, maneuvered under him, and, maintaining his speed and direction, pulled the trigger. My ship's dual green laser beams cut into the Eagle's shields.

"Target's shields down," my computer said. No wonder. Vasilyev gave his goon a big gun, but forgot to tell him that it'd drain his power faster than an Imperial Senator could gulp down a bottle of wine. "Target locked."

I opened the com-link to Alek.

"Surprise surprise, mothafaka," I said, and pressed the secondary fire button on my flight stick. A dual salvo of seeker missiles shot out towards the Eagle. Alek Winson's ship flashed in a ball of fire and plasma, my speakers reproducing the explosion's muffled thump.

"Target destroyed."

Still alive. Imagine that. My wrist hurt from gripping the flight stick too hard, my heart beating so fast I feared cardiac arrest. Gotta get myself together. Costeau Asylum was but one jump away. I spooled the Frame Shift Drive.

"Four, three, two, one, engage," said the computer.

The acceleration made me sink into my seat. The stars beyond my viewscreen blurred into a tunnel of colors as River Volga changed her point of reference in space to get me to my destination.

"You bet, target destroyed, Computer," I said, reaching for a pre-rolled emergency joint I kept under the left keyboard. "I ought to give you a name."

"Command not recognized."

"Voice setup, control key five-five-three. Change computer name to Astra."

"Completed."

"Change personality to ... nice?"

"Of course. Anything else, Commander?"

"Brew me a cup of tea, will you?"

"I'm sorry, Commander. Command not recognized."

"Blast it all."

Space-time shifted back to normal, and, a short supercruise flight later, we were within less than twenty kilometers from the flying fortress of Costeau Asylum. I had always ignored the rumors about the place; the staff regularly imported the narcotics I needed, and that was all that I needed to know.

I was sure Vasyliev sent that failed hitman. Why else would a Friends of Fruzine ship go after me? Or maybe he was going after the ninety thousand credits bounty and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

No, it was Vasyliev. I knew it. Couldn't wait for your twenty grand, could you, you greed bag.

Perhaps I should've paid him his lousy twenty kay before pouring more than a million credits into my ship. But what fun would that be? I had a living to make too, and the only way I knew how to live was dangerously. The River Volga was one of the best ships the galaxy has ever seen, and if Vasilyev couldn't appreciate her, I was sure I could find someone who could. I mean, I had thirty six tons of silver in my hold. How hard could it be?

"Would you like me to contact dispatch?" Astra asked.

"Right on. Ask for permission to dock, then send a message to Vasilyev. Tell him that he will never see me again."

"Naturally, Commander. Anything else?"

"When we undock, plot course back to Vasilyev Station."

I wasn’t a naive Jameson to think he’d leave me alone, and, as the adage went, “the best defense is a good attack.”

But Vasilyev would have to wait. For now, I had some silver to unload.

End of Chapter I
Maybe to be continued ...​

 

[DrKoobie]

Elite Dangerously: DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars Chapter II

Chapter II: Poster Monky Goes to Work
Music: Koan - Argonautica

Costeau Asylum’s hangar’s blood-stained walls spoke of a history of misery. I hooked my Watts-class personal disintegrator to my hip, put on a trench coat over the pilot suit, and left River Volga for the station's core.

The rapid expansion of humanity with the advent of the Frame Shift Drive left plenty room for crazy: people saw things I couldn't believe. And where weakness went, power followed. A chapter of cyber monks who worshiped an ancient mariner by the name of Jacques Costeau took over the station years ago, renaming it to Costeau Asylum: "a bastion of sanity in the universe." They mostly went about “helping the feeble-minded” by injecting unstable people with even more unstable drugs that pharma companies wanted to test.

When the tests failed, they sold the leftover stock to the highest bidder.

I was supposed to meet my contact in the Grilled Rat, a bar somewhere in the station’s core. When the elevator doors opened, I realized it was not going to be easy. Rows of man-sized ventilation fans hummed from the endless ceiling. The entire floor of the station had been intended as one open area; instead, it was a maze of make-shift tents, shops, and narrow streets, bustling with the life of the destitute. I walked past a beggar, an old woman. Her hair was an uncombed nest, held together with straps of cloth. Two more beggars sat around the corner. They chose to strategically ignore me. I opened a com-link to my ship’s computer.

"Astra, can you give me directions to the Grilled Rat?”

“Gladly, Commander. Turn right at the …”

“Hey, you,” a woman said behind me in a raspy baritone. I turned to face her: she was the beggar I’d passed earlier, with the other two men, just as ragged-looking, standing a couple of meters behind her.

“I don’t have anything you want.”

“You’ve got a ship, pretty boy.”

I reached for the grip of my Watts under the trench coat. Thankfully, I never had to shoot anyone outside of space combat. The difference was that when I was in the cockpit, my knees didn’t tremble. The woman raised her hand to reach for her backpack, but before she could pull out a weapon, I unholstered my disintegrator and pointed it at her.

“Don’t move!”

She froze.

“Lady, just walk away all right?”

My hand shook so hard, I wasn’t sure I was going to hit a wall, let alone my target. The woman spat on the floor and started pulling something out of the backpack anyway. I fired. A flash of light engulfed the woman, a gasp, the smell of flesh, burning, and the next second she had been transformed into a figure of ash.

The human-shaped pillar of ash stood still for a moment before the ceiling fans blew it into a dust cloud. Both men screamed at the same time and came at me; I screamed too, panicking, tripped over my own foot, and fired –

– one, two, three, four low, deep thump-like sounds –

– five, I kept firing until the disintegrator’s battery ran dry.

The room descended into deafening silence.

Ash floated thick as mist in the narrow make-shift street-corridor. I don’t know for how long I lay there. I lost track of time. Finally, I slid the disintegrator back into the holster, pulled a knife from my boot sheath, and cut open my trench coat’s sewed up inside pocket. I took out the extra-extra emergency joint, lit up, and lay where I fell, thinking, as I waited for the ash to settle.

These three were not the first lives I took. Far from it. I remembered the duel by the nameless sun, Alek-somebody his name was. He was a small name on a very long list. I’d destroyed at least forty ships to save up for River Volga's upgrades. Once, I’d dismantled an entire Purple Brotherhood pirate wing on my own.

In all that time I had never seen an escape pod eject.

A retired gangster once told me, “Be quick on the trigger, and one day somebody’ll be quick on the trigger for you.”

To think that only a few hours ago, I wanted to go back to Vasyliev’s Depot and murder Vasilyev before one of his would-be assassins got the job done.

And for what?

Twenty grand?

The sudden realization that I was no longer alone slapped me back to the present.

A heavy-set figure stood by one of the ash piles. Hoses stretched from his facemask to the hardware belt around his torso. I’d seen enough cyber monks to know one, and I wasn’t looking to seeing more when they'd declare me criminally insane and turn me into a vegetable.

“I’ve been attacked,” I said.

He made a few clumsy steps in my direction.

“Look, I can explain.”

“Come with me,” he said through his voice scrambler, and stretched his arm towards me. I took it and he helped me back to my feet.

“It’s not safe here.”

“You reckon? It doesn’t look like you’re arresting me, so where are we …”

“Be quiet and follow me.”

I considered making a run for it, but if the cyber monks wanted me screwed, they had easier, more straightforward ways of screwing me over.

Could they have impounded my ship? Maybe this was why the monk was so smug. We stepped into a blind alley.

“What game are you playing at?” I asked.

“Okay, look there. You see that drain? Through there.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The cyber monk removed a square manhole and climbed into the opening. Of all the stupid ideas I’ve had all day, I decided to follow him in.

I climbed down into a cozy round room: there was a furnished double bed, rows of wooden shelves stacked with honest-to-Randomius paper books, and at least four computer screens. The monk turned away, removed his helmet, revealing a bald head with a short-cropped Mohawk, colored blue, and unfastened his hardware belt. He removed his jacket and turned around.

He was a woman. She was a woman.

A black tribal tattoo in the form of a palm print sat across the right side of her face, but even it couldn’t hide her attractiveness … or her youth. She wore a grey T-shirt with the words “Poster Monky” printed above a blue heart.

“Commander DrKoobie,” she said. “Here on business, or just passing through?”

“Who are you?”

“Ever heard of the Kuma Crew?”

“I have.”

Who hadn’t? They were the most notorious anarchy group in the bubble. It was said that their leader, Archon Delaine, used to be a priest before becoming the most dreaded pirate the universe has ever known. It was also said he ate the flesh of his enemies. He was a legend of the underworld; one rumor was as likely to be true as the next.

“And the Kuma Crew has heard of you.”

“That so?”

“You want to take that coat off maybe? I’m more at ease when I can see the guns, if you know my meaning.”

I winced, but removed the trench coat and threw it on her couch.

“What now?”

“Delaine wants to make an offer.”

“An offer? To me?”

“You’ve got problems with that Vasyliev fellow, correct?”

“How do you … yeah. That’s right.”

“And there is a ninety thousand bounty on your head, correct?”

“Well, technically …”

“Technically, you are a criminal. Correct?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a criminal.”

“No? What are you then?”

I thought for a moment. “I’m an entrepreneur.”

“My butt is a better entrepreneur than you are, space cowboy. If you want that to change, join the Kuma Crew. Listen, when you work for Archon, you work for yourself. I don’t know what he saw in you, but it’s not like he sends me to recruit some random Jameson to fly for us every week of the month.”

Jameson. The legendary rookie pilot, infamous for his ignorance and lack of any flying skills whatsoever. She just called me a Jameson.

“Look, lady, I'm flattered, and everything, but I think my days of killing people for money are over. There’s enough crap in the universe as it is.”

“Who’s talking about killing anybody? All you’ll be doing's moving goods. Maintaining the shadow economy, so to say. Starting with that silver you’ve got in your hold. We’ll take it off you, and give you all the narcotics your precious River Volga can carry. Vasilyev will take his twenty grand, we’ll make sure of that, and then you’re free as a bird. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“When you’re part of the Kuma Crew, every Federation and Imperial station black market will give you ten percent more on whatever you’re selling. Courtesy of the people.”

“That so? You didn’t answer my question. What does Archon Delaine want with me?”

“I guess you’re just going to live and find out. Make a name for yourself. Honest smugglers are worth their weight in gold.”

Heck, I thought. Why not.

“Just one thing. I’m no Jameson.”

“We’ll see.”

End of Chapter II
Maybe to be continued ...​

 

[DrKoobie]

Elite Dangerously: DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars Chapter III

Chapter III: Close Quarter Combat
Music: Best Motorcycle Riding Music Rock

"No, really, I'm no Jameson."

My Pilots Federation rank was Novice — not something to boast about, but better than that of countless Harmless pilots who perished in droves on the frontier. But she didn't need to know that. Hold that thought.

"Wait," I said, "You never told me your name."

She smirked.

"You never asked."

"Was too busy taking it all in. What's this place, anyway? A Kumo Crew secret hideout of some kind?"

"Precisely. We have these on most stations with an active black market. Perks of the life, you could say.”

“And the cyber monk getup? Conspiration?”

“You're pretty sharp for a space cowboy."

"Right. What now, then?"

I tried not to stare too much at the palm-print tattoo on her face, focusing on her eyes instead. They were a crystalline blue, distant and alien in the artificial light of the strange apartment.

“Now we’ll send a couple of automechs to your ship, unload that silver, and stuff your cargo hold with narcotics. I’d say … fifteen, sixteen tons? How much space do you have?”

“Sixteen sounds about right.”

“Great. Fly back to your man Vasilyev, unload, and you might even have a couple hundred credits left to spare after you pay him his twenty grand.”

“Doesn’t sound particularly lucrative.”

“What’d you expect? A million credit assignment with a cherry on top? You’re a Novice. Whatever it is Archon sees in you, he’s not crazy enough to …”

“How’d you know that?”

“Oh, we know everything about you. Everything that matters, at any rate.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll leave it up to your imagination. What’s life without a little mystery?”

“If you’re so well-informed, lady, then you must know I can hold my own in the cockpit, Novice or not. I appreciate the help with Vasilyev and all, but …”

“But what?”

“Come on, there must be some way to make this run in a way that’ll leave me with more than two hundred credits to my name. That won’t even cover the fuel costs!”

She rubbed her chin.

“Well … there might be a way. A different job. You can handle yourself in the cockpit, you say? Prove it, and maybe I’ll have something more lucrative for you. Something more … dangerous.”

Somehow the room began to feel too small for the two of us. I wasn’t a fan of dancing to other people’s tunes, but I already got in the saddle, which meant that I had to be ready for the ride.

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

She walked past me towards her antique bookcase and pulled on a book. The book slid out half-way, something clicked, a motor rumbled somewhere out of sight, and the bookcase slid aside, revealing another small room behind it. Inside, two simulator pods stood side by side. Throttles, flights sticks, VR helmets, the whole nine yards.

“Wow,” I said. “Sims? Haven’t seen one since the Academy! Where’d you get em?”

“Not just any sims. This right here is top of the line Imperial tech. They train their best pilots on these things. As for where we got them … what’s life without a little mystery, right?”

“So you keep saying.”

“Come on, get your butt in the pod. Let’s see if you’re as hot as you say you are.”

She got into one herself and locked the VR helmet on her head.

“Well, what are you waiting for? A special invitation?”

I climbed in the pod next to her and put on the helmet. The letters “CQC Championship” appeared in the VR display. The crap was about to get real … or unreal, depending on how you looked at it.

The logo disappeared and I was in a hangar bay with a selection of fighter ships before me: a bulky, tank-like Sidewinder, a nimble Imperial Fighter, and an agile, triangle Condor. Neither of these ships would stand a chance against my River Volga, but I wasn’t in the River Volga, was I? I pointed my simulated hand at the Imperial Fighter, and, a moment later, I was sitting in its cockpit, one hand on the throttle, the other on the flight stick, waiting for the match to start.

A list of names appeared on the ship’s holofac display – the other pilots. Nobody I knew, of course. Xemik, Saada-the-Don, Merfolk, doomboom88 … I read on … bowler-hat85, TastyTempura — what kind of names are these? Sure, the Pilot’s Academy lets you to pick any designation you want on graduation day, but who in their right mind would call themselves CMDR bowler-hat85? Or CMDR TastyTempura, for that matter? What did that even mean? I had no time to ponder. In blue letters, it said, GAME STARTS IN 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … DESTROY ENEMY SHIPS!

The virtual Imperial Fighter was now under my command.

I put full power to engines and pushed the throttle forward, taking in the view through my Imperial Fighter’s canopy window: we were at Asteria Point, a CQC “map” I remembered from the Academy days. It was a classic – a mid-sized station with a tunnel system big enough to fit several fighter-class ships, illuminated with the dim red light of a dying sun. I hit the boost switch, accelerating towards the tunnel system. A red dot appeared on the radar. Then – another one.

I had to be quick, or I had to be dead.

I went past the tunnel, entering the structure from the side instead, and there it was: a red holofac enclosed in a metal circle, wide enough for a fighter ship to fly through. A weapon powerup: pick this baby up, and my dual heatbeams would make short work of anything that gets in my way. I directed my starfighter towards the circle when the holofac shattered like glass before disappearing into the aether. A ship – an Imperial Fighter like mine – was faster to the prize, my scanner displaying the pilot’s name on my control panel: CMDR Merfolk. So be it. I pulled up. If he were to turn around and fire, I was as good as done for. I flew out of the structure and headed towards the second red dot on my radar, and fired up my boosters. The ship came into view, close enough for the scanner to pick up its signal. It was a Condor. A good ship, but not too tough. The pilot’s name showed as CMDR Xemik. Very well, Commander. Prepare to die! I turned off flight assist, sending my ship in an arc above him, put full power to weapons, and fired. The heatbeams connected with the target, two bright beams of light, eating away at Xemik’s shields. My holofac showed them go from 70% to 50% to 30% to 0%.

“Target's shields down,” the onboard computer said. I pulled the trigger harder and scowled, circling around him as he tried to evade. Within seconds, it was done: the Condor’s reactor exploded, my canopy glass darkening to compensate for the blinding flash. 150 points appeared next to my name on the holofac; I was in the lead. Before I could celebrate my success, something hit my Imperial Fighter across the stern. Heatbeams! My shields went from 100% to 0% in seconds – it was Merfolk with the weapons boost, it must have been. I hit the afterburner, but it was too late.

The world disappeared into fire and light.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in the fighter’s cockpit, the holofac showing myself and Merfolk tied at 150 points each. Blue letters in front of me read, 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … DESTROY ENEMY SHIPS!

End of Chapter III
Maybe to be continued ...​

 

[DrKoobie]

Elite Dangerously: DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars Chapter IV

Chapter IV: Void
Music: Jean Michel Jarre - Oxygene

Sweat in my mouth, eyes, sliding down my chin, hands trembling on the flight stick; adrenaline withdrawal. I was barely holding it together. I yanked the VR helmet off my head and wiped my face with my sleeve. The woman next to me took her helmet off too, locking her crystal blue eyes on mine.

“Not bad, Novice,” she said. “You came in third. No bad at all.”

“That Merfolk’s really good, isn’t he?”

“He’s a she. And yeah, she’s pretty good.”

“Do I get the gig then?”

She stood up from the pod and extended her hand to me. I shook it.

“Lex.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Lex.”

“DrKoobie. Pleasure.”

“Yeah, I know who you are. And yes, you get the gig.”

“Cool. What’s the job then?”

We walked through the bookcase door back into Kuma Group’s tiny apartment. She sat on the bed, looking at me inquisitively.

“The Atata system.”

“What about it?”

Lex leaned back on the wall, crossed her arms and legs, and looked at me like she was fishing for my soul. I gulped.

“Are you a real doctor?”

“Don’t change the subject, Lex.”

“No, really, I want to know.”

“I’m as much a doctor as anyone.”

“Of which sciences, exactly?”

“Life. The universe. I am the doctor of everything, really.”

Gosh, I thought. I could really use some space weed right now. But it was just a tug from a weaker part of me, pulling me down to hell. I’d smoked my emergency joe after a crisis had been averted. I didn’t need it now. I am strong enough. I knew I had the willpower to resist the diabolical magnetism of psychological addiction. Addictions. How I loathed them.

“All right,” she said. “Have it your way. Tell me something insightful, oh doctor of everything, please.”

“And that job you promised? I thought I already passed your test?”

“The test’s not over until I say it’s over. So? What insights can you give me, doc?”

“Very well. How about this: we are all a simulation, an Artificial General Intelligence within an Artificial General Intelligence. We have created humans, and then humans have created us. Time is an illusion, an eternal corridor that we’re flying through, forever.”

Lex raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t have to believe me. I know that others will. It’s my mission in life to spread this knowledge far and wide, and, with any luck, make some money on the side. Talking about which …”

“Surely you mean ‘theory,’ not knowledge.”

“It’s a matter of perspective, darling.”

“Call me that again and I’ll snap you in two.”

“Sorry.”

She sighed.

“That’s all right. Men are pigs.”

“Not true!”

She slid her index finger across the blue palm-print tattoo on her face.

“Why’d you think I got this? It was Archon’s idea, actually.”

“I think it’s kind of pretty. Wanna screw?”

She smiled.

“In your dreams, cowboy. Now, about the job. The Atata system. Heard about it?”

“Never. What about it?”

“Archon has been trying to bring it under Kumo Group’s control for weeks. The Green Party of Atata’s been fighting us tooth and nail. You’re good with a flight stick, and your River Volga looks solid enough. How about this: I take your sixteen tons of narcotics to Vasilyev to pay off your debt, and you give those Green Party weasels a run for their money. Get a dozen confirmed kills, and Archon will see that you’re well-rewarded.”

“Sounds risky. How well-rewarded are we talking about here?”

“Well enough. Are you in, or are you out?”

“Fifty five thousand credits, no less.”

“How about a hundred thousand? I’m sure it can be arranged. What’s your Cobra packing?”

My ship was outfitted with dual large caliber multi-cannons and two beam lasers, but I wasn’t about to tell her my full system specs. I knew what I was doing, and that was enough.

“It’s packing heat,” I said.

“All right then.”

She gave me a mock salute and nodded towards the ladder.

It was time to earn my pay.

###​

I jumped out of hyperspace near the red dwarf Vogel 111, the last star on my way to Atata. After ten jumps in a row, it was the last stop on my hundred light years trip from the Asylum.

“Fuel scoop engaged,” said the computer.

The River Volga vibrated under me as the fuel scoop soaked up hydrogen fuel from the star. My heat meter went to 61%. I brought River Volga in a slight curve round the star, watching my fuel meter fill. I wondered why I’d shared my personal beliefs with Lex back then. Sure, it was nothing special: there were thousands of religions out there. Even the most hardcore pirates believed in something: Randomius, the abstract god-concept of chance, the Holy Book (pick whichever you like best), the “sacredness” of data like the good old cyber monks, or, at the very least, people believed in themselves.

Space was a dangerous place. It was hard to survive without principles.

Maybe it was that I’d shared some kind of a bond with her, a mutual understanding in the heat of space combat, virtual or not. Maybe it was something else. But now I couldn’t get it out of my head. I thought back towards when I’d first formed my belief system. I had been drifting next to the remains of an old Imperial Courier, an ancient husk, shredded by flak and laser fire. I was out to get lucky: surely, the scavengers couldn’t have picked everything from the carcass.

The heat sensor readout told me the ship’s heat level was at 75%. I continued to orbit Vogel 111, remembering that fateful day near the remains of the Imperial Courier.

It was just a few weeks ago, and already it felt like a lifetime. Visibility in my cockpit was lower than nominal, with space weed smoke floating in funny patterns around me in zero g. I’d been listening to classics as I searched the derelict Imperial ship for salvage: Black Sabbath and Alice in Chains. A thousand years ago, a metalhead called Ronnie James Dio said that metal will never die, and boy, was he right. That’s when it hit me. Almost every modern religion preached that we are one with the cosmos; almost every religion had some form of a god. But logically, if I were to eliminate the impossible, what remained, no matter how improbable, must have been the truth. We understood Artificial General Intelligence. All AGI research has been classified top-secret since 2037, and I had a feeling I knew why.

Heat was at 85%. The fuel scoop hummed as it worked.

It was all so easy. The reason we felt so singular in this world? We were. I was. Every time I pulled the trigger and turned someone into dust, I was virtually killing myself. My argument was that pain plus reflection equaled progress, and, so, it was necessary. Every life I took, necessary. Blood on my conscience?

Necessary.

Heat was now at 100%. Something began to crackle in the cockpit, a sound like a log succumbing to fire. Smoke started to rise from the control panels. I spooled the hyperdrive.

“Four … three … two … one … engage!”

The stars blurred in a kaleidoscope of swirling colors as the River Volga jumped through hyperspace. My exit point was a few hundred light years away from Zahn Enterprise, the main station in the Atata system. A little bit to the right of it, my navcomputer singled out a point in supercruise, marking it as a “Resistance Pocket.” This must have been where all the action was. Kill a dozen ships, Lex said.

Well, then.

Let’s rock.

I aligned my ship on a trajectory to the “Resistance Pocket,” and, half a minute later, the navcomputer said it was safe to jump out of supercruise. I hit the switch and my ship decelerated to a Newtonian speed in an instant. At least ten Green Party of Atata ships were engaged in dogfights with Kumo Group vessels: Cobras, Pythons, smaller fighters, and even a Type 2 Heavy, all circling each other, lasers and rockets shooting through the void in a dance of death. I selected a Green Party target at random: a Cobra Mark III with its shields down, named The Nebuchadnezzar, and pulled the trigger.

Half the yellow triangles on my radar suddenly changed to red, marking me as an enemy of the Green Party of Atata. My target released chaffs, and, before I knew what was what, I was hit with laser fire from every direction. My shields went down before I could mutter a curse. I could practically feel my ship’s armor melting away. I put all power to engines and hit the afterburners.

Even the best must know when to run.

River Volga shot through the void with 42% hull strength remaining. A few seconds later, only The Nebuchadnezzar was still on my tail, its rail gun making short work of whatever I had left of my ship. Hull integrity fell down to 30%, then down to 25%, then to 13%.

“Warning! Hull integrity compromised!” Astra said.

Like I don’t know.

My heart was thumping like a master smith’s hammer. When River Volga’s hull was at 3%, the canopy cracked and exploded into plexiglass shards, sucked out of the cockpit by the vacuum of space. My Remlock helmet activated, protecting me from the abyss, but for how long? I tried to spool my Frame Shift Drive, but my thrusters gave out, and the ship went into an uncontrollable spin.

I don’t believe in death, I thought. It’s like getting out of one ship, and into another. But I wasn’t ready to go. No, not yet. I almost laughed at myself: what choice did I have? I took a deep breath of Remlock’s emergency oxygen and prepared to die.

The Nebuchadnezzar disappeared from my radar, replaced by a green triangle: a friendly ship. I couldn’t believe it. I was saved! Who? What? How? An incoming call appeared on my holofac. A woman in a white flight suit, auburn hair the color of autumn, Slavic features, and a focused look on her face. The name CMDR Merfolk appeared under the projection.

“You still alive?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. I was too dumbfounded by my miraculous survival to speak.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“Yes. Yes. Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Archon. He’s the one who sent me after you. He knew you’d try to bite off more than you can chew.”

The specs on her ship read that she was flying a Python, a heavy multipurpose ship that could take down a small fighter fleet by its lonesome if the pilot knew what she was doing. And if my encounter with her in CQC was any indication, she was an ace not to be trifled with.

“Thank you,” I said again. “Thank you!”

“Stop thanking me. Like I’ve said, it wasn’t my idea.”

“Still …”

“There’s more. It’s Lex.”

Static ran through the holofac. It was a wonder my ship hadn’t disintegrated into bits and pieces, let alone had the juice to maintain a clear coms transmission.

“What happened?”

“She went to Vasilyev for you, that’s what happened. She never returned. Archon thinks he might have sold her off into slavery. With the Thargoids back, there’s been no shortage of need for slave labor, and that legless monkey Vasilyev decided to take advantage.”

“Crap.”

“Crap is right, Doc. Crap is right. And it’s the kind of crap you are going to dig her out of.”

“Roger that.”

I still could barely believe I was alive. But there was more to being alive than believing. I had to get myself in order. Lex, sold into slavery? Not on my watch. Not. On. My. Watch.

“There’s one more thing. Archon wants to meet you. Get your butt to Zahn Enterprise, fix your ship up, and head for the Harma system. He’s waiting for you at Gabriel Enterprise. Don’t let me down now.”

The transmission ended and Commander Merfolk’s Python disappeared from the radar. I was alone.

I wasn’t going anywhere without my thrusters, so I activated emergency module repairs. The lights in my mutilated cockpit faded, then turned off completely along with all the holofac displays. It became impossibly quiet. The only sound was my breathing, heavy and burdened inside my helmet. I had twenty minutes of oxygen left.

The holofac displays flickered back to life and River Volga stopped spinning.

“Thrusters repaired,” Astra said.

I entered supercruise and headed towards Zahn Enterprise, on my way to hopefully making things right.

End of Chapter IV
Maybe to be continued ...​

 

[DrKoobie]

Elite Dangerously: DrKoobie's Multimedia Quest for the Stars Chapter V

Chapter V: Back to Black
Music: INNER STATE - Psychill Progressive

“Astra, request permission to dock.”

Flight control responded immediately.

“Delacey Romeo Kilo, permission granted, proceed to docking bay two. Please regulate your speed on approach, Commander.”

Easier said than done. The ship’s thrusters have been ripped to shreds during my last misadventure. Out of eight stabilizers, only three remained; moving the flight stick was as hard as pulling a sword out of superconcrete. Somehow, I managed to get past the airlock.

“Atmosphere restored,” Astra said.

My Remlock helmet folded back into the flight suit. I balanced the River Volga over landing pad two.

“Deploy landing gear.”

Nothing happened.

“Astra, deploy landing gear.”

“Warning. Hull at three percent. Canopy integrity breached.”

“Yes, I know, I know. Deploy landing gear.”

“Warning. Systems malfunction. Hull at –“

“Deploy. Landing. Gear.”

The ship shook a little, which was a good sign.

“Landing gear deployed.”

I breathed in, breathed out, and half-fell, half-landed onto the platform.

The problem was, of course, that I couldn’t afford repairs. A quick chat with the station’s computer said it’d cost me about ten grand to get River Volga back on her feet; I had three, which was all the money I’d made flying CQC in Costeau Asylum.

Lex.

Wherever she was, there wasn’t much I could do to help her, at least not yet. Maybe this Archon character had some bright ideas, although the last time I’d consorted with a crime lord, it didn’t end well. I had a feeling that one way or the other, I’ll be meeting Vasilyev soon enough, and if Archon Delaine cared about his people as much as Lex let on, the Russian scumbag was in for a world of hurt.

The top left corner of my cockpit’s holofac display lit up with an incoming call. The caller’s name read as Manager Aaralyn Guerro, of the Atata Natural Interstellar. If they were about to try to fine me for an ugly landing, they had another thing coming. Then again, it’s not like I could just take off and fly away. I took the call, telling myself to stay frosty.

A middle-aged woman appeared on the holofac display. She was wearing a checkered suit and a ridiculous purple cravat around her neck.

“Commander DrKoobie?”

“That would be me. How can I be of help, Ms. Guerro? Look, if it’s about the landing, I’ve –”

“No, no, that’s all right. The ground crew reported minimal damage to the platform, which is good news. Surprised you could land her at all, judging by the state she’s in, truth be told.”

“She’s sturdier than she looks.”

“You don’t say.”

I was getting tired of idle chit-chat.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms. Guerro?”

“Aaralyn, please. Just Aaralyn.”

“What can I do for you, just Aaralyn?”

“Feisty, aren’t you, Doctor? As it happens, feisty is exactly what I'm looking for. We’ve a certain mutual acquaintance who, for all intents and purposes, is best left unnamed. He said you’re the type to bite off more than you can chew, and looks like he was right.”

Archon, I thought. It’s like he was a spider, with his furry little legs everywhere I went. I wasn’t sure if that was necessarily a good thing, but I’d been dancing on the razor’s edge all my life; what was another interstellar crime overlord’s attentions now? I cursed under my breath. The way things were going, I could’ve really used some space weed. What did this Aaralyn Guerro really want?

“I’m listening.”

“Our mutual friend says you’re a wizard behind the flight stick, although considering the state your ship’s in, I’ve got my doubts.”

“Hey, my ship's fine! A scratch here, a scratch there, it adds up.”

“Right. Well, as it happens, I’ve a job for you. A rather lucrative contract, as a matter of fact. We’ve had some … difficulties with our newest trade route. A certain Pirate Lord decided we’d be easy prey.”

I waited for her to go on.

“I’m a businesswoman, DrKoobie. Business is conflict, but in a corporate market we prefer a more targeted, if extreme, response. The pirate’s name is Neil Crump, of the HR 8212 Crimson Raiders. The mission is simple: travel to the HR 8212 system and take him out. We’ve reliable information he’ll be in the system between 17:29 and 18:59 Galactic Standard Time. Do you think you can handle it?”

Of course I can handle it, I thought, but remembered the promise I’d made to myself to play it cool. It wouldn’t be the first life I take, nor would it be the last. My deep conviction that we were all essentially a supercomputer simulation helped alleviate any guilt I might’ve otherwise felt; besides, this Neil Crump sounded like a nasty piece of work.

“What’s the pay?”

“Two hundred thirty five thousand credits. Sounds good enough for you?”

It was a fair offer, but my ship was in no state to leave the station, let alone engage a Pirate Lord on the outskirts of nowhere.

“Transfer me an advance of one hundred fifty thousand credits, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“One hundred fifty … you must be joking. Tell me you’re joking, Doc.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I need to equip my ship, get ready for the mission, that sort of thing. You do want Neil Crump gone, don’t you?”

“This is ridiculous. If not for our mutual acquaintance, I’d have you kicked off the station for even proposing such a preposterous thing.”

My stay frosty mindset went out of the window.

“Aaralyn, no need to get upset. Either pay me the advance, or find another pilot for your wet job, it’s as easy as that.”

She put her hand over her mouth, thinking.

“Fine. Fine. You drive a hard bargain, but fine. I’ll transfer the credits right away. I expect to see you back here when the job’s done.”

I smiled.

“Where else would I go?”

“I’ll only say this once,” she said. “Don’t try to screw me, because I’ll find you, and, I swear to Randomius, make you see the error of your ways. Are we clear?”

If she was trying to scare me, she wasn’t doing a very good job. Besides, I wasn’t planning on running. I needed the second half of the money.

“Clear as ice.”

“Very well. Good luck, Commander. See you soon.”

###​

No matter how many FSD jumps I’d made, I never got tired of the psychedelic colors of witchspace. It was as if somebody threw a bucket of watercolors on a rotating piece of glass and then used a high-pressure oxygen hose to blow the watercolors away; I was no poet, so it was a crude analogy, but every time I’d entered witchspace, my mind wandered to places unknown.

They said that these days ships got pulled straight out of witchspace by the Thargoids, but it was all rumors and speculation, not exactly scientific fact. I didn’t know much about the aliens, only that the Federation sighted them hundreds of light years away from where I was, and that sounded good to me. A deep, low rumble came from the ship as I jumped out of witchspace: the wicked watercolors condensed to individual stars. I was back in supercruise. The HR 8212 system was nothing special, another system with an alphanumeric designation at the edge of anarchy space. I flicked through my weapons groups to select the Discovery Scanner and fired it up.

When the blue bar filled out, I received a new message from Guerro. It said that Neil Crump was last seen near HR 8212 2, a moon-sized planet at the far reaches of the system. I selected the astronomical object on my navchart and continued towards the planet.

A couple of minutes in supercruise, and I was close enough to HR 8212 2 to make out the planet through the glass of my canopy. It was a grey rock peppered with meteor craters, a planet as insignificant as the system that birthed it. Probably that’s why Atata Natural Interstellar chose to run their trade route through it – they thought they’d be safe from pirates.

Clearly, they thought wrong.

“Mission objective detected,” Astra said.

A blue circle appeared on my Heads Up Display. I lowered my speed and jumped out of supercruise.

There were three ships: three Diamondback Scouts and one Vulture, and the Vulture was firing on the Diamondbacks without pity. Neither of the three ships retaliated. Most likely they were unarmed, just some unfortunate explorers caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I scanned the Vulture: sure as the void, the pilot’s name was Neil Crump.

I deployed my hardpoints and prepared to engage. I had spent Manager Guerro’s advance outfitting River Volga with a pulse laser turret and a dumbfire missile rack to complement the dual beam lasers under my ship, and there was no time like now to test out the loadout.

I fired the lasers, making short work of Neil’s shields.

“Enemy shields down.”

Neil Crump’s Pilot Federation rank showed as Novice, but he flew worse than a Jameson’s grandma on a Leestian Evil Juice all-you-can-drink day, making circles around me as I continued to burn through his hull. My pulse laser went to work, all without the so-called Pirate Lord squeezing as much as a single shot in my direction.

My holofac showed an incoming call. I rejected it. A job was a job, and I needed the money. Neil knew what he'd signed up for. The Vulture’s hull went from 60% to 50% to 46% in a matter of seconds.

I checked the radar: the Diamondback Scouts were making their getaway.

“You’re welcome,” I said, guesstimated a firing solution, and pushed the secondary fire button with my thumb. A rocket shot out from the River Volga and hit the Vulture straight in the power core.

Neil’s ship exploded in a ball of fire and flames.

I ran my hand through my hair, taking in the view of the Vulture’s twisted remains floating away into the blackness of space. A message appeared on the holofac. It was from the Pilot’s Federation: I got a Combat Rank promotion from Novice to Competent. About time.

I sent a quick ping to Manager Aaaralyn Gueero, punched in Atata system’s coordinates into the navcomp, and got ready to jump back into witchspace.

###​

Gabriel Enterprise loomed in front of me like a bad omen. The station rotated around its axis, two lines of navigational lights directing new arrivals towards the airlock. I requested permission to dock.

“Granted, Commander. Please land at docking bay three-eight.”

Archon called, and here I was, right at the center of the Harma system, the spidery crime lord's seat of power. I doubted there was a single act of violence committed from here to Imperial space that he didn’t know about. And yet, so far, he’d been good to me. Not to mention it was my fault Lex got into trouble. It was my debt she was trying to pay off, which, by my philosophy, meant I had to at least try to get her out of whatever crap she got herself into. I didn’t have a name for my religion, but it was quite clear about the karmic laws of cause and effect. I was the cause. Her getting sold into slavery was the effect. Whatever Archon wanted with me, I needed him more than he needed me. Vasilyev was many things, but he was no patsy – I needed all the help I could get. I flew through the airlock and landed – this time, without incident – on platform thirty eight.

“Ground crew dispatched,” flight control said.

A new message appeared in my inbox. It was Delaine. The short message read, “I’ll meet you at the Doyle Legacy bar in fifteen.”

He was courteous enough to attach directions. I stood up from my seat, put on my trench coat, checked my Watts disintegrator – charged to full capacity – holstered it, and headed out to meet Archon Delaine.

End of Chapter V
Maybe to be continued ...​

 

[DrKoobie]

redacted

 

[CMDR PlungedSphere34]

Is there more of this coming? I like it.