Bright Red Line (Backyard Starship #22)

by J.N. Chaney

Funboy, crewing the Frankie with Rab, spoke up. “Yes, he no longer radiates the dour, nihilistic angst he once did. However, I shall remain fond of him anyway.”

Oh, dear....

Torina threw up her hands. “I’m busy baking biscuits in my oven, bird, and I’ve heard the words island and lake so many times now they don’t even sound like real words anymore. The lady—with the belly—is getting annoyed.” Perry managed to seem sheepish and proud. Covering his mouth with one wing, he murmured, “Island,” just as a coffee mug sailed his way.

True family bliss.

“Does the going get any better?” “Depends on your definition of better. You’ll be out of the trees and into what I think the folks who visit places like this call moose pasture.” “And just what the hell is moose pasture?” Torina asked, pausing to catch her breath.

"Meese"

“Not a real island. So how can the Grasp have a base there?” “Well, there’s no record of it, but I’m guessing it's a constructed island—a fairly recently constructed island, built by our friends at the Equal Grasp.” “Like China’s been constructing islands in the Spratly archipelago in the South China Sea.” “Bingo. Although China refers to it as island reclamation, it’s basically the same thing.

I waved grandly. “Sure. Let me tell you about one of the worst ideas in history—a place where we went for a family vacation. It was an open-air zoo, with dozens of lions and few staff, that families could drive through with their car windows down as kids hung out the windows. We called it the Sunshine Lion Safari⁠—” “Was this in Florida?” Perry asked. I grinned. “It couldn’t have been anywhere else

Icky spun around. “TA-DAAA!” I stared, then did something I don’t normally do. I guffawed, making a sound that was part snort, part laugh. Then silence. Icky grinned. “I know, right? It’s great!” I glanced down at Perry. “Bird, we’re going to discuss this.” “Of course. You’ll want to put a commendation in my file as well.” Icky was wearing Groucho Marx glasses, complete with fake nose and mustache, and had a plastic cigar clamped between her lips. She’d somehow gotten the silly thing stretched across her enormous face but had to keep pushing it up to keep it in place. “Doesn’t fit that great,” she beamed.

I guess we're going old school now...

“Hey, you’re Groucho Marx,” he slurred. “I loved you in A—A Night at the—oh, whatsit now?” “A Night at the Opera?” Perry suggested, landing nearby. “Yesh, yup—” He giggled. “Yeah, thatsit. A Nightly Opera⁠—” Icky grinned at me, her fake cigar clamped between her teeth. “Ohmygoshthankyou,” she said to the man, then turned a triumphant look on me. “See, it worked! He really thinks I’m Groucho Marx!” “Yeah, Icky, you got me. You have him fooled by your cunning disguise and not because he’s, you know, stunned halfway to oblivion.”

“So more Abbott and Costello? Stuff like that?” Perry asked.

Damn.... pulling out the childhood stuff... Can we get some Shirley Temple next?

Perry, perched nearby, nodded. “Yup. Like I said before, fries with mayonnaise and extraterrestrial malfeasance. Seems they’re good at both.” “The way they combine oil and eggs is nothing short of inspired,” Gabby agreed. “I mean, mayonnaise is amazing! And easy to digest, too!” She pointed at one of her visible organelles. “That one does it. Mayonnaise, and also⁠—” I held up a hand. “That’s fine, Gabs. We don’t really need all your digestive details. Also—mayonnaise? Really? It’s the very definition of something that’s substance, devoid of, you know, flavor and stuff.” “What can I say? It just hits the spot—again, that one, right there.” She pointed at the organelle again. “Not that I’m averse to flavor. There’s this one vendor on Dregs who hangs out near the spaceport. He serves up the most amazing street food. I’ve never found any as good. And while I’m not one to disagree, usually, you’re selling the smooth and creamy sunburst of lemony goodness short by stating that mayonnaise is devoid of flavor.” She pinked a bit, then smiled. “I do miss that street food, though.” Funboy spoke up. “That is because good street food is impossible to find due to its constant exposure to pathogens and environmental toxins.” Gabby turned to him, and he hurried to add, “But, my darling, the light of my life, is surely entitled to eat whatever things she sees fit, whether it’s mayonnaise in Iowa or—um, mayonnaise in the streets of Brussels.” “All of this talk about food has made me hungry,...

“They’re not. Think about that Manhattan lawyer, Forester,” Perry said. “The closest he’s ever likely been to bloodshed is watching that Fallout TV show.”

Timestamp...

The trip to Belgium was uneventful, basically a really, really fast transatlantic flight. Essie had been given a location to rendezvous with Retta, a medieval castle called Chateau de Reinhardstein, located in easternmost Belgium, just five klicks from the German border. The castle sat on a prominent hill among rolling, forested hills interspersed with more open ground, mainly around towns and villages. This was the western Ardennes Forest, home to places practically burned into the American psyche during the so-called Battle of the Bulge—St. Vith, Stavelot and, about fifty klicks to the southwest, Bastogne. Most infamous, though, was the town of Malmedy, only five klicks from the castle, where American soldiers had been brutally massacred by the Nazis during their short-lived advance toward Antwerp.

We circled the castle about a klick up, scoping it out. It looked exactly like that—a little castle on a hill amid rolling fields and forests. “Bucolic,” I remarked. Funboy flicked his ears. “Certainly. If one can forgive the masses of herd animals and their associated excreta.” I sighed. “I rescind my compliment.” Funboy inclined his head in agreement. “As you should.”

Fragrant...

lantern. It had a distinctly High Noon sort of feel to it, the two of us crunching across the gravel in-step toward the other man. Or, it would be High Noon, if it wasn’t getting dark and we weren’t, you know, in Belgium.

Good Point!

“He did. I remember him making that very point, how he eventually became numb to it. But the good news is that he went on to live as a life as a compassionate, loving man who had no problem making friends. So, no, Funboy, I don’t think we’re turning into unfeeling psychopaths. I think we’ve just been hurt so many times that we’ve built up some scar tissue. It’s made the more recent hurts hurt less. And maybe that’s a bit of a blessing, a way for our minds to help us keep going when things are really bad.”

Funboy’s face creased in a frown—or even more of a frown than usual. “A scam. How dastardly. They are preying on the hopes and dreams of innocent people for profit⁠—” Gabby cut in. Funboy was obviously angry, but she was furious. “I can’t believe they lied to my darling! Why, I should—I should smush them. I want to smush them.” Funboy looked at her, his expression softening. “I must confess, her anger inflames her organelles in a most alluring way. I find that… spicy.” Icky scowled. “Yeah, that’s enough mush, thanks.” Funboy slumped a little. “Well, it would appear that my attendance in Nashville is pointless. Not that I had expected to be able to do so anyway, given our current situation. Still, though, it was rather nice to think that I had genuine talent.” Netty-P swiveled her imager at Funboy. “Did you say that you had an entry ready for this contest?” “Yes. I had been toying with a melancholy love ballad entitled⁠—” “The Gunrack of My Love is Empty Since You Runned Away. Yes, we caught that part. I’m sure it’s a work of musical poetry for the ages. How long have you been working on it?”

You are a BASTARD for making us read this whole thing... Gunrack of my love is Empty.... WTF.. dude??? What kind of payoff is that for that long ass trip? Just string us along... and along... and along... just lollygagging...

Now I got it. I took a long, slow breath and looked at Funboy. “I’m sorry, Funboy, I was wrong. This songwriting contest isn’t a scam after all.” “It isn’t?” “No. It’s a trap.”

Ohhhhhhhh......

“Mendacious oafs? Really? You accidentally swallow a thesaurus or something, grumpy pants?”

Yes, we did...

“I’ve confirmed that two of the targets on the main floor are sleeping. One’s up, though, playing some sort of computer game—” A pause, then, “Oh. Oh my.” “What?” “What he’s playing ain’t Minecraft, that’s for sure. Way too much nudity, and it ain’t the pixelated type, either. I’m looking through the window, and I can see his screen name. Oh, for—really? Captain Shagwell?”

Perry’s eyes glowed with mischief. “Learn to play the accordion. Chicks love the accordion.”

Cue Lawrence Welk music.

“The Marshall Plan,” Perry said, and I gave him a nod. Rab frowned. “For those of us not from Earth, the Marshall Plan would be⁠—?”

https://youtu.be/IU_QQtPRhSU?si=DfVtuiqlOlxKMPuN

“In other words, you guys used shady tactics and loopholes to snag a bunch of Gauss’s dirty money, and now you want somewhere discreet you can remove the dead old-guy stink from it,” Perry said. “It’s not saying it’s institutional money laundering, but is that a spin cycle I hear starting up?” Dayna shook her head though. “It’s only money laundering when the bad guys do it with small sums of cash. This is… corporate asset realignment.” I shrugged. “Ordinarily, your corporate asset realignment would give me at least some grief. But the idea of Gauss’s money helping us reclaim Earth from the Grasp is—it’s karmic, in an almost poetic way.” “By which you mean you can live with it,” Torina said. I nodded. “When it’s this much money? Damned right I can.”

Well said...

Funboy put up a slender hand. “I move that we name ourselves The Authoritative Galactic Nexus of Known Goods and Services

Come ON dude...

“Not to be confused with the Nexus from a certain Star Trek movie that ends with the bridge on the Captain,” Perry said.

https://youtu.be/fmIaHAtabSU?si=pVF80BV-qXweG6Ik

Perry cocked his head at me. “Actually, Van—what if it did?”

AI?

“Kinda. We’re discussing the niceties of attending to the needs, bodily and otherwise, of Van and Torina’s kids,” Perry said. “Mostly bodily, though.” “Ah. I see. You are about to attempt to convince me that human infants—most species’ infants, for that matter—are not just cacophonous, de facto petri dishes of doom-laden pathogens and—oh, of smells? Especially of smells?” Torina opened her mouth, then shrugged. “Well, when you put it that way⁠—” I stood. “You know what? We’re coming out to the crew lounge to talk to everyone. It’s time for the whole family to be involved.” As we headed for the crew lounge, Funboy looked at Torina. “If it helps, I do wish you well with the excruciating pain of allowing an alien body to grow inside you, exit in the most awkward and inefficient manner possible, and then, years later, damage your car and refuse to pick up dirty socks.” “I’ll say it again, Funboy—you’ve got one hell of a bedside manner,” Torina said. “I’m a doctor, not a motivational speaker.” “Oh, you got that right.”

So I added, “In space terms, thank you very much. I’m a married man.” “There are buns in the oven,” Funboy offered as we loaded Torina’s luggage into the ground car. B smiled. “You know, as euphemisms go for pregnancy, I’ve always loved that one. It’s so… homey.” Funboy heaved a case into the ground car’s trunk. “I wasn’t referring to the incipient arrival of squalling infants covered in all manner of unpleasant biological fluids. Rather, I was speaking of my darling, who is baking, it seems, for an army.” Gabby, splotched with flour and wearing an apron emblazoned with Will Smooch For Sugar—a souvenir from Frankenmuth—waved from the Fafnir’s airlock. “I am! Tor offered us his permafreeze room so we can preserve these treats for years, if necessary.” I glanced at Tor. “Never knew you were a prepper, Dad.” “Aww. He called me dad. And a prepper.” Tor frowned. “What’s a prepper?” “Earth term for someone who hoards food and water and stuff in their basement or a bunker, prepping for the end of the world. Hence, prepper,” I replied. Kay laughed, “Oh, in that case, we’re both preppers. We’ve probably got three years of goods, perhaps four for certain items.” She shrugged. “I’m the first to admit we’re well off, but all of this”—she gestured around at the estate—“can be ripped away in a moment. And you can’t eat bonds.”

“Chernobyl?” B nodded. “That’s it. A handful of workers pushed the wrong buttons at the wrong times, and it’s the beginning of the end of that Soviet Union thing. Anyway, my point is that you can’t introduce a novel, star-spanning entity like your new Guild to known space without it potentially causing chaos and upheaval.” “Unintended consequences and all that,” Tor said. “So, yeah, I guess that’s turned me into a bit of a prepper.” “Especially since we’ll have grandchildren to look after,” Kay added. I just nodded. I spent the rest of the short drive to the house brooding over it, though. I hadn’t thought of what we were planning in those worrisome terms. But it was a good point. If we did bring down the old Guild and erect a new one in its place, well, that seemed like a good and worthy goal. But what sort of unintended consequences could come whirling out of it? Chernobyl pushes the teetering Soviet Union over the brink. A German chemist figures out how to make ammonia from nitrogen at an industrial scale, revolutionizing food production through readily available fertilizer—and laying the foundation for the large-scale production of chemical weapons. A driver makes a wrong turn in Sarajevo, giving a Serbian activist a chance to kill an Austrian Archduke, plunging the world into a brutal, bloody war. Unintended consequences. Yeah, as if I didn’t have enough reason to second-guess myself.

Okay, wait.. We talking "Earth Guild Nexus"? https://youtu.be/zhMr4hBwWGw?si=yqCOy2LJLfHfJHKw

I spun on her, ready to rip into her with something like, If you’d told me how important it was, I’d have done something about it—! But the harsh words died on my lips. She had told me how important it was, twice. And I read it, and also read her disclaimer, the combi-drive is currently operating to spec but—and I’d taken that to mean we could just press on using it for now, since combi-drive expertise was a rare commodity. In fact, outside of Reverie, we probably had the most expertise aboard the Fafnir. But even it was limited. The combi-drive was a particularly specialized piece of kit, so even Icky only had a good working knowledge of it. What we didn’t have was a shop with the specific tools and equipment needed to properly maintain and repair it—although, ironically, such a shop likely did exist straight ahead of us, at the Armory. Icky was waiting, caught in mid-wince, for the tirade she expected me to unleash on her. Instead, I put a rueful smile on my face. “Yes, big girl, you did tell me. And I didn’t give it the weight of attention it deserved. So here we are. Next time, just grab me and say, Van, we need to deal with this, or it’s going to break down right when we need it the most.” “Alrighty, boss. Van, we need to deal with this, or it’s going to break down right when we need it the most,” she said. My rueful smile went broader and turned apologetic. “Okay, gang, we need to treat this like the space battle it’s likely going to become. Let’s suit up and depress...

“So that Badgin ship is basically an A-10 Warthog with a twist drive,” Perry said. “We do not want to get close enough for them to bring their guns to bear.”

https://youtu.be/M9aYFS_W4Bo?si=iss3Xyd61uh6gdJg

“Time to end this!” Perry declared—then started the Frankie tumbling end-over-end along the long axis of the class 12. As the Frankie’s prow swung onto the target, he fired her weapons; when she rotated stern-on, he pulsed out a blast from her fusion drive. And when the line hit about firing our guns and them exploding in space, it was though he’d timed it—the class 12 simply came apart, wracked by internal explosions. The Frankie immediately righted and started a return trajectory to rendezvous with the Fafnir. “This is the bird. I say again, this is the bird. The enemy has been thoroughly spanked, and now I’m craving that kipper. Permission to come back aboard.” A moment of silence. Then, as one, we answered in the only way we could. We cheered until we ran out of breath. And then, we did it again.

Mother Hen was waiting for us at the airlock. “That was quite the show you folks put on out there. Some damned fancy flying by that workboat of yours.” Perry put up his wing. “That was me!” Mother Hen lifted an eyebrow. “Huh. Well, you only made a few mistakes, which my tactical people will be happy to help you correct.” “That sound? That’s my ego deflating,” Perry said. I smiled at him. “Told you.”

“An arrogant, self-important asshole? Now that’s an impression I can do.”

It turned out that all of their protocols and arrogance notwithstanding, the key to unlocking the Synifex business world was the same it was everywhere else—money. As soon I’d mentioned it, the Initial Official had become—well, hardly warm, but he’d certainly become welcoming. And as soon as I agreed to pay his five thousand bond, cash-only “administrative and permitting fees,” he’d become downright friendly. So friendly, in fact, that he offered to share some of the good cheer he’d imbibed during his recent “sustenance period.”

But of course...

Gabby proved invaluable, her diplomatic and negotiation skills pretty much back to where they were before her traumatic ordeal in Dohlennz’s hidden lair.

But Perry had obviously been doing some snooping. I took advantage of him opening various file archives to piggyback onto his queries. The tech they’re selling us is legit—but it was meant for another deal that fell through. They want to get their money back on it as soon as they can. I looked back at the Initial Official. “Now, then—about that price. I’m sure we can do a little better than that, can’t we? I mean, I’m sure you don’t want that VSS tech to sit around gathering dust any more than we do.” Thanks to Perry’s insight, and probably helped by the fact the Initial Official was now noticeably drunk, we were able to knock fifteen percent off the price. I’d have congratulated myself on being such a shrewd purchaser if I wasn’t dealing with a motivated, and drunken, seller.

Slick

I sighed. “How the hell do the Synifex get anything done? Is their whole society like this? Do Mom and Dad stare one another down over who’s going to drive the kids to school every morning?” “Immature Synifex are educated by direct neural input of knowledge and information,” Funboy said. “And although they do not reproduce sexually, it is a more complex process than simply a mother and father⁠—” “That’s… fine, Funboy,” I said. “It was just a colorful analogy.” A moment passed, then he said, “But a flawed one⁠—” “Funboy!”

“Yeah, I might have to tell Pax to ease up on the love bites, so they don’t get weaponized down the road,” Icky agreed. Funboy looked thoughtful. “I am conflicted. Such an act would seem to suggest that one is delicious, which is flattering. But the mouth of nearly every DNA-based species is akin to an open sewer, so it also opens one to pernicious infections.” Icky glanced at Gabby with a dry smile. “Quite the romantic, isn’t he?” She nodded eagerly. “I know, right?” I could only shake my head. “I wonder, sometimes, if I’m a prude. Then we have discussions like this, and I can see the value in being one.”

“Netty, if we start for Earth now, is there any way we can avoid having to fight these guys?” “I can time things so that when we pass within their threat range, we have Titan between us and them. After that, they’re going to have other things to think about, because they’ll have your mother’s force and the Schegith ships on their tails,” she replied. “Ah, perfect. Make it so, my dear.” What followed was the most carefully choreographed space “battle” I’d ever been involved in. It consisted of Netty coordinating a series of brief burns by our respective ships’ drives to slide us behind the misty bulk of Titan, Saturn’s largest moon, while the Grasp’s flotilla raced past in the opposite direction and on the big moon’s far side. I had to grin, imagining the frustration of the Grasp commanders. We were within range, and they had a major firepower advantage—but all they could see was the looming disk of Titan. And by the time they could see us again, we were out of range and on our way to Earth. I grinned when the Grasp ships reappeared to us, already far off and quickly dwindling toward the vast sweep of mighty Saturn. “Ain’t physics a bitch, boys?” I said to the receding icons. “Because out here in the black, she calls all the shots.”

I hate geometry.

We laughed. “Yeah, well, first let’s get ourselves set up and get ready to repel boarders. I have no doubt we’ll be quite popular in the very near future.” Funboy, who’d ambled up, brandished his phone. “I am popular now. Have you seen my follower count on Instagram? I’ve added nearly half a million since my last visit here.”

I marveled at some of the junk that had been brought to the farm. I saw a bulky HVAC unit that looked like nothing you’d find on a farm strapped to a flatbed waiting its turn to unload. I nudged Barnes and pointed. “Where the hell did that come from?” “Old unit from a middle school up in West Union. Hank Petrie there figured he could refurbish it and sell it. That was three years ago. His wife told him to get rid of the damned thing, so here it is,” he replied. Funboy, standing nearby, nodded sagely. “An air-processing unit from an educational institution full of juvenile humans just reaching sexual maturity? It must contain a trove of complex organic compounds.” Miryam made an ugh face. “Yeah, teenage sweat and—and it doesn’t bear thinking about what else.”

Bruh, soooo wrong....

Icky glared in that direction. “Oh, yeah. It’s a Turgid Horse, right? I glanced at her. “A—what? Oh, a Trojan Horse.” Perry, who’d launched himself out of the farmhouse and taken wing overhead, spoke up on the comm. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, boss⁠—”

Hell to the nope.

“You know, Funboy, I’ve never asked you what you actually call that Franken-weapon of yours,” I said as we stepped onto the roof and straight into a cold, gusty wind whipping across Brooklyn from the Atlantic. “It is called Elaine.” “Elaine.” “Yes. It is a pretty name, I think—though not as pretty as Gabby, of course. But I would never name an instrument of crude violence after my delicate flower of a beloved.” “I watched your delicate flower crush a Yonnox like a hydraulic press.” “Yes—isn’t she divine

One of the three soldiers accompanying us, a hulking Badgin, leered at him. “I ain’t tasted human in ages,” he growled, licking his lips. The poor kid looked like he was about to melt into the asphalt roof. Funboy stopped and stared up at the Badgin. “That was uncalled for. I would suggest you apologize.” “And if I don’t?” “Then I will show you three of the four parts of Badgin anatomy that, properly manipulated, will lead to complete incapacitation. I will save the fourth, which will also lead to vigorous incontinence, as a later surprise.” The Badgin scowled down at Funboy, who simply stared mildly back up at the towering alien—and then smiled. The Badgin recoiled, then turned to the now almost gibbering security guard. “Sorry about implying I might eat you. Truth is, humans taste gamey.” I frowned. “We do? Huh. There’s a bit of trivia for my next cocktail party.” “Who’s catering? The Donners?” Perry asked.

I disagree, we do not. I think we're scrumptious.

I looked down at his offered hand, then back up. “You know, it was kind of merry—right up until this very moment. Then it suddenly got all… corrupt.” Forester withdrew his hand, but his grin didn’t falter. He was a dedicated slimeball. It was his preferred setting. “Oh, I suppose I deserve that. We really haven’t been on the best of terms lately, have we?” “Allow me to compile, if you will. You’ve tried to have me killed, you’ve threatened my family, you’ve put a huge price on my head and those of my crew, you’re ruthlessly exploiting Earth, treating its people like livestock and planning unending, bloody war as a way of keeping its population subjugated—did I miss anything?” He gestured for us to follow him. We did, and he spoke as we entered his office. “I wish I could say that you’re wrong about some of those things⁠—” “Some of them?”

“Airlock opening in ten seconds. I, on the other hand, will switch to fabulous mode in eight seconds⁠—”

https://youtu.be/705BcZyCfzk?si=tFLer9FhTTjofh36

“Yeah, but this yard crew was supposed to have been vetted. That means these two weren’t—or somebody in the yard crew was paid off to look the other way,” I said, scowling down at the Usu. “I think I’ll let Icky and her father sort that out, since this was all done through his contacts.” “Heads will roll,” Perry agreed, then added, “Like this!” He pushed the Usu’s severed head with a wing, rolling it a few times. “Bird, that’s grim.” “Good, it was meant to be.

“Brankilin, there’s a proud tradition in at least some Earthly navies, including the navy of my homeland, the United States, of perpetuating the names of ships by doing just what you’re proposing. As an example, over the past two hundred and fifty years or so, there have been at least a half a dozen ships to bear the name Enterprise⁠—” “Actually, eight,” Perry said. “Although, technically, the first two of those belonged to the Continental Navy, not the US Navy, and one was a motor boat purchased by the US Navy for service as a noncommissioned patrol vessel. The ninth Enterprise, a Gerald R. Ford-class carrier, was commissioned in 2028. There was also the space shuttle Enterprise, and then Starfleet had nine ships called Enterprise, although the Kelvin timeline kinda screws things up, and⁠—” “Getting kinda fictional there, bird, but point taken. All of which is to say, yes, Brankilin—I think that naming this ship the Iowa is a fine idea,” I said.

Funboy flicked an ear in agreement. “Welcome to the big picture, Van. You should actually take comfort that you have crafted an organization that can fight and win battles on its own. You may now focus on more critical issues, like hygiene and janitorial services.” “Ah. I see you grasp the core issues for a command-level officer.” “Naturally. It’s an integral part of my skill set,” Funboy declared. “And your particular skill set is being tested, Van. You are no longer a captain. You are more.”

Taking care of the "shitters" is very important....

“The name’s Perry, thank you very much,” Perry grouched. “My, um, apologies. Anyway, Perry has it right. For that reason, I think you’ll find that Plowitz is now firmly in your corner, Van. Because if you, and all this stuff you’re doing, succeeds⁠—” “Then she succeeds,” I said. “Great. I couldn’t be happier than having a career sleazeball hitch her wagon to me. Can practically feel the buggy whip in her hand.” Perry waved a wing. “Faster, Van. Constance needs new shoes!” I snorted. “Exactly.” Mandeville leaned toward me. “Sometimes, Van, people make mistakes. They pick the wrong side. Sometimes, those people just need a second chance to get it right.” “Pssst, Van, he’s talking about himself,” Perry hissed in a stage whisper. “Thank you, bird thing. You’ve been a real help.” Perry bowed. “Magnificent, ain’t I?”

I want to present the concept of our interactions with humanity as one of us being a unified whole, regardless of species. Over time, yeah, we want the distinction to fade as Earth becomes better and better at interacting with known space on its own. Right now, though, there’s nothing but confusion and uncertainty. So I particularly want to distinguish us from the Equal Grasp.” “And you think a uniform is going to do that? Isn’t there a risk a uniform might be associated with something military? Authoritarian? Is that really the impression we want to give?” “Again, point taken—and again, I do have an answer. And that answer is, not this uniform. Funboy, would you care to do the honors?” He stepped in front of the crew-lounge display. He stood smartly in a pale blue coverall style of uniform, with the Pont Alus Kyr logo on one arm, and the Fafnir’s logo on the other, both rendered in silver. Maxwin smiled. “No, I admit that that doesn’t look very authoritarian at all. It is quite striking, though,” she quickly added. “I designed it myself,” Funboy replied. “Like Van, I believe in the power of symbols. If I did not, I would not now be finalizing an agreement to represent certain terrestrial denim clothing brands.” Icky, lounging in one of the armchairs nearby, perked up. “Clothing? So, pants? Bah. Don’t bother sending any marketing effort my way.” “I had no intention of doing so. However, not everyone wishes to put portions of their anatomy normally considered naughty on ful...

Moving ONNNNN....