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bioticgoddess · 4 years

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Of the Voide (original work)

So here is something I’m playing with. It’s secondary to my fantasy novel (don’t expect excerpts from that) but this...I don’t mind sharing. Feedback, questions, comments, all welcome.

Okay...so yea...without further ado... enjoy!

They were spat out into the darkness centuries ago. Their home world and the records of the calamity that drove them into the void - lost. They are a people whose home is cut off from the hyperspace network and their history, their terrestrial name, long since forgotten. It was given up to the stars as they piled into ships of a thousand designs and purposes to survive.

A terrestrial race turned nomads, like ash and smoke they weave through the void with little else to barter but their skills - many and varied as should be expected. Engineers to keep the ships running; agricultural specialists to ensure the ag-ships are as close to proper greenhouses as possible; medical staff to ensure the health and well being of all citizens; and soldiers to protect them from Pirates and Scavengers; and every other task needed to make a society function. These new nomads became a well oiled, disciplined, and creative group - as survival necessitates; especially in the space between worlds where nothing is kind and a fluctuating circuit can fry the kinetic barriers and bring disaster.

The Voidekeine, as they have come to be known, one united race born of disparate peoples. Their dozens and hundreds of mother tongues distilled and synthesized into the unique creole of Flotillaspeka. Small differences remain, the accent of an engineer or the pronunciation of an ag-specialist, giving them new cultural identities.

What of those who venture out from the herd? The mercenaries and bounty hunters, the engineers for hire, and the adventurers - their accents fade as they rely heavily on the common tongue. The basic and dull language of those who bend the knee to the Galactic Coalition and spit as the nomads pass. It is the tongue of trade, of conformity, but also - strangely enough - a sister to the Flotillaspeka in its push towards unity.

“Old man,” a Krimmora soldier in his heavily armored and carbon scored combat vacuum suit marched into the cantina. Everything stopped including the lyrical reading of the unapproved (but still widely available) encyclopedic article about the Voidekiene that some unaccompanied minors had been listening to in their smoke filled corner. It had just been about to launch into the section describing their physical appearance. “Audrin Ale.”

The server nodded to a droid and swallowed, his blue Lavan skin sweatier than it should have been even in the damper atmosphere of Lavan II (a small, marshland moon around the larger world of Lavan Prime). “I said, I want Audrin Ale,” he growled, this time his blaster pointed at the shaking blue-skinned humanoid.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a woman cautioned from his side. The droid had signaled her, shuffling off when it’s employer gave the signal. She’d come from the corner, the Krimmoran hadn’t missed her, it wouldn’t have been possible even without the aide of his helmet to enhance his vision. His own natural senses, smell in particular, tipped him to the woman and everyone else in this excuse for a cantina. She smelled of engine grease and ozone and spoke like the words didn’t fit in her mouth. “It could get real messy in here, and the Lavan there, he makes sure the posts on the boards are up to date.”

“Fuck off who-”

A man, shorter than he was but taller than the woman had his blaster to the massive humanoid helmeted head. “Choose your words wisely, I’m less touchy about the mess than she is,” his accent was thick, heavy. Like he was...fresh off the Flotilla.

“Void trash.”

A blaster went off. There was a scream. The woman had tucked several patrons behind an overturned table. The Krimmoran was crumpled to the ground and a heavy plate window, taken from a shuttle and tempered for FTL, was shattered.

“Next time you two wanna bring in our meal ticket, do it outside,” a voice echoed over the radios in the pair’s own helmets. Faces obscured by visors and carefully molded alloys, much like the fitted plates that fit together over the vac suits protected them from the elements and proper examination. Their weapons weren’t so large or so obvious as the ones they plucked from the troll-like Krimmoran’s corpse. Carefully and wordlessly they grabbed him - one taking his arms, the others his legs, and dragged his corpse from the cantina. A trail of slick gray blood that had pooled from the shot to his head trailed after them and through the pneumatic doors.

The bartender swallowed, he’d nearly soiled himself. “Whenever those three make planetfall shit ain’t far behind. And now I need a new window.” No one had seen the shot. Or rather no one had seen the shooter that put the Krimmoran down, only the explosion of blaster bolt through helmet and brain matter.

“Who were they,” one of the patrons who’d been stuffed behind the overturned table asked, both awed and afraid.

Waving the slender insectoid woman over he poured her a drink, his wide fish-like eyes scanning the room. With her slender arms on the bar and the Varathron Gin in her tri-fingered hands, the Lavan bartender felt safe to answer, “Void walkers. Them, they’re the crew of the Ashewake. I don’t know their names, but they’re reputation, well, it’s all true.”

“They’re the ones who brought in the Tivol Usurper...alive, albeit in cryofreeze,” she had to set her drink down, middle pair of hands coming up to steady her upper pair.

Taking a shot of Olde Terran Vodka - the stuff was rare - he nodded. “All true.”

#original fiction #original characters #original work #these are mine.#Voidekeine #space #science fiction #original science fiction #stitch wrote #stitch writes #Of the Voide Story #Maybe I'll write more of this

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bioticgoddess · 3 years

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Of The Voide (#2 - an original work)

Here ya go. The next installment of the Of the Voide Story. Like I said, it’s an original work. So don’t steal my stuff but you’re welcome to share. :)

Please enjoy!

The Seti’Veth System: Cor’seti Station

The space station orbiting the planet Cor’seti was always a questionable decision. It wasn’t really neutral territory, being well within the jurisdiction of the Coalition, but they didn’t exactly police it. Meant that people like the crew of the Ashewake could dock and resupply. Right now, they needed the rest. The Krimmoran contract had been a bust and then they’d had to deposit the younger Voidekeine girl back with the flotilla. Her field tour ended early, much to her temporary shipmate’s relief.

Seated at the bar, black and blue hair pulled off her face in a series of braids, Zaffre Branwen took another swig from the mug. At least they’d had Corinthian Red Tea - most folks mistook it for brandy or some kind of whiskey until they tried to steal a swig, then they got trouble. Which was exactly the last thing she needed. Her base tint alabaster-gray skin was covered in what looked like paint splatter marks of black and a darker blue-gray. Terrans might have said she looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Others would have wondered when last she’d bathed. It was the usual variance of bullshit levied at all Voidekeine. They were all as spotted and splattered as she was, though that alabaster base color could be as black as ebony - like her co-pilot and engineer Tagetes. His spotting was mostly shades of lighter grays.

He’d known the woman for decades, since they were kids using repair mechs to sneak from their assigned frigates to the Ag-ships to beg for cocoa pods so they could harvest the chocolate from within the fruit. He’d stowed away on her little transport ship one year when she’d swung through the Flotilla to drop off some supplies she’d been asked to ferry home between Contracts. Had they not been acquainted all those years, it was a near guarantee she’d have wasted the ammunition and escape pod necessary to send his ass right back home.

“Alright Boss,” he stood behind the black and blue-haired woman. “We got watchers,” he whispered, the blue portion of her long hair brushing his hand as he put it against her back. It was well rehearsed theater to make onlookers believe they were about to flit off for a lover’s tryst.

He stood a full foot taller than she was and his proportions were emphasized by his armored vacsuit. He wasn’t comically large - though on the taler and broader side for their species, he couldn’t compare to the Krimmora or the Omari (an amphibious, crocodilian race) or any of the other more massive denizens of the galaxy. But he had a winning smile that, despite being a Voidekeine, disarmed everyone. Casually he raked a hand through his short mop of silver and pink curls. The turn of his head towards the corner table indicated the direction of their new admirers.

Sighing, she downed the remaining tea in one long slow draw and signaled the bartender to come over. “Vaun, can I get a couple canisters to go,” she pointed to her now empty drink, “And wrap up those meals too?”

Behind the bar, a tall red-skinned Corinthian gave a subtle nod, the same one he gave when a customer entered or paid their tab or tipped well. It was neutral but the affirming wink he tossed to the woman was emphatic. Vaun himself rose a full head taller than Tagetes when he rolled his shoulder and spine up and revealed his full stature. But he was spindly, the result of spending his youth in Corinthus-3’s low gravity. Like it’s sibling moons, Corinthus-3 was a mining concern and major source of metals and metalloids. Corinthus Rex, the heavy-gravity world around which the lunar system orbited, gave rise to a much stockier offshoot of their species and was, by all accounts, a more diverse and lush ecosystem.

Most only bothered to visit the moons as they lacked the bone density, muscle, and cardiovascular development necessary to handle the central world’s gravity. Much like the Security vacsuit wearing group watching the two Voidekeine.

Though to call the organization “security” on Cor’Seti Station was a joke. At best, they were thugs pretending they had the authority of the system behind them. At worst a cartel that the Coalition - who’s giant war ships were currently in orbit around the station - ignored because it meant that they didn’t have to actually police the station. They could focus on the parliamentary conquest and assimilation of the Seti’Veth System.

“Auck’ver’im,” Vaun’s lips barely moved as he set the pack insert filled with her requisition down on the counter. “Crell’mey’rah.”

“Universal translator seems broken,” Zaffre tapped the small, hexagonal chip icon painted on her suit’s armored breast-plate. “But I got ya.” Index and forefinger pressed together, she saluted him with her left hand.

Tagetes had taken the moment to put the oddly heavy pack in his rucksack. He knew they were lying about the translation device being offline. Despite his accent, when both Zaffre and he spoke he’d heard Universal Common and not Flotillaspeka. The Corinthian’s change to his native tongue had been deliberate. “You get enough tea,” he chided, his glance at Zaffre a cover to watch as the men sitting at the shadowed table rose to follow them. They certainly weren’t being subtle. “Wanna help me carry this stuff?”

Hands on her hips, close to the blaster pistols and the clip keeping her helmet in place, she shrugged. “Nah, you got this Tag,” rolling her head and stretching her neck, she took advantage of the reflection off one of the other shop windows to get a better look at their new friends. One was tall, full gear, possibly a Coalitioner. He didn’t look like he’d come off some broken down frigate or was born on a station. Nope, shoulders were too square and he moved through the crowd like he everyone owed him. The two on his flanks she wasn’t sure about. They could have been Coalition or natives, if the latter was true then they’d been hired. Probably sold out to one of the big Capital ships monitoring the station approach. “Any ideas why we’re so popular?”

“You did snipe that last target,” her silver and pink haired companion suggested. His free hand absently coming to rest on his own blaster as they took the turn leading to the docs. It would be longer this way; going through the slums meant they’d be more likely to disappear in the crowd. Their gear was carbon-scorred and pock marked with years of fire fights and falling from too-high up when a jetpack’s booster failed.

It was a slow trek.

The pair took turns taking covert glances in reflective surfaces to track their shadows, going down a dozen alley-like maintenance corridors, or through doors between bulkheads that shouldn’t have existed. They managed to lose their unexpected attachments as a result of going through the twist and turns of the station’s slum. They cut down through the old maintenance shafts and ladders instead of hopping on the lifts. It was like being home in the Flotilla, the way the station creaked and groaned with the artificial gravity generators and the air cyclers. If it was quiet, they knew something could be catastrophically wrong. The Voidekeine had grown accustomed to living in an environment that hummed with the lives of people and machines. To ask them, either might have said that ships and space stations had souls of their own because of the care put into building and maintaining them.

Their peaceful walk didn’t last long.

The three thugs, the likely Coalitioner at the forefront, barred their access to the Ashewake. Zaffre grumbled under her breath, “Fuck.”

“Zaffre Branwen, Tagetes Patch, you’re a long way from the Flotilla.” Definitely Coalition. His accent was sterile and his words clipped short like the hair he probably had shaved stupidly close to his head under the polished helmet. Neither of them had clocked how clean he looked.

Brow cocked, she asked in her own clipped speech, “We are on business. My logs are in order.”

“It’s Coalition Senior Inspector or Sir to you, and I do see that,” He grinned slightly, withdrawing a data pad from behind him. One of the hunched shouldered men behind him had had it. “Do you know why I wished to speak with you,” he asked, his tone making the hackles on her black and gray freckled neck stand up.

Shaking her head, Zaffre answered carefully, taking a step forward so she was between Tagetes and the Coaltion man. “‘Fraid I don’t. Sir.” There was no difference in her voice but the man couldn’t say she was being sarcastic. Not that he probably even knew what sarcasm was.

“Your impulse thrusters,” he grinned like he’d caught her in a trap.

“You mean the one that’s been sputtering? Sir? Yes. Got the credits needed to pay for repairs on my last job...sir,” she nodded, moving her hands like she was doing the math on her fingers.

Behind his helmet, it was a certainty the Coalitioner was seething. It bled into his careful words, “Good. You’ll be taking it to the ship yards then.” It was an instruction not a question and an assumption she was going to be using Galactic Coalition shipyard The sharpness of his words and precision of his posture broadcast that opinion.

“Yes. Sir,” carefully she moved her hands from near her blasters, last thing they needed was a firefight so near an airlock. Not that she wouldn’t put the lot of them down if they drew on her and Tagetes. Would be the principle and within her rights by every regulation and law she could think of for more than one system and the Flotilla. But this stop wasn’t actually about a busted up and overused thruster. No. This was about making sure they knew that he knew who they were and that the Coalition likely knew too. “We were going to head for there at 0800 local time. Sir.”

The next several minutes were long. He stared them down, probably taking an inventory of their weapons and both were sure he was about to ask them to strip off the armor plating from their vacsuits and relinquish their weapons for inspection. That he’d detain them for long enough to put them behind whatever schedule her answer put in his head. “Good evening then,” he said suddenly, marching past and making sure to shove Zaffre with his shoulder on the way.

The two men who shadowed him slinked behind, both keeping distance from the Voidekeine who watched until they were out of sight and the airlock door hissed closed behind them. Like a pair of synchronized binary stars, they slammed their helmets on as a precaution.

First rule of dealing with an self important prick like the Coalitioner - always presume being spaced or left in a depressurized hold is possible. A glance at the computer interface mounted on her left gauntlet confirmed the ship was still there. The Ashewake hadn’t been impounded or vaporized - thank the Makers. It didn’t mean, however, that they could relax.

Tagetes punched in the command and security codes that opened the airlocks leading to their ship and brought her to life. Voice like rocks through a tumbler, he warned, “We better get the hells out of here.”

“I want this to be a speck on radar in the next thirty minutes,” she concurred, her own voice modulated through the helmet. “We can inventory Vaun’s things in FTL. I don’t wanna be around when The Inspector,” her turned mocking for just a moment before she continued towards the cockpit, “gets that Capital ship or the Seti’Veth Primus to authorize a search and seizure warrant.”

“Agreed,” he was through the doors and hooking the duffel to a wall. In the low gravity, it was easy to put it in the netting with another half dozen or so similar black and gray bags. All but one was marked with the symbol for P3Y-722; the Eck’Ra Home world.

Over the ship’s intercom, she smiled, “Next stop on our grand galactic cruise, the sunny breaches of P3Y-722. Or as the locals call it Ori Velar.”

#Original Work #original fiction #original characters #Voidekeine #Of the Voide Story #of the voide #These are mine.#stitch writes #stitch wrote #original science fiction #maybe I'll write more of this

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