Hawkman
05-12-2010, 06:49 AM
The following is a small excerpt from my book and covers the arrival of a small band of intrepid space travellers at a moon-sized space station situated at an intersection of hyper-spacial shipping lanes or "Hype-House."
The arrivals lounge at immigration gate 47 of the Hype-house was decorated in a bewildering mish-mash of conflicting styles and conformed to article 7009, sub-section 802 paragraphs 38 to 2047, of the Phelanian Civil Service guidelines, governing cultural diversity awareness, and which decreed that any species of life form, regardless of ethnicity, whilst subject to the authority of the Federation civil and penal codes, was entitled to be welcomed, processed and if necessary, arrested, tried and executed, in an environment that reflected its own cultural heritage. The walls were plastered with examples of art, or what passed for it, as classified under section 400,872, sub-section 225.1, paragraphs 9000 to 9022, of the cultural paradigms legislation (governing definitions of artistic endeavour as applied to all known sentient life within the purview of Federation control) and which had been drafted by a Phelanian Civil servant who had risen to the giddy height of General Overseer (Galactic Grade), due to his outstanding performance in the sewage management directorate.
This individual had subsequently been murdered by a consortium of outraged artists who had filmed the event in Tri-D and distributed it throughout the Federation so that it could be shown in every public performance arena. It was also available to buy from all reputable dealers of Tri-D for the home entertainment market. The perpetrators had escaped prosecution by claiming that it had been an act of ‘performance art’, as defined by the victim’s own legislation, under paragraphs 9003, unsolicited acts of public performance [display] and 9010, Snuff Movies (Human historical prerogative). Although the murderers had been exonerated, the test case had highlighted a dangerous loophole in Federation jurisprudence which was swiftly closed, but their lawyers had effectively maintained that any change in the law could not be enforced retrospectively.
It is interesting to note, that after escaping retribution for an act of murder, the consortium of artists successfully lobbied the Pelanian Arts Council for permission to display the victim’s corpse in an iron cage suspended from a gibbet on Tower Green within the wards of the Tower of London on Old Earth, where the ravens could peck at him. This was classified as a historical exhibit in an open air museum. They even managed to get a grant of twenty million credits to maintain it.
For the benefit of inter-stellar travellers, all signage, indicating required procedures to clear immigration at the Hype-house, was displayed on cycling view-screens in all known languages, including pictorial representations for the illiterate. Those arrivals, who, by accident or design, were unable to see, were offered an audio instruction book as they entered the area. Those who were both blind and deaf, or otherwise unable to communicate but were without an escort, were given the choice of a guide from the pool of supernumerary officials or offered euthanasia as a courtesy service.
The delays caused by having to wait for hours while the displays cycled round to their own languages (or at least ones they could understand) created quite a log jam for the novice traveller and the noise generated by exclamations of frustrated anger, in hundreds of different tongues from thousands of exasperated travellers, was deafening. For Mordecai and his party there was no problem at all. He just forced his way through the heterogeneous crowd and led them boldly into the green channel. Bewildered and in culture shock, Ankharet held on tightly to Mordecai’s hand and Sulinmast kept as close to them as he could.
At the end of the channel they were confronted by two Phelanian immigration controllers, resplendent in their gaudy, tastelessly tailored uniforms, which displayed their dimorphic physiques to the worst possible advantage. The bloated, sweaty one, displayed rank badges fashioned from spun gold inlayed with star amethysts, indicating his status as a customs official 3rd class. These were worn on a cardboard hat which was stapled to his leathery skull. The rest of his uniform, consisting of a vertically striped, pink and white shirt and blue and white chequered pants, appeared to be at least 2 sizes too small, so that the green glass buttons strained to maintain their function of keeping the immense bulk beneath contained within the garments. He wore a plastic name tally which proclaimed his name to be Glock.
The other official, being of the withered, dried out husk variety, wore a rank badge consisting of two horizontal bars of platinum inlayed with yellow diamonds, indicating his status as inspector. Although the uniform was of the same pattern, it hung off his cadaverous frame. Even though it wasn’t large enough to have fitted his subordinate, it was at least 3 sizes too big for him. His plastic name tally identified him as Luger. Although neither of them was afflicted with acne, the overall impression given to the observer was that of a pair of burger flippers who’d escaped from a fast food restaurant. Both were armed with blasters in quick-draw holsters, and both wore belt-mounted shield generators which were active. They were obviously under no illusion as to their popularity.
“Name?” rasped inspector Luger as Mordecai halted in front of him.
“John Smith,” replied Mordecai.
“Really?” wheezed customs official 3rd class, Glock.
“No,” answered Mordecai.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Luger in his grating voice, “Under the privacy law, section 11586, paragraph 229.1.8 you can call yourself what you like. What about them?” He pointed at Mordecai’s companions.
“My wife, Mrs. Smith and my cousin, Mr. Smith.”
“Of course.” Luger barely looked at them, just typed in the answers on his console. “Baggage?”
“None.”
“Duration and reason for visit?” wheezed Glock.
“Not more than 24 hours. Just a stopover.”
“Fine. Do any of you have an infectious disease notifiable under the proscribed organisms act, section 890.25.1 paragraphs 1 to 4 million and 2?” continued Inspector Luger, reading from his list of required questions.
“No,” said Mordecai.
“I’m glad to hear it,” commented Luger with feeling.
Glock leaned forwards and glared at them with his piggy eyes which nestled in the folds of his fat, sweaty face. “Are you carrying any concealed blasters, phasers, or photon grenades?” he asked, intently.
“No,” replied Mordecai.
“Do you want some?” asked Glock.
“We don’t recommend anyone should enter the station unarmed,” added Luger.
“Well, we have these,” said Mordecai, pulling aside a fold of his cloak to reveal the jewelled hilt of his Vorpal Sword.
“Oh, please,” snorted Luger, dismissively, “Who do you think you are, some kind of Jedi? Seriously though, should you want to keep your enemies a few meters further away, an excellent selection of energy weapons can be purchased or hired at the armoury down the hall. Ask for Lupy and say we sent you.”
“Thanks,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bare it in mind.”
“Suite yourself,” said Luger. “Now, take these chips and keep them with you at all times during your stay and surrender them to emigration control on your departure.”
“If you live that long,” wheezed Glock under his breath, and on that cheerful note the visitors were cleared for entry and proceeded deep into the bowels of the Hype-house.
“Why are we using false names, Mordecai Khan,” asked Sulinmast as they walked down the brightly lit passage past ‘Lupy’s Blaster Emporium’.
“For the same reason I had us dress inconspicuously. It’s just a standard precaution in a place like this,” replied Mordecai, “And to be honest I do it out of habit. You see I have something of a reputation in certain circles and I find it advisable not to advertise my presence. I know you two probably wouldn’t attract anything more than casual interest on your own, but you’re with me, and I’d prefer it if we were able to proceed without let or hindrance.”
“What sort of reputation?” asked Ankharet, subjecting her spouse to a look which suggested some fairly wild speculation was going on behind her violet eyes.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Mordecai, breezily, “It’s just that with my abilities I have been rather successful at the games of chance. If I used my own name, nobody would sit down at a table with me and play poker. It is also entirely possible that I might be accosted by someone, who was harbouring some kind of grudge, because I relieved them of the excess burden of their wealth.”
“Are you then rich, Mordecai, my Khan?” enquired Ankharet, coyly.
“Fabulously!” replied the chosen one, who then smiled playfully.
“And what form does this fabulous wealth take?” asked Sulinmast with more than a hint of scepticism.
“Well,” said Mordecai, halting as they reached the gate’s taxi rank, “I hold title to at least three planets in the Vulcan sector where there are extensive mining and industrial installations. The revenue from the rents and royalties on the mineral rights are substantial, but without actually having my books in front of me I’d be hard pressed to put a figure on the credit value. Then there are the two fleets of space freighters and the starship factories on Rigel Six and Jaglen Prime. But money is only money and it only has value out here, in places like this.” He shrugged dismissively. A taxi pulled up and the reptilian driver rolled down the window and leaned out.
“Where to?” it hissed.
“The Blue Banshee on level six,” said Mordecai.
“It’s your funeral, citizen,” replied the driver, “That’ll be 60 credits, payment in advance and I don’t wait.”
Mordecai handed over the fare. “Don’t expect a tip,” he said as the side door slid open and they got in.
“Service charge included,” hissed the driver, smiling as only a reptile can. Its forked tongue flicked out from between its scaly lips and it wheezed to itself in amusement. The door shut and the transport sped off down the internal highways of the Hype-house.
En route to their rendezvous with destiny, only Mordecai had any idea of what to expect. He smiled at the thought of what his Sennalurin companions would make of their first experience of a spacer’s bar.
The arrivals lounge at immigration gate 47 of the Hype-house was decorated in a bewildering mish-mash of conflicting styles and conformed to article 7009, sub-section 802 paragraphs 38 to 2047, of the Phelanian Civil Service guidelines, governing cultural diversity awareness, and which decreed that any species of life form, regardless of ethnicity, whilst subject to the authority of the Federation civil and penal codes, was entitled to be welcomed, processed and if necessary, arrested, tried and executed, in an environment that reflected its own cultural heritage. The walls were plastered with examples of art, or what passed for it, as classified under section 400,872, sub-section 225.1, paragraphs 9000 to 9022, of the cultural paradigms legislation (governing definitions of artistic endeavour as applied to all known sentient life within the purview of Federation control) and which had been drafted by a Phelanian Civil servant who had risen to the giddy height of General Overseer (Galactic Grade), due to his outstanding performance in the sewage management directorate.
This individual had subsequently been murdered by a consortium of outraged artists who had filmed the event in Tri-D and distributed it throughout the Federation so that it could be shown in every public performance arena. It was also available to buy from all reputable dealers of Tri-D for the home entertainment market. The perpetrators had escaped prosecution by claiming that it had been an act of ‘performance art’, as defined by the victim’s own legislation, under paragraphs 9003, unsolicited acts of public performance [display] and 9010, Snuff Movies (Human historical prerogative). Although the murderers had been exonerated, the test case had highlighted a dangerous loophole in Federation jurisprudence which was swiftly closed, but their lawyers had effectively maintained that any change in the law could not be enforced retrospectively.
It is interesting to note, that after escaping retribution for an act of murder, the consortium of artists successfully lobbied the Pelanian Arts Council for permission to display the victim’s corpse in an iron cage suspended from a gibbet on Tower Green within the wards of the Tower of London on Old Earth, where the ravens could peck at him. This was classified as a historical exhibit in an open air museum. They even managed to get a grant of twenty million credits to maintain it.
For the benefit of inter-stellar travellers, all signage, indicating required procedures to clear immigration at the Hype-house, was displayed on cycling view-screens in all known languages, including pictorial representations for the illiterate. Those arrivals, who, by accident or design, were unable to see, were offered an audio instruction book as they entered the area. Those who were both blind and deaf, or otherwise unable to communicate but were without an escort, were given the choice of a guide from the pool of supernumerary officials or offered euthanasia as a courtesy service.
The delays caused by having to wait for hours while the displays cycled round to their own languages (or at least ones they could understand) created quite a log jam for the novice traveller and the noise generated by exclamations of frustrated anger, in hundreds of different tongues from thousands of exasperated travellers, was deafening. For Mordecai and his party there was no problem at all. He just forced his way through the heterogeneous crowd and led them boldly into the green channel. Bewildered and in culture shock, Ankharet held on tightly to Mordecai’s hand and Sulinmast kept as close to them as he could.
At the end of the channel they were confronted by two Phelanian immigration controllers, resplendent in their gaudy, tastelessly tailored uniforms, which displayed their dimorphic physiques to the worst possible advantage. The bloated, sweaty one, displayed rank badges fashioned from spun gold inlayed with star amethysts, indicating his status as a customs official 3rd class. These were worn on a cardboard hat which was stapled to his leathery skull. The rest of his uniform, consisting of a vertically striped, pink and white shirt and blue and white chequered pants, appeared to be at least 2 sizes too small, so that the green glass buttons strained to maintain their function of keeping the immense bulk beneath contained within the garments. He wore a plastic name tally which proclaimed his name to be Glock.
The other official, being of the withered, dried out husk variety, wore a rank badge consisting of two horizontal bars of platinum inlayed with yellow diamonds, indicating his status as inspector. Although the uniform was of the same pattern, it hung off his cadaverous frame. Even though it wasn’t large enough to have fitted his subordinate, it was at least 3 sizes too big for him. His plastic name tally identified him as Luger. Although neither of them was afflicted with acne, the overall impression given to the observer was that of a pair of burger flippers who’d escaped from a fast food restaurant. Both were armed with blasters in quick-draw holsters, and both wore belt-mounted shield generators which were active. They were obviously under no illusion as to their popularity.
“Name?” rasped inspector Luger as Mordecai halted in front of him.
“John Smith,” replied Mordecai.
“Really?” wheezed customs official 3rd class, Glock.
“No,” answered Mordecai.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Luger in his grating voice, “Under the privacy law, section 11586, paragraph 229.1.8 you can call yourself what you like. What about them?” He pointed at Mordecai’s companions.
“My wife, Mrs. Smith and my cousin, Mr. Smith.”
“Of course.” Luger barely looked at them, just typed in the answers on his console. “Baggage?”
“None.”
“Duration and reason for visit?” wheezed Glock.
“Not more than 24 hours. Just a stopover.”
“Fine. Do any of you have an infectious disease notifiable under the proscribed organisms act, section 890.25.1 paragraphs 1 to 4 million and 2?” continued Inspector Luger, reading from his list of required questions.
“No,” said Mordecai.
“I’m glad to hear it,” commented Luger with feeling.
Glock leaned forwards and glared at them with his piggy eyes which nestled in the folds of his fat, sweaty face. “Are you carrying any concealed blasters, phasers, or photon grenades?” he asked, intently.
“No,” replied Mordecai.
“Do you want some?” asked Glock.
“We don’t recommend anyone should enter the station unarmed,” added Luger.
“Well, we have these,” said Mordecai, pulling aside a fold of his cloak to reveal the jewelled hilt of his Vorpal Sword.
“Oh, please,” snorted Luger, dismissively, “Who do you think you are, some kind of Jedi? Seriously though, should you want to keep your enemies a few meters further away, an excellent selection of energy weapons can be purchased or hired at the armoury down the hall. Ask for Lupy and say we sent you.”
“Thanks,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bare it in mind.”
“Suite yourself,” said Luger. “Now, take these chips and keep them with you at all times during your stay and surrender them to emigration control on your departure.”
“If you live that long,” wheezed Glock under his breath, and on that cheerful note the visitors were cleared for entry and proceeded deep into the bowels of the Hype-house.
“Why are we using false names, Mordecai Khan,” asked Sulinmast as they walked down the brightly lit passage past ‘Lupy’s Blaster Emporium’.
“For the same reason I had us dress inconspicuously. It’s just a standard precaution in a place like this,” replied Mordecai, “And to be honest I do it out of habit. You see I have something of a reputation in certain circles and I find it advisable not to advertise my presence. I know you two probably wouldn’t attract anything more than casual interest on your own, but you’re with me, and I’d prefer it if we were able to proceed without let or hindrance.”
“What sort of reputation?” asked Ankharet, subjecting her spouse to a look which suggested some fairly wild speculation was going on behind her violet eyes.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Mordecai, breezily, “It’s just that with my abilities I have been rather successful at the games of chance. If I used my own name, nobody would sit down at a table with me and play poker. It is also entirely possible that I might be accosted by someone, who was harbouring some kind of grudge, because I relieved them of the excess burden of their wealth.”
“Are you then rich, Mordecai, my Khan?” enquired Ankharet, coyly.
“Fabulously!” replied the chosen one, who then smiled playfully.
“And what form does this fabulous wealth take?” asked Sulinmast with more than a hint of scepticism.
“Well,” said Mordecai, halting as they reached the gate’s taxi rank, “I hold title to at least three planets in the Vulcan sector where there are extensive mining and industrial installations. The revenue from the rents and royalties on the mineral rights are substantial, but without actually having my books in front of me I’d be hard pressed to put a figure on the credit value. Then there are the two fleets of space freighters and the starship factories on Rigel Six and Jaglen Prime. But money is only money and it only has value out here, in places like this.” He shrugged dismissively. A taxi pulled up and the reptilian driver rolled down the window and leaned out.
“Where to?” it hissed.
“The Blue Banshee on level six,” said Mordecai.
“It’s your funeral, citizen,” replied the driver, “That’ll be 60 credits, payment in advance and I don’t wait.”
Mordecai handed over the fare. “Don’t expect a tip,” he said as the side door slid open and they got in.
“Service charge included,” hissed the driver, smiling as only a reptile can. Its forked tongue flicked out from between its scaly lips and it wheezed to itself in amusement. The door shut and the transport sped off down the internal highways of the Hype-house.
En route to their rendezvous with destiny, only Mordecai had any idea of what to expect. He smiled at the thought of what his Sennalurin companions would make of their first experience of a spacer’s bar.