Building the Collateral - 82 - Early Access (Patreon)

The figure thankfully was within our capacity to handle. Small mercies there. Still, there were plenty of troubles with handling the wounded itself.

The people who had called Port Barbarus home for so long viewed us with barely disguised disdain, seeing us as conquerors from afar that caused this great upset to their daily lives. Which, frankly speaking, was a pretty accurate label. We were the ones who invaded their home and laid claim to it, shattering the peace they had.

Yet as I reviewed the station records pried forth by a few loaned HORUS specialists, I had many questions regarding as to whether or not their prior lifestyle was something to even treasure. Because, quite honestly, it was a nothing short of an anarchist dystopia with plenty of open gang warfare.

From what Jean had mentioned, the entire point of the initial revolution which had allowed V1P3R to worm their way in was to overthrow the corrupt elite who ruled the installation. Which, fair enough. Yet from what I could piece together, the lack of a proper follow-up after the fires kicked off meant that the flames were simply fanned higher and higher. The logs were incomplete and spotty, especially when the rogue station was hurled into a metavault for accelerated development, but enough survived to notate how any form of developing higher leadership was almost immediately accused of trying to take the place of their former overseers. Which then triggered another revolution.

The pattern was so prevalent, I did a quick check to see if Port Barbarus utilized guillotines, or something to that effect. No, they did not, because I suppose that would be too on the nose.

It took a while, but the resulting equilibrium that eventually formed was quite ghastly. Instead of any sort of central power to guide and manage the station’s populations, multiple gangs stepped in to function as the closest thing to peacekeepers. But it was harder still to call them anything close to that, given how they functioned as syndicates themselves. Collecting tribute, trafficking individuals of worth, stealing from one another, the list went on. The average individual in Port Barbarus was estimated to have paid almost half their income to whatever gang laid claim to the ‘territory’ their home was; then they paid another half to the rival neighboring gang to beg them to not attempt a ‘takeover.’

That was assuming they did have a legitimate job, and didn’t work for one of the gangs instead which was an alarmingly high number that we crunched out. Some households even dedicated themselves fully to these illicit organizations, making me almost want to cry at just how deep the roots ran. Great, generational crime families that took pride in how their bodycount. Fantastic. How was this all allowed?

Ah right. V1P3R allowed it, even encouraging it by making sure station security didn’t step in. Those were the closest things to a supreme authority on the rogue station, and they were basically employed as affiliated thugs to break knees if things got too rowdy. In fact, there were some hints that later riots and protests were personally beaten down by them at the NHP’s discretion. Probably because they liked how this terrible ecosystem created the insane, the fervent, and the desperate.

The perfect sort of seeding ground for HORUS operatives that would only see the outstretched hand, and willingly embrace it to get out of their little hell.

Insidiously clever, I could call it. I’d also probably call it utterly deplorable, basically grooming an entire population to be receptive to the idea of following blindly. But well, that was why I had decided to intervene in the first place- this was just more concrete evidence that proved us to be the closest thing to just conquerors. If there was ever such a thing.

Such reassurance admittedly helped keep me somewhat sane as I processed just how much work was to be done. Because, like it or not, sorting out this mess was now my problem. It wasn’t just the moral thing to do after taking it over, but a necessary task given its presence in Cavia’s orbit. It wasn’t just a neighbor, it was literally on our porch and demanding we address it.

So I did, with a speech that was meant for both those in the station above, and in the world below. First, a reassurance that safety and order was to be the very first thing that my administration would prioritize. It was undoubtedly going to be a rather turbulent time, so it was important to stress to all that we were here not to take or exploit, but to protect and safeguard. Between the soldiers caught in the sudden transition and our own home garrison, we should at least have enough to patrol the streets.

However, I also recognized that the gangs were heavily entrenched and embedded in the society onboard Port Barbarus. They arguably were even critical pillars to the functioning of everyday life, controlling things like food distribution. Quite bluntly, my thoughts on that matter?

Unacceptable.

So even if I might look a bit villainous doing so, bothering me greatly, I wasn’t going to allow these criminals to hold anything over us. Some things were just worth the risk of a lancer team jumping me for being a bit rough. Though of course, my method of execution was definitely something I carefully watched.

I issued a fairly sly hint that things might be changing. That while I respected their autonomy, some things were simply unacceptable. I wasn’t going to be so heartless as to demand immediate compliance, but once the allocated grace period to face the shifting future was up, then we weren’t going to allow our past to chain us down. Things were going to moving on, with or without them.

They hadn’t the arms or ability to contest us, and the syndicates knew this. So this was my one and only warning to them to turn over a new leaf and clean up their act if they wanted to stay. If they’ve the sense to surrender that ill-gained power over the common individual, then I would allow them to lurk in the shadows where HORUS truly belonged in. Someplace that Luna could moderate and control in a more manageable manner, compared to this robbery in broad daylight.

Given said streamer was doing a live reaction to my broadcast and flashing a thumbs-up, she apparently supported the idea. Maybe because in a way, she could convert these turned gangs into more suitable HORUS agents which knew flexibility. If so, then she had my blessing to do so, as long as it didn’t endanger our public safety.

There was also another option for them if they wanted to live but cling to their ways. It’d take time for my forces to arrive and ready up, so the exit out was right there. So long as they didn’t have any sort of heinous or unforgivable crime, they would be allowed to depart our space to continue their ways someplace else. Perhaps it would be unfair to other parts of space to let them loose, but it’d also be giving some of those gang members a chance to perhaps find a new way of life elsewhere if what we offered didn’t fit.

It did weigh on my conscience a bit, but I rationalized that it was the same sort of allowance given to prisoners of war. How many ended up as bandits or pirates, how many ended up as mercenaries or sellswords? I couldn’t say, but at least it would be their choice then. And we’d have records of prior interaction for next time at least, so we could rectified past mistakes if made.

But of course, there were surely going to be those who remained. To them, I refrained from openly telling them that we had a very big stick that we could use. I simply repeated that we looked to solve things in a preferably peaceful manner, but negotiations could only happen between two willing parties. When one wasn’t so cooperative, then what you didn’t have was peace.

That was all I said on the matter, not wanting to fully drag my first speech to them with even more threats. They ought to be able to piece it together from that, so let’s not dwell too much on the matter. Instead, I tried to provide something at least constructive to take away as the finale to my announcements.

“Port Barbarus is a rogue station no longer. To you, it may perhaps be inferred as a loss of independence; but I wish to state that is not necessarily the case. Your decisions can still be your own, your roads still yours to walk.

“Yet would it not be better to have a friend journey alongside and share in those experiences? That is what the Cavia Committee offers to you, not an anchor made to drag you down. But a stalwart comrade to sail the stars together.”

That was the hope at least, and the reception was… pretty heartening, at least.

It seemed that for all their misgivings and worries, those who called the orbital installation home understood my sincerity. Maybe they too were tired of living alone, or maybe they were just glad that somebody was offering to cull the gangs which infested their life. But when our first few forays invoked reactions not unlike how our troops were received when we first sought cooperation with Cavia.

Speaking of said planet, we actually saw an uptick of volunteers willing to lend aid to the beleaguered station. Be it spare food, excess medicine, or even just whatever labor was needed, donations rolled in with the only request that we truly welcome these people as refugees in need of aid. It could be that having known a past of starvation and oppression, the people here understood all too well the fear yet necessity of a rough change.

So they yearned to help ease the transition however they could, and it did inspire me briefly. They had the right idea in at least providing something that would be more personal and immediately relatable. Food was probably an already good start, but that felt like just doing the bare minimum. So let’s go a little bit further with something more extra.

Our healthcare wasn’t anything great or notable. It was simply practical, buoyed by an experienced medical contingent that Lieutenant Nasir helped manage. Plus, we’d already deployed them to assess things like immediate injuries from that very rough blink. So extending their stay to offer a thorough check-up on everybody was a reasonable idea. We could even do it to keep the civilian population a little distracted while our main force arrived to enact my ultimatum.

Oh, if only I’d known what offering those medical exams would unearth…

Following… well, everything, Morgan found herself and Ichigo apparently being detained in an odd way.

The grumpy pilot who saved them and helped them in turn was apparently none other than a director of a megacorporation. Which was big deal, considering that she apparently took it upon herself to make sure the two girls weren’t just left on the streets to fend for themselves. Especially when it was grimly confirmed that Ichigo’s place had indeed been a casualty of the conflict.

The mechanic just shrugged and said that the fact she’s getting access to technical manuals for the cheap makes up for it. Regular meals too, even if they were military rations. Morgan didn’t mind either, as they were at least quite a bit more filling than whatever the gangs had distributed.

It was also military housing, in the sense of some spare cots that the invaders had brought with them. They actually had a lot of them, apparently having anticipated for potential emergency relief like this during their plans. Combined with a tent, some private showers, and honestly? It was better than anything the former test subject had ever experienced, at least since her… departure from those scientists.

Morgan still didn’t know how to handle that yet. Even looking at the pile of scrap that was once her steed, she felt like she remained waiting to be told what to think. All of this uncertainty about her future, it was an unfamiliar feeling.

It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant either.

A few days passed, then things began to get busy again within the space station. From what she overheard via idle soldier gossip, the main task force, whatever that was, had return and reunited with them. So some sort of operation by the Premier-General was being carried out

Something that Ichigo and her were explicitly told to stay out of by their savior herself. “It’s just a slum cleaning,” the Harrison Armory pilot told, fingers rubbing together as if wanting to roll something yet nothing was in her hand. “Routine thing honestly, keeps the edge sharp for our regulars with some practical experience. So best stay out of their way.”

“You’re not joining them?” Ichigo questioned from where she was tinkering with a salvaged piece of the Saladin. “I thought you would.”

“It’s tempting, but I just cashed in a nice paycheck.” She smacked her lips, then kicked her chair back to rest her legs on a cot. “So I’m just waiting for the chance to go on leave and burn that first. I feel like I’ve deserved it after this entire mess.”

Morgan hesitated, then voiced a question. “When you leave… what will become of us?”

The woman shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe you’ll be wards of the state, wouldn’t be too surprising if fu- pretty boy has something like that lined up.”

“Pretty boy?”

“The Premier-General. Moores.” She referred to him in such a casual tone. “And if he mistreats you, I could maybe put in a word to get you into our juvenile program or something. Harrison Armory isn’t stranger to orphans without a place to go- if you’re willing to learn and put in something to your future in exchange, they’ll provide whatever you need.”

That was a little reassuring, but the girl felt unsure about that path. It… didn’t feel right. Especially if they asked about her past, what was she going to say? What sort of reaction would they have?

Would they want her again in those sterile rooms, reading tales of the stars but unable to ever see them?

Thankfully, the doctor that was giving her an examination asked no such questions. She had been a little apprehensive at first, earlier experiences with such individuals not at all helping. But this army doctor was very gentle, taking the time to explain every procedure and how it related to her health instead of just demanding immediate compliance.

Even her bloodwork was explained as a possible way to try and search their database for potential living relatives. Not that Morgan thought that it was possible...but if there happened to be something like family out there, she had questions. Such as who she was, why she had to go through everything, so many things.

Like if she could perhaps live out here instead.

Soon after that visit, she found herself rapidly revisiting those questions. Because that was when suddenly, that megacorporation pilot stormed into the refugee tent and issued a simple order. “Everybody but Morgan. Out.”

The others hesitated, then slowly obeyed. Ichigo stayed a bit longer, casting a worried look at Morgan before she too was ushered to exit. Now it was just the girl and the lancer, who had a very bothered expression on her face. One that seemed to only deepen when she fished out and tossed a portable communicator device onto the cot.

It activated a moment later, projecting the holographic visage of what Morgan recognized as an NHP. “Greetings, Miss Morgan. I am Veronica, personal aide to Commander Moores, Premier-General of Cavia,” she introduced herself, giving a small curtsy. “I wish to talk with you.”

“Um. Okay.” She glanced between the sour-looking pilot and the digital entity before nervously clearing her throat. “Is… is this about my past?”

“Your past?”

“I mean. Being like a test subject or something to that nature, Ichigo calls it.”

“Kid, the heck?” muttered her brief guardian, running a gloved hand over her face. “That’s the sort of stuff you need to tell me immediately.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to approach it,” Morgan admitted, squirming from where she sat. But she caught on quickly. “Wait, so you didn’t know? That’s not why you’re talking to me?”

“No, not in the slightest.” Recovering from the surprise, the NHP cleared her throat. “I had come to inquire about your family.”

“My family? I… did you find them?”

“… In a sense. But you are unaware?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve always been told I’m special, but they don’t tell me anything else.”

“Very well. Then allow me the honor of informing you that you are a member of House Moores. More specifically,” Veronica continued, digital eyes meeting shocked crimson orbs, “You appear to share majority genetic sequences with one Matthew Moores. Making you a close family of his.”

Oh. She was related to… the Premier-General, was it?

Maybe he would listen to her request then.