Zeo Genesis Travelogues
Greetings, star-nomads! You can call me Trev. (You can also call me Trevallion Franklin-Ridgeway III, but I’d rather you didn’t.) I’ve left behind my shallow executive existence to explore the Hundred Suns, to re-connect with insignificant voiders just like you. These are my travels. You’re welcome.
“I arrived on ‘Little Aether’ only yesterday and already I’ve run the gamut of experiences on offer at this vast yet rustic miners’ station.
“I disembarked at the migration-hub where I was duly processed by a barely functioning registrar. The machine informed me it was unfamiliar with the concept of a ‘permissions permit’, despite my purchasing one from that tremendously helpful fellow I met on the tradeship Deucalion's Crossing. Thankfully, I managed to send him a tac-message just as the vessel was leaving. He told me there had been an unfortunate delay in processing, though he might be able to clear it if I could transfer a further 2,000 zeobits to his account…
“The fee duly paid, I took a moment to appreciate the ramshackle majesty of my new abode. The migration-hub itself – much like the rest of the station – is a marvel of native ingenuity. Its official structure has been expanded considerably by sections of decommissioned void-ship cleverly repurposed into walls and gangways. Empty zeos pose like welcoming statues, offering the traveller a view that reaches for several miles. The workers and their families inhabit rented homes built from reclaimed cargo crates, stacked like the bricks of an immense and haphazard wall overlooking the winking neon of the trade-district. You can feel the thump of the processing plants and industrial transit docks smoking on the horizon, from which a glittering thread of traffic snakes through the station’s Atsmoshield and out into the void, all the way up to the watchful blue crescent of Nyx herself
“I made my way into town mesmerised by a sea of faces. I had never considered how the diverse atmospheres of the Hundred Suns might produce such a dazzling range of human skin-tones, from blue-tinged albino to brooding, shimmering copper. Bionics, synthetics and luminescent tattoos add further, dizzying variety. I noticed a heavy GuardCorps presence among the civilians, though these troopers were reluctant to explain the reason for their patrols and were even less enthusiastic about posing for a snapsie with me.
“In need of both refreshment and employment, I visited a tavern whose signature drink comes in shots and reminded me of a substance I once bathed in at the Galisgota Mud Springs. Making enquiries to the bartender regarding local news, I was told the station is currently abuzz with talk of the trouble up at Saber Ridge, an observatory that monitors slip-traffic into neighbouring Periphery. Word has it the slipway has somehow disappeared! Though quite how such a thing could happen or who might have the power to contrive such a thing remains a mystery.
“He warned me that the presence of GuardCorps troops here was down to Interhelios wishing to round up any data-merchants who might be harbouring valued information. A weaselly-looking fellow pushed past me, calamitously drunk, and I saw something fall from his pocket. A data-plug! I picked it up and went after him, but he’d already vanished into the crowd. I pocketed the plug in the hope of running into him later.
“‘If you’re looking for work, I might have something for you,’ said a portly fellow on a nearby table. He told me his boss managed the ‘brawl-pits’ in the lower regions of the leisure district and suggested I might find employment there as a ‘sweeper’, as the last one had been decapitated by an overzealous brawler.
“It turns out the brawl-pits are one of many lively venues where locals gather to gamble on battles between customised zeo warriors. Sweepers are engaged to clear the floor of debris between rounds, a task often made difficult by the fact that zeo-pilots rarely take any notice of such timings and are frequently inspired to grab nearby sweepers and wield them as improvised weapons.
“My sweeping career, however, was short-lived as the venue was abruptly closed down by GuardCorps troopers who had orders to detain attendees for questioning. I was duly searched and told that the data-plug in my pocket contained several lines of illegal code stolen from an Interhelios holding. My explanation that I had tried to return the plug to its rightful owner seemed only to amuse them. My telling them that I was heir to the Ridgeway Mining fortune amused them even more! I gave them Father’s private number and told them to contact him immediately. They returned just several minutes ago to inform me that Father was unable to stop laughing for long enough to confirm my identity.
“Still, my cell is clean, the food is passable and I’ve been assured I can look forward to many cycles of peace and contemplation here.
.webp)
