[center][h1]The Last Free Port:[/h1][/center][h3][center]Tortuga: a day in the life of.[/center][/h3]

A black cat darted through the interior of this old station. It was hot on the heels of a mechanical rat that winded through burned out conduits and sheered electrical sheathes. Both nimbly bounced through hazard after hazard as the hunter chased its quarry through the closed environment. As predator and prey both rounded a corner leading back into the main hall a flying wrench broke their momentum. In the moment of its passing the rat hunkered low and slid under it while the cat was forced to jump up and backward to halt its forward momentum. It's big yellow eyes glanced up to see the thrower's hand still raised and clench into a fist. "Get the fuck out of here!" Myriam Mackenzie shouted at the cat whom turned tail and darted back into the station's crawlspaces. Brie, the mechanical rat, then scampered to a stop at the mechanic's feet.

Mac scooped up her little 'cheese' and inspected it for damage. Seeing none she plugged it in to a portable battery pack to charge and dropped it in one of the packs side pockets. Quality tools were difficult to acquire in this region of space and she had been required to adapt a series of old multi-tools into one, which hadn't really been a problem until that damned cat showed up. She shook her head in dismay as she resumed her over-scheduled day. Living on a pirate port meant one would constantly run into disreputable characters, and obnoxious stowaways, and she chalked up the black cat to being among one of those two groups.

As she made her way to her next work detail, a large storage room that she was tasked with rewiring to become a state of the art medical facility, she wondered just who had the nerve to get into the business. Medicines were common black-market goods that were bought, sold, traded, and smuggled through this port. She mused that someone was either expanding their business, or cutting in on it, and as a result there would be none too happy to see a hospital open here. 

There was, however, a unspoken agreement among these drifters and privateers: don't mess with the chef. As a result of being the one who keeps everything in this shit-hole running, Myriam had nearly unparalleled access to the station and its systems. Not only that, she was very well protected. People like when their things work and, as long as she can keep them working, absolutely nobody dare touch her.

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The human empire once had a frontier, and on that frontier there was an edge. And on that edge privateers and entrepreneurs built a thriving society that operated just outside the grasp of the human's mighty fists. However, like the humans themselves, as their empire grew so did their reach, and the human's expanse eventually enveloped all of the outlining systems. 

Tortuga was one such system. However it was a system that was difficult to control, even today, due to the many inconvenient natural phenomena it contained that limited starship travel. Furthermore in a show of coordinated indigence free-traders and pirates began congregating there as they were pushed out of other parts of the empire. The system also had a wealth of natural resources whose value could really only be assessed in bulk and, due to the political climate, the convoys required to get at those resources were frequently raided. 

Aside from the planet-side mining outposts, and the occasional den of iniquity, there were only two major installations of note in the system. The pirate station and an observational research outpost. The tentative truce between the two was about to be disrupted.

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The governor's assistant was trapped in a conversation he could not escape no matter how he had tried. It had been three hours already no matter which way he explained the situation, the person sitting across the local office's mahogany desk simply refused to accept the reality of her situation. His elbows rested on the desk's surface as he sighed in exasperation. "Look," he said through two hands that rubbed his temples, "Those tunnels are ours, and we're going to go down there."

The Grand Matron of some sort of "Nature's Renewal" cult and, due to some unfortunate circumstances, duly elected mayoral representative of this province. And, she was wholly unphased by his assertions. In fact, there had been absolutely no indication of the amount of time and energy she had stole from his day, and worn out of him, as if she was somehow immune to the obscene frustration that was dealing with her. The righteousness of her cause seemed to be all the invigoration she needed, and it burned through her with endless ardor.

"I have told you, sir, that you are not," Aria Summers said, while sliding a document back in the assistant's direction, "going to set one foot in those tunnels. It would disturb the bones of our ancestors." The document was a claim to religious protection, as a declaration of a holy site, that the local government had authorized and intended to honor despite the fact that it contradicted with the state's mining operations and desires. Not only that, in the last three hours the document had been moved back and forth so frequently that there was some concern that it was starting to wear a hole in the finish of his desk. Though, in all this time it had never been picked up. The assertions of the local government did not matter to the humans.

The assistant's head sunk further into his hands. "How many times are we going to have to do this before you get it?" he asked while sliding the document back for what he intended to be the last time, but every time was 'the last time'. "The central government is not going to acknowledge this piece of shit." he added while loosing his temper a little.

The document was slid back toward the assistant as the infinitely composed Aria Summers stated: "Forever," she coldly stated. It was mostly true and very obvious from her demeanor that she took her religious convictions very seriously. And, apparently, her constituents shared that fervor and vigor as they had been gathering on the street and had not dispersed regardless of how long they debated the topic.

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The television flickered as the holo-projection came back into alignment after switching from one commentator to another. A banner ran in a ring around a distinguished looking gentleman in a lab-coat identifying him as Dr. Xaith Calhound, foremost expert in simulated intelligence."The specimen is very convincing," he explained, "The infected's memories are leveraged in the same manner as the switch, or a button, in an operand conditioning chamber. However, in this case the chamber isn't a physical box, but rather it is the target's perspective and worldview."

The television faded from the attention of the local bar at the appearance of a more provocative sight. The large shadow cast on the station from a derelict science vessel caught in the suns corona had finally moved as that ship was brought to dock at the station under its own power. More importantly, though, was that the captain of the science vessel was Alalia Wallice, and as she stepped through the station's airlock she asked: "Where is the hospital being built?"

After a few men fell all over themselves to give her directions, and offer her an escort which she allowed, they made their way to the cargobay in question.

A large hole had been torn into the floor of the cargobay. A mechanical rat chewed on wiring while the petite grease monkey calibrated an energy flow regulator. The door had not yet been repaired and was in no need of opening. As the shadow of visitors was cast over her work station Myrim spoke without looking up. "Oh? So this is gonna be your shack?" she asked, "I don't know much about medicine," she added while setting down the flow regulator to turn to face her guest, "but the average human has twelve pairs of ribs. That's eleven places to catch a knife."

An elegant chortle proceeded Alalia's question: "My benefactors are quite anxious. When will this facility be done?"

"Main power should be integrated by the end of the day." Myriam said. Hearing its master talk about its work caused the rat too to pop its head out of the hole and both inspected their guest. Myriam's instant jealousy of Alalia's physical perfection faded almost as fast as she noticed the grotesque nature of the mens' fawning over her. She shook her head and picked her tools back up, preferring to be respected as an equal, rather than desired as an object. "Heads are gonna roll over this."

"Like you, I'm just an intermediary," Alalia said as she nodded in contemplative understanding, "A messenger, or herald, if you will."

"Either way," Myriam scoffed as she and her wheel-rat went back to work, "Don't say I didn't warn you."