Elara's Story
From Wormhole Sci-Fi MUD Homepage
by 'Artoo'
Personal log:
I awoke with the opinion that two qualzibs had surely been using the inside of my skull for a mating tournament. Feeling returned slowly, like a dim memory, and if you will forgive the cliche, I must say that I ached all over. When I finally felt strong enough to move, an experimental prod showed that my flesh was feeling cold, and rubbery.
A strange man with an outlandish flared collar stood nearby, seemingly both watching me and lost in thought. Little questions like "What the hell am I doing here?" kept forming in my mind, and then being rejected as inadequate. The moment stretched...
Others passed through the room, clearly intelligent beings, but not from my world. Even the collared one wasn't, or if he was then he had a deformed nose. The Others drifted through, not stopping to help me, but at least not bothering me. This was a relief, allowing me time to learn that aliens weren't necessarily ravenous flesh eaters, the way they are always portrayed in Gremsday morning holotube shows.
From time to time the man in the collar would make sounds, and I knew that he must be using language. The idea that there could be a second language should have been something of a shock, but you can only have so many of those in one day. Another alien lumbered into the room to communicate with the collared man. He had scaly brown skin and an orange striped tail, and was unclothed except for an ornate belt which was worn to provide pockets for carrying things rather than for modesty. At this point, finally, I noticed that I was as naked as the day I was born. Since our biology differed so much, it seemed unnecessary to feel self-conscious. Indeed, we were hardly likely to be sexually compatible - his penis would have been considered small even for a dreenat. I really don't know why I was thinking such irrelevant things at that point. Anyway, what was significant was that he could understand the imperious man with the bad-taste collar. I approached the pair and asked them for help, but the lizard man just looked baffled - if can you assign your own facial expressions to other races. He shrugged - if it was a shrug - and departed. I looked to the other, but he was staring into some unseen distance and muttering again. I hurried after the lizard.
On leaving the room I emerged on a metal walkway around the edge of a large open space. I soon lost sight of the lizard amid the crowds of other aliens. Now I was moving around, I realised that the gravity was quite light, suggesting that this was an artificial construction of some kind. An alien space station, greatly different from the standard design used in the Combine.
I wandered around for a long while, trying to get my bearings. I didn't manage to find anything that looked like a public instaphone. It had seemed rather unlikely, but of course I had to try. Some of the aliens were members of a militia of some kind; once I had seen a few I came recognise the genetic type, but none of these were able to understand my queries. Eventually, since my bare feet became sore, I sat down out of everyone's way, and though I was hungry and thirsty, I must have fallen asleep.
Once again I had an unpleasant awakening, this time with the jaws of some scavenging animal locked on my hand. A bellow of pain, it seems, is conducted in a universal language. I was unable to defend myself at all well, but two of the militia types arrived and beat the thing to a pulp. I am ashamed to say that I was so hungry, I clawed what little meat I could from the body and ate it on the spot. One of the militia was still watching from a distance, and returned, looking agitated. Since he was armed, and considerably lager than me, I decided not to resist the arrest.
As it transpired, he took me back to the room where my adventure had begun, and gestured to me that I should take a flight of steps leading down. I hadn't noticed them before. If I had been unlucky in my first choice of exit, this more than made up for it. I had been directed to a facility where I was welcomed and allowed to to stay in safety. The most important thing was learning how to communicate with the aliens. I was given a communication device, and instructed in its use. With it, I could speak to anyone, even over great distances, and broadcast messages of distress as well. It seemed that this would be important. Almost everyone I saw carried a weapon, and many wore armour also. Clearly, I had arrived in a violent place.
Once I had learned that the bipedal mechanical devices existed to serve rather than as citizens in their own right, I was able to ask for more assistance. Within the limits of their programming, they were tirelessly helpful. I was supplied with a full set of clothing, of rather poor quality, but better than bare flesh for defence against the scavenger creatures of the upper level. The weapon I was given was a relic, but I couldn't really make a fuss. I was never required to pay anything towards the cost of the equipment. On the contrary, I was given a handful of little tokens which I learned were a form of currency.
The whole thing appeared to be run on a charitable basis. Naturally, I was suspicious. There was an ongoing operation to rescue displaced persons and aid them. It could only mean that they expected others like myself, in considerable numbers. Even their name for the place where I awoke is suggestive of this. 'Reception', they call it.
So where was I? I had no memory recent events at all. I am a citizen of the Combine; six suns, eight habitable planets, fourteen moons and various outposts that nobody here has ever heard of.
There is a strange fold in space near here. I have heard some of the aliens calling it the Wormhole, apparently because its structure resembles the tunnel made in soil by a burrowing invertebrate. Occasionally it will swallow or disgorge things. We are in a pocket universe, it seems. None of the aliens I have met could be natives to this place; at one time they were all as lost as I. Along with asteroids and comets, this worm-hole occasionally spits out recognisable fragments from various cultures. I must have been one such piece of flotsam. Had I come through this wormhole on a derelict ship? If so, I have never been able to find out what happened to it.
Ships and any machinery of value are salvaged and converted, usually into living space, which is limited as there are few habitable planets in the vicinity. In some ways life here isn't so different. Powerful people - and power hungy people - like to surround themselves with luxuries, though there are few luxuries in this shipwrecked community. Of course, they also have to surround themselves with guards and various functionaries. There are deals within deals going on all at once here as various factions try to gain control of the resources.
That was as much as it was possible to learn secondhand. I left the training area and began to explore the space station again. In a far corner I found two pathetic figures, begging for money. I wasn't at all sure how much my money was worth, but I think I gave them each twenty credits and they seemed quite grateful. I later learned this was about the price of a meal, so probably the right thing to do. It seemed strange that there should be beggars in this society which would assist complete strangers like myself, but I have solved that mystery. They give new arrivals something of a start, but there's little tolerance of those who fail. If you can prove your worth and amass enough wealth and power, there may be some kind of life for you here. If you fail, you can get into a downward spiral which even death won't end.
For whatever reason, these beggars had failed. Maybe they had ethical reasons for refusing to fight, or they had lost their money and posessions in a robbery. Now they were just staying out of the way and hoping to collect enough wealth to leave for somewhere better one day. I don't fancy their chances.
There are others who practise more direct ways of parting people and their money, as I found out. Two rough-looking types approached us, glancing back to make sure there weren't any militia about. I instinctively knew they weren't there to sell frabj cakes, and unslung my weapon. The beggars didn't react. Failing to notice things is a survival trait around here, and they were determined not to qualify as potential witnesses.
I wounded both my attackers with my pop-gun, but then they were in too close, and I was slammed up against a wall. A knife slid up easily under my rib plates, piercing my left heart. They seemed quite surprised when that didn't kill me straight away. I was losing consciousness, but I got a good look at them before my sight went dim. They hacked at me again, but nothing hurt anymore.
I was surprised when I awoke. Despite all the evidence to the contrary I hadn't really believed in any sort of afterlife. When I came back to life in Reception it wasn't through some miracle of first aid. I had died. Later, I stood in my new body, still weak from the process of reincarnation, and looked down upon the corpse that I had worn just hours before.
One of the aliens I met calls this place 'Valhalla' - a place in his beliefs where warriors would be born again after death, their first term having just been an audition to see if they deserved such a glorious afterlife. Clearly, some of the aliens have different notions of paradise to mine!
The man with the strange collar, whom others call The Priest is quite mad. Close inspection revealed a number of boards of alien electronic circuitry that were interfaced into the back of his skull. Perhaps he was the victim of some acident, or he sought to become a hybrid of man and machine. For whatever reason, he's never quite in phase with anyone else around here. He never sleeps, but maintains a vigil in Reception, where he at least provides a familiar figure to those awakening after death. I've heard it said that he sometimes aids those who visit him, though he seems too irrational to me. He's never given me the impression that he cared if I lived or died. I suppose he's seen a lot of death.
+ + +
Personal log, update:
I've died five times now, and the shock and pain never seem to get any less. I was cautious for a time, but death has become too much a part of everyone's life here. As far as I know, nobody has ever died a permanent death here. I almost wish I could. Life is nothing special here. Everything is reborn, and the only way to win a degree of freedom is to amass as much power as possible. If you aren't prepared to stake your life on a gamble here, you can't expect to win.
Things are starting to happen now. I've found that I can trust a few of the aliens, and we've formed a temporary alliance. The most significant single structure here is a huge artificial satellite operated by some kind of military outfit. We're going to fight our way in from the docking bay, and maybe find some answers. We've got together the best weapons and armour money can buy, we've paid informants to tell us the passwords we'll need, and we're loaded up with stimulants. I feel paranoid and god-like, both at once. Right now I can bend steel bars, and see in the dark, but I have an overpowering urge to look over my shoulder every other second.
If I can find a high-powered transmitter in the satellite I'll send out a copy of this personal log - my message in a bottle - and try to keep the channel open for as long as possible. I hope someone out there can understand it. If you get this message, try to get a fix on its source and warn everyone you can. Don't come looking for me or you'll be risking a lot more than your life.
+ + +
Additional:
Big trouble. The place is crawling with guards, elite troops with orders to shoot on sight. Fuzure was caught in the crossfire and killed instantly. Geat was hit and fumbled a grenade, but was good enough to give me time to escape, and he took some of the bastards with him. Chaeal activated a remote transporter beacon and skipped home at the first sign of trouble. I'll kill her for that, if I get lucky and manage to escape intact. If not? Then it's another cold reawakening in Reception.
Message ends. Transmit.
Author's note: this is old. Almost as old as the Wormhole itself. Something I wrote for our first set of web pages. It's hard to write a story that's set in somebody else's universe (which is why so much fanfiction sucks)... we always hoped other stories would be submitted, but we're still waiting. My next foray into MUD-themed writing was the five short stories I put together for Parallax MUD, to explain the culture of the game.
