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Writer's Block


Pakkrat

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Writer's Block

The Progen Privateer, Pakkrateus stood on the hangar deck watching his vessel being towed into the dry dock of NET-7 SOL station. It was going to need repairs and was already behind schedule to be upgraded for that license 50 appointment with Tiberius Shipyards. At this rate, the Privateer ship "Maze Runner", (now where did he come up with that name again?), was going to be nearing its license 75 upgrade if he did not get back to that mission given to him by Warship Genesis' Anjuren Khan. He stroked his already gray, angular, and close-cropped beard and then ran his gauntlet through his brushy, military-cut hair. With little else to do but watch the repair bots go to work on his vessel, Pakkrateus grew bored and sought out the lounge. A stiff drink might help, he decided.
As he turned to head inside, the Privateer caught sight of the gleaming white hull of the Sentinel ship "Culler" across the hangar. The presence of the Sentinel who owned and piloted that ship meant that the Reporter was in-station somewhere. Pakkrateus did not really expect to see the fellow Progen that was whispered to be the Privateer's clone brother. But if they ran into each other perhaps it was meant to be. He glossed over the Sentinel ship's folded sails, wings (they had similar wing configuration), and weaponry. Progen often compared their guns as there was not much else to distinguish them that was readily visible.
His clone brother, Dr. Pakkratius, Net-7 Reporter and Agrippa Technology graduate had somehow been given a long head start in his career. Someone had to be providing momentum behind his career. Pakkrateus, the Privateer nodded in appreciation of the chemical-based weaponry mounted on the Culler. Then the airlock hissed and he went into the station proper. He too would catch up and even exceed the Sentinel's firepower to be sure. The Privateer ship, Maze Runner's weapon hard points were already begging to be filled.
Passing through the media center of NET-7 SOL's lobby, Pakkrateus rubbed his aching neck. That last blast from the Wayward Satellites coupled with the side-swiping weaponry of the Wayward Drones had fully tested the inertial dampener of his ship. Its pilot had been jolted violently back and forth in his helm web harness when his ship went derelict. Now the flashing and streaming monitors threatened to give the Privateer a hammering headache. So much information and not enough action. The objectivity and neutrality of Net-7 News was the galaxy's most vocal news source. But with such assets at their disposal, why did they not do something with them besides report on other governments and Factions, sitting on the sidelines and untouchable?
The Collegiate stepped into the lounge which was little more than a smallish bar with a few drab alcoves. This was one area of the station that Net-7 apparently did not fund much. Looking upwards, Pakkrateus could see the upper terrace bare of patrons. Only occasionally was the room punctuated with a young hotshot pilot entering, pilfering as many tasks from the jobs terminal as his ego could handle then bolting off to brown-nose to some Faction or Factions.
A shudder up his spine interrupted his neck tension and his budding headache. Vita Theodora was he turning out to be a grumpy old man! And he was even younger than his "clone brother", the Dr. Pakkratius of the Sabine. What anagathics were the Sentinels hiding that he always looked in his prime while the Privateer was already sporting crows feet and a wrinkled forehead? Did he get the good stuff when the two were iterated, he on Olympus Mons and the Doctor on Arx Prima? Perhaps Pakkratius inherited the cleaner of the gestation chambers?
But Pakkrateus had read his own medical file. Unbeknownst to all, buried deep in the genetic code of his parent gene-map was an astronomically possible susceptibility to Methuselah's Syndrome. The nasty little trait had reared its ugly little self only in his iteration and not his "older" brother's. Was it some fluke of fate that the Privateer was destined to age faster than the Sentinel? Now that they had been iterated, there was little that could be done about it now. Mild as it was, the Syndrome could not be de-interpolated as no cure had yet been discovered. Not very life threatening, it was easier to be Called Forward than to try and find a cure in the greater chance that the aging trait would not activate in the next iteration. Oh well, so much for his lot in life.
The Collegia Privateer stepped up to the bar and slid in his IdentData cube and paid for a long slew of vodka. He could well afford to drown the neck pain and the headache in alcoholic oblivion. He sat down and looked over his shoulder at any other patrons of the bar.
He did not truly expect it, but off in one of the alcoves was the Reporter. The Sentinel was seated at a table closest to the Net terminal. Thin docu-tablets were stacked haphazardly upon the table before him. Now he knew why he had a twinge up his spine. Some Terran lore called it "twinness", the unexplained feeling that birth twins felt when near each other. Others chalked the sensation up to an early form of Psi talent. But such traits supposedly had been eradicated from the Progen matrix by the Sabine Order long ago.
He looked frustrated and overworked, the Sentinel. Cyber-linked to the terminal with an extension line, Dr. Pakkratius was obviously trying to write another one of his useless articles for the newscorp. Pakkrateus had seen them and found nothing of lasting value in them. His own goals were in line with the Collegia: Progen using the weapons and systems designed by the Forgemasters of the the Collegia, eschewing the likes of InfinitiCorp, GETCo, and the rising Hyperia. Terrans. The Reporter again hit the delete key on the terminal console and went to composing another draft while studying yet another tablet.
Pakkrateus slugged down his vodka and chuckled privately to himself as he subtly watched his older "brother" suffer a bout of writer's block. Since the Sentinel had surprised the Sabine Order with a decision to pursue journalism in addition to the genetics medical arts, they had not planned on traits for such to give to the iterated Sentinel. Pakkratius was having to develop by environment rather than pre-destined gene-mapping. Well good, thought the Privateer. He hoped the Doctor's block was as bad as his headache now in full hammering bloom.
Just then a station attendant came in and stepped into Pakkratius' alcove and made mention of something the Privateer could not hear from across the bar. A smile crept to his wrinkled face as he watched the Sentinel detach from the terminal, get up in a huff and grab his case from under the table. It seems the Doctor was needed more than the Reporter, Pakkrateus mused. The Sentinel left the bar to go do his Sabine duty to some pilot waiting outside. At least he got paid for it, thought Pakkrateus.
Then the bill for his sixth and final helping of vodka printed out next to his inserted IdentCube. It seemed that station dues for non-essentials was again on the rise. He chuckled.
"These things are true: Death, Taxes, and Iteration," he said to nobody as he hit the button to eject the small green cube. Then he went to sleep off the experience and near-miss with his older brother.

Awaiting new Content,

Pakkrat Edited by Pakkrat
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