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Second Chances - An Earth & Beyond Emulator Novel, Ch.I


Pakkrat

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Second Chances - An Earth & Beyond Emulator Novel, Ch. I
by Pakkrat

I. Pakkrateus opened his eyes to pain, thirst, and a blatant desire to return to the oblivion of sleep. His head pounded to the tune of one of his occasional headaches. He rediscovered that he'd been drinking and had the urge to drink a gallon of water. Against every muscle in his body's better wisdom, the Progen sat up on the side of the large bed he found himself in. He found he did not remember choosing a sleeping quarters with such a huge bed. Looking down with his fingers rubbing his temples, Pakkrateus spotted his uniform, Privateer's armor and other sundry gear that belonged to him. He pressed a button on the bedside light to have a painful look about. He needed water for this hangover from whatever it was he was drinking last night.

Oh. Last night. What had he been doing? Pakkrateus ran his fingers through his graying military hair buzz. It was getting longer. Last night slowly unfolded from his memories and played itself back through the haze of the hangover.

Yesterday's haul from Somerled Station in New Edinburgh sector along with the noisy tourist passengers seeking passage to the Aragoth system was less profitable than his expected payout. With most of his ship's cargo hold full of trade commodities, (Nano-bots weren't they?) and some space left over for passenger pods, Pakkrateus had taken it upon himself to make the long haul to Fenris Observatory. The passengers had complained just about the entire journey at the slow warp speeds of his vessel, the Maze Runner. The Privateer had been reduced from a Progen para-military vessel to a tour vehicle for humans and nano-bots. Well, at least the microscopic Nano-bots did not complain about the bumpy ride the Maze Runner gave them. It was a Progen ship after all, not some Glenn Commission pleasure cruiser out of Beta Hydri.

Though the crates had piled high in his ship's cargo hold, Pakkrateus had failed to fill all the rented passenger pods with tourists. Pakkrateus had tried to put on his best Collegia face for the tourists. But when they beheld his Maze Runner, they balked thinking it was some weapon-bristling warship. While it was true the Progen Privateer class of vessel was originally intended as a marque-ed hunter ship with an eye for trade, Pakkrateus had never been one for heavy combat. But it was the huge, mounted missile launchers that turned a few tourists away in disgust of a warmongering vessel. If he had only mounted the smallest of weapon systems, he might not have frightened the tourists away. Hindsight.

Pakkrateus' head swam with dizziness and he put his head over the side of the bed as he rubbed his scalp. What a hangover! Memories of arrival at Fenris Observatory, Fenris sector in Aragoth system were the most pleasant. His ship regurgitated the tourist passengers first upon docking at the Jenquai station. They had been very happy to see the comfortable blues and calming grays of the space station as opposed to the heavily-armored and flat black of his Maze Runner. Then came his delivery contact to off-load the huge shipment of the nano-bots crates.

Monetary credits were exchanged after a little session of his favorite pastime, negotiations of commodity price. Pakkrateus was cloned and raised by the Progen Republic, more specifically the Collegia, to be a greedy son of a bitch. He'd never rival the downright market bastards of the Terran Alliance but he did okay. The payout was still less than he wanted given that he had made the mistake of taking on passengers. He could have filled those passenger pod spaces in the hold with more crates of nano-bots and had less complaints for the trip. Hindsight is a bitch.

So too was his pounding headache a bitch. More memories unloaded on the Privateer as he rubbed out the crick in his neck. Where had that come from? Pakkrateus had immediately made for the prissy Jenquai lounge to see if Pro-Vod vodka was on the menu. His ship had arrived late in the evening much to the complaints to the wealthy and snobbish Terrans out of Somerled Station. He had watched the population of the lounge patrons drop as he ate a meal and watched the news with disinterest. There was his older clone brother, Dr. Pakkratius the Sabine Sentinel, running his mouth on the monitor above him. The Sentinel was a field correspondent for Net-7 News, the galaxy's widest source for keeping in the know. The Sentinel and the Privateer were never fully acquainted nor brotherly friends beyond their shared Progen heritage. Pakkrateus had learned first of his older clone brother due to the fact that the Reporter had become an expected face in the media, soon to try out for anchorman on the nightly masercom broadcast. Estranged by iteration, career, and missed opportunities to get to know each other, Pakkrateus had let his older clone brother do his thing until he someday would discover his 'younger' brother.

It was a base reminder, despised by the Privateer, that he suffered a genetic one-in-a-million odds that activated a quirk in the genome from which he was iterated. He ran his hands over his face, feeling more of the wrinkles and crows feet. Pakkrateus suffered from what the geneticists told him was a very mild appearance of Methuselah's Syndrome. His body, though younger than his clone brother's, was aging slightly faster than it should have normally. This made the Privateer appear a full decade older than the Sabine Sentinel Pakkratius. It was a mild case after all.

Methuselah's Syndrome was genetic in nature and inherited. No gene therapy had been found to reverse the symptoms, even with anagathic drugs. The physicians and geneticists had told Pakkrateus that it would be easier to just be Called Forward to a new life with the greater chance of the genetic flaw failing to activate, than to battle the flaw. Unwilling to be slain and Called Forward by the geneticists of the Sabine Order, Pakkrateus was stuck with looking and somewhat feeling older than his clone brother Pakkratius. It made him envious at times to see his brother on the monitors, spouting the galaxy's latest dirty laundry or lately the sunspot and radiation weather coming off Aragoth system's solar primary. He looked younger and was probably groomed to be the best Progen face on Net-7 News.

Hence, Pakkrateus had never took it upon himself to befriend his clone brother. It seemed that the imagined encounter scenario would be plastic and false and the Privateer disliked masks that society put on before each other. The two were merely brothers, cloned from the same genome, the so-called Pakkrat Master Genome, (whatever the hell that meant). The Sabine would let no more about his genome out as he was a Collegiate and not given to know. The Privateer might tap his clone brother who was a Sabine Versatile, but it was a case of the chicken or the egg and Pakkrateus did not have the time to climb his family tree with the Doctor. Progen were supposed to make the best of who and what they were, here and now, for the Republic. At least that was their line of thinking.

Pakkrateus reached for his vambrace, not to put it on his forearm, but merely to check the time. It was early morning. Cripes, he had not had four hours of sleep! Normally, the Privateer was given to sleeping in, especially after a long haul like yesterday's trade and passenger run. More memories unlocked when he put down the forearm personal data assistant.

It had been very late and the lounge for all its round-the-clock service was good for, had emptied. The music still played, the monitors had cycled the feeds from the rest of the galaxy three times and were about to start a fourth. The Privateer had eaten and had nursed six vodkas to again drown down his mediocre career. He had looked about to try one more time at people-watching. At least they did not come sensationalised as the talking heads of the media channels. At that hour, he panned around to find himself alone in the lounge with only one other patron present. The station employees were probably asleep. It was a lull time for Fenris Observatory being so late at night.

He had spotted her from the bar to the low table in the rear. She was hunched over the table and making use of its communications terminal linked to the Net terminal nearby. Pakkrateus had turned slightly to his left at the bar to watch her trying to make a connection call.

She was a Progen and Centuriata by the looks of her uniform and armor. She had a lithe yet wiry frame under the light armor. Her skin was lighter than the Privateer's and there was a hint of femininity under the frustrated looks she was shooting at the table before her. Her hair was a dark chocolate brown and cut two different ways but both in the style prevalent in Progen women. The main style was of the Centuriata, trimmed to a crisp line just below the ears and such that it meant business. Then there was the gathered ponytail that streamed up and behind her that reached in a gentle helical spiral down her back almost reaching her hips. To the Privateer, the ponytail resembled the helical spiral of DNA, a statement of racial pride. She was unarmed but not untrained, thought the Privateer at the bar. Centuriata Warriors were not to be pushed. But she was not the typical brutish woman that he had come to see in most Centuriata females. She was lighter, slender and her muscles did not overpower her frame. She could definitely be a model for the latest Progen fashions if Progen indulged in fashion. The Centuriata had sparked -no, kickstart- something in the Privateer.

It was quickly spoiled when in frustration she looked up from her table and scanned the lounge to spot Pakkrateus watching her with more than interest. At seeing him, this aging Progen male gawking, her frown deepened and she flashed that look. It was familiar to him so many times from his past. She gave him the Now's Not The Right Time, Boy look. It was accentuated with a slight shake of her head which was beautifully accented by her spiral ponytail. Dejected yet again, the Privateer finished his last vodka and was about to leave if only his arms and legs would move.

Across the bar, the woman seemed to be stumbling to stand from her own chair. He too had tried to get up, but fell off the stool immediately. Stunned on the floor in what must look like a drunken stupor, surely in full view of her, he tried to push up from the floor. Then he saw her trip and fall just as flat. Then all went dark and sleepy with a remembered acrid aroma in the lounge.

Next thing Pakkrateus knew, he was waking just now in full hangover bloom plus a sleep-deprived dehydration. Whoever she was, she at least tripped beautifully and with trained grace, unlike his drunken stupor.

Now, in the sleeping quarters of Fenris Station, Pakkratius looked about the room and noticed there was someone in the bed with him. He got up and stood away from the person on the other side of the shared bed. Had he gotten somehow lucky? No. He did not bodily feel lucky just now, hazy as he was with the pounding hangover. So, he carefully and quietly rounded the bed to see who he had shared the bed with. The outline of the covers, a single thermal sheet framed a female frame. It was a woman in his bed. Or her bed. His memory was now refusing him answers. He did not want to wake her, but his better mind needed to know if and how he had scored.

He tried to lightly tap the sleeping form on the shoulder as he pulled on underclothes instead of greeting her in his birthday suit. There was no answer or movement from the female form. Her clothes were on her side of the bed in an orderly and folded pattern so ingrained in the Centuriata. The light armor was also nearby and looked familiar.

Pakkrateus hazarded to pull down the thermal sheet and reveal the face of his bed mate. He was greeted with red everywhere under the sheet. Blood soaked her side of the bed and she was not breathing. She was dead!

The Progen almost stumbled as he backed way from the dead woman from the bar last night. Her hair was matted with dried blood. The face of the Centuriata was calm but for the huge bullet hole wound in her forehead. She looked fully asleep save for the dried lake of blood and the gaping wound in her skull. There was no hope in waking that.

Panic and fear gripped the Privateer. He had never seen a dead Centuriata up close and personal before. Such was the purview of the Reclaimers of the Sabine Order and outside his worldview sphere. Just last night she was alive. Now she was dead and he had been asleep beside her dead body. Sobriety fought with hangover in Pakkrateus' head. His breathing raced as did his heart. He needed to know what happened. Against better judgement he picked up the woman's PDA vambrace computer and looked in her journal.

Almost immediately, a tiny holographic image of the young woman winked into view above the forearm armor. It was her making a recording of herself. Then the tiny woman's voice came through the little speaker on the PDA.

Her voice was like honey given sound, mixed with jalapeno of a Warrior's attitude. It warmed the Privateer's heart bitterly now that she was dead on the bed before him. He listened to the recording.

"If you are reading this recording," the recording spoke, "then my PDA is not registering my vitals, most likely meaning that I am dead. This is a deathwatch recording and I make it a habit of updating it as often as I can. My designation is Alpha-class Centuriata Warrior Siobhan. I am a courier by occupation for the Progen Republic."

The recording went on calmly, "I have every confidence in the Sabine Reclaimers and fully intend to answer the Call Forward. But there is an issue. My most recent courier package mission may be to blame. Let me explain. I was tasked with the unlikely delivery of a discovered gene-map, but not to the Sabine Genetic Repository as is customary. Instead I was ordered to deliver it directly and secretly to Endriago planet-side. I have made the messenger's faux pas in that I looked at the package I was to deliver."

"The gene-map was very old and looked very important; I cannot say how important. My employer set the highest priority to its delivery. I can only assume that this mission was far more volatile than I am usually willing to accept. I will try to make contact with Centuriata Command for advice on this matter. I would have forfeited the mission had I known, but now the error is done. I, Siobhan should not have been so curious. My apologies. Yet, this mission has jeopardized my life."

"I have taken steps to ensure that if killed, as I suspect I am in danger, that the package is not lost."

Another pause as the woman's image looked like a confession was in order, "I have exchanged my own Centuriata gene-map with the packaged gene-map and put it in my own vambrace cryo-cartridge. Thus you, whomever you are, now hold what I was to deliver. Things may have "gone south" and I ask you, reader for your aid."

The image tilted her head and smiled a little in a quiet plea then faded away. Pakkrateus needed to help her. He wanted to help her. He went back to his gear and began dressing when he stubbed his toes on the heavy pistol slightly under his side of the bed, a gun that the Privateer did not own.

* * *

The prismatic colors of the comet's tail flared at a refraction angle from the light of Aragoth system's sun. He watched the comet's path and spectral light show as it passed between the solar primary and his vessel. Like the ancient Earth sailors upon the oceans and seas who gazed longingly at the horizon, the Jenquai similarly appreciated the calming vista before him.

On purpose, the pilot had turned his sleek black vessel away from the teeming humanity behind him. The traffic was at a lull and the communications channels were at their quietest. It was the dead of space night outside Fenris Observatory out on the furthest reaches of the galaxy thus far explored. All was calm and peaceful. It was why he had come out this far and away from the rest of civilization.

It had been some time since his last active duty mission as a member of the Shinwa Defenders, but in the interim the Jenquai had found outlets of action as a secretive member of the Sev Tushnim, literally "We Who Serve In Silence". His life as a soldier, a veteran, a warrior-mystic and an unsung hero was the subject of his contemplative solitude here in Fenris sector. Time after time, in active duty as a Defender and between missions, the pilot had served without question and with dutiful humility. He had long lost count of those he had fought against, fellows trained, and those in need aided. Now, out here on the fringe, he was in rapt reflection of his career. He came this far to let down his hair and meditate on his next chapter of his life.

Many Shinwa Defenders did not serve this long as a member of the Sev Tushnim, freely giving of their aid, service, and under the quiet and stealthy veil of anonymity. Most beneficiaries often never knew they had been aided from the dark. The Sev Tushnim gave their aid regardless of race, caste, class, profession, or affiliations even to the point of self-sacrifice if the need was so great. Thus, many Defenders served their term and then transferred to other callings. Never had the secretive sub-order of the Defenders asked for reward. It was their philosophy and lifestyle to singly or in very small groups to render aid to humanity selfishly and unconditionally. One might call it unconditional love for all life.

As a veteran of the Gate War, the Jenquai Defender was no stranger to conflict and battle, the horrors of war and the soul-scarring loss of humanity that wrote itself upon the heart. Perhaps it was penance from war that brought this pilot out to the fringe of civilization and to this edge of the frontier. It was quiet here and it was a respite for a time.

Hence, for all the peace and quiet, the Sev Tushnim Defender was blindsided by the psychic emanations of surprise, fear, remorse, and horror that brought him to full alert as he spun to face Fenris Observatory. From the bridge of his sleek Defender vessel, he felt the waves of negativity and suffering from a lone human somewhere in side the station. The emanations stank of blood and death. Someone, a male by the polarity, was in need of aid. His mind was an innocent faced with loss and panic.

The Defender 'reached' with his mystical senses and pinpointed which wing of the Observatory the one in need was located. He meant to help this one, by the Sev Tushnim, for loss of innocence was metaphysically equivalent to a miniature death. He spoke to his ship.

"Engines online and engage cloaking," he calmly spoke with confidence.

"Impulse and warp available," answered the ship's computer with a neuter voice, neither male or female. "Cloaking engaged."

The Sev Tushnim thrust his ship closer to the station. At this time of night, it was quite easy to let the traffic control ignore the comings and going of those who serve in silence. He pulled his vessel up beside the station and accessed the station's docking registry, looking at names and com-numbers. When the name and the number 'reached' synchronicity with the psychic resonance, he placed a call.

* * *

"This is not good," said Pakkrateus, still panic-stricken as he examined the pistol in his hands. It was an Athanor brand weapon, a top of the line gun. Its caliber seemed, to the Privateer's eyes, to match the death wound on the woman's skull. He did the causality calculations in his head. Dead and beautiful girl, aging Progen male, recently-used weapon, alcohol, shoddy career record, the list went on. He was being set up. But by who, he asked mentally to the room.

Per her deathwatch plea, the Privateer snatched up the Centuriata woman's vambrace labeled Siobhan and ejected the gene-map cartridge. The recharged green diode blinked steadily as he pocketed it. Fully clothed now, Pakkrateus was stunned in fright by the station's klaxon security alarms bursting into a blaring clarion. Then his own vambrace's com-link rang. He answered the call.

He did not initially speak so the caller took the initiative, "I know you are innocent of the death around you. If you wish to clear your name and make it out of there alive, you must follow my instructions exactly." It was a male voice and its accent was Jovian. A Jenquai had called him and offered to help him.

Hesitatingly Pakkrateus answered, "W-what must I do?" Even in the blaring alarms and security announcements of imminent lock-down, he could hear his own blood pounding through his head, the adrenaline clearing his mind of his hangover.

"Security forces are closing in on your location," said the Jenquai voice. "You must take a roundabout route through the station to make it to the hangar and your own vessel. Go when I say go. Stop when I say stop. Understand?"

Pakkrateus could only nod mutely. He gathered up the last of his gear and stood at the door to the room. "I'm ready."

"Put away the gun and get ready to run."

Vita Theodora! He meant to have Pakkrateus run his ass off to the hangar bay. The Progen had not run since training in the Collegia. He had never had cause to move faster than a jog. He hoped his adrenaline rush would sustain him. He holstered the Athanor and unlocked the door. A short moment of doubt in this new voice on his com-link infected his gut reactions.

As if to answer such hesitation, the voice spoke again, "There is no time to ride the line, Progen." Was he in Pakkrateus' head? He had heard from his training and education that the Jenquai had not eschewed the psionic disciplines distrusted by the Progen race. Was this "Jenny" reading his mind telepathically or emotions empathically? He had no further time to think when the voice spoke again.

"Go now," said the Jenquai voice. "Down the hall, to the left and take the stairs down." In the hall the alarms were much louder and yellow lights mated to violet black lights flashed in time with the noise. An automatic female Jenquai voice calmly announced a security lock-down and advised patrons, staff, and visitors to shelter in place. Pakkrateus ran, his heart thumping and his breathing keeping him going.

He hit the stairs and to his surprise took the steps two at a time. The was thankful to Jericho that the voice on his vambrace had said to descend the stairs. He emerged from the stair well. To the instructions from his benefactor, the Privateer crossed the station through the bowels under the main floors. Conduits and power transformers marked blocks between bulkheads as he ran past.

Ahead as Pakkrateus ran was a sectional blast door marked with yellow and black stripes. It was closing slowly.

"Run faster, Progen!" ordered the imperative voice on his com-link.

"I only got two speeds, Jenquai!" puffed Pakkrateus in retort.

"You risk much and force my hand, Progen," was the reply. The Privateer heard a beep sound over the call and a neuter voice, a computer, say "Energy Leech charging."

"Fire," ordered the Jenquai male after a second to two.

The station shook as one and all power left the capacitors en masse. Everything that required energy from the reactors was depleted from the station batteries. All went dark and silent. Even the life support was temporarily knocked out. The effect forced Pakkrateus to activate his vambrace's flashlight.

Ahead in his beam was the blast door open just enough for the Progen to squeeze through. On the far side still more darkness reigned. There were muffled screams of panic in the halls behind him. Still he ran on.

He emerged from a service stairway and into the hangar bay, but Pakkrateus was spotted by a standing guard of Sha'ha'dem Jenquai station guards. They called out to him, "Halt!" They drew pistols and one even drew a katana sword. It was after all a Sha'ha'dem Explorers-owned Observatory.

"Make for your ship, Progen!" called the voice.

Pakkrateus held down a smallish button on his forearm armor, and called to his own ship, the Maze Runner, "Systems start: reactor online, engines start!" He was nearly winded now from running through the station.

Floating next to a glowing berth was his flat black Privateer vessel. Its lights came on and the engine's intake and vector panes flexed. The bridge lit up.

"Stop that Progen!" yelled the guards' sergeant.

Shots pinged off the force walls and dug into the blue, patterned carpet.

"Give them pause, Progen," suggested the Jenquai voice.

Pakkrateus spun and leveled the Athanor at the guards, not truly intending to hit any of the religious nuts the galaxy called the Sha'ha'dem. He fired twice and kept the gun up as if to fire again as he backed quickly to his waiting ship. The engines began to hum loudly. Guards hit the deck behind the force walls of the hangar berths for cover. However the sergeant was braver and his single shot grazed the Privateer in the leg between armor plates. The graze burned, but his adrenaline gave him a buffer from the pain just now.

Then he was inside the bridge of the Maze Runner; Pakkrateus tossed the Athanor pistol on a console and sat in his pilot's chair. "Exit," he ordered his ship's computer. The huge Privateer pulled away from the berth and began to come about, making way for the hangar field.

This time the Observatory was ready with manually actuated controls. The huge hangar blast doors threatened to cut off the Progen vessel's escape. There was no ramming such heavily armored doors. Instead, Procurator Pakkrateus of the Collegia armed his missile launchers, an unorthodox choice of weaponry on most if not all Progen vessels. Small arms fire continued to harass the Maze Runner's thick, Progen hull. He thumbed the safety off.

Power re-routed through his ship as the Maze Runner's four launchers came online. There was no time to target the doors, so the Privateer used the targeting reticule normally reserved for projectile launchers or the rarer beam weapons.

"No time to ride the line," mocked Pakkrateus as he squeezed the Volley trigger. The launchers spat their ordinances which echoed throughout the hangar loudly causing the angry guards to recoil and fall to the deck.

In the air-filled hangar, the three missiles and a fat torpedo screamed across its length. The two Blacksun Ogun plasma missiles spilled their contents over the blast door and turned the metal doors into molten mess much like a fractured jigsaw puzzle along weak molecular lines. Then the smaller, explosive missile struck and its vibratory and concussive wave rattled the door. But it was the highly-illegal Evoco "Fist of the Merus Milia" torpedo that blew the doors into huge shards outward into space.

The Maze Runner took a few scrapes as the door's debris shards signed mementos on the armored hull. Then the vessel was clear of the station as it passed the environmental shield which kept air inside the station and Aragoth's primary solar winds out.

Not expecting an answer, Pakkrateus asked his vambrace, "What about the patrols?"

"Not a concern," answered the Jenquai voice over the com-link.

* * *

After he had Leeched the Fenris Observatory's power and collected it in to his own capacitors, the Sev Tushnim had thrust under cloaking to the nearest stargate in silence. As the Progen battled his way through the station, he had pulled up next to the waiting gate with his free hand on the button to transmit the command to open its wormhole. Then he had waited for the launch of the fleeing Progen ship.

About the Observatory, patrol ships fell into an arrayed formation to cut off all escape. Communications channels flared as the station's 'tower' called out commands to them. Then the Privateer vessel, the registered "Maze Runner" came into view. Targeting was called and weapons came online.

"Summon Progen Privateer Maze Runner," ordered the Sev Tushnim calmly.

Bands of pink, space-warping waves flashed before the cloaked Jenquai Defender, thus causing his ship to evidence its presence. Though his concealment was ruined for now, the pilot saw the pink ribbons yank on the Privateer and the funnelling effect took place. The huge Progen vessel merely vanished before the station much to the surprise of the patrol array and the tower.

Half a sector away, the armored Privateer appeared before the Defender.

"A Defender!" called the Progen whom he'd saved.

"Do you have a problem with that?" answered the Shinwa.

"No, let's boogie." There came a wave of energy over his hull as the Progen tasked his reactor with a shunting action to his engines. With the patrol ships wheeling around to charge up their warp cones, the two ships, Defender and Privateer gated together from Fenris sector. Edited by Pakkrat
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Darn this looks interesting, would love to read it but I just can't get past the "WALL O TEXT" look of it.  I did copy it and put in word to see if I could break it up a bit to accommodate my reading style.  I will do that some day.

 

But love the effort. :)

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I can't change how the Forum receives my posts. Thus, I broke the novel into chapters. I don't like that the post is not indenting paragraphs, but have tried and tried to get it right. Whatever. This is a labor of love, a feedback response to the great work the Developers, GMs, and other staff are struggling with in Calling Forward the Earth & Beyond universe. I challenge no copyrights to the intellectual material featured. My sources were the Earth & Beyond Storyline document and interviews with EA Live players, Emulator Live players, a cooperation with the player of 'Reacher', and supplemental advice and overwatch of the Progen Development team. You all know who you are. I may go ahead with a completed list of Acknowledgements at the end of the novel. But for now, please enjoy the story I wrote. I am aware that each post is an aircraft carrier of text. Please be patient with me and take your time reading it.

From his desk at NET-7 SOL, this is the Pakkrat. Edited by Pakkrat
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I can't change how the Forum receives my posts. Thus, I broke the novel into chapters. I don't like that the post is not indenting paragraphs, but have tried and tried to get it right. Whatever. This is a labor of love, a feedback response to the great work the Developers, GMs, and other staff are struggling with in Calling Forward the Earth & Beyond universe. I challenge no copyrights to the intellectual material featured. My sources were the Earth & Beyond Storyline document and interviews with EA Live players, Emulator Live players, a cooperation with the player of 'Reacher', and supplemental advice and overwatch of the Progen Development team. You all know who you are. I may go ahead with a completed list of Acknowledgements at the end of the novel. But for now, please enjoy the story I wrote. I am aware that each post is an aircraft carrier of text. Please be patient with me and take your time reading it.

From his desk at NET-7 SOL, this is the Pakkrat.

 

Check out my story and look at the formatted post. I was able to do that using the paste from Word option.

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Okay, I've broken it up further by adding lines between paragraphs to better partition them. The Forum still won't acknowledge paragraph indentions. I am writing this book on an android tablet and in .txt format as I do not have Word. Still, I hope this makes it less a Wall Of Text and more comfortable a read.

From the Editing Office of NET-7 SOL, this is the Pakkrat
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