Chapter 1

Introduction

This work is a technology demonstrator for an interactive fiction technology. I apologize ahead of time for any typos or dead ends you may run into. (I do my best, but hey, I’m human.)

In this version I have fleshed out one chain of events, and explored a few low-hanging branches on ways to take the story or narration into other directions. There are several points labeled FUTURE OPTION. In the feedback, let me know if you would find that option worthwhile to pursue.

I have issued this pre-pre-pre release because I have so many friend and family stuck at home during Plague-A-Looza 2020. We all need a little something to take our mind to another place. What better place than outer space?

Please direct feedback back to the author:

Sean Woods

yoda@etoyoc.com

And if you would like to follow the project’s development, or donate monetarily, this project has a Patreon site:

https://www.patreon.com/bePatron?u=9515985

Chapter 2

The Heir, No Parent

I am sitting in a room. My living room, apparently. My first recollection was a medical facility of some sort. There were alarms, and confusion, some sort of power outage, and people murmuring about having to pull me and a few other “Specialists” out of incubation early.

A member of the security staff brought me to this apartment, and dropped an information packet on the coffee table in front of me, before taking off running to attend to some other crisis. Or at least that is what I remember through the haze of getting used to the whole concept of bright lights, loud noises, and being alive.

From what I’ve heard over the public address system, they have brought Reactor 3 online. They gave out a telephone extension for citizens to call to inquire about loved ones who were working in Reactor 2. There have also been several calls for calm as emergency services rescues individuals stuck in elevators and something called “STAR”.

The power stopped flickering in the past hour. The novelty of being new in the world is starting to wear off. I am starting to feel things like boredom and hunger.

As best as I can tell, the packet on the table is actually for my consumption. Not food consumption, obviously, information consumption.

Read the Packet 

Search the Apartment

[Future option: Soul - Explore Outside.]

Section 1

262c5f-21729b56

Light reading this packet is not. So I’ll just give you the overview.

I am apparently “Specialist, [Party to be named Later], Serial Number: 26253d-38eaa1fd”. I am trained as a forensic accountant. There is dense thicket of paperwork indicating that I have inherited what amounts to 34% of the shares if the vessel/colony Arthur C. Clarke.

Also included in the packet is a rambling note from my benefactor. Basically he was too old and frail (and apparently senile) to make the trip. I am his likeness in personality, though individual memories don’t seem to survive the process. Part of his bequeath included the facilities to manufacture and store clones such as myself to emerge at key parts of the ship’s mission.

He also mentioned someone named “HAL” (all caps). And that HAL would be able to answer any sort of questions I will have. And as best I can tell he kind of lost lucidity at that point, because the next few pages are free verse and doodles.

The packet also contains some handy maps of the area, a channel directory for the video entertainment system, and resource locators for information on the ship’s computer terminals. A few pages of schematics turned out to actually be a mathematical plot of the local society. Each bubble had a recent photo, and lines and symbols charted family and social connections between them.

On the table is also a plain white box that contains a portable terminal called a mophie. To the untrained eye a mophie is a slab of black glass and plastic. But with a few finger-presses and gestures, it comes to life teeming with information. There are calendars, and maps, and several varieties of interpersonal communications ranging from live video to text message. The device is small enough to be clipped to a wrist, or carried in a pocket.

For large screen displays, you wear a mophie a bit like a pair of opera glasses. On the back are eye-slots, and looking through those slots projects an image directly on the retina. It even has some sort of corrective optics for people who would otherwise need corrective lenses or reading glasses. The device even provides tactile buttons and a joystick for this mode, allowing that projection to be interactive.

But all of this technology and wonderment was doing nothing for the hunger that was raging through my system.

Search Apartment

Seek Out a Cafeteria

Section 2

262c5f-406e024a

I pick up the packet, and gave it a quick leaf through. Or at least it started as a quick leaf through, there was a lot to take in.

I am apparently “Specialist, [Party to be named Later], Serial Number: 26253d-38eaa1fd”. I am trained as a forensic accountant. There is dense thicket of paperwork indicating that I have inherited what amounts to 34% of the shares if the vessel.

Also included in the packet is a rambling note from my benefactor. Basically he was too old and frail (and apparently senile) to make the trip. I am his likeness in personality, though individual memories don’t seem to survive the process. Part of his bequeath included the facilities to manufacture clones such as myself to emerge at key parts of the ship’s mission. Or at least that’s what I got out of the note. Believe me, it was rambling.

He also mentioned someone named “HAL” (all caps). And that HAL would be able to answer any sort of questions I will have. And as best I can tell he kind of lost lucidity at that point, because the next few pages are free verse and doodles.

The packet also contains some handy maps of the area, a channel directory for the video entertainment system, and resource locators for information on the ship’s computer terminals. A few pages of schematics turned out to actually be a mathematical plot of the local society. Each bubble had a recent photo, and lines and symbols charted family and social connections between them.

On the table is also a plain white box that contains a portable terminal called a mophie. To the untrained eye a mophie is a slab of black glass and plastic. But with a few finger-presses and gestures, it comes to life teeming with information. There are calendars, and maps, and several varieties of interpersonal communications ranging from live video to text message. The device is small enough to be clipped to a wrist, or carried in a pocket.

For large screen displays, you wear a mophie a bit like a pair of opera glasses. On the back are eye-slots, and looking through those slots projects an image directly on the retina. It even has some sort of corrective optics for people who would otherwise need corrective lenses or reading glasses. At least according to the instructions. The device even provides tactile buttons and a joystick for this mode, allowing that projection to be interactive.

But all of this technology and wonderment was doing nothing for the hunger that was raging through my system.

Go Get Lunch

Section 3

262c5f-71937c5a

Common Sense had me check the kitchen in my quarters. In the kitchen cupboards I found no food, but there were some cleaning products. The most recent had expired in 6/37. According to the Time/Data app on my mophie, the current date was December 22, 42. And for curiosity's sake I pressed a few other buttons and learned it was Julian date 2501727, and Earth date 5/24/2137. At least for a place called “Greenwich Mean.”

The walls are adorned with Japanese watercolor prints and Celtic inspired artwork. On the wall is a hunting rifle. Judging by the design, and the level of corrosion it was made 19th century. The inscription “Chekov -1889”, is etched into the handle.

I also located a robot of some sort. It looks a bit like an upturned trash can. It seems to have a bevy of attachments for light housework, starship repair, and low intensity armed conflict.

I looked around the rest of my quarters. The floors, the table tops, and the furniture had all been recently cleaned. In the bedroom was a scent that I recognized (don’t ask me how) as naphthalene... moth balls. The bedroom drawers contained an entire wardrobe’s worth of clothes, that were exactly my size. And, oddly enough, my style. Or at least the clothes seemed familiar. Certain combinations just made sense in my mind.

There seemed to be two sets of clothes. One set was conspicuously for leisure activity. One was equally conspicuously for occupational activity. The occupational clothing were various uniforms, work suits, and formal attire. All were blazoned with a scarlet A, on the chest. As my eyes ran across each outfit, my mind bubbled with trivia an protocol about which to wear on what occasion.

[FUTURE OPTION, SELECT MALE CLOTHING OR FEMALE CLOTHING]

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I reasoned that I must be on some sort of sick leave. I selected a comfortable looking set from the casual outfits. Denim jeans, a cotton shirt, sylk undergarments. Anything was an improvement over the hospital gown I had been wearing.

Finally, dressed, pressed, and ready to go, I located the closest cafeteria to my apartment on the laminated map, and set out for adventure.

Got Get Lunch

Section 4

262c5f-a8750447

Common Sense had be check the kitchen in my quarters. In the kitchen cupboards I found no food, but there were some cleaning products. The most recent had expired in 6/37. The labels looked like they had aged a bit, so I’m going to guess they have been there a while.

The walls are adorned with Japanese watercolor prints and Celtic inspired artwork. On the wall is a hunting rifle. Judging by the design, and the level of corrosion it was made 19th century. The inscription “Chekov -1889”, is etched into the handle.

I also located a robot of some sort. It looks a bit like an upturned trash can. It seems to have a bevy of attachments for light housework, starship repair, and low intensity armed conflict.

I looked around the rest of my quarters. The floors, the table tops, and the furniture had all been recently cleaned. In the bedroom was a scent that I recognized (don’t ask me how) as naphthalene... moth balls. The bedroom drawers contained an entire wardrobe’s worth of clothes. Those clothes were exactly my size. And, oddly enough, my style. Or at least the clothes seemed familiar. Certain combinations just made sense in my mind.

[FUTURE OPTION: SELECT GENDER]

There seemed to be two sets of clothes. One set was conspicuously for leisure activity. One was equally conspicuously for occupational activity. The occupational clothing were various uniforms, work suits, and formal attire. All were blazoned with a scarlet A, on the chest. As my eyes ran across each outfit, my mind bubbled with trivia an protocol about which to wear on what occasion.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I reasoned that I must be on some sort of sick leave. I selected a comfortable looking set from the casual outfits. Denim jeans, a cotton shirt, sylk undergarments. Anything was an improvement over the hospital gown I had been wearing.

Read the Packet

Find a Cafeteria

Section 5

262c5f-3881db90

I took a careful note of the door plate on my quarters. Mental note: I started in A-225-314.C. After wandering around in circles for a bit, I pieced together that the hallways form a honeycomb. Each compartment is a cell in the honeycomb, the hallways form a wall around the cells. The pattern seems to continue on for quite a while.

Each intersection really only has three ways to go (left, right, or back). While it simplifies direction in once sense, it is also really easy to find yourself going around in circles. The cells surrounding my home cell (A-225-314) are also residential units.. One cell’s distance I found some sort of grocery store at A-224-412. There was a map by the entrance. But it was mainly to tell you how to find things in the store

.

The store had a little bit of everything. Cleaning supplies. Smokes. Snacks. Liquor. Produce. Prophylactics. Fresh meat. And, especially useful for me, packaged meals. I had a vague recollection of some meal preparation training, but for now I just wanted something quick.

The store was practically outside my front door. So no need to stock up. I looked through the assortment and selected “Benji with Frites.” I also popped over to the beer aisle and grabbed a six pack of “Lager.” There were a couple of other varieties of beer, each with only slightly descriptive labels. Basic style, and alcohol content, and ingredients.

There were no prices on anything. But there was some sort of bar code on everything.

There were no staff present. And while there was a checkout counter, I saw nowhere to place the money I didn’t seem to be holding. A computerized voice kept asking “Identification please”, and blinking a light by a scanner of some sort.

I said aloud “I don’t have one.”

“Lost child protocol engaged. Please state your name,” it asked.

“I don’t know it.”

“Please state your home address.”

“A-255-314”

“Which unit in A-255-314”

“C”

“Are you ... [Party to be named Later]?”

“Yes.”

“[Party to be named Later] Do you authorize the minor in your care [Party to be named Later] to purchase this Alcohol?”

“Um, yes?”

“Inventory transferred. Do not panic. Help is on the way.”

A few moments later, a person in a uniform stepped into the checkout area.

“Yoder on scene, I don’t have visual on the child. Searching the area,” she turned to me, “Excuse me, Sir, have you seen a child running around?”

“Actually, I think I’m the lost child. The cash register thought I was lost when I didn’t have an ID. Or... a name.”

“Yoder to dispatch, I have located the subject. Male. Late teens, early 20s. Red hair. No ID, and he has some sort of amnesia.”

Over the radio I heard a reply, “10-40 Yoder. Evaluate for head trauma. But be advised we also had a bunch of snowflakes that were pulled from the tanks when the power went out. He could be one of those.”

“Sir, have you hit your head recently? Actually, hold still one second...”

She walked over to me, and shined a flashlight in my eye. She probed several points on my head, “Does it hurt when I touch in any of these places?”

“No...”, suddenly she pinched me, “OUCH... Yes.”

“What day is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you?”

“Um. A supermarket? Compartment 412? The sign said something about level 225. Is this some kind of ship, or an office building?”

She spoke again into her radio, “Yoder to Dispatch, no visible trauma, neurology checks out, short term memory seems ok. Still amnesia, though.”

“Probably one of our wayward snowflakes. See if he has a home, and get them back there.”

“Ok, um, do you mind if I just call you Buddy for now?”

“Sure, Buddy works.”

“Ok, Buddy, I am Kathy. And we need to get you back home. Do you know where home is?”

[FUTURE OPTION, DON’T GIVE YOUR ADDRESS]

I responded, “A-225-314.C”

Section 6

262c5f-cc6a264b

As Kathy led me back to my quarters, she gave me some more tips about how to navigate around the ship.

“First things first, you are on a Ship. It’s called the Arthur C. Clarke . But we just call her Arty. I know it’s a soup of letters, but there’s a rhyme and reason to it all. A tells you you are in section A. The habitat also has a B and C section. 225 is the level number. But it’s not a number of floors, it’s the height from the bottom of the section. So all of the cells on this level will start with A-225. Do you have me so far?”

“Ok.”

“The last part of the number is a little tricky. You have to remember that the cells are a honeycomb. And the levels are all giant circles. The first digit tells you how many rings out the cell is. The next two digits are a compass direction, but we leave the last digit off. So your quarters, are in cell 314. 314 is the third ring at 140 degrees. I hope any of that made sense.”

“I think I’ve got the gist.”

We arrived at my quarters. She asked, “Ok, you said C right?”

“Ah, the last, last bit is a room number in the cell?”

“Exactly. Though some cells use letters, some use numbers, every room will have a responder plate. That tells you what compartment you are in, and it provides a little map to explain how it is arranged on the inside. Handy for everyone, but especially responders like us who have to work in all sorts of strange places around the ship. Now under normal circumstances, you would just wave your mophie under the freeder here, but as you don’t seem to have yours...”

She started accessing some functions on a computer she wore on her wrist. She then spoke into the unit: “Responder door override, A-255-314.C, front door, authorization Kathy Yoder. Category lockout.”

A computer voice replied, “Door override confirmed”.

The door then clicked open.

We made our way inside. She saw the packet and box on the table. Pointed them out to me.

“Ok, this box contains your Mophie. It’s your communicator, your portable terminal, your wallet, and your front door key. You really shouldn’t leave the house without it. And this packet is probably important. Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Oh sure,” I replied.

She opened the envelope. Took a look at the top page, and then slammed the paperwork back into the folder.

“Whoa...” she trailed off in surprise.

“What?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry at all sir, but right on the cover page, you must be a shareholder.”

“A what?”

“Let’s just say that’s a big deal around here. You really need to review the data in there. I can’t. It’s got classification and privacy notice markings out the ying-yang. Look, I have to get back to the station, but if you have an other trouble...”

She opened the box that contained my mophie, performed a gesture on her own mophie, and unit made some sort of happy beep.

“That’s my personal number. Give me a call if you need anything.”

After Kathy left, I opened my meal packet. It was a standardized ration that are common on space vessels. The meal was packaged to facilitate consumption in either gravity or zero-G. The contents were designed to store at room temperature without refrigeration, at least until opened. A helpful notice reminded me to eat everything in the package to ensure I received all of the vitamins and minerals. Labels on the outside indicated that this meal was halal, non-kosher, and non-vegetarian.

The packing material was largely metallic foil, with a thin plastic layer to separate the food from the metal. Each food item had a stenciled label, with ingredients and nutritional content. Most of the calories from carbohydrates were in a foil wrapped roll. A bag full of “Chipped Beef, Onion, Cheese”, provided the protien. A dried fruit packet provided the bulk of the vitamins. The “Frites” were some sort of extruded starch. I squirted the beefy cheesy mixture onto the roll, and the combination was delightful. There was a separate foil envelope the contained a drink mix, instant coffee, a napkin, a wet wipe, a spork, and a special wide straw, which I imagine was used in zero-G. Also included was a gossamer thin mesh bag. This was probably a handy place to stash the trash when you had to dine in zero-G.

Read the damn packet already

[FUTURE OPTION, DON’T READ THE PACKET]

Section 7

262c5f-55ebcf7c

I am apparently “Specialist, [Party to be named Later], Serial Number: 26253d-38eaa1fd”. I am trained as a forensic accountant. There is dense thicket of paperwork indicating that I have inherited what amounts to 34% of the shares if the vessel.

I guess that was the “shareholder” thing that Kathy was talking about.

Also included in the packet is a rambling note from my benefactor. Basically he was too old and frail (and apparently senile) to make the trip. I am his likeness in personality, though individual memories don’t seem to survive the process. Part of his bequeath included the facilities to manufacture clones such as myself to emerge at key parts of the ship’s mission.

He also mentioned someone named “HAL” (all caps). And that HAL would be able to answer any sort of questions I will have. And as best I can tell he kind of lost lucidity at that point, because the next few pages are free verse and doodles.

The packet also contains some handy maps of the area, a channel directory for the video entertainment system, and resource locators for information on the ship’s computer terminals. A few pages of schematics turned out to actually be a mathematical plot of the local society. Or at least that is what I learned, seemingly by osmosis. It’s really hard to describe what that kind of writing looks like. I don’t even see the code... it’s just... strange.

I figured out how to clip my mophie to my wrist. I worked my way through the interface. There are calendars, and maps, and several varieties of interpersonal communications ranging from live video to text message.

For large screen displays, you wear a mophie a bit like a pair of opera glasses. On the back are eye-slots, and looking through those slots projects an image directly on the retina. It even has some sort of corrective optics for people who would otherwise need corrective lenses or reading glasses. The device even provides tactile buttons and a joystick for this mode, allowing that projection to be interactive.

As I was finishing up, my mophie chirped with an alert. I had a meeting invitation, titled “Shareholder Emergency Meeting.” Time 20:00. Location, Moot Point (A-255-106). And apparently refreshments would be served. I clicked “Definite” to the RSVP.

It occurred to me that this was probably a formal occasion, so I switched into some formal attire.

On to the Moot Point

Section 8

262c5f-61824d7c

The walk to the cafeteria wasn’t too far, about 3 cells. 3 cells is about 200 paces, or a city block. Cells are a handy distance measurement because the vessel’s habitat area is divided into hexagons. A map of them looks like a giant honeycomb. Each cell is the same shape and size. The engineering is such that it produces as structurally sound a building as possible with the largest rooms possible.

Forgive me for musing about the world as I walk, because it keeps my mind off of this incessant hunger.

I had to follow the signs on the cells to figure out what direction the dining hall was in. My quarters are A-225-314.C. The dining hall is A-225-418. I had step out of my door, and turn left. Walk to cell 415, turn right. Walk to cell 316, and then turn right. Walk to 417, turn left. Walk to 318, and turn right. And when I reached 418, turn right again. Ok, that wasn’t simple as I thought it was. Here’s a map:

When I arrived at Cell 418, I followed the signage toward the food service area. We were at a non-peak hour for food, so the selection was somewhat limited. I grabbed a sandwich called a “Benji”. Fried chipped beef on a large roll, with a liquid dairy product and fried onions. I also grabbed “Frites”, which for what ever reason registered as yummy my newly developed taste of smell. At the end of the serving line was a beer dispenser, which delivered an ice code lager into a tall glass.

With my tray of nutrients I located an empty table in an otherwise empty dining hall, and settled down to my me. This meal, apparently my first, was quite satisfying. I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming sensation of taste. But after I got used to it, it added more pleasure to the eating experience. As novel as the taste was to my newly laid down sensory system, it was also, strangely, familiar. As if I had ordered it countless times.

As I finished, a crowd of people started streaming into the dining hall. Judging by their outfits, the soot on their faces, and various abrasions to flesh and costume, they looked to be first responders. This was probably their first meal in a while too.

As I sipped my beer, a gentleman made his way to my table, and asked to sit down. I must have seemed familiar to him, because he started striking up a conversation almost immediately.

“That’s what I should have done. Grabbed a shower and a change before I came to chow,” he said.

He wore an engineering jumpsuit. The sort worn underneath protective gear. His hair was a mix of silver and ebony. His beard was scruffy and long. On his chest was the name “Dutta”.

I could tell he had just come off of a long day, and just wanted someone, anyone, to talk to. To be fair, I was also dying for someone to talk to as well. So we just played up the meal as a couple of old friends who just met.

“Well I practically had to walk through my quarters before I got here,” I replied.

The engineer looked at me like I a young nugget spinning a tale, “Well who did you have to sleep with to finagle a berth in the Sagittarius sector?”

“I’m more the person one sleeps with.”

His face went pale. He looked me up and down. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. As if he had, unknowingly, insulted a prince.

“No worries,” I replied, “it’s not like I wear a sign.” I raised my glass, “To the people who keep shit working!”

He raised his glass in reply, and after taking a sip, relaxed once more.

“You look awfully young to be a shareholder,” he said.

“I’d say I was born yesterday, but I think I was actually born this morning.”

“Ah,” he said, “for as second I thought you might be one of the Aristobrats out to play head games. No wonder you seemed so damn human.”

“Don’t hold back, tell me what you really feel about them,” I laughed.

He laughed.

We both laughed.

And then we changed the subject.

He peppered my with questions about what it is like to be a specialist. I peppered him with questions about what it is like to not be a specialist. His first name was Hadi. I learned that he had recently lost his wife. He had two children, but given that most of the anecdotes talked about their young lives as opposed to recent events, that they were somewhat distant to him at present. The one subject that didn’t come up was about the events of today. I didn’t want to press, and he didn’t want to share.

Eventually our conversation was interrupted by an alert on my mophie. Hadi helped me navigate the interface to discover I was invited to a meeting titled “Shareholder Emergency Meeting.” Time 20:00. Location, Moot Point (A-255-106). And apparently refreshments would be served. I clicked “Definite” to the RSVP.

“The Moot Point...” Hadi was lost in though, “That is going to be 4 decks up. I’d recommend the stairs. Responders are probably still fishing people out of the elevators. You are going to need a tie and jacket, though.”

He then showed me to to use my mophie for turn-by-turn directions. He explained that sensors in the device can pinpoint where one is located, and provide the best path around traffic jams and obstacles. Looking at time on his own mophie, he realized that if I was going to make the meeting, I had better get going.

Hadi and I exchanged contact information, and I was on my way.

On to the Moot Point

Section 9

262c5f-ada75ea

The walk to the cafeteria wasn’t too far, about 3 cells. 3 cells is about 200 paces, or a city block.

When I arrived at Cell 418, I followed the signage toward the food service area. When I heard Murphy mention battle messing, I was assuming some cheese sandwiches and breakfast cereal. Instead the normal buffet was simply replaced with piles of everyone’s favorites, and organized to permit people to grab a quick meal and keep lines to a minimum.

I grabbed a sandwich called a “Benji”. Fried chipped beef on a large roll, with a liquid dairy product and fried onions. I also grabbed “Frites”, which for what ever reason registered as yummy my newly developed taste of smell. At the end of the serving line was a beer dispenser, which delivered an ice code lager into a tall glass.

With my tray of nutrients I located an empty table in an otherwise empty dining hall, and settled down to my me. This meal, apparently my first, was quite satisfying. I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming sensation of taste. But after I got used to it, it added more pleasure to the eating experience. As novel as the taste was to my newly laid down sensory system, it was also, strangely, familiar. As if I had ordered it countless times.

As I finished, a crowd of people started streaming into the dining hall. Judging by their outfits, the soot on their faces, and various abrasions to flesh and costume, they looked to be first responders. This was probably their first meal in a while too.

As I sipped my beer, a gentleman made his way to my table, and asked to sit down. I must have seemed familiar to him, because he started striking up a conversation almost immediately.

“That’s what I should have done. Grabbed a shower and a change before I came to chow,” he said.

He wore an engineering jumpsuit. The sort worn underneath protective gear. His hair was a mix of silver and ebony. His beard was scruffy and long. On his chest was the name “Dutta”.

I could tell he had just come off of a long day, and just wanted someone, anyone, to talk to. To be fair, I was also dying for someone to talk to as well. So we just played up the meal as a couple of old friends who just met.

“Well I practically had to walk through my quarters before I got here,” I replied.

The engineer looked at me like I a young nugget spinning a tale, “Well who did you have to sleep with to finagle a berth in the Sagittarius sector?”

“I’m more the person one sleeps with.”

His face went pale. He looked me up and down. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. As if he had, unknowingly, insulted a prince.

“No worries,” I replied, “it’s not like I wear a sign.” I raised my glass, “To the people who keep shit working!”

He raised his glass in reply, and after taking a sip, relaxed once more.

“You look awfully young to be a shareholder,” he said.

“I’d say I was born yesterday, but I think I was actually born this morning.”

“Ah,” he said, “for as second I thought you might be one of the Aristobrats out to play head games. No wonder you seemed so damn human.”

“Don’t hold back, tell me what you really feel about them,” I laughed.

He laughed.

We both laughed.

And then we changed the subject.

He peppered my with questions about what it is like to be a specialist. I peppered him with questions about what it is like to not be a specialist. His first name was Hadi. I learned that he had recently lost his wife. He had two children, but given that most of the anecdotes talked about their young lives as opposed to recent events, that they were somewhat distant to him at present. The one subject that didn’t come up was about the events of today. I didn’t want to press, and he didn’t want to share.

Eventually our conversation was interrupted by an alert on my mophie. Hadi helped me navigate the interface to discover I was invited to a meeting titled “Shareholder Emergency Meeting.” Time 20:00. Location, Moot Point (A-255-106). And apparently refreshments would be served. I clicked “Definite” to the RSVP.

“The Moot Point...” Hadi was lost in though, “That is going to be 4 decks up. I’d recommend the stairs. Responders are probably still fishing people out of the elevators. You are going to need a tie and jacket, though.”

He then showed me to to use my mophie for turn-by-turn directions. He explained that sensors in the device can pinpoint where one is located, and provide the best path around traffic jams and obstacles. Looking at time on his own mophie, he realized that if I was going to make the meeting, I had better get going.

Hadi and I exchanged contact information, and I was on my way.

First I navigated to my quarters to change into one of my formal work uniforms. Hadi had warned me the Inn was a jacket and tie sort of establishment.

On to the Moot Point

Chapter 3

Moot Point

This book is an interactive novel. While you are free to leaf through the pages, the events will be out of order and the story will not make a whole lot of sense. Start back with Chapter 1, and follow the links.

Section 1

262c5f-1812824a

Following the guidance of my mophie, I traveled up several staircases to level 255, navigated past shops in various stages of closing, the medical center, and finally arrived at my destination: The Moot Point.

I took my time to keep down the sweat. The stairs and hallways of the ship were remarkably clean. Well, remarkably to me for some reason. But I’m just a clone of a guy who grew up on the mean streets of Franklin.

A sign outside said Members and Guests Only. I waved my mophie past the freder. To door lock popped, and an automated voice welcomed me inside:

“Welcome to the Moot Pointe, Member [Party to be named Later].”

As I entered, conversations in the establishment ceased. Chairs shuffled, I swear I could hear the record skip on the album playing.

An older gentleman walked over, looked me up and down, and his incredulity melted away to recognition. His outfit, and I am as surprised as you why I know this, was modeled on a Krasnovian dress uniform. Rank of commander. Which is a really odd choice for an ISTO vessel. But hey, big universe.

His face registered as George Von Aalen, he is the education ministry’s director of museums and historical curation. He controls shares purchase through the Von Aalen group. And there are all kinds of red flags on the trace where those funds actually originated from. How he managed to get that much money out of Socialist Krasnovia was a bit of a mystery. But... cash is cash.

As he spoke I realized his accent, while clearly German, wasn’t actually naturally German. He must have learned it from a voice coach. Or practiced it as a kind of signature trait. “Ah, of course. You must be Later ... vat ze fourth now?”

“We’ll go with that,” I replied, “I think Specialist 26253d-38eaa1fd doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

“Now, now,” replied the gentleman, “No need to be frowing zat vurd around. You are a Shareholder, no matter vat zeh made you out of.”

A woman at the bar shook her head, pointing in the exact opposite direction as me, but with a volume clearly intended for me to hear, she said “I still get the creeps every time we get a new one of those.”

A) “One of those?” I asked.

[FUTURE OPTION B) Ignore Her]

​
 ​

Section 2

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“One of those?” I asked.

She turned around in her chair, “Yes, one of your kind.”

“Is this because I’m Irish?”

There was a squeeking sound has her chair slid out. She stood up, and pounded her feet in deliberate stomps to my location. She stood straight in front of me, looked me straight in the eye, and spit out “You know exactly what the hell I mean, you ... FREAK!”

Now that she was facing me, I could ran a scan on her face.

I pointed to her, and inquired of George, “Isn’t she the Mayor’s kid?”

There were a few uncomfortable laughs.

“I also recall that there was a sign out in front of this establishment that said Members and Guests Only.”

“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

I put a finger to my temple.

“Springfield, Jennifer. Born Mission Year 2. Your Father is our Mayor, David Springfield. He, by virtue of how ISTO’s shares are controlled, is a member. You, dear, are a guest. Our guest. And as you are fostering a hostile environment, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I pressed the voice command button on my Mophie. “Revoke Guest Privileges to this suite for one Jennifer Springfield.”

The computer piped back, “Command Acknowledged, Access to the [Moot Pointe] revoked for [Jennifer Springfield]”.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

I took her by the small of the arm, dragged her to the front door, opened the door, and placed her on the other side of it. The sheer audacity of my actions caught her by surprise. For a few moments she must have been in shock. But a few seconds after the door closed, I could hear some sort of struggle outside to re-open the door.

I turned around and read the room. There was a toxic mix of schadenfreude, indifference, and indignation. I had probably made some friends. I had also made just about as many enemies. In between I managed to raise just about every eyebrow in the room, if only for a moment.

George turned to me, “Well, I suppose friendly introductions are over, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be over at the bar.”

Ok, I’m guessing I was a teensy bit hard on the young lady.

In my favor, I was responding to an unrepentant racist who was questioning my place in the social order. I felt the need publicly establish that I would not tolerate disrespect. Though, judging by George’s reaction, I had gone a bit too far.

In my folly, this entire scene was absurd. Behind me the child of someone important was banging on a door. I had probably just humiliated the Mayor, one of the most politically connected people on the ship. Right or wrong, this was tragedy. There will be hell to pay.

Being the center of attention at a meeting like this is like being the headliner act for a public execution. I decided to try to blend in a little better. Preferably blend into the wallpaper.

The Moot Point decor is modeled on a Yacht Club. There is a bar area, a banquet space, and a conference room. This space is as close as a colony gets to a Capitol building. The linens on the table are ironed. The food is the best that can be made. But the attendees wouldn’t be out of place in a Medieval Court or Viking Thing. Well, except for the occasional wedding that books the space. Those are probably more savage.

I stepped up to the bar and ordered a Whiskey. On the rocks.

The bartender was probably Jennifer’s age. She asked “I hate to ask, but do you have the chips for that?”

“For what?”

“For the Whiskey. Vodka you can pay in scrip, but Whiskey is chips only.”

I did a quick query on my mophie, cross referenced the ship’s manifest, and delivered a run-down of how many barrels had been purchased for my own personal consumption.

I flipped my screen around so she could read it.

“I’ll take a dram out of whatever bottle you have on hand, but as you can see I have quite a bit in storage. I’m good for it.”

The bartender’s eyes widened. Her hand went past the rail bourbon, past the Scotch in elaborate bottles, and she finally opened a small safe in the wall. Like a priestess removing the holy sacrament, she pulled the bottle from the wall. She performed a short ritual, and brought the bottle to me.

The bottle read simply “Later’s Private Stock.” A seal on the cork was unbroken. A handwritten label indicated it was bottled in MY 16. She left a glass, and a small container of ice.

“Sorry about that, Sir. I’m new here.”

“No worries. Grab a glass for yourself.”

“I’m on duty at the moment...”

I scowled back, “I said, grab a glass.”

We each took a glass, and raised them, and clinked glasses. And then we savored a taste of the old country.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“No, thank you. This nectar can only be savored if it is shared.”

My brain was desperately seeking to avoid the uncomfortable setting in the room. Each sip of whiskey reminded me of the great preparations that had gone into ensuring the delicacy would carry on. Thousands of staves from bourbon barrels where shipped from Tennessee, into space, and at no small expense. Botanists were consulted on how best to cultivate the barley, rye, and wheat. A special area on the ship was engineered to grow white oak trees for future barrels. And, in addition to the means to manufacture whiskey, thousands of cases of finished whisky were also packed away.

I could feel the edges of memories, places, events, even people. All lost to the currents of time, and the limitation of the cloning process. But taste is an odd pathway to memory. Yes, this was good Whiskey.

“Apologies, I never caught your name,” I said to my traveling companion through memory lane.

“Kendra. And I don’t think I’ve caught yours.”

“I am officially ‘Party to be named Later’, of the Franklin Laters.”

“Well for a man for no name, you sure are making a name for yourself,” she smiled.

A commotion behind me was the end of my moment of solace. The hell to pay that was coming due was now cash on delivery. Word must spread fast around here.

“Kendra, can you bring me 3 more glasses?” I asked.

It was an angry presence of my shoulder. An entirely unwholesome force of rage. Judging by the waft of perfume I detected, parental rage or the most dangerous kind. Motherly rage. I quickly poured out a serving of whiskey for myself, my presumed guest, her offended offspring, and a spare.

I turned around, and faced the dark presence.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

If looks could kill, I would be a dead man on the floor. I was facing the Mayor’s wife. She had her daughter in tow. And two sons who looked like they could break me in half. Each. And the grim look on their faces made me think that I would probably be broken into many more pieces than that.

This was a family humiliated. A family that was not accustomed to being told “no”. A family out for satisfaction.

But the deadliest weapon of all is kindness.

“I said, can I offer you a drink? It’s the least I can do to apologize. Oh snap, I am one short, Kendra can you be a dear an pour me one more glass?”

As she poured out that glass, she mouthed “SPRING-FIELD”.

The four stared dumbfounded at me. I gestured to glasses on the counter. I pressed a glass into the hand of the younger lady.

I looked my former assailant in the eye, and said, “Miss Springfield. Let me apologize for my brusque tone at being referred to a, how did you say, a ‘freak.’ I should have been a better man an let you walk all over me, but self defense is, unfortunately part of my core being.”

The elder Springfield’s eyes were momentarily lost and confused. My act of kindness had caught her flat footed. But suddenly her eyes filled with rage again. But this time those orbs of fire were not directed toward me. She turned to her daughter, “You said... WHAT?”

The young Ms. Springfield woman froze in terror. Her brothers face palmed. The Jennifer found herself bodily dragged from the room and out the front door for a second time. Yelling in a language I didn’t recognize could be heard clear through the bulkhead.

The brothers were left standing, somewhat dumbfounded themselves. I invited them to the bar with me. They were, as best as I could tell, identical twins. Which, of course, made placing names with faces with records... difficult.

“Apologies gentlemen,” I said as I pressed a glass in each hand, “you will have to tell me which of you is Albert and which is Maximillian.”

One raised his hand, “Albert.”

The other raised his hand, “Max.”

Albert sipped his whiskey, “this is nice stuff.”

Glancing at the bottle, I replied, “I think by the date it was actually manufactured on board.”

Max held the glass to his eye, sniffed the beverage, and swirled it around, “Wait... this is actual Later’s Private Stock?”

“Yes, and I’m Later.”

“Oh Jennifer really stepped in it this time,” sighed Albert.

“Just a bad day for her, or has this turned into something religious?” I asked.

Max put his glass down on the counter. He looked me dead in the eye, “Look, she is my kid sister. I would happily throw anyone who so much as touches her out an airlock,” replied Max, “but she’s been mad as a hatter since she started hanging out with the P.E.T.H.”

“P.E.T.H.?”

Max continued, “People for the Ethical Treatment of Humans. Long story, but they fancy themselves as some sort of new-age back-to-nature movement.”

“Well less ‘back to nature’ as ‘rage against the machine’”, added Albert, “you know, that machine that is keeping us alive, he gestured all around.”

Max tag teamed, “Yeah, they’ve been a thing for as long as we can remember. But according to the old timers, P.E.T.H. is something relatively new. They rebel against The Charter. They stage uprisings against the shareholders. They are trying to outlaw specialists. All in the name of letting people chart their own destinies.”

Albert, “The crazy thing is that they have no idea what they would do even if they had control of the ship. Hell, I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that they are responsible for this reactor malfunction somehow.”

“Say, um, Mr. Later, could I...?,” asked Max pointing to his empty tumbler.

I nodded, “go ahead. This stuff has been trapped in a bottle even longer than I have. It was meant to be enjoyed.”

After a few minutes Mrs. Springfield returned, I could see waves of pain and humiliation on her face. She was fumbling for words.

“Don’t say a thing,” I said, “you were defending your daughter against a strange man who kicked her out of the swankiest place in town.” She nodded, took a glass, and we toasted.

“Anya?” I asked, after consulting my mind palace.

“Yes. If you are looking of David, he is out coordinating the response for this disaster in progress.”

“That makes sense,” I replied.

“Look, I’m sorry Jennifer gave you so much trouble. David has been Mayor for so long, our kids have practically grown up in here. She gets a little territorial, if you know what I mean.”

“I guess you don’t get too many new faces around here.”

“You could say that. And when we do, we see them as...” she fumbled for words, she grabbed Albert, and asked “dzieciuch?”

Albert replied, “children, Mom.”

Anya continued, “...er, children first.”

I had been wondering how it was that people just assumed I was a specialist. Suddenly it hit me. Everyone else in this room had something distinct about them. The way they dressed. An accent. A scar. A slightly misshapen nose. Silvering hair. A bit of personal grooming they have neglected. I stick out because I, frankly, don’t stick out. My accent is neutral, perfectly neutral. My grammar is textbook. Perfectly, textbook. My vocabulary is straight out of the dictionary.

But before I could get too, too, too far in my analysis, I deep voice called us all to attention.

The meeting was apparently starting.

Section 3

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We took our places in the conference room. There was a large, round table. The table was divide into 12 pieces, all the same size. Each section had unique and elaborate embellishment for the different parties who resided at the “seat.” I found my chunk, thanks to a elaborately lettered sign:

Etoyoc Heavy Industries:

Party to be named Later (26253d-38eaa1fd)

Etoyoc’s seat was adorned with fractal motifs from several cultures. Celtic knots. Clouds in the style of Hokusai. In the center was the world tree, Yggdrasil. It’s roots somehow wrapping themselves into he upper branches. And hey, while I would like to take credit for knowing any of that, I was guided by a series of sticky notes with arrows labeling all of the details I just described.

As I was making myself comfortable another party sauntered to my seat.

“Move it ELF, that’s my seat.” said a tall gentleman.

“Um, no. This is clearly my seat,” I pointed at the name plate.

He squinted, read the name plate, and bristled.

Before I could speak, a robed figure stepped out of background and seemingly out of nowhere. Her uniform was a mash up of a lab coat, a priestly garb, and a naval uniform. She wore a name tag:

Master Joline “The Dagger” Newton, ELF

262c69-4e2c966a.

“Doctor Cook, Party to be named Later, please allow me to shed some light on this misunderstanding.”

By her neutral, bordering on perfect, accent I could tell the individual was a specialist like myself. Cook looked at her, looked at me, and shook his head.

“Dang it you all look alike no matter what you are wearing. I was elected to hold this seat. There hasn’t been another election? How did I get voted out?”

Newton presented him with a printout out on a clipboard, “I am terribly sorry, Dr. Cook, while, yes, you were elected, your seat was a temporary position. It was created to bring the council up to 12 members while the Etoyoc Heavy Industries seat was vacant. As you can see, the seat is no longer vacant. I just received this dispatch from central. I regret not being able to deliver this message in a more timely fashion.”

As Cook read the printout, his energy and conviction gave way to depression and resignation. I felt a twang of sympathy. As overwhelming as my day had been, I can’t imagine going from a position of power to nothing without so much as a notice.

I spoke up, “Dr. Cook, there are plenty of room at the table. I’ll need some time to get up to speed. Can I ask you to stay on as a consultant until I get a better lay of the land?”

Going from a seat on the council to a consultant was probably a significant downgrade in social standing. But it was at least some social standing. Having one’s seat at the table replaced by a complete stranger was a total slap in the face. Finding out the day of a meeting was salt in the wound. I don’t quite have a command of the bureaucratic bungling that led up to this awkward moment. But I can certainly see where a little kindness can smooth things over.

I could see a calculation in his mind. His expression softened.

“Thank you” he said, “at least until we get things figured out.”

“Oh, so we are looking for a long term position.” I chuckled.

His grim countenance melted away into a smile.

I had the pages bring an extra chair to the council table. I could see that there were far more than 12 chairs at the table as it was. It seemed that every delegation had multiple people.

“So, Dr. Cook...” I started.

“Art” he interrupted.

“Thanks, Art. I’m still trying to sort out my name, but for the moment I answer to Later. Anyway, Art, can you give me a quick ‘a clone with absolutely no memory and is going to need to vote on things’ summary?”

Art laughed.

“Ok, first thing to know is that Starships are large and expensive monstrosities. The sort of things that only governments and very large corporations can afford. Iliad class vessels like the Arthur C. Clarke are so huge that no one government or corporation can afford to build one. Or even if they could, there are the expenses of recruiting colonists, transporting those colonists off world, stocking the agriculture decks, and fuel. Massive amounts of fuel.

“Also, these ships are complex. Tremendously complex. And getting one detail wrong leads to an untimely death for all aboard. With any luck, a swift untimely death. But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Because there is so much capital sunk into the ship, and a tremendous amount of risk, everyone who contributes wants some sort of guarantee that the mission will be successful. They also wanted a say on how it that successful mission would be carried out. For that we have something called The Charter.

“I can’t quite explain how The Charter works. No one person can. It’s a computerized mind that is so complicated we need specialist like Master Newton here to even formulate a question to it, and interpret the result. But that mind understands every system on the ship, down to the last nut and bolt. It knows how to raise every crop we cultivate. It has encoded into it the sum of centuries of experience operating marine vessels, space ships, and outer colonies. It has every court precedent back to the Manga Carte. It has a forecasting model that can glimpse ahead centuries into the future.”

“But... it’s not perfect,” I interjected.

“Exactly. That is why we are here. Charters have such complex programming that they really can’t be altered willy nilly. But, obviously, reality being reality, rules need to change as situations change.

“We have two mechanism in place. One is the CRAJED. That is our dispute resolution system. In the process of resolving disputes, rules are interpreted. CRAJED is the process of keeping those interpretations consistent. But a CRAJED can only decide how a rule is interpreted.

“To change rules requires a vote by the Shareholders. We don’t actually do the programming. That is the job of our ELF friends. But they take what we decide and convert it into code for the computer to follow. If the rules we make conflict with existing rules, that has to go to a CRAJED to decide which rule actually takes effect, and how. And the process is so complicated, I’m not even sure my ELF friend here could explain it.”

Newton, detecting an opportunity to speak, interjected, “I can assure you there is a system, and that the system is fair as well as consistent, but the process by which it works is as near as makes not difference to ineffable to a non-programmer. For you, sir, I have this:”

He produced a printed schematic. It was a bit longer than the organization chart in my packet. Like the organization chart earlier, it seemed like random bubbles and circuits connecting them. But I could feel something click in the back of my mind, as my eyes read the page.

“Yeah,” I said, “consistent yes. Deterministic... only so far as the rules themselves are deterministic. Spoiler: they aren’t.”

Dr. Cook turned to Newton. “And just like that you are going to take the rice right out of a man’s bowl? How can this man hire me as a consultant if you can just beam answers straight into his brain.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Cook, but the rest of the table is waiting for us to shut up so they can start.”

She gestured, and we could see an ELF at every “seat” trying to gently coax the meeting to order.

A 12 sided screen lowered from the ceiling, and one of the ELF started to narrate the information presented on them.

“Shareholders, I am here to present to you the results of our preliminary accident investigation on the destruction of Reactor 2...”

Chapter 4

Encyclopedia

This area contains encyclopedic information.

Celph

A wearable data access device. Permits voice and digital communication between individuals as well as access to shipboard data sources.

Specialist

An human being raised by artificial means and modified during the development process to exhibit traits required for specialized tasks. The most common varieties of specialists encountered on an Iliad class vessel are DWARF and ELF.

DWARF

Acronym for Diminutive Warrior/Aviator/Repair Form. These specialists are designed as a caste of individuals specially adapted for small craft operations in space. Their small form allows them to withstand massive G-loads. Their brains are adapted to process the real-time status of mechanical systems in real time. Their vestibular systems are disabled during development, eliminating space sickness, at the cost of profound hearing loss. To overcome a difficulty with verbal communications, DWARF are given enhanced telepathic abilities.

DWARF are generally 1.0 to 1.2 meters tall. While they can communicate with fellow telepaths, they have to resort to sign language or text based communications with non-telepaths.

ELF

An acronym for Erudite Language Form. ELF are engineered to be living computers. Their enhanced intellect and language skills are required to properly communicate with The Charter.

CRAJED

Acronym for Computers Run Algorithms / Juries Evaluate and Decide. A feedback process for when the expert system implementing The Charter must answer a novel problem, or reconsider a prior judgement. The process is similar to the “Trial by Jury of one’s Peers” concept from common law.

During CRAJED, A jury of stakeholders are assembled. Ideally, a random sample of the general population. The Jury is presented the problem in as plain a language as can be produced. One advocate representing each side of the discussion at hand is nominated. After presenting each side of the case, the Jury deliberates.

If the Jury can reach a unanimous decision, the prevailing side’s position will be reflected in future judgements by the Expert System. Virtually all new laws or ordinances require some kind of CRAJED deliberation.

Expert System

(Computer Science) A programming methodology by which a series of laws and principles are encoded in a format that can be evaluated algorithmically by a machine. This process is somewhat painstaking, and generally requires the input of human experts from multiple disciplines to implement properly.

(Spacer) A massive computer complex on board starships and colonies which carries out that vessel or facility’s Charter.

Iliad-07

The Seventh Mission of project Iliad. The journey of the SCV Arthur C. Clarke to establish a permanent colony in the 18 Scorpii system.

Arthur C. Clarke

(Literature) - Science Fiction author of the 20th century. He is famous for popularizing the concept of the geostationary satellite, and for his film and book 2001: A Space Odyssey. During that story an Expert System (HAL 9000), unable to resolve a conflict in his mission parameters, decides that killing the crew is the only way to maintain a directive of mission secrecy.

(Vessel) - The second of the Block III Vessels for project Iliad. Constructed between 2069-2074, the Vessel launched in 2080 on mission Iliad-07 to establish a forward operating base in the 18 Scorpii system.

Celph

A wearable data access device. Permits voice and digital communication between individuals as well as access to shipboard data sources.

Specialist

An human being raised by artificial means and modified during the development process to exhibit traits required for specialized tasks. The most common varieties of specialists encountered on an Iliad class vessel are DWARF and ELF.

Related Glossary Terms

DWARF

DWARF

Acronym for Diminutive Warrior/Aviator/Repair Form. These specialists are designed as a caste of individuals specially adapted for small craft operations in space. Their small form allows them to withstand massive G-loads. Their brains are adapted to process the real-time status of mechanical systems in real time. Their vestibular systems are disabled during development, eliminating space sickness, at the cost of profound hearing loss. To overcome a difficulty with verbal communications, DWARF are given enhanced telepathic abilities.

DWARF are generally 1.0 to 1.2 meters tall. While they can communicate with fellow telepaths, they have to resort to sign language or text based communications with non-telepaths.

Related Glossary Terms

Specialist

ELF

An acronym for Erudite Language Form. ELF are engineered to be living computers. Their enhanced intellect and language skills are required to properly communicate with The Charter.

CRAJED

Acronym for Computers Run Algorithms / Juries Evaluate and Decide. A feedback process for when the expert system implementing The Charter must answer a novel problem, or reconsider a prior judgement. The process is similar to the “Trial by Jury of one’s Peers” concept from common law.

During CRAJED, A jury of stakeholders are assembled. Ideally, a random sample of the general population. The Jury is presented the problem in as plain a language as can be produced. One advocate representing each side of the discussion at hand is nominated. After presenting each side of the case, the Jury deliberates.

If the Jury can reach a unanimous decision, the prevailing side’s position will be reflected in future judgements by the Expert System. Virtually all new laws or ordinances require some kind of CRAJED deliberation.

Expert System

(Computer Science) A programming methodology by which a series of laws and principles are encoded in a format that can be evaluated algorithmically by a machine. This process is somewhat painstaking, and generally requires the input of human experts from multiple disciplines to implement properly.

(Spacer) A massive computer complex on board starships and colonies which carries out that vessel or facility’s Charter.

Iliad-07

The Seventh Mission of project Iliad. The journey of the SCV Arthur C. Clarke to establish a permanent colony in the 18 Scorpii system.

Related Glossary Terms

Arthur Charles Clarke

Arthur C. Clarke

(Literature) - Science Fiction author of the 20th century. He is famous for popularizing the concept of the geostationary satellite, and for his film and book 2001: A Space Odyssey. During that story an Expert System (HAL 9000), unable to resolve a conflict in his mission parameters, decides that killing the crew is the only way to maintain a directive of mission secrecy.

(Vessel) - The second of the Block III Vessels for project Iliad. Constructed between 2069-2074, the Vessel launched in 2080 on mission Iliad-07 to establish a forward operating base in the 18 Scorpii system.

Related Glossary Terms

Iliad-07