Chapter 3: Omicron Station

The journey to the Rumalien-system took almost 4 weeks. The journey would have been longer, had Jack not finally decided to shell out credits to use the Hyperlane Relays, that were significantly faster than regular warp travel. Using these ultra-speed gateways could be risky when flying a stolen spacecraft, especially if they were guarded by Federation vessels. But Amagi’s official designation had been deleted years ago. The ship was now registered as having been sold to a private pro-Federation company after the war, and later sold again to a private individual named Morn Dingo - who in fact was a real person – but registered as terminally ill, and therefore the ship was now commandeered by his closest corporate liaison, Jack DeWitt. It was an expensive affair to change the registration of former military vessels like this, and one of several reasons why Jack was still indebted to some very powerful and dangerous individuals.
Freedom had its price.
Jack had kept himself busy in the four-week long journey with maintenance on
Amagi, and physical training. With only him and VIC to do the daily work on the large vessel, there was plenty to keep him occupied. They worked well together him and VIC, who was one of very few robots with advanced AI’s that Jack could tolerate over a longer period. Although his personality could also be excruciatingly wearisome at times.

Usually, a day would start with cardio exercises in the morning, followed by maintenance and repairs. Before dinner, Jack would either fit in a strength workout or spend an hour or two engrossed in combat or flight simulation in the recreational room. Time after dinner was usually spent relaxing, playing holo-games with VIC, searching for new bounties or watching and reading intergalactic news. The busy work schedule and relatively harsh physical training kept his mind at peace and made him fatigued enough to usually get a good night’s sleep.

Jack had never been the epitome of discipline, but his time in the military had taught him to structure his days with productive tasks, and when doing these longer trips, he was thankful for it. It was too easy getting bored and just drinking alcohol and using the simulator in the recreation room for sexual release. More than a few spacefarers had gone mad from boredom and loneliness in deep space or simply decided to live of pre-packaged meals and virtual reality.

Jack always liked to think he had enough in his own company to deal with these long stretches, but he could not avoid the pang of loneliness from creeping in through the cracks, despite VIC’s company. There were three other robots on board, in the form of three drones with no interpersonal AI. Jack had considered getting a robot for the kitchen, not least because VIC’s culinary abilities left much to be desired. But the thought of having two sentient robots and be outnumbered by artificial life was somewhat depressing to Jack. It would be good to reconnect with civilization, even if it was the lowlife-filled cesspool known as Omicron Station.
From the cockpit, Jack could see the station clearly, big and looming in the distance. The station itself appeared as a tremendous unfinished ring surrounding a small moon named
Korigor. Every year, section after section was added to the growing station. The moon, Korigor, had been desolate upon the construction of the station, but the moon had later been terraformed to support an atmosphere and was now used as a place to punish those who broke the station’s rules, as well as entertainment for the masses. Blood sport and reality entertainment taken to the extreme. Everything on Omicron was intended to generate credits, even capital punishment. Despite being a free port, nothing was free on Omicron.

To quote an old Terran movie, there was not a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Except maybe the Terran parliament or the Federation senate Jack thought bitterly while transmitting his ship ID -34-P7JK - to the receiver at Docking Bay 66E.

There were several ways to access the station without registration, but Jack knew his creditors would quickly gain knowledge of his return, so why bother? Sometimes it was better to register along with the thousands of other ships and be one among many. Just another ship in the never-ending stream of visitors, rather than to try and skulk inside, and make yourself a target by trying to hide your movements. Hiding in plain sight and all that.

As they came close to section 66E, Jack cut Amagi’s engines, leaving just enough momentum to keep the warbird on a slow and steady course toward the docking bay.

Jack almost always used 66E, as he knew this section of Omicron like the back of his hand. He could disappear and reappear in this area like a fucking phantom, and he knew every corridor, passage, and gangway that lead to the docked ships. Useful, in the not so unlikely scenario that he one day needed a quick escape.

After docking Amagi, Jack paid the docking fee of 110 credits, and quickly left the docking bay towards the arrival area with VIC hovering next to him, complaining about the sub-optimal hangar bay conditions. Jack was dressed in discrete clothing in the form of dark pants, a grey t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Under the jacket was his Akryd Industries laser pistol in a concealed holster and in his boots a concealed DX1 serrated knife, that had served him well in the war.

No one asked to see ID’s, and there was no immigration to go through. The only control element was a multitude of robotic scanners, constantly scanning for weapons. Weapons above weapon grade 7 was not allowed on the station, and the penalty for trying to sneak them in was severe. It was also a great way to make credits. The many crime syndicates and gangs that infested Omicron, like maggots in moldy bread, was always looking to gain the upper hand in the never-ending power struggle.

As Jack stepped into the arrival area, holographic commercials that were specifically targeted for his bionic lenses, blasted to life. Like a never-ending swarm of fever-induced hallucinations, offering everything from ships, weapons, armor, drugs, implants, and bio-enhancements. Yet the most visible was the commercials for the vast number of adult-themed offers and violent entertainment on Omicron. Commercials for brothels, pleasure dens, sexual playgrounds, pornographic live shows, and virtual sex-domes appeared as 3D livestreams and was broadcasted to nearby holoscreens as he traversed the gangway. Glimpses of females biting their lips, breasts being squeezed, coy teenagers winking, latex-clad dominatrices, male musculature and other sensual imagery filled Jacks vision, while a cascade of lewd offers promising him maximum release and ultimate pleasure was transmitted in a mix of throaty, sensual and moaning voices.

In between the myriad of sexual content was the other entertainment offers like gladiator fights, starship racing, Gorr-hound fighting, and Madame Ooxi’s psychedelic journey. If you had credits, then there was no shortage of things to do on Omicron.
As always, the arrival area was brimming with people. Everything from bounty hunters, mercenaries, gamblers, refugees and tourists stood in never-ending lines, waiting for the station’s supersonic trains or the flying
autocabs. The autocabs came spiraling down to collect the passengers before taking off into the heavy flow of aerial traffic with robotic precision.

Jack pushed his way past a retinue of tourists of different species, dressed in the uniform clothing worn by the Interplanetary Banking Association. In the past, Omicron was synonymous with criminals, exiles, and outsiders. But the libertine reputation of the station had made it a tourist destination for those with money to spend on pleasures and experiences that were not as readily available elsewhere.

Jack had no doubt that some of these tourists would have the best time of their life. Experiences they had previously been unable to imagine. Others, however, would have the worst experience of their lives. Some wouldn’t return at all. Such was the toll of Omicron.

Passing the excited bankers, Jack reached the edge of the arrival area and stepped on to one of the taxi platforms. The arrival area was many kilometers above the ground level, giving a good view of the many skyscrapers and spires of Omicron that rose and hung like huge stalagmites and stalactites in a cave. The spires were covered in huge holographic billboards, and they housed everything from casinos, brothels, apartments, pleasure gardens, restaurants and everything in between. On the highest levels perched above the rabble, were the most exclusive nightclubs and penthouse apartments costing millions of credits and protected zealously by the Triumvirate and their agents. The founders and self-proclaimed overlords of the station.

From those golden heights, syndicate crimelords, interstellar pirate kings, politicians from worlds as far as Mulmasa and the Triumvirate itself forged secret agreements and plots, while those on the lower levels acted as nothing more than disposable pawns in their designs that stretched across the galaxy.

Among the spires, a swarm of never-ending aerial vehicles snaked around in seemingly endless variation. Further down, kilometers from the expensively furnished casinos and clean filtered air above and disguised by clouds of smog, were the lower levels known as the Warrens, or Undercity. This was a place for the destitute and desperate. An environment in which massive machinery serving the upper levels never slept, and where the narrow streets housed an unending supply of desperate exploiters, thugs, and gangs that killed for the smallest of insults. The Warrens was a place of desperate survival, in which only the strong could hope to prosper, while the weak was abused and consumed. This was where Jack was going.
“Jack! Jack!” a youthful voice sounded above the huff and puff of the crowds. A Terran youth pushed past the lines of people, resulting in an angry remark from an
Avarrian banker. The youth simply grinned at the angry avian.

“I was sure that was you! I saw your ship enter from the windows in the old observation deck.” he declared excited as he stopped in front of Jack.

The youth was wearing an old Kazuya Industries cap too small for his head, and an orange vest that only partly covered the dirty oversized clothes beneath. He was 6 feet tall, but with narrow shoulders and a skinny frame, that gave him a somewhat dorky and gangly look. A great mop of curly chestnut-colored hair stood out from under the cap. His skin was pale due to lack of sunlight, but his face and deep green eyes carried all the hope and optimism that only the young possessed.

“Hey VIC.” Aiden said, waving cheerfully.

“How are you Aiden?” VIC answered politely.

Jack lifted his hand hailing an autocab that spiraled down from above, and then hovered next to the platform.

“I’m busy Aiden, but it’s nice to see that you are well.” Jack said dismissively as the doors of the autocab slid open.

“You have been gone for long this time, and I was wondering if you had given more thought to taking me on to your ship? I’m 17 now, so I believe I am more than ready.” Aiden asked, clearly stressed by the waiting autocab and the prospect of Jack leaving.

“Honestly? not at all kid, I’m busy at the moment, and this is not the best time to take on inexperienced help.”

“Please enter.” sounded the synthetic voice of the autocab.

“I will work for free. All I need is food. I just really want to learn the craft. And I have been doing everything possible to make myself ready for this.” Aiden pleaded.

To Jack’s annoyance, a female Kormak dressed in expensive robes and dragging two small obese Kormaks, presumably her children or her clones, climbed into his autocab and it took off into the aerial stream above.

“Arh fuck.” Jack raised his hand to hail another autocab, only partly listening to Aiden’s tirade of why he was the perfect candidate. A tirade Jack had heard before, and as he turned his head for just a second, a couple of Avarrians climbed into the second autocab and took off.

“Fuck this.” Jack said giving up as the large group of bankers stepped onto the platform. He began a quick stride towards the train platform with Aiden in hot pursuit.

“Listen, you wanna fly with me kid, then you need flight skills, combat skills, streetwise and a very low level of pain in my ass skill,” Jack explained while striding past the growing number of people on the platform. “You possess neither.”

“That’s not true,” Aiden objected “I clocked more than 1200 hours in Targov’s simulation pods flying Kazuya Industries spacecrafts, and more than 400 hours in combat sims with both virtual and live combatants.” In his eagerness to explain his merits, the youth almost fell over an old Dravv couple, pushing over their cart of luggage. Quickly apologizing to the small masked xenos, and haphazardly helping them restack the cart, the youth had to run to catch up with Jack.

“Amagi is a Vega-class warbird from Kazuya Industries, right?” Aiden continued, almost out of breath “And even though they are not available in the simulation pods, I have clocked many hours with the Ochi-class bulk freighter, which uses a similar build to the Vega-class, making it the closest substitute wouldn’t you agree?”

“That would be my assessment.” VIC concurred.

“Simulation isn’t real life kid, the difference being that a failed simulation means death.” Jack stated matter-of-factly.

“Not completely true Captain, you have failed on many occasions and you are not dead yet.” VIC interfered in his elocutionary voice.

“One more word from you VIC, and I will turn your casing into a fruit bowl.”
Jack turned around to address the grinning youth as they reached the train platform, where long lines of people waited to climb aboard the train. Aiden’s grin quickly evaporated in the face of Jack’s stern expression.

“Listen, kid, I like you, but my job is hard and violent, and you are young and inexperienced, you wouldn’t survive out there,” he shrugged “I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

Aiden was about to object but Jack raised his hand cutting him short.

“You are not ready,” Jack insisted “Next year, maybe.”

Jack gave the disappointed youth a pad on the shoulder before he climbed aboard the train, with VIC hovering next to him, leaving Aiden behind on the platform.

“The kid is smart, hungry to learn and has done all the steps we could possibly expect,” VIC said as the supersonic train speeded through the station’s tunnels and across the many suspension bridges towards the lower levels “And you did promise him that he could become a hunter one day.”

“One day maybe.” Jack answered, looking out through the matte windows, as the train continued its hasty descend.

Jack and VIC excited the train as it reached Section 14 in the Warrens. The lower levels on Omicron were a bleak place compared to the upper levels. The facades were steel and rust-colored, except for the places that were covered with graffiti, gang tags and advertisements for every imaginable product and vice. Above the streets, a multitude of great suspension bridges crisscrossed like an intricate cobweb. The Warrens truly were the underbelly of Omicron station.

The scene around the station was chaotic. Cars and motorcycles pulled in and out from the curb, precariously close to the mass of people of seemingly every species in the galaxy. Ramshackle stalls were everywhere selling all kinds of goods, only half visible between the heavy traffic and the steam and other unidentifiable vapors rising from the vents in the street. Some of the more successful stalls had holographic catalogs for easy browsing, but most were hastily assembled stalls with limited goods. Plenty of prostitutes in provocative outfits stood by the curb, trying to solicit business from the many cars and by passers, by making lewd offers, and pressing whatever body part they considered their main asset against car windows and people.

Jack had to gracefully sidestep a trio of Asian prostitutes, with doll-like faces that looked not a day over fourteen, but with massively enhanced breasts, and tight-fitting clothes. Bio-enhancement was a marvel of technological advancement, allowing to push oneself beyond natural limitations. But for some reason it was primarily used for fun bags and making adults look like jailbait.
Wisps of steam and smoke drifted from the many food stalls, and the smell made Jack’s stomach rumble as he passed stalls selling all manner of delicious foods, from Kormak ragout to Akarian vitpie.

As Jack and VIC reached the outer perimeter of the station, the press of people and stalls lessened significantly, and Jack felt like he could breathe again.
A small rusty and levitating skiff with corrugated metal sheets serving as a makeshift roof, drifted by.
On board was an Asian couple, and several big cauldrons filled with a rich broth that gave off a mouth-watering smell.
Jack lifted his hand, almost like a reflex, and the skiff came to a wobbly stop. A red paper lantern hung from the roof, and it gave off a warm and dull light as it wobbled along with the skiff.
The ancient frail-looking woman onboard the skiff smiled warmly at Jack. An equally ancient man stood next to her making long noodles by hand.
Jack ordered the shiitake ramen, and with experienced and gnarly hands, that made a mockery of her frail looks, the old lady quickly served the steaming broth. Jack ate the mushroom flavored noodle soup with relish, quickly gulping down the rich broth and its unidentifiable, but succulent meat. After finishing, he paid the measly 0,5 credits for the meal, and the old Asian couple smiled kindly and nodded as he left. Then the rusty skiff continued its wobbly flight towards the station area and the many potential customers that spilled out the trains like ants from an anthill.

Leaving the train station in their wake, they entered an altogether shadier area, away from the lights and the press of people.
A couple of Terran drug dealers from the Darkstar biker gang - recognizable by their eight-pointed star tattoos - stood cross-legged against their heavy hoverbikes. As Jack passed, one of the dealers spoke.

“Looking to score? Hexameth and neuroamph, top grade.”

Jack walked past them without a glance, and one of the bikers spat dismissively on the ground.Then out of nowhere a gangly and shabbily dressed woman stepped out in front of him and VIC, dragging a pretty girl in her teens. The girl was dressed scantily in a purple top and tight black skirt that hardly hid her undeveloped body underneath. The older woman, who behind her deep wrinkles and advanced aging from drug-abuse could resemble the young girl, presumably making it her mother, smiled broadly, revealing teeth stained with fluorescent blue color. A sign of
hexameth abuse.
With a thin hand, the mother harshly pulled aside the girl’s purple top, revealing the girl’s pale and immature breasts. The young girl looked at her feet in shame.

“50 credits!” the woman hissed, a small streak of blue saliva running down her emancipated throat. Jack felt a strong pang of anger in his stomach and the urge to snap the woman’s neck like a twig. He forcefully brushed past.

“30 credits!” the woman yelled after him in a shrill voice, her thin claw-like hand grasping for his jacket. The two bikers laughed mockingly.
Killing you all would be a pleasure.
“The existence down here is getting worse,” VIC remarked after they had achieved some distance from the mother and daughter “More refugees and more rampant poverty than last time.”

Jack didn’t answer. He was still fighting the urge to go back and blast the woman and the bikers.

“Aiden lives down here,” VIC pondered, and then after a short pause added, “
Kheira too.”
“A street urchin and my sisters’ kid
ain’t my responsibility.” Jack grumbled, his mood severely soured.
“Yet you transfer credits to your niece every month. Never missing a transfer. In spite of the fact that you regularly miss payments to our creditors. Creditors that have no qualms about hunting and killing those that don’t pay on time.” VIC pondered unrelenting.

“This conversation is over.”

Silence fell between them like a dark cloud as they continued their journey through the squalor of the Warrens. VIC knew better than to push Jack when he was in this mood.

As they neared their destination, they passed an alley where an ugly couple – a Terran man and
Akarian woman - with mohawks and facial tattoos, had a Terran woman cornered. The woman’s cheeks were streaked with tears and she pressed her back against the graffiti-covered wall of a building. The woman gave Jack a pleading look. Same look as an abused stray.He stopped dead in his tracks, glaring coldly at the ugly couple.

“Fuck off!” the ugly man spat, revealing a glinting knife close to the cornered women’s thigh. The knife had cut the women’s pants revealing the smooth skin underneath.

Jack stared back emotionlessly, and his hand went demonstratively to his holster under his jacket.
I should just blast this trash and be done with it. The couple whispered to each other, the Akarian woman yanked at the man’s jacket. The man looked like he was processing something in that ugly dome of his. Probably calculating how shitty his odds for survival was. Come on motherfucker, make my day.
Jack’s hand clenched and unclenched in anticipation. Then they both sneered, before they fell back into the alley and disappeared in its shadows.
The woman gave him a thankful look before she ran the other way as fast as her legs could carry her. Towards the child hooker and bikers... He gave a conceding sigh before him and VIC continued, which honestly felt like a journey among the damned.

It wasn’t long until they reached a contestation of ramshackle metallic towers seemingly haphazardly built. A huge and rusty sign read ‘
Erakill’s Extraordinary Emporium’. The proprietor of this establishment,
Erakill, was a Dravv genius. He had worked as a senior engineer for Atarian Arms, working on a secret weapons project. Somehow, something, somewhere had gone horribly wrong, which had forced the eccentric scientist to exile himself in the Warrens, living a destitute life compared to the riches his skills and creativity could accrue him on the core worlds. But he was an enigmatic fellow and seemed completely content with life on Omicron. Here there was nobody to tell him what and how to do things, no production targets or company goals, only his own creative ideas and twisted visions came to life here. No authority, just freedom. In this aspect, he and Jack were very alike.
Jack pushed through the heavy metal door, that opened screeching upon rusty hinges.

For someone as obsessed with technology as Erakill, it had always occurred to Jack that it was a piss poor door choice. As he entered the workshop he was met by the sound of industrial welding. Derelict robots and their hulks were everywhere. Sitting on the ground, chained to the wall or suspended in the roof. Like a horror cabinet of inactive robots of every imaginable and curious design. In the center of the workshop was a huge mech, made from the parts of at least two dozen robots. On the shoulder of this monstrosity, stood
Erakill welding away in an inferno of sparks.
Erakill had worked on the mech for years, but Jack had never seen it operational, and each time he visited the mech looked different in some way. Maybe it was Erakill’s eternity project. Allegedly all Dravv have one project that they work on for their entire lifespan without finishing.
The
Dravv were a species of short humanoids with pale skin and angular features, from the Karellian Nebula. Their home planet, Ravmire, had been ravaged by unsustainable industrialization and megaprojects that had culminated in a short but devastating nuclear war, that had left the planet a barren wasteland sustaining very little life. Most Dravv now lived a nomadic existence in clan-like structures, although there was a massive fleet simply referred to as ‘the convoy’ which consisted of thousands of Dravv ships. This massive collection of ships had become the closest thing to a home and ruling body for the Dravv. But the many clans could come and go as they please, usually only following the fleet to discuss business, make new laws, or settle feuds. The Dravv was commonly known to be a very fragmented species. They were also a secretive people, and it was enormously rare to see a
Dravv without a mask when among other species, or even among individuals not of their clan. Yet Erakill wore no mask, instead, he wore a pair of large high-tech welding goggles. Then again, Erakill had always been his own.
Erakill was like his kin pale, and he had sprouts of unkempt white hair that grew out his head like carrot tops. Dravv eyes were strangely beautiful as they had two, or sometimes three iris rings going from pale white or icy blue to deep amber. Erakill had double irises of ice blue, but they were almost always hidden behind those heavy goggles. Jack walked close to the mech and banged a knuckle against the metal.
Erakill looked down, and as he recognized the guest he smiled broadly. For some reason, the scientists grin always had a mischievous undertone, as if he constantly thought of some sinister joke.
“Jack!”
Erakill declared happily, pushing his heavy goggles up on his forehead and wiped off some dark grime on his cheek with the back of his hand. Then he moved quickly down the massive mech, his metallic spider-like legs clacking against the metal surface.
Erakill had dispensed himself from such conventional travel as walking a long time ago, by fashioning himself upon a small frame with eight metal spider legs. The robotic legs were connected to his spinal cord and somatic nervous system through wires in his back, which gave him control of the legs as if they were a natural extension of himself. The legs enabled him to scale vertical surfaces with ease and made the small Dravv move in an arachnoid manner. It creeped the shit out of Jack.

“What brings you to my workshop today my boy?” Erakill asked, grinning expectantly.
“Nothing major. I need you to look at my armor’s
exo-skeleton, and a Krayag destroyed my gauntlet.” Jack explained, taking the broken gauntlet off his wrist and passing it to Erakill, who turned it over in his hands.

“Is it fixable?”

Erakill scoffed “Of course it’s fixable, everything is fixable.”

“I suggested that he got it implanted instead.” VIC pushed in, seemingly none too pleased of having been neglected by the small scientist.

“And have some government or shadow syndicate keep track of his every move?” Erakill retorted with a grimace.
Jack smiled triumphantly at VIC.

“Why do I even speak?” he asked exasperated, before hovering over to Mrs. Patches - Erakill’s medical droid - to complain about the burden of existence.

“This gauntlet is very old-school, I will remove the interface and replace it with a verithium sheet and insert holoprojectors instead, that should increase durability with at least 1400%.”

“How much will that cost?” Jack asked sceptically.

“For you?... 900 credits.”

“And for everybody else?”

“About 900 credits,” he cackled, “Time for a new armor maybe?” Erakill gave him a broad grin, and his eyes glinted.
“Can’t afford it right now, a repair and one of your upgrades will have to do.” Jack said, quickly shooting down
Erakill’s attempt of an additional sale.
“Well, I do have an armor you could borrow for free if you would do some field testing for me. It’s a prototype but has great potential.”
Erakill declared enthusiastically.
“I’ll pass,” Jack said, patting the
Dravv on the shoulder “You are a fucking genius, but after the sector-16 incident, I am never testing your prototypes again.”
The old
Dravv chuckled “Well you came out unscathed. Almost. And most importantly there was never any fallback from it.”
“Because there was nobody else left alive.” Jack retorted.

Erakill let out an insidious cackle “Don’t you just love technology?”. The small scientist began to rummage through some tools for the repairs, unearthing all sorts of small devices and placing them on a small workbench.
“I want to check your condition and vitals too, hop in the scanner.”
Erakill said pointing at a large cylindrical machine.
Since his time in the Paragon Project prior to the war, Jack had abhorred doctors.
Erakill knew this, and therefore always checked him when he visited. Both as a favor, and Jack suspected, as a way of checking if he was still a viable candidate to test his tech.

The purple Z-21 series medical robot, that Erakill had aptly named Mrs. Patches, instructed him to enter the scanner. Jack undressed until he was only in his boxers and stepped into the machine. The machine had large rotating blade-like scanning devices that swung in dizzying movement around him when it was turned on. The results of the scan were transferred directly to Mrs. Patches mainframe. The whirring from the machine was loud as it scanned all his vitals. After a short while Mrs. Patches spoke in a soft, but synthetic female voice;