Sirius
It would seem that Sirius, the so-called Dog Star of antiquity once famed for sick in the body, is now more for making men sick in the mind. Since the star was introduced to greater civilization by the outgrowth of modern rapid transportation and communication we have been increasingly mortified by the depths of illness and instability among those who live in its orbit. The ongoing issues in the system prompt many to wonder if the stars we used to associate with our fates in ancient days really did hold more power over us than we afforded to them over the past few centuries.
As my readers are likely already aware, the Navy has recently been cracking down on a recently surfaced phenomenon around the star. Disaffected young men living in forgotten wrecks and aging ruins around the star with the queer belief that projecting competency is what gives you security and meaning as a human being. This caused the creation of a strange “game,” bragging to and provoking each other over transmitters to project the image that they were the best, that they could dominate anyone else and whoever came for them would surely meet their demise.
Locals were content with forgetting about these aggravating but, at the time, harmless specimens (God knows the denizens of Sirius have much greater problems) however in recent years with the increasingly ridiculous scale of these pathetic conflicts and increasing importance of Sirius as an economic hub the Navy was forced to take action. The days of smashing asteroids into each other or jury-rigging landmines and baiting rivals with remote transmitters had to come to an end. Today all but the most adventurous so-called warriors (a now rapidly dwindling population thanks to the efficient handling of the federal government) are forced to turn their transmitters off and lay low, either giving up or wagering the crackdown would end soon.
One recent incident, which I bring to you now, was comprehensively recorded and documented thanks to a particularly narcissistic man in the habit of collecting as much footage and data on his “conflicts” as possible so he could use them as bragging material later. The footage and logs were recovered from his wreckage by the Navy and uploaded in raw format to government archives. I sifted through everything to assemble a coherent narrative from it all (this took many, many hours, I would recommend leaving this kind of work to the professionals. The government is not in the business of clarification, obviously.)
On April 21^st^ the compound of “Roka” was invaded by an as of yet unidentified other. The compound itself was one of numerous rusted out orbital sanctuaries (yes, it was so old that the internal components were made out of corroding materials as was once common around impoverished worlds) which could be found around Sirius, dedicated to some deity long forgotten, now inhabited by decidedly smaller beings.
One common principle of these people is that you should only win through sporting methods. Putting a slug through someone’s chest is undeniably the most flexible and effective way of stopping a home invader but does little to prove anything about you beyond your good sense and rational conduct, something they do not hold in particularly high regard. Instead, you rely on mechanics which project a high level of skill and knowledge (they often do not actually require real skill, they simply project the image that they do. Very few of these people could be described as competent in actuality, they were simply experts at playing pretend.) The introductory trap which Roka deployed was mustard gas and locking doors, a classic which projected a strong appreciation of history. Unfortunately, his opponent had come equipped with a full protective suit and respirator. He simply picked the lock on the proceeding hatch and moved further into the complex.
Roka, now wearing a faux-tribal mask (a way of projecting ingroupness among certain populations) considered his options. Though escape was on the table, it was unthinkable. This was a game about dominating others, why? To feel useful, and from the sense of usefulness, to have a sense of security and worth. For that reason, he’d have to fight to the death. However, reality kept pressing onward, through mines that turned out to be duds, collapsing hallways which landed too early, shotgun traps which jammed, and winding corridors defeated by simple trial and error.
His attacker finally entered his inner sanctuary. Standing like a menace, an estimated 6’3 and wide to match, decked in a trench coat and vintage gas mask, he stepped forward. Affixing an amplifier to the mask, he began to speak.
“Nice attempt on the defenses but S-760 combat skeletons are among the best ever produced.”
Roka stood up and, doing the best to conceal his shaky voice, responded in the only way he knew how.
“S-760, don’t those have some pretty severe heating issues? I’ve heard they can only reach a high output for a little while before heat restrictions kick in.”
“Well,” the other replied, rubbing his chin through the mask, “I’ve got a custom cooling solution for this thing. It works rather well I’d say, I can keep a high output going for a very long duration of time.”
Analysis has shown that it was actually a T-350 combat skeleton. It’s not clear if either was aware of this fact.
After a brief argument, the attacker wheeled around and crushed the steel airlock. Spinning back he made his ultimatum. Admit defeat or die. Humiliation, unthinkable!
Roka knew that he could not win, it was just not going to be possible without resorting to lame tactics, just as good as humiliation. However, he had a revelation. Gently leaning back on a nearby switch he got ready for some desperate jinking. He wouldn’t survive, but this guy wouldn’t either. He’d go out with glory at the very least.
One desperate dodge after another, the attacker ran wild across the room smashing and crushing everything with his wild, impractical swings. Easy to avoid such comically over the top swings, but for how long?
Finally, having his foot turned into a burst of white and red, Roka fell. He looked up at the mask of his attacker, laughing. He didn’t have a chance to ask why when the Navy torpedo obliterated the structure in a golden burst. Torn apart, turned to pieces, sucked into the vacuum of space. He threw away his own life for what really mattered to him, his projected identity. In that way, even though nobody would really remember him once he was gone, he won totally in his own way for whatever that was worth.