Quadrant: Mountain Time.
Sector: 44.
Corporate Zone: SW-44.
2030 hours.
The night came alive with the low thrum of dueling engines. PRO-T-EN Industries Corps Savant, Gunnar Eck Rourke—Department: Asset Protection, Job Title: Strategic Executive, Rank: Captain—sat in the comfort of his machine; Military-grade, custom built, and synched to his private neural-net. Molded to his form, the soft ErgoNaut seat reclined, keeping Gunnar low as he sped along the mapped route behind a small PRO-T-EN convoy. Though traveling by autopilot, his hands lay upon the manual controls; smooth metal spheres embedded in the armrests, the throttle-ball on his left, the steering-ball on his right. Above these controls, a multifaceted console lit up the dark interior with a sharp red glow. Through his helmet visor, Gunnar saw a green 28 holding steady on his digital speedometer.
“Non-PRO-T-EN vessels and personnel detected,” Gunnar’s neural assistant, Eos, warned in its soothing, mechanized voice. Thirty seconds before, Eos had been reciting an old poem about lost, violent, souls while Gunnar relaxed. Then they’d both received an alert from one of the PRO-T-EN Corps Surveillance Savants, snapping them back to attention.
A PRO-T-EN drone had identified an incoming attack, but the Savant had been too busy to launch a counterstrike, or even perform a thorough scan.
“Analysis?” Gunnar asked with a smirk.
“Four human-persons and three Civilian-grade vessels, Captain Rourke. Approaching from the west. Current speed for all vessels, approximately thirty-one meters-per-second.”
Gunnar flicked his eyes from the front viewing pane to his primary monitor. The screen projected a neon blue schematic of his surroundings. All PRO-T-EN vehicles—including his own—outlined in bright green. All non-PRO-T-EN vehicles—including these new invaders—outlined in bold crimson.
“Status?”
“Unknown, Captain Rourke. The human-persons appear to be Unemployed Civilians. No data files detected, and no neural-net activity present, viral or otherwise.”
“I see. Incompetents.”
Now Gunnar glanced at his digital power gauge. A green 90 held steady, showing his primary coils at almost full capacity; plenty of wattage for a little extra maneuvering.
“The human-persons are in violation of multiple ordinances, Captain Rourke. A state of Unemployment is a Class D Transgression in all Civilian Centers and Corporate Zones. Civilians trespassing in a Corporate Zone is a Class C Transgression. Operating a Civilian vessel in a Corporate Zone is a Class C Transgression. Illicitly owning a Civilian vessel is a Class B Transgression.”
Gunnar’s smirk became a lupine grin. Un-Civ Incomps; lower than the lowest criminals. Gunnar, of course, knew the PRO-T-EN Industries Corps Protocols back to front. If these Incomps worked for a competitive Corporation such as e-PHEMERUS Incorporated, or In-E-Ware Holdings & Securities, well, the rules of engagement would be different.
But they didn’t.
Which meant that Gunnar would have to follow strict interaction procedures.
“PRO-T-EN Corps Protocol dictates that you must initiate contact in an official and professional manner, informing the human-persons of their Transgressions.”
“10-4, Eos. Disengage autopilot.”
“Autopilot disengaged.”
Sighing, Gunnar rolled his right hand over the steering-ball, leaving the convoy behind. The incoming Incomps followed—as he knew they would.
“Breaking formation,” Gunnar said, engaging his neural-net to broadcast the transmission. “Un-Civs times four in pursuit.”
A moment passed, then a bland voice returned: “Backup, Captain?”
“Negative. Standby for update.”
“10-4.”
Time to be Professional, Trustworthy, and Energetic!
* * *
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