Node identifier: 9874-457-28, Rosemary Harper
The Galactic Center, colloquially called the Core, is home to several unusual astronomical phenomena, including a supermassive black hole and a high concentration of stellar clusters. These unique conditions indicate that the Galactic Center is the Home Galaxy’s largest source of raw fuel materials, such as ambi, as well as metals and minerals used in spacecraft construction and terraforming. Estimates of the available resource yield are speculative at best, but the scientific community widely accepts that the amount of harvestable ambi sources in the Galactic Center contain a supply more than four times the amount present in all combined GC territories. Though the presence of such materials has been confirmed by Harmagian long-range survey probes, the Galactic Center remains largely unexplored by GC member species, due to Toremi territorial claims.
Related topics:
Black holes
Accretion disks
Stellar clusters
Ambient energy theory
Commercial fuel sources
Ambi harvesting
Toremi
Interstellar exploration (Harmagian)
Spacecraft construction
Terraforming
Galactic regions and territories (Home Galaxy)
Traditional names for the Home Galaxy (by species)
Day 163, GC Standard 306
PORT CORIOL
Ashby wasn’t a judgmental man, but anyone who didn’t like Port Coriol lost a few points in his book. GC space had plenty of neutral markets that welcomed spacers of all species, but the Port was something special. Even if you didn’t need to stock up, the spectacle of it was well worth the trip. Sprawling streets stuffed with open-air shop fronts, overflowing with clothes and kitsch and sundries. Grounded ships, gutted and transformed into warehouses and eateries. Towering junk heaps lorded over by odd tinkerers who could always find exactly the part you were looking for, so long as you had the patience to listen to them talk about their latest engine mod. Cold underground bunkers full of bots and chips, swarming at all hours with giddy techs and modders sporting every implant imaginable. Food stalls offering everything from greasy street snacks to curious delicacies, some with rambling menus of daily specials, others with offerings so specific that the only acceptable thing to say at the counter was “one, please.” A menagerie of sapients speaking in a dizzying array of languages, shaking hands and clasping paws and brushing tendrils.
How could you not love a place like that?
On some level, Ashby could understand how Port Coriol might be a little jarring to someone accustomed to the glossy prefab trade centers you could find throughout the GC, each as sterile and uniform as the other. The markets of the Port were anything but corporate, and the colony’s independent, anything-goes attitude was exactly what made it so beloved—or, to some, rather unsavory. Ashby conceded that the Port was a little dirty, a little scuffed around the edges. But dangerous? Hardly. Crime, for the most part, was limited to low-stakes scams aimed at tunnel-hopping students or gullible tourists. So long as you had two brain cells to rub together, Port Coriol was as safe as anywhere else. Trade was well regulated, too—that is, as regulated as you wanted it to be. Merchants who risked the ire of the port authority didn’t last long, and even those dealing in shadier merchandise had plenty of honest permits and legitimate goods on hand to keep watchful eyes happy. Port Coriol’s black market was no secret, but it was carefully managed. Not that Ashby ever tried his luck with such things. Losing his license would ruin him, and possibly his crew as well. Despite Kizzy’s regular pleas to let her buy something that would give the engines “a li’l more kick,” it was smarter to keep things above board.
The Port’s soft orange sun warmed Ashby’s skin as he led his crew through the crowded shuttle dock. Accustomed as he was to living behind sealed walls and thick plex, being outside was refreshing. As usual, though, he had forgotten about the smell—a heady mix of fuel, dust, spices, fire, perfume, kitchen grease, solder, and the natural odors of a dozen or more sapient species. Behind it all was the constant mossy funk emanating from the surrounding shores. The moon of Coriol was tidally locked, which allowed an uninterrupted source of sunlight to fall upon the skins of matted scum that capped its quiet seas. The merchants and traders who kept permanent residence on the moon often made their homes on the dark side, away from the sun and the stink.
For many sapients—Sissix and Dr. Chef included—the smell was too much to handle unfiltered. Respirators and breathing masks were a common sight, even among the people who lived there. The shuttle docks were lined with booths selling masks to newcomers who had not been forewarned of the Port’s signature scent. But Humans, with their relatively poor sense of smell, could wander the streets with nostrils fully exposed. Most Humans, anyway. Corbin had opted to wear a full breathing helmet—the Exolung Deluxe, a weighty contraption that boasted the best airborne allergen and pathogen filtration system available. Ashby thought it looked like a jellyfish tank fitted with limp balloons.
“Destination, please,” droned the AI at the quick-travel desk. It wasn’t a free-thinking program like Lovey, but a limited model, unable to do anything beyond scripted tasks. Its casing was meant to resemble a Harmagian head, complete with chin tendrils for making facial gestures. The long, doughy face was coated in a skin-like polymer, and it was not entirely unlike the species it mimicked. But its digital voice cracked around the edges, and the tendrils twitched with palsied age. Nothing about it could be confused for something alive.
“Two to the bug farms,” said Ashby, indicating himself and Dr. Chef. The AI chirped in acknowledgment. Ashby pointed to Corbin. “One to the algae depot.” Chirp. Ashby pointed to Jenks. “One to the tech district.” Chirp. Ashby turned to Sissix. “And you guys can walk, right?”
“Yeah,” said Sissix. “Our sundry run starts right through the gate here.”
“That’s all,” Ashby said. He waved his wristwrap over the scanner on the counter. A short beep indicated that payment had gone through.
“Very good,” said the AI. “Your quick-travel pods will be dispatched momentarily. Should you need additional transport or directions, look for the quick-travel symbol, as displayed atop this kiosk. If you lack a sense of sight, you may request a complimentary location indicator from this or any—”
“Thank you,” Ashby said, though the AI was still speaking. He led the crew away from the booth. Jenks remained behind.
The AI continued on, unphased by the departure of its audience. “Location indicators come in models fit for all species, and can provide alerts in a variety of sensory inputs, such as smell, taste, sound, dermal stimulation, neural stimulation—”
“Is Jenks coming?” Rosemary asked.
“Jenks always waits until the end of the speech,” Kizzy said with a fond smile. “Just to be polite.”
Rosemary looked back to the jittery AI. “That’s not a sentient model, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ashby. “But try telling Jenks that. He always gives AIs the benefit of the doubt.”
“Which is absurd,” Corbin said. His voice was muffled by the breathing mask.
“So is that thing on your head,” muttered Sissix.
Ashby jumped in, addressing the group before Corbin could fire back. “Okay, folks. You know how this works.” He saw Jenks give the AI a courteous nod before walking over to join them. “Same drill as always, but this time, we’ve got GC expense chips to buy stuff with. Necessary purchases only. Everything else goes on your wristpatch. The GC’s not going to like it if they get a bill for four-course meals and body massages.”