Christina Engela

He__ dying!_ Doctor Cove, one of the ship__ two medical officers told me, looking at his med-scanner as he kneeled at the broken body of the only living Corsair on the black ship. I remember the look on his face as he told me _ which seemed more to be puzzlement than actual concern. The man was a Corsair after all, and had injuries I could see, but he was conscious, and none of them looked fatal. But then, I__ no doctor. I never was any good at healing anything _ and my job was doing the opposite, and I admit I__ pretty good at it. Always have been.

In the process of helping others, I helped myself. In acting out of my own brokeness I became whole again. It's the kind of strength and determination you find when you have hit rock bottom and you realize you could die right now - and want to, but realize that even death won't make the difference you were hoping for.

The passenger liner Ossifar Distana was one of the most luxurious of its kind in space anywhere. It ferried the cream of society across the void in opulence and style. Only the wealthiest could afford an apartment on this ship for a trip of any duration, even a short one around the proverbial block. Even the crew was obliged to pay rent.

Sumone Yiden Smiff was a businessman of note. Was, past tense. Through years of sweat and swearing and amazingly smart (or lucky) deals he__ built up a mining empire that spanned the sum of known space. At 74 years, he had reached the apex of a career stretching half a century. His companies mined precious commodities like Impervium, Obstinatium and Bitanium. He wasn__ really famous, or ostentatious. In fact he only ever made the cover of Fortune One Billion once, twenty-five years ago. He__ never married, had lots of children _ light-years apart, apparently.

In the Black Palace, in the capital city below, the man know as the Patron _ Martel the Mighty, ruler of this dark world - had packed his coffers and was now also, presumably, making good his escape. For the Corsair elite and ruling class _ those whose hands were literally dripping blood, profiteering from the bloodshed and violence that terrorized dozens of worlds - escape was the only option left and he would not be the only one to mount an escape attempt, nor be the only one to succeed. For years to come, there would be countless bounties offered on missing prominent Corsairs that had slipped through the net, with the occasional report of so-and-so being spotted on some or other rim world, presumably sporting a new beard and a pair of sunglasses _ which might have raised a few eyebrows in the case of the many female Corsairs.

There are enough real enemies and threats in the world without having to invent imaginary ones.

So, show the world, make it seeYou are you, and I am me.

Is there any good left in the world/ And if there is, can you still find it in the places that matter? Why is it that the only places i see it now, is in the graves of the victims, and the tears of those who mourn them?

Start thinking for yourself, ask 'why?' and even venture to say 'why should I?' and pretty soon you will have half the world at your throat for being a 'trouble maker'.

When facts are misrepresented in order to serve an opinion or to promote it aggressively - especially an opinion which demonstrably results in people being victimized, persecuted, and their lives destroyed in many places in the world, it should be a matter of concern to everyone who wants people to be treated equally, fairly and justly.

The religious right sees every group trying to achieve equality with them as a threat, because if they become equal to them, THEY won't be able to abuse their human rights anymore. Giving other people equality WITH THEM, in their minds takes something away from THEM - POWER - and that TERRIFIES them. It scares them shitless.

Religious extremism is fatal to those who don't conform to its values, or remold or submit themselves to its 'principles'. It craves control and power - and power is the one tool that enables it to wreak its characteristic havoc, destruction and cruelty upon those it chooses to label as scapegoats. Giving in to extremists enables them and empowers them - and worse, it encourages them.

What the hell was that?_ he asked no-one in particular. __id they ram us?___h _ negative, sir._ Marnetti offered, reading an instrumental assessment from his display, __t seems we were hit by some kind of pulse wave generated by their jump.___heir jump? _ You mean by arriving they nearly killed us?__arnetti nodded, continuing, __ange 0.5 kilometers, Captain. Holding steady. No recognized weapons activity.___amage report._ He ordered, feeling his way back into his seat, eyes glued to the viewscreen.__hield 2 down, 1 is buckling._ Pluddeman choked.__ower stable, all systems holding steady,_ Marnetti added, now rubbing some bruises.__ny communications?___othing, sir. Static on all frequencies.___hat are they doing?___othing, sir. Waiting maybe.___aiting, my ass!_ Dayne barked. __hey must be sizing us up!

Half-Lieutenant Marsh__ Kluss__a was not a happy man. Naturally, that didn__ bother him as things were rarely otherwise. As the commanding sub-officer of the Black Sunrise, happiness was not a state of mind expected of him, though in reality _ our reality _ he was probably not such a bad person. The crew, though terrified of him even under normal circumstances, believed that he had the heart of a little child. (Let__ leave it at that, shall we?)

Something clicked inside Ortez mind, like the bolt of a door latch being released. Man__ first encounter with sentient alien life was a disaster called the Gimp War in the history books. The aliens simply began an all out onslaught without any warning. Fortunately the Human race proved a little more difficult to dispose of than the aliens thought. The Gimp, or Ruminarii as they were called, were driven off and hadn__ been heard from since. Their origins were still a mystery. This was not a Ruminarii ship, but this encounter might have similar repercussions. And Commander Dayne Ortez aged 26, realized the meaning of this.

As a panting Tracy Ferris scrambled into the life-pod, this thought was precisely what was running through her already agitated mind. From the very beginning of their association, she__ had a bad feeling about Brandon Carver. Something about that guy just never seemed to fit. Sure, he was good looking _ but so were many of the other out of work space bums hitch-hiking from place to place she__ also had the misfortune to meet.

An idea was forming in his mind. It was only rudimentary, but in the circumstances, it could be called a plan. He loathed the alien for attacking them, without any provocation. He hated the way it was smashing up his ship _ and all of them _ with hardly any effort or regard for life at all. __ow__ that message coming?___mm _ they must be jamming us, sir _ I can__ get through.

It__ a general rule _ a law of space, as it was a law of the sea in the old days, that ships had to respond to distress calls. Unless of course it places their own lives in danger. Bearing this thought in mind, as you can probably tell by my writing, my fingers are beginning to tremble slightly.