Welcome, Governor: A tale of the Terran Commonwealth

From Create Your Own Story

"Lord Governor? L-Lord Governor?"

You drag yourself out of an exhausted sleep, glancing blearily around the utilitarian metal box that passes for a common terminal at Karrymann Trade Station. Scattered around the room are various travelers from twelve worlds you recognize and at least twenty you don't, while in front of stands an attractive young woman in the uniform of the Commonwealth Administrative Department, at attention before your seat, staring pensively in your general direction.

You automatically look behind you for the Colonial Governor slumming it in the station commons, before realizing your section is empty aside from a handful of free traders quietly conversing among themselves in the back.

Oh, right.

"Present and accounted for, ma'am." you say, stifling a groan as you rise from your seat. You always wondered why it was that, 500 years after the "discovery" (More like looting) of FTL technology and the beginning of the Diaspora, seats in spaceports and other waiting areas around the Commonwealth and beyond had to universally uncomfortable. Probably some kind of clandestine law.

She seems to mentally trip over your choice of words, attempting to reconcile you with the normal, insufferably vain and arrogant, picture of disgraced nobles, second sons of Royals, and dangerously ambitious minor aristocrats normally exiled to the frontier. While her psyche continues attempting to pound a square peg into a procession of decidedly not-square holes, hospitality training kicks in as she brushes an errant lock of blond hair back from her face and continues.

"My lord, your ship is now loading, but we were having some trouble finding you. I failed to take your... Background into account and search outside the luxury waiting area"-Of course there's a luxury waiting area-"until we had spent considerable time searching the first-class district."

At this point you notice a fairly large number of station security trying to stand around casually and failing, twitching every time an innocuous passenger appears to be walking towards your section or someone handles a piece of baggage. You decide it's time to leave before one of the trigger-happy idiots hallucinates the purse of the old woman in the next section into a bomb and hits her with a full-power stun.

Besides, while being the ruler of a new colony doesn't place you at the top of the "tempting targets" list, it is pretty far up there.

"Very Well," you state imperiously, trying to regain dignity no doubt lost while you were passed out and drooling all over your collar. "If you would lead the way, Miss...?"

"Hollsworth," she replies quickly as she leads you down to Dock 19, the security guards follow you while continuing to conspicuously attempt to be inconspicuous. "Dian Hollsworth. I will be your official Aide and Commonwealth Liaison on the planet of Fenrir."

You nod. Standard practice for colonies financed by independent development corporations directly for the Commonwealth instead of other settled worlds or the various multi-system alliances, federations, confederations, kingdoms, princedoms, and empires within the Commonwealth: Attach an Aide that is both certain to be up to demanding Commonwealth standards, but doubles as a useful spy.

You finally arrive at dock 19, greeted by a official from the trade line carrying your ship: A full complement of colonists, mercenaries, supplies, terraforming technicians and machines, technical specialists, administrative personnel, and sundry equipment to a new world.

"Salutations and good fortune, dear sir," drones the, well, drone in the unkempt grey robes, reading a greeting that was obviously intended to be delivered in bombastic and energetic tones with a voice better suited to a particularly basic computer. "We welcome you to our great starfarer, the Harvest of Tomorrow, escorting you to your new charge on the arctic frontiers of Fenrir. In the future ages of the Commonwealth, the name of Micheal Greystone shall be carved into the stars themselves, chronicling your rise from..." The official officiate pauses momentarily as something forces what mind he has to finally engage in his surroundings instead of green-lighting rote actions. "Oh dear, it appears your Bio was misfiled. Remind me of your great deeds, if you don't mind, so that I can find the misplaced data."

"Of course," you reply, grateful in the short reprieve from what was shaping up to one of the most boring speeches you'd ever seen in person. "My name is Michael Greystone, and I was.."

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