Storm Trooper with Maglight
Ottawa
|
Day 1: O glorious Terra! Cradle of Mankind! Seat of the Emperor! Holiest of all holy places! So few men will ever lay eyes upon it. Yet here it lies, filling the window below me, as the fabled Phoenician exits the Warp and enters orbit. I can barely contain my excitement at the thought of treading this sacred ground. However, the captain has advised us via the vox system to be patient, for the planet’s space ports are very busy and it can take a while for a shuttle to get clearance to land. Even my family’s famous name and near-endless resources will not get me to the surface faster.
When Father tasked me with visiting Holy Terra to renew our family’s Warrant of Trade for another thousand years, I could not be prouder. It may seem like a mere errand, but the Warrant of Trade is by far House Cortiz’s most prized possession. It is this innocuous document which allows us to roam the depths of space as Rogue Traders; discovering new worlds, expanding the reach of the Imperium, and earning incredible wealth and glory in the process. It has been passed down for uncounted generations, and one day it shall be mine.
Father says our Warrant of Trade expires in ten years and I should not waste time. Now, I understand it can take a while to get anything done on Terra, but ten years? He is exaggerating a bit. He also gave me a budget of 600,000 Thrones for various expenses, which strikes me as rather ludicrous. No matter, an overabundance of time and money is nothing to complain about.
Day 17: I can scarcely believe it took me over two weeks to get from orbit to the surface. Why is there no fast-track system for important people?
In any case, it was well worth the wait. I have visited many hive cities during my twenty-five years, but Holy Terra puts them all to shame. The towers just go up and up and up, the highways are impossibly wide… and the people! The people! Such a wealth of cultures! Tallarn pilgrims buying Elysian blue lobster from an old Catachan’s food cart… the second Lord-Admiral I’ve seen in my whole life, casually sipping his morning tea at a café… I could go on. Perhaps my only disappointment is the air, which is heavily polluted.
When I looked for a place to sleep, I understood why Father gave me a lot of money. The cost of living is exorbitant, even for someone from House Cortiz. The only hotel I found that had any rooms left was a dive by any decent person’s standards, yet it charged a thousand Thrones a night. It is a good thing I will not be staying on Terra very long.
Day 24: After a few days of enjoying the wonders of Terra (Emperor knows I deserve at least this much!), the time came to focus on my mission. Only a High Lord of Terra can grant or renew a Warrant of Trade, meaning that I must obtain an audience with one of these twelve illustrious figures. Unfortunately, after queuing for a solid two hours at the Department of Jurisdictional Affairs, the useless bureaucrat at the desk directed me to the Bureau of Interstellar Trade. Tired and in a bad mood, I decided to get some rest.
Day 26: Waited a whole afternoon in vain after mixing up the Bureau of Interstellar Trade and the Office of Trans-System Commerce. I have yet to figure out the difference between the two, and I suspect one of them is wholly redundant. Is this why our taxes are so high?
Day 27: Six hours of waiting in line today! And what do I have to show for it? I was put on a waiting list for a security screening!
Day 59: After a whole month of waiting, I received a letter at my hotel. Request invalid. Why? Because I forgot to sign one of my identification papers. Stupid [expletive deleted] pen-pushers. I corrected the error and submitted my documents again.
Tomorrow I will look for a longer-term accommodation, like a hab. It seems my stay may be much longer than expected.
Day 98: My documents have been deemed satisfactory by the Lower District 506 Security Board. They need to see me in 20 days for in-person questioning, after which I will be granted a “Yellow Card”. I am not sure what this card is for.
I am trying to see the silver lining in my situation: even weeks after my arrival, Holy Terra remains a source of wonder and amazement. The same cannot be said of the tiny yet overpriced hab in which I am now cramped. Back home, even our servants had more luxurious quarters.
Day 119: I could just cry with rage. I missed my appointment with the Security Board. As I was heading there, I collapsed and fell unconscious. When I awoke in a hospital bed, I was told that prolonged exposure to Terra’s pollution had damaged my lungs. All permanent residents, it seems, have a tracheal implant to filter out toxic gasses. My chirurgeon strongly advised me to get the implant; surgery could take place in seven months. During this time I would need to leave Terra to let my lungs heal. This is, of course, out of the question.
When I came to Terra, I swore to myself I would not use bribes or other unethical means to achieve my goals. Today I broke that promise. I offered the chirurgeon 40,000 Thrones to give me the implant as soon as possible, even if he had to postpone another surgery. I will receive my new implant in three weeks, and wear a respirator at all times until then. In the meantime, I must see if my appointment with the Security Board can be rescheduled.
Hospital bill: 18,951 Thrones.
Day 146: The security appointment could have gone worse. My voice was still a bit hoarse from the tracheal implant, but the officials seemed satisfied with my answers. I was mostly struck by the banality of their questions. I told them nothing that they could not already learn from the myriad forms I filled out these past few weeks.
They had failed to mention that the screening included a rather intrusive physical exam. The least said about that, the better. But I got my Yellow Card… whatever it is for.
Day 153: I spent a whole week entangled in red tape, looking for the elusive Form SRRQ-080-12 that would let me request an audience with a High Lord. I finally met a high-ranking civil servant by the name of Arius Nerico who had heard of the form, though he confessed he had never seen it with his own eyes. In some circles they called it the “Purple Paper”, he told me, and it was almost mythical within the Administratum. He looked shrewdly at me and asked why I needed it. I told him about my family’s Warrant of Trade. He seemed very interested, and made me an outrageous offer: if I married his daughter Deesene, he would see to it that my request for the Purple Paper was treated with the utmost expediency.
The nerve of him! To think that House Cortiz would mix its ancient and noble blood with a family of mere bureaucrats, all to get some stupid form faster? What did he expect when he made his offer? I will try to obtain the Purple Paper via another bureau.
Day 219: I have not updated my log in a while. My days are filled with waiting lines and paperwork, and whenever I retreat to the tiny hab I call home, I just collapse into bed. The stress of Terra must have aged me a decade in mere months. I am balding prematurely and have lost a lot of weight. I drink too much. Tomorrow there will be more waiting lines.
By this point, I have spent most of my money on bribes and day-to-day expenses, while barely making any headway. I am wondering if Form SRRQ-080-12 even exists.
Day 251: I have found employment providing security at a seedy gambling den. Not so long ago, such a lowly use for my combat training would have been unthinkable, but money is running out and I am growing desperate. At my current salary, I need to work about 200 hours a week to break even. The problem is that there are only 168 hours in a week.
Day 359: As the first year of my mission draws to a close, I am newly homeless, penniless and jobless. Tomorrow I will look for Arius Nerico and ask if his offer still stands. I dearly hope marriage to his daughter includes a roof over our heads.
Day 360: Yes, Nerico’s offer was still open! I suspect the sly bastard knew that desperation would eventually change my mind. Nerico assured me that I would always have a place to live as long as I remained his daughter’s husband, and that he looked forward for a bright future for our two families. He looked damn proud of himself. Not a lot of pen-pushers like him get to marry one of their children to a future Rogue Trader.
Day 366: Nerico must have a magical touch when it comes to bureaucracy; he managed to have my marriage approved in less than a week! This makes me optimistic about my chances to get the Purple Paper.
The quick and informal ceremony took place this very afternoon. Deesene is rather plain-looking, but quick-witted and intelligent. I could grow to like her. More importantly, she has a hab. She works for the Administratum, like her father, and is willing to guide me through the bureaucratic [expletive deleted] of Terra. For example, I learned through her that I was misled by the Bureau of Interstellar Trade: getting a Yellow Card was never necessary.
I swear to the Emperor that when I am through with this planet, I shall burn it to the ground.
Day 381: I have it. I have the Purple Paper. It looks much less impressive than I thought it would. I filled it out in triplicate and sent it via the proper channels, with some help from Deesene and her father. They told me about the Bureau of Obsolete Weights and Measures, a deceptively-named and quasi-clandestine network of elite bureaucrats whose sole purpose was to fast-track the requests of whoever had enough political clout or bribed the right people. If only I still had money to bribe people with… Until I can fix this situation, the Purple Paper will remain in limbo, but at least I put it in safe hands for the time being.
Day 760: At the dawn of my third year on Terra, I have found an odd sense of peace (or perhaps resignation) with my situation. Father knew what he was sending me into when he gave me ten years and over half a million Thrones; I was the one being overconfident. Now I bide my time, and work odd jobs of dubious legality trying to earn money for bribes. My father-in-law Arius says he cannot do much to speed up the bureaucratic process until the right palms are greased. I can tell he is just as keen as I am to see me succeed: if my Warrant of Trade expires, my house is no longer a Rogue Trader house, and his daughter’s marriage loses its value.
Speaking of Deesene, she believes she is pregnant.
Day 840: I have been growing complacent. It is tempting to become comfortable with my stable, married life, and to forget what I came here for. But I am not earning enough money to afford the prices of the Bureau of Obsolete Weights and Measures. I will see if my wife’s extensive knowledge of Terra’s import laws can help me set up a business. If I am to be a Rogue Trader someday, trying my hand at commerce will benefit me.
Day 1018: Two good news in one day. My dear wife Deesene has given birth to a healthy girl (I will name her Fara), and my nascent molybdenum import operation has just signed a lucrative contract with Mars.
Day 1026: Arius introduced me to Quirinius, his contact within the Bureau of Obsolete Weights and Measures. The bribe requested by Quirinius was quite extravagant: most of my last year’s earnings, and a promise to one day marry my newborn daughter to his as-yet-unborn grandson. I tried to bargain it down, but he would not hear it.
Before I came to Terra, I believed that deals where you pledged your firstborn child only existed in fanciful tales.
Day 1050: Quirinius came to me with a somber look to tell me that my request had stalled at a higher level. His direct superior, High Commissioner Jarven, wanted a bribe too. Quirinius added in a conspiratorial tone that in the event of Jarven’s untimely death, he would be promoted to acting High Commissioner and would move the request along in no time.
I believe he was joking, but if so, he is a master of deadpan.
Day 1054: The more I think about it, the more I suspect Quirinius was serious.
Day 1057: High Commissioner Jarven tragically died from a gas leak in his hovercar.
Day 1060: Acting High Commissioner Quirinius’s efforts have paid off, and my request for an audience with one of the High Lords (namely, the Master of the Administratum) has been approved in a matter of days. The Master will grant me a seven-minute audience in about a year and a half.
Day 1322: My molybdenum import business is thriving. I am richer than when I first arrived on Terra, and I have earned every Throne of it myself. My wife and I are planning to move to a bigger hab. Little Fara is making her first steps. In preparation for my audience with the Master of the Administratum, I have been receiving private classes in rhetoric and argumentation. I only get one chance at this.
Day 1876: Mere days before my long-awaited audience, I have been informed that the Master of the Administratum cleared his calendar to deal with a crisis. I must start again from scratch. Now that I have contacts in the Administratum, experience in its labyrinthine processes and vast funds for bribes, I trust I can get my audience rescheduled in a matter of weeks.
Day 1930: One day I will learn to stop tempting fate.
Day 2251: The Bureau of Obsolete Weights and Measures has been shut down in one of the Administratum’s sporadic crackdowns on corruption. Word is that Quirinius is in prison, but Arius assures me that the secret shortcut through the red tape always returns somehow. He is prepared to rebuild it himself, provided he gets enough funding for bribes, paperwork forgery, salaries and running costs. Thankfully, money is not what I lack. We spent most of last night plotting the establishment of an Office of Handwriting Legibility Standards.
Yes, we are founding a whole new Administratum office just to get a form approved. After over six years on Terra, no measure seems unreasonable.
Day 2252: Make it the Department of Handwriting Legibility Standards. The Office already exists.
Day 2401: The Department is running smoothly, with Arius Nerico at the helm and myself as the secret financial backer. A new audience with the Master of the Administratum has been scheduled in fourteen months; unfortunately, even with all the bribes, our tiny Department lacks the influence to make it happen faster. I no longer mind. I have quite a comfortable life on Terra with Deesene, Fara and our twin boys. We have moved into the upper hive, among some of the richest and most powerful people in the Imperium. My import business brings in over 400,000 Thrones a month. It feels good to drink fine wine and have servants again.
Day 2783: Ruined! Molybdenum prices have collapsed due to oversupply, forcing me to sell my business at a steep loss. I should have diversified my trade goods. We must return to a life of squalor in the lower habs. I keep courage, however. My audience is only weeks away.
Day 2824: Tomorrow is the big day. Over seven years of effort are about to pay off. I can barely sleep… One misstep in the Master’s office, and everything will have been in vain.
Day 2825: Today I faced the Master of the Administratum in one of the highest towers of the vast Imperial Palace. An almost religious sense of awe washed over me as I took the supersonic elevator to an office that millions sought out, but so few ever saw. My legs trembled and my heart thumped in my ears as I tread the echoing marble tiles of the vast antechamber. All my years on Terra, all my struggles, have been a pilgrimage of sorts.
A pilgrimage to get some stupid paper from a bureaucrat.
A liveried secretary opened the door for me, and I stepped into a surprisingly small and austere office. The wizened Master of the Administratum looked up from the pile of scrolls on his desk, gestured at me to be silent, and made me wait several minutes while he searched his drawers for my file. He opened the file, gave one quick look inside, and said irritably:
“You are wasting my valuable time, Mr. Cortiz.”
“Pardon me?” I stammered.
“Your Warrant of Trade does not need to be renewed. It says here that it is set to renew for another thousand years upon its date of expiration, unless you formally request to let it end.” He gave me a stern glare. “Don’t you busy off-worlders ever bother to read the fine print?”
I felt numb as I walked out of the Master’s office and took the elevator to ground level. Just as I exited the Imperial Palace, a dam burst inside me. I collapsed into a gale of laughter, drawing confused looks from palace guards.
Tonight I am going to buy seats on the next shuttle that can take me, my wife and my children off this planet.
I am going to return to my homeworld.
I will walk triumphant into House Cortiz’s mighty starship, the Argo.
I will shove Father in the airlock and eject him into the void.
I will take command of the Argo, by the power vested in me by the Warrant of Trade.
I will return to Terra.
AND I WILL BOMB THIS ENTIRE PLANET BACK INTO THE STONE AGE.
.
|
