--> Onwards to the next installment: AGENT 2
It's an official BADGE, held in someone's firm HAND, as seen from:
# A door's PEEPHOLE.
The door CRASHES OPEN!
A man YELLS!
(Voice Over, mature)
Aunt Nel said this job was about fixing the Galaxy, 1 blasted planet at a time.
(Point of View) The well-dressed (30s) MARK1 throws a heavy BOTTLE at him!
He (young/athletic, in waiter uniform) DODGES, points his combat KNIFE.
FLASHBACK:
An auburn-haired death GODDESS (30s) TEACHES mixed martial ARTS (the practical/dirty way) to 3 physically fit KIDS.
1 of the kids receives a KICK to the teeth.
BACK TO:
Spitting BLOOD, RETREATING into the BALCONY:
He JUMPS OUT!
LEAPING in pursuit after CLIPPING a fat REEL-like GADGET to the balcony's METALWORK:
Still at great height, both men FALL FAST, about 2 stories apart. Agent's belt CLIPPED to a 'monofilament safety' CABLE reeling taut behind/above him.
She was nobody's aunt, but she taught us well.
He FIRES a grappling-GUN at MARK1, catching his FOOT with another 'monofil' CABLE, then pulls (with both hands), STRAINING, slows the other's fall down a bit.
FLASHBACK:
Another of the kids prone on his bed CARVES w/ a small KNIFE a HEART symbol on the WOODEN wall above his pillow, where an old 'school' PAD displays:
HISTORY LESSON #219:
Anacreon Province comes back into
the fold after new Treaty signed. faintly illuminating his efforts.
What more can orphans want?
Appearing from nowhere, the GODDESS KICKS him hard enough to send him (+ knife + pad) flying to the ground!
BACK TO:
MARK1 mightily STRUGGLES to FREE his foot, finally SUCCEEDS 5-6 stories above street level!
He brutally CRASHES screaming on a parked CAR, startling passersby!!
SLOWING his descent (w/ the cable) almost to a halt, then discreetly ENTERING an open 3rd floor BALCONY (not far from a big 'spaceship+sun' FLAG):
1 thing he got right.
An official-looking closed FOLDER (w/ 'spaceship+sun' LOGO + red
Confidential label)
titled:
Case File:
the Front-loaded
dodgy Soothsayer
STAMP it:
CLOSED (big red lettering)
On a wall, under FLAKY strata of less old posters, a time-ravaged old POSTER, half-DEFACED with a crude/blotchy painted RAVEN:
SELDON LIVES!
50th anniversary
In (drab) worker's CLOTHES + CAP, carrying a big GYM BAG, hurrying past:
Amazing how some people cling to the most absurd beliefs. The Empire isn't Falling, and mathematical predictions about the future of the whole Galaxy must be among the most unlikely hoaxes of all time.
FLASHBACK:
A wall SCREEN displays:
IMPERIAL NEWS:
Dawn of a new era: provincial Governors, Prefects, and
Viceroys, together with the Imperial Court and the Emperor,
pledge to keep the Empire whole by any means necessary. + pics of Imperial flags, cities, WARSHIPS...
1 of the taller boys, oblivious to his peers, DRINKS his red-orangish juice glass, eyes on the GODDESS. She stares him down.
BACK TO:
His PHONE buzzes softly (from an inner pocket). He takes it.
A message:
Report immediately
for next assignment!
Aunt Nel told me about the lucky bastard who caught Raven Seldon. Coup of a lifetime!
He turns a corner to:
In regular COMMUTER outfit + umbrella:
Most of us spend our whole careers without ever getting any sort of publicity.
A sleek ORNATE 'future-vintage' open-platform HOVERTRAIN (automated, mostly empty) FLOATS by, slows down.
He HOPS in, SITS. (rainwater on flooring but not on seats)
Faces anonymous, cases secret, successes unacknowledged, failures erased at all costs.
He CHECKS a battered NEWS-PAD:
SUICIDE FALL + MARK1's photo.
AFTER ALLEGED SCAM
SWITCHES it to:
IMPERIAL NEWS:
Revolts and a renewed zeal for autonomy
spread like wildfire around the Periphery!
What will the Prefects and the Fleet do?
His reward? 30 minutes of fame + 30 years tour of duty patrolling the Inner & Outer Belts. A sinecure, after the Core's high game.
He REVIEWS a scrap of paper:
Investor advice: prepare for the imminent Fall
of the Emperor and his corrupt Government.
He CRUMPLES it into a small tight PELLET.
For a dedicated Agent, having too few Cases to handle, bordering on uselessness, is worse than Death.
FAR ahead on a wide building, a big luminous BANNER:
SPACEPORT
Watching the train LEAVE:
At least he lived to old age, unlike Aunt Nel.
He caresses a clear plastic PEBBLE preserving a LOCK of auburn HAIR.
A NEWSSTAND prominently DISPLAYS:
IMPERIAL FAMILY
departs for
SUMMER PLANETS.
COURT soon
to FOLLOW
HALF-YEAR PARTY
almost READY
All NEWS here!
Flashing a multi-layered BADGE:
BUREAU OF
TRANSPORTATION he's summarily SCANNED then WAVED thru by the bored (armed) GUARDS.
If you don't like the rules, don't play this game.
He calmly WALKS under the wide overarching check-in METAL/Weapons DETECTORS, stops on hearing the soft PING-PING-PING of courteous alarms, waiting for the inevitable.
Nobody comes!
AGENT LOOKS 'round. At the far side of the check-in BOOTHS, near the CONVEYOR w/ his bag, 2 Customs OFFICERS (man + woman?) by a table w/ a coffee MACHINE, chatting animatedly, watching nearby TV, oblivious to their duty.
He WALKS fast to them, FLASHES his knife, STICKS it into the TABLE almost slicing someone's FINGERS!
(cool)
My service weapon. I got the Permit. For the others too.
Moments later, coffee CUP in hand, bag (w/ a
Customs Approved SEAL) on shoulder, he WALKS onto a long moving sidewalk.
Ahead, a SIGN:
EMBARKING GATES
Near it (blinking):
15 MINUTES to LIFT-OFF
Case File:
the careless
Customs Officer
STAMP it:
SOLVED
In black commando-ish ATTIRE, contemplating:
Every case is different. Criminals each have their own backgrounds, methods, goals... Yet sometimes there's a certain... sameness.
He turns 'round. MARK2 (40s, in expensive underwear) HANGS gagged & tied UPSIDE DOWN from the nearest TREE. (w/ rope, face 2-3 handspans from the ground)
A private park in a private city, untouched by economic troubles, perfect in all respects... except for invader cockroaches like you.
A light BREEZE rustles dry LEAVES on the ground.
Fitting that I wake you up here, far from everything. For 2 decades you went undetected. Scamming travelers, deceiving merchants and insurers, confounding Authorities... Then you got ambitious.
MARK2 hmpfs.
Selling false Bonds, smuggling artistic imitations, then drugs, then false drugs. Cleverly slipping thru the gaps in inter-jurisdictional Trade around 7 different Sectors and dozens of planets.
He makes MARK2 turn on his rope.
(grim)
It's not the 3 months I spent tracking your Fronts and your network of contacts, nor the realization that most of your clients are as shady as yourself...
MARK2 grunts. Unseen creatures of the night softly WHISTLE/call.
But the impossibility of sending you to Trial, public or not. If Judges, Police, or the Press learnt what really happened at those Hospitals... who was ultimately responsible... whole planets could go up in flames!
He kicks MARK2!
He pull-removes MARK2's gag, shows him his combat knife, CLOSE to the eyes.
(scared righteous)
Not my fault that there isn't enough for everybody! The system's broken! It's everyone for themselves! All those I duped fully deserved what they got! They're the criminals! You waste your time!
CLICKING a small REMOTE:
The holo-park VANISHES, revealing in its place:
AGENT & MARK2 surrounded by a loose circle of 45+ members of a savage-looking URBAN TRIBE! (tattooed torsos/arms, skin/leather trousers, combat BOOTS, chains, warpaint, bones + feathers, weird hairdos, bits of armor, long knives, axes, crossbows, flechette guns, spears, longbows, clubs, machetes...)
(sneaky)
Of all the clients you scalped, these were the most handy, only a few Jumps away, and they haven't forgotten you, nor the trash you sold 'em.
His rope vanishing into the ceiling, struggling against his bonds:
For all that they despise the Law, or modern expensive weaponry, they appear to be pretty sharp businesspeople. I find their claim on you... appealing.
He PATS his chest (near the heart).
Tribe members APPROACH cautiously, make NOISES with their chains or weapons SCRAPING the floor...
STRUGGLING:
Reaching up to a dangling loop of cable:
Too little too late. But fret not: I dosed you with a good painkiller, you won't feel a thing until the very end.
He CLICKS his REMOTE. The cable LIFTS him away.
Alone & DESPERATE:
Reaching the ceiling CRANE:
The stinking scum is not wholly wrong: he's but 1 of many. Things are bad and getting worse.
Below, the tribe closely SURROUNDS their prey, CHANTING.
Crane-SLIDING to the nearest wall:
About 25 million inhabited worlds, 11 million of them in the Inner & Outer Cores, home to the 3000 more populous cities in the Galaxy.
Reaching a high slender CATWALK:
WALKING fast yet quietly, PAD in hand:
Local Police Forces struggle with all the common criminals, even with the Army's help. It's a race to the bottom in most places.
SCREAMS resound as the tribe HOOTS, HARASSES & POKES their prize.
The Governors and the Fleet handle the Interstellar evildoers, smugglers, Pirates, sporadic Revolts, and such... with varied success.
OPENING a small access PORT at the catwalk's end:
Everything else that escapes 'em: the sly, the unusual, the out-of-bounds, the Empire-threatening... falls on us.
EXITING to a tall service LADDER (ceiling to floor):
All 10000-odd of us. There used to be more, but our attrition rate is as staggering as the Service's backlog.
He CLOSES the port. SILENCE.
Better not to think too much about some things.
He DESCENDS the ladder. Barely noticeable HUM of big MACHINERY.
Checking his pad's Video-feed:
He blabs: Hollow threats, lies, names, prayers... Hard to know which is which.
WATCHING the impressive cloudless STARRY NIGHT thru a sturdy round WINDOW:
At least the screams seem genuine.
He KEYS the pad. It displays:
STERILIZE & VENT
MAIN CARGO HOLD
(Y/N)?
Time to check the recordings later.
A PUFF of (dusty) air/smoke + some FLAMES + a bunch of bodies EXIT the ship's big open cargo DOORS, FLOAT in the void.
In space nobody can hear you scream.
BACK TO:
Ship's light TREMBLING subsides.
The pad shows the EMPTY 'warehouse' (still smoky, w/ dying FLAMES), the charred remains of the rope...
I'd hate to do the paperwork on this mess.
He SWITCHES the view to the outside of the ship.
Focus/mark the floating BODIES.
COUNTING:
45, 46...
He barely EVADES a machete-wielding TRIBE WARRIOR at his back! The MACHETE knocks the PAD away!
AGENT KICKS! The warrior BLOCKS, then THRUSTSLASHES!
AGENT TACKLES! They FALL together in a wrestling KNOT!
Another TRIBE WARRIOR appears (woman? lightly charred & smoking), snarls, SPEAR in hand!
AGENT wrestles the 1st into the spear's PATH, but the warrior manages to DISENTANGLE!
The spearpoint HITS AGENT's chest, ripping his SHIRT, but is DEFLECTED by a big ENVELOPE, which falls to the ground, disgorging a wealth of colorfully engraved & stamped
PROVINCIAL TREASURY
BONDS & OBLIGATIONS documents.
AGENT draws his Blaster, SHOOTS both warriors, DOWNING 'em!
Getting up, Blasting 'em both again (just in case):
47 and 48. It pays to be thorough!
He retrieves his battered (cracked) PAD, checks it & the (bloody) GASHES on his clothing (small faint SCARS glimpsed).
Crazy retrogrades!
He gathers the BONDS from the (stained) envelope.
As for their dirty bribe money...
FLASHBACK:
The GODDESS in a passionate nude EMBRACE with an athletic YOUTH (face unseen). Small not-so-faint SCARS visible on both.
Halcyon Orphan House
-=-
DELICASS
For you, Nel. A life of Service!
Also, 2 Case Files:
the High-stakes
Counterfeiter
+
the Human
trafficking Gang
STAMP 'em:
CLOSED
1 blasted thing or 2 at a time!
A 3rd Case File:
the Exceedingly wealthy
Trade Commissioner
STAMP it:
OPEN
Further away, dwarfing even the biggest FREIGHTERS, floats a giant wireframey modular CUBE-FROM-CUBES (intersected? 3 365m-wide per edge, +8 10%-bigger VERTICES), w/ cylindrical (windowed) STRUTS connecting its vertices (tesseract-like) to a central INNER CUBE. All SHINY-STEEL, snugly enveloped by a big nearly-transparent spherical SHIELD.
The Cubes, 1 of the biggest and most luxurious orbitals in the Empire, built more than 10 centuries ago.
The Shield PARTS a bit to let a big golden Yatch DOCK at 1 vertex.
A tailored-g Relax & Recreation haven, high-flying Casino, and neutral meeting ground for the restless ruling classes of the Galaxy.
A cloud of WARSHIPS big & small (w/ varied ENSIGNS, incl. the Empire's 'spaceship+sun') SURROUND/guard the whole area.
The price of admission? A trifle for those busy pooling enough firepower to fend off even the boldest and strongest interlopers, including their own peers.
The Shield SHRINKS to under the vertices, FLARES, hardening, becomes half-opaque, CRUMPLING the sturdy metal cubes & the cylindrical struts!
Safest place in 15 Provinces, not too newsworthy, until last month.
The Shield becomes transparent, ripples, SHRINKS again, HARDENS again, nearly SEVERING what's left of the cylindrical struts, CRUMPLING more cubes, causing (small) EXPLOSIONS!!
A trillion credits of historical artifact crumpled to scrap or blown up in smoke, in the blink of an eye.
A big 'DAILY NEWS' screen showing the carnage (from several angles), CAPTIONED:
26834 people killed, including the Chief of Operations and the Managing Director.
BACK TO:
Finally, the Shield SHRINKS to half-inside the inner cube, FLARES/HARDENS again, CRUMPLEXPLODING it!!!
Only 217 survivors in what Officials are calling a freak accident of centuries-old systems.
BACK TO:
As the Cubes BURN and/or VENT debris, BUNCHES of the surrounding warships manoeuver, start SHOOTING at each other!!!!
Others think more likely an operator error, also known as sabotage. It nearly started, or restarted, 10 different wars.
Alone (in tunic-ish suit w/ badge, weaponless) reviewing the FIREFIGHT on his PAD:
With a few dozen Princes, Nobles & government Ministers of diverse Provinces among the dead, plus several Generals, Fleet Captains, 4 starlets and 2 Imperial Agents (of different Services), there's no shortage of suspects.
LISTING a long stream of NAMES + bio DATA on the pad:
Everybody's checking their enemies, allies, relatives, servants, acquaintances...
Navigating MENUS:
As for the main victim... it may not be so simple.
Pad SCREEN:
Hexahedron Interplanetary Holdings
Operational & Financial Reports
A money trail is as good as a blood trail.
Page after page after page of raw CODES & NUMBERS, w/ some DATES & GRAPHS.
If someone can read it.
The lift STOPS, its doors OPEN to:
As a series of Red, Green & Blue LASER-LATTICE BARRIERS part to let him thru, then REFORM behind him:
A wrong move here would hurt.
At the end, a last LASER BARRIER stays CLOSED.
BEYOND:
A lone GLASS DESK at the center, w/ an ornate official TITLE + a big holo (3D) SCREEN full of GRAPHS.
Standing behind, in semi-formal tunic-ish SUIT (w/ BAND + 'spaceship+sun' LAPEL PIN), working the table-top CONSOLE:
He COMMANDS the LASER BARRIER to OPEN.
ENTERING:
CLOSING his Screen + the Laser Barrier:
I'm only receiving you because I owed you, for saving my career from those absurd accusations of Graft.
My Supervisor moved to Trantor 3 years ago to fill a vacancy. Someone had to take the reins here, but we struggle without him, and the replacements we were promised aren't likely to arrive soon, despite our being a Provincial Capital.
OFFERING his Pad:
I only need to understand the Cubes' true role in the scheme of things, and what the impact of its destruction is likely to be.
PERUSING the Pad:
The Space Casino? Forget it: not even the Emperor and his accountants know that. These 'documents' are complete fabrications devised by the best professional liars money can buy.
RETURNING the Pad:
That place hasn't paid proper Taxes in generations. Nobody knows what it really earned nor how.
Of course. But millions changed hands in there every day, billions every year. That kind of money isn't easy to hide. There can only be 1 reason the Empire has allowed it all.
From Trantor, most likely. 1 of the High Lords, perhaps. They trade in planets, Sectors and Provinces, after all. Bankrolling the Emperor and his cronies, and supplying warships and armies if needed, has its benefits.
Considering:
I can beg my former Supervisor to receive you. He works for the Court's Data Analysts, the only ones with any clue about how the Empire really runs under all the glitter and drama.
They may refuse to risk their careers, or their lives, helping you. There's a... complex relationship with the Government and the Noblemen who despise 'em when they aren't bribing 'em.
He TURNS to leave.
REOPENING his Screen + the Laser Barrier:
'All stars lead to Trantor, where all roads end.'
He folds/SHUTS OFF his Pad, smiles.
I'll get to visit the center of everything before I die.
15-20 stories above street level, MODULAR glass-canopied commuter HOVERTRAINS (automated, not-too-fast) come & go on their gently-curved glassy PLATFORMS.
CAPTION:
TRANTOR
FADE IN:
Imperial Capital
FADE IN:
Net worth: uncountable
FADE IN:
17452 Open Cases
Descending the wide STEPS to the TRAIN STOP perched high on the marble-glass facade of an OFFICE BUILDING (with a big
DATA EXCHANGE
&
CLEARINGHOUSE banner + 'spaceship+sun' FLAGS:
Most bureaucratic Castes got a well-deserved reputation for unhelpfulness bordering on contempt of the Law. Even worse than most Imperial Agencies.
In his hand, a DOSSIER w/ 10s of (flimsy plastic) pages entitled:
The 300 richest Families
in the Empire.
- - Complete listing - -
Fiscal year 12154
Perusing it:
I wasn't expecting a lot, but this... this must be a joke!
A (mostly soundless) train ARRIVES. Canopies OPEN. People DEBARK, EMBARK.
He boards a squarish MODULE (half-empty, near the front), SITS.
The train ACCELERATES smoothly.
REVIEWING page after page:
What a waste of Official stationery and Seals!
The train DECELERATES, reaches its next STOP.
EXAMINING his surroundings:
Hmm, not the route to Agency HeadQuarters!
He DEBARKS.
Just before the canopies CLOSE, an athletic (black-haired) girl (SHADOW) in discreet tracksuit-like garb (w/ turtleneck), carrying a slender, meter-long CYLINDER slung across her back (bandolier-style) DEBARKS (from the rear modules).
The train RESTARTS.
STUDYING 1 of the (interactive) POSTER SCHEMATIC MAPS:
Interesting!
He SECURES the documents into his jacket, ADVANCES towards her.
SHADOW barely hesitates, JUMPS the stop's chest-high (glassy) PARAPETS onto the train platform, RUNS away! (her footsteps almost like musical notes)
Pursuing:
Hey!
She accelerates!
Soon, another (automated) hovertrain APPROACHES both runners. It FLASHES warning lights, starts BRAKING.
SHADOW jumps/somersaults onto its (low) front windshield/canopy! (barely skidding)
AGENT barely hesitates, FOLLOWS suit!! (almost gracefully)
After HOPPING on the canopies to about mid-train, she extracts a thin long SWORD from (the bottom of) her cylinder, FACES him (pokerfaced).
From the canopy ahead, (slightly winded) Blaster in hand:
(loud)
Who are ...?
The train SHUDDERS slightly.
Her (differently CODED) module STOPS TRAILING his just before reaching a JUNCTION!
His half of the train takes 1 way (at full speed), hers the other!
He AIMS his gun as the distance with her grows, hesitates, finally doesn't shoot.
Her train about to turn a distant corner, SHADOW SALUTES him with her sword.
Damn!
AGENT, dossier in hand, DEBARKS a train onto a building's mid-facade STOP.
With a DRINK (in a plastic vase), SEATED on the ample entrance steps under the
Central Imperial Agency banner, SHADOW awaits!
(loud)
You!?
She half-smiles, THROWS her vase at him, nimbly JUMPS over the (metal) GUARDRAILS, out into the void!
He DODGES, hurries to LOOK from the guardrail as SHADOW SKIDS fast (head-1st yet controlled) DOWN the building's metal-glass facade, still 10+ stories above the street!
Nice trick!
He HOLDS the documents with his teeth, CLIPS his 'monofilament safety' CABLE to the guardrails, JUMPS too!
SHADOW LANDS near a corner, RUNS away around it!
AGENT RAPPEL-lands, UNCLIPS his cable, RUNS to the corner! (SECURING the documents into his jacket)
The outer half of each wide sidewalk is MOVING STRIPS of progressive speed (un-separated, not too crowded, 1 direction per side) separated from cars by shoulder-high glassy PARAPETS.
SHADOW races on the MOVING SIDEWALKS, skirting pedestrians (some chat w others, or read newspads), CHANGING lanes to the fastest, or near it, w/ practiced EASE.
15 steps behind (not w/out EFFORT):
(loud)
STOP!!
On reaching a SIDE STREET between giant BUILDINGS (residential-y more than office-y), the moving sidewalks turn into slower 'landing' STRIPS. People WALK across the street while cars WAIT (hovercars above FLOW unimpeded).
SHADOW hops onto the slowest lane, then beyond the corner!
AGENT FOLLOWS, Blaster cautiously DRAWN.
No sign of her, barely any traffic or pedestrians. A well-armed POLICE PATROLSHIP hovers high between the buildings.
On both (fixed) sidewalks 10s of people EXIT/ENTER wide UNDERGROUND entrances...
At the nearest, several 'exiters' are out-of-step, LOOKING down/behind 'em.
AGENT barrels down the entrance's gentle RAMP.
GLIMPSES of SHADOW running among them. He PURSUES past a big busy side tunnel w/ a banner:
Sector
Train Station
C
(Sublevel 6)
At the farthest corner, just before turning it, she LOOKS BACK.
RUNNING:
(loud)
Imperial Agency! Make WAY!!
A busy restaurant/takeaway:
The Fungal Mat
DELICATESSEN
for all budgets
Another:
Breakfast & Club
Another:
*Cosmic Soup*
SHADOW runs past 'em along a gently downsloping CORRIDOR, turns another corner.
He reaches the corner, but there's several JUNCTIONS, LIFTS & STAIRS w/ colorful SIGNS like
Shopping Mall E34J67,
Residential Complex AJ874k,
School W342N564,
Solarium 43GH76, 10s of people around, NO sign of her.
He STOPS, looks 'round.
The city under the City!
There's an ECHO of running FOOTSTEPS. He FOLLOWS it.
AGENT descends some stairs to a LONG corridor, runs past a WHIRRING golf-cart-ish VEHICLE (cleaning the walls), strains to LISTEN at side tunnels/ramps with big BANNERS like
Geothermal Plant H17B14,
Atmospheric Control NB5760
Yeast Vats 42859271,
Protein Farms 324567719, turns another corner.
He stops again, LISTENS. No footsteps, only a faint WHIZZZ.
Nearby, he finds a STALL with ~10 electric (3-wheeled) SCOOTERS (+ as many voids), takes 1. It doesn't START until he SWEEPS his BADGE over the small 'ID+payment' onboard CONSOLE. It LITS with a convoluted MAP.
He ACCELERATES (w/ his own WHIZZZ) along the next tunnel, from time to time passing a pedestrian, or COASTING with his motor idled to LISTEN for the other elusive whizzz.
Ahead, a big overhead SIGN:
Freight Port 3GB52
A heavy CARGO SPACESHIP (350x250x150? meters, boxy/polyhedric, small wings) DESCENDS towards a faraway 'small' ROUND OPENING in the uneven/hilly bright white-y SURFACE COVER, escorted by several PATROLS. Strong whine of (constant) WIND.
CAPTION:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
Proceed along assigned flight path.
BACK TO:
After a long distance w/ several turns & intersections:
An abandoned electric SCOOTER (still warm) not far from a firmly-closed (metal) ACCESS DOOR (AGENT tests it).
Farther away:
A slightly ajar SERVICE hatch.
CAPTION:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
Landing slot ready. Watch angle and speed!
Crawling along, FLASHLIGHT held in mouth:
Not the glittering Trantor I hoped to see!
The ship FLOATS THRU (margins half as wide) TO:
The cargo ship DESCENDS (gravitics, not rocketry) to a big CIRCLE (30-50% wider) on the surface.
Customs Inspectors + a PLATOON of SOLDIERS approach it.
Nearby, another (much smaller) cargo ship DEPARTS towards the open ceiling.
AGENT walks (as quietly as possible) on a metal-grille CATWALK along the top of a big SEMITRANSPARENT TUBE that occupies most of the tunnel, STRAINING to hear faint 'metallic' FOOTSTEPS.
Past an Access Hatch on the floor:
DANGER: partial Vacuum!
Authorized Personnel with
protective equipment ONLY!
The inside of the big tube gets suddenly ILLUMINATED. A SIREN SCREAMS! Again & again!
Inside the tube, a massive FREIGHT TRAIN (25-35 connected CYLINDERS, each about as tall & wide as the tube, 3-4 times long) WHOOSHES at speed!!
Illumination fades again. AGENT trots past several (dark) side ACCESS TUNNELS, shining his FLASHLIGHT on 'em, until:
Several of the big 'plastic' tubes start/end there, (capped w/ iris SEALS).
A massive FREIGHT CYLINDER (12x12x60m? on temp wheels) stopped, open, half-loaded w/ large CONTAINERS (of varied sizes/makes).
Descending a tall rung LADDER:
Getting somewhere!
A heavily-armed GUARD signals to see his permit.
SHOWING a
SAFETY Inspector BADGE:
(commanding)
The girl?
The Guard EYES behind, past a huge side TUNNEL w/ plenty fat PIPES + a
Sea Cistern N6 BANNER.
Another big Freight Train (10+ cylinders) PARKED nearby (on a sturdy temporary wheeled platform) venting plenty VAPOR, connected to heavy CABLING & GENERATORS, under a
DANGER
Electric Shock! sign.
More well-armed Guards.
4-5 big round TUNNELS exit the far end of the artificial cavern, under a wide (industrial-style) 10-story FACADE, w/ 'fire escape' metal STAIRS all the way up. SHADOW's climbing 'em.
AGENT runs after an empty/open freight cylinder en route to enter 1 of the far-end tunnels, hitches a ride on it as she enters a FIRE DOOR near the top of the facade.
The CIRCLE of 'floor' under the lone cargo ship UNLOCKS (icy vapor released), starts DESCENDING with it!
The FIRE DOOR at its end OPENS. AGENT enters, Blaster pointing ahead.
Mid-corridor, facing him, arms crossed:
AGENT advances, but, EXITING from a side door:
Another 3 (well armed & armored) surround AGENT, who FLASHES his
Central Imperial Agency BADGE.
They don't budge!
Resigned, AGENT gives 'em his Blaster.
He's FRISKED, his combat knife TAKEN.
Whoopsy.
They release AGENT, who approaches:
(upset?)
What does all this mean?
She (still w/ her cylinder) LEADS him to the DOUBLE DOOR (fine wood) at the far end of the corridor.
Halfway up 1 side, a large BLASTPROOF PANORAMIC WINDOW among many normal ones.
Both FLOODLIGHTS + a ring of BLAST CANNONS (halfway up the walls) closely TRACK:
The heavy CARGO SPACESHIP parked on the circular TOP of the (leisurely) DESCENDING column.
Everybody & everything gets ready.
The wide panoramic window is a whole wall of:
On a side table rest a ceremonial SWORD, an ornate CAPE w/ small 'spaceship+sun' EMBLEM, a golden CHAIN of OFFICE + a long STAFF, a glass JAR filled with layers of variously-hued SAND...
An OLD white-haired COURTIER (60s, balding, plump? conservatively yet exquisitely DRESSED) stands by the window contemplating the ship, or perhaps the illuminated SHAFT it came thru.
The well-armed GUARD by the DOUBLE DOOR (opposite the window) OPENS it, EXITS.
SHADOW + AGENT enter. The doors CLOSE.
GENUFLECTING (on left knee & hand):
My Lord: our visitor is here, with the list.
Still looking outside:
A Project exists, old as the Empire itself, to rob our great star of a mere 10% of its Hydrogen fuel, to reduce its excess energy output, its radiation, its luminosity... and significantly extend its lifetime.
The ship REACHES the floor, 10+ big GRAPPLING ARMS secure it in place, a COMPLEX (barely noisy) DANCE of people & machines BEGINS around it. All over & under, large cargo DOORS & access PORTS are quickly removed, LIFTED away.
(Off Screen)
We could power Trantor for 10000 generations, easily, without outside help. But it's never been attempted due to costs, complexity, the price of failure... and plenty other business to attend to.
The ship's bountiful CARGO exposed, it begins to be swiftly DISPATCHED around & to the waiting freight wagons. A well organized & practiced CHAOS.
BACK TO:
TURNING:
Respectfully GENUFLECTING too:
High Lord Vonde Chen, my Lord! Your Father and your Grandfather sponsored the Agency while helping run the Empire itself!
My Family isn't as important as it once was, or perhaps priorities aren't the same. The Government and the Commission of Public Safety are busy enough with all the Political intrigues. I'm in charge of the vast network of starships that keeps this bottomless pit of a planet alive and ticking, so there can be Imperial Politics.
There was a seaport here, and beaches, millennia ago, before the Golden Ages. Finest fish on the planet, records say. Our wise ancestors emptied the seas and built more City in their place. This arrangement is more efficient, we have 100s of these Ports, but it is still a struggle to keep our multitudes fed and productive. If anything jeopardizes my mission, I must overcome it at all costs.
Freight cylinders start to FILL. The ship's still more than 80% full.
BACK TO:
I understand, my Lord. I shall bother you no more, and be away on my own mission, by your leave.
This demands maximum discretion. I am -- was -- the majority owner of the space Resort commonly known as The Cubes, which played a significant role in facilitating the delicate business of procuring the myriad diverse supplies the capital of the Empire needs. Gambling was only the tip of the iceberg!
Payments, bribes, undertable deals, diplomacy... Particularly when the intervening parties don't want to be caught cooperating. We'll use alternative venues, but there could be frictions nobody can afford.
Filled freight cylinders are SENT thru the TUNNELS, in 1s, 3s, 5s.... while new empties ARRIVE.
Only someone powerful enough, ruthless enough to be on that list, could dare dream such an assault against the Empire's umbilicals, much less carry it out. Only someone in my position can hope to bring things back to normal!
BACK TO:
Of course. As are the Emperor, most Courtiers, and our common enemies. This is way above your league!
HANDING the dossier:
TAKING the dossier:
Thanks. I'm in no more danger than any other subject of the Empire. Less, since I have my own Army and some of the best bodyguards in the galaxy. You may rise.
SHADOW + AGENT stand (at ease), EYE each other.
STUDYING the dossier (on the big table):
Some of those dreary bureaucrats still remember how to be grateful for all the expensive equipment and amenities I've got 'em these decades. This list is updated after my recent losses, with more than the usual detail.
TURNING pages:
Very few people are aware of these kinds of things. Fortunes have changed hands, scores settled, loyalties realigned... Ah! The meteoric rise continues! Hmmmmmmm! This is too coincidental!
You got a suspect?
CLOSING the dossier:
There's a young upstart, Ghan of Xess, bolder and more impatient than most. His Family and allies are powerful out in the Provinces, but barely register here in the Capital. He's spent the last 2 decades enlarging his fortune, prestige, and Army, seizing every opportunity to become important enough.
Of course not: he's been careful! The Court wouldn't accept anyone who bankrolled Revolts, or provoked shortages, Famines, and the like, to increase his benefits. 1 of his Cousins was once embroiled in a scandal related to faulty Military supplies, but he attended the public Beheading with the others, as was his Duty. There's also rumours about a spacestation failure due to cost-cutting that caused the downfall of 1 of his strongest rivals...
That kind or rumours hounds everyone who's anyone in the Empire, my Lord. It would be different if there was proof!
Yeah, Business as usual in an imperfect Universe, and all that. But when our handy convenient Casino was destroyed, there his intermediaries were, ready to help with an offer we couldn't refuse. How lucky I felt then! But now...
The Banking fraud, 8 years ago?
Precisely. A massive financial crash that could have swamped whole Provinces was only barely averted. We were lucky to keep it under wraps, but there were suspicions that, if proven, would have amounted to High Treason.
I remember that Case. It was Classified, but weren't all ruling Families from Core to Rim with significant financial interests investigated?
(grim)
Including mine. His wasn't big enough yet, but profited handsomely from our efforts. Again pretty coincidental!
The big Console CHIMES, displays STATUS REPORTS.
The GRAPPLING ARMS retreat. Most machinery & people go to 'off-duty' stations. Warning lights SHUT DOWN.
Turnaround already! It often means insufficient cargo arrived, but not this time! Good!
The fat gleaming metal column STARTS RISING with the ship towards the big illuminated HOLE in the ceiling.
BACK TO:
(serene)
This has gone beyond money into Politics. It's time for our worthy aspirant to finally get the prize his many merits deserve.
My Lord?
He shall be received by the Court and occupy his rightful place at once. I'll welcome him personally!
Eyeing AGENT:
Yes, my Lord! I'll arrange the details!
She BOWS.
He BOWS too.
As both EXIT the FIRE DOOR:
Guess it wasn't just my lucky stars that got me assigned this Priority case, huh? Why didn't you send me a message, or a Capsule? Trantor has 1 of the best planetary networks!
This is the seat of the Empire. There's plenty power players, in or outside the Government and the Court. Our affairs need no interference, even from the friendly ones.
Your Lord seems well in control, but all those armed soldiers and cannons cannot be here to protect a single man.
There's dangers and there's dangers: other Spaceports have been taken or destroyed, as recently as 12 years ago. Not here, of course: our troops are the best, and the heavy Railguns guarding the surface superstructures got enough kick to knock any incoming hostile ship back to orbit!
Checking his Blaster:
The not-so-heavy cargo ship ASCENDS THRU, accelerating towards the upper atmosphere, closely TRACKED.
CAPTION:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
Be safe out there!
In plain uniformish GARB, both flanking the closed DOORS behind the magnificent empty (raised) THRONE:
As is mine and everybody's. It is traditional in this kind of affair. Now pay attention!
FLANKED by 2 (unarmed yet ready) GUARDS, in splendid GARB (w/ cape + sword) MARK3 (40s) follows a richly-liveried SERVANT.
They pass several ornately-appointed side ROOMS, incl. a library, a wardrobe, a small armory (guarded), a fair-sized SOLARIUM w/ big (oval) windows + a small SWIMMING POOL...
On reaching the decorated (glass) DOORS at the end, the servant ceremoniously OPENS them to:
BACK TO:
Before the throne, in full REGALIA (w/ cape + sword) slightly BOWING:
(almost cool)
The Emperor is too busy, but sends you His warmest regards. In His name, and that of His Court, I bid you welcome, my Lord! We're glad to finally have you here!
Slightly BOWING back as his 2 GUARDS take position at the doors:
(almost nonchalant)
Thank you, my Lord! We're happy to finally be here!
(taking everthing in)
It's more impressive than Docudrams show!
The door-opener servant RETREATS to the corridor, CLOSES behind him.
PAN THRU:
...the finest & most expensive spaceship ever built by a civilian shipyard,...
...is unfortunately still grounded for its 3rd year of repairs and refitting.
CHIEF-PILOT + helpers ready things.
This is the Emperor's own Ceremonial Barge, the one used for TV shows and special visitors.
FINALLY:
Size matters!
BACK TO:
(stern)
3 years!? Yet another sign of the widespread stagnation that the Empire needs to overcome with renewed blood and ideas!
On a main Console:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
Flight path assigned. Proceed immediately.
Expertly handling small BUTTONS + levers:
Clamps disengaged. Ready gravitics and Shields for descent!
As helpers WORK their Consoles:
The yatch UNDOCKS, activates a big transparent-orangeish SHIELD, starts DESCENDING (w/ engines at minimum).
The Shield intensifies as atmosphere approaches (fast).
BACK TO:
Re: the varied HORS D'OEUVRES + expensive liquor BOTTLES that another SERVANT placed on an ornate side TABLE:
Taking a champagne CUP:
EYEING the Throne + both guarded doors:
The stars know I wasn't expecting a warm welcome, but this is ridiculous! It only shows that the Court is locked into its petty obsolete ways.
The Court is not pleased with your aggressive business ways and the resulting collateral damage.
They should try doing business away from Trantor, then. As you know better than most, things are changing and everybody in the Galaxy will need to adapt.
No need to dramatize: you also hurt people, Lord Procurer! It's a natural consequence of doing business at the levels and scales we do!
Ahh, yes. Everybody has losses. I regret yours, but you directly or indirectly own a dozen big planets, plus half of Trantor's supply fleet, among other lucrative venues. Today you are barely less wealthy than a year ago. As for all the bloody warlords, robber-barons, and assorted accomplices that died, I won't shed a tear.
1000s died in that so-called 'accident'! Civilians! Women! If it was a way to draw my attention, it worked!
Spare me the baseless accusations. I'd rather use my time here in the center of everything to do all I can for the Empire. Don't you think we should work together to prevent anything from imperiling the well-being of so populous and dependent a world as the Capital of the Empire?
(icy)
Your attitude & actions affront me personally, and as an Imperial servant too. The Commission of Public Safety also considers you... inconvenient for their interests.
Huh? The Covenant of old crones who believe themselves the real rulers of the Galaxy? Why don't they go out there in the Provinces, where might makes right, hardly anyone obeys the Laws, and I own a sizable fleet that isn't even the biggest or the most dangerous, but guarantees my territory and my interests?
(wary)
What? Has this 'welcome' turned into a Trial? In that case, where are the Peers that will judge me? I could tell 'em all sorts of juicy secrets!
An EDGY SERVANT hurries along, turns a corner, another...
Who can judge a High Lord who's above all Magistrates and can buy any number of them?
BACK TO:
The attack on the Cubes exposed a dangerous weakness that cannot be allowed to become public.
He DRAWS his sword, POINTS it.
RETREATING a bit:
He eyes his guards.
ADVANCING a bit:
DRAWING a (small) concealed BLASTER:
ENTERING:
BACK TO:
RETREATING & lowering his sword a bit:
He eyes AGENT & SHADOW.
TRACKING with his gun:
Does it matter? A lowly servant here costs more to persuade than a Maintenance Supervisor at the Cubes, but not much more.
BRANDISHING a small Blaster:
It is an order!
He FIRES (slightly) over their heads!
Everybody else (half)DUCKS!
BACK TO:
FLICKING a hidden SWITCH in her hand:
Dirty, then.
A wall cabinet FLASH-EXPLODES! (plenty dark smoke)
Many small items FLOAT (in free fall) off their shelves.
GUARDS eye each other as they start floating too!
Perfumed SALTS from a bowl ASCEND in a spiral-ish CLOUD.
BACK TO:
Everybody (+ everything but the throne) starts FLOATING!
GRABBING a door handle:
GRABBING a flag (+ its spear):
MARK3 realigns his Blaster, is about to shoot COURTIER, but has to EVADE the flag (+ spear) THROWN at his face!
In the upper middle of the Barge's rear, a window is Blaster-BLOWN!
BACK TO:
The room SHAKES a couple times.
SHADOW helps COURTIER reach the throne, BLOCKS a thrown (flagless) spear, barely EVADES another!
Both of Mark3's GUARDS rip more flags from their spears, but 1 of 'em CATCHES a (flagless) spear in the chest, thrown by AGENT!
As he float-tumbles inert to the wall, droplets of his blood FLOAT 'round & away (in a spiral).
1 last SHOT before the overwhelmed EDGY SERVANT is forcefully disarmed!
CHIEF-PILOT stares at his BLOODY HAND. Beneath, a Console FRITZES!
The Barge SHAKES!
BACK TO:
AGENT opens the back doors for COURTIER.
The remaining Guard forces open the main doors for MARK3 (blaster-less) to escape, just before SHADOW arrives, clutching another (flagless) spear!
MARK3 hurriedly closes the door. On the other side SHADOW and the Guard CLASH!
Her SPEARPOINT forcefully PROTRUDES from the door! MARK3 hastily retreats!
Not far behind him, water drops FALL from a grille (in several directions).
BACK TO:
The Guard GRABS Shadow's hair, PULLS hard!
SHADOW's mane/WIG is ripped off the shiny METAL-covered back of her skull!
Enraged, she PULLS the Guard towards herself, HITS his clavicle/neck with her rigid hand, CRACK!
The Barge WOBBLES!!
1 of the wet cabinets starts filling w/ white SMOKE + large SPARKS!
BACK TO:
A new prominent RED alarm!
Scared looks around.
The Barge's Shields GLITCH, blink, pop-vanish!
Air buffeting + wobbling INCREASE!
RETREATING fast past the Solarium & the Armory's Guards:
The Lord is in danger! Hurry!
Holding onto wall (bas-relief) paneling/frames, off they GO.
Torn wig in hand, SHADOW reaches a corner, is met by AGENT pointing a small TABLE KNIFE at her face.
Passing him as he STARES:
Never seen what a close Blaster shot does to hair? This was my favourite wig!
The barge's ornate PROW, amid intense headwinds, starts GLOWING RED, pointing more & more upwards, away from the original path!
The mesh wings BUCKLE.
A handful small (windowed) BOXES separate from the rear, deploy smallish colorful PARACHUTES.
MARK3 jump-floats towards some curtains, peeks behind them a SIGN:
Forward
LIFEBOAT
BACK TO:
SHADOW leads COURTIER (still w sword) + AGENT to the door to:
A Console:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
Flight path violated! Adjust course at once!
PEEKING thru the closed trembling DOORS of the rear cabinets (seeing SKY):
The barge's belly GLOWS RED too, as the prow points higher.
Superheated air rushes in!
Sparks & smoke everywhere!
BACK TO:
The red-hot mesh wings are TORN away.
Engines sputter, shutdown!
Carved-wood doors CRASH OPEN. MARK3 enters.
The free-falling ship briefly REALIGNS with its descent path (rear UP, prow lowers)
BACK TO:
Trantor's HORIZON rises fast, the white surface filling the windows.
MARK3 is THROWN forward, towards the couches!
To their side: a fist-size metal Imperial SEAL.
SHADOW + AGENT search everywhere.
Extracting a big orange BACKPACK from a side locker:
Aha! Dropballs!
She unpacks a bunch of straps/belts, offers the whole to COURTIER.
The barge CORKSCREWS picking up speed.
BACK TO:
The room TURNS.
SHADOW relieves COURTIER of his sword, helps him 'don' the pack...
Extracting another bulky BACKPACK (from another locker):
Opening the trembling doors of 1 of the rear cabinets for COURTIER:
She + AGENT help him CRAWL out against the varying winds/gravity.
Hidden behind the Imperial seal, MARK3 finds a small LEVER:
Lifeboat release
Do not pull!
He PULLS it. Doors LOCK closed. The couches UNLOCK, part a bit.
COURTIER (spinning in all directions) falls behind the GYRATING ship.
He PULLS the 'release' string of his backpack, which INFLATES/EXPANDS around him as he assumes a fetal position, until he's engulfed in a large 'airbag-composite' BALL.
The ball EXTRUDES smallish EARS/WINGS that help steady its fall into an almost-GLIDE.
BACK TO:
Turning 'round, Bridge SHAKES ever more dangerously!
Blinking Console:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
By Imperial order, permission to land revoked!
Holding onto slender TUBING:
All the smooth domes and flexible refrigeration spires should pose no danger. The few Communication towers, on the other...
(double take)
Where's your dropball?
RISING from behind the Consoles, BLOODIED (w/ torn clothing), backpack on shoulders, Courtier's SWORD in hand:
Don't try to stop me! I'm leaving!
SHADOW reaches behind her back: no cylinder. She SNARLS!
She LEAPS!
EDGY SERVANT slashes side-to-side!
She DUCKS, lands a few consoles away!
Crawling on the wall-turned-floor:
Your master sent you here to die while he got the main lifeboat all to himself? Did he pay you already?
EDGY SERVANT frowns.
Glass SHARD in hand, SHADOW leaps again!
The whole room SURGES sideways!
She lands 3-4 meters away from EDGY SERVANT, hard, goes LIMP!
1 of 'em FIRES! (w/ a FWHOOSSHH + FLASH)
To the other side of the couches, MARK3 gropes for another imperial SEAL next to a small plaque:
Pull both levers
to release Lifeboat
A WHITE-HOT slug WHOOSHES thru the windows, leaving a round smoking HOLE in the closed doors!
Another goes thru the walls!
BACK TO:
Preparing to fatally STAB the weakly moving SHADOW:
Pretty fierce doll, but not too smart, huh?
AGENT throws a fire extinguisher at him!
EVADING:
If that's how you want to spend your last moments...
He JUMPS towards the unguarded rear cabinets!
A WHITE-HOT streak CROSSES the Bridge diagonally, BREAKING the sword next to his head!
EDGY SERVANT drops the sword, CRASHES against the cabinets, LIMP, half his face CAUTERIZED AWAY.
Your arrival at Trantor will make a splash.
As the fine furniture around starts to SMOKE & crisp, MARK3 frantically PULLS the second lever, to no avail!
Not far outside, COMING fast:
A BARRAGE of super-speed white-hot projectiles!
Or not.
BACK TO:
Backpack on shoulders, PULLING the semi-conscious SHADOW (against varying gravity) towards the open rear cabinet:
A red-hot SLUG erupts from the floor between both, vanishes THRU the ceiling!
REACTING to the new (shallow) BURN in her arm:
She starts CRAWLING.
Another flaming PROJECTILE exits thru the Consoles & the rear windows!
The pool's floating bubble of water, hit several times, EXPLODES in vapor!
BACK TO:
Pushing AGENT:
OUT they go!
Most of the BARRAGE shoots right THRU the plummeting ship, RIPPING apart small + big CHUNKS!
Falling fast/away, SHADOW & AGENT pull on each other, HUG tight.
He pulls the RELEASES. The ball INFLATES, starts slowly ENVELOPING them.
COVERING her burn with a (small) medical PATCH (from the pack):
As the ball ENCLOSES (not easily) them both, his fingers gingerly CARESS the back of her neck, the metal on her skull...
Eyes bright, she KISSES him. He joyfully RECIPROCATES!
Another hi-energy barrage PUMMELS the shredded Barge to SMITHEREENS amid a substantial FIREBALL!
CAPTION:
TRANTOR Traffic Control:
Threat eliminated.
Salvage crews dispatched
A Case File:
The Space Casino
Another (gilded):
The Rampant Lord
STAMP 'em:
CLOSED
STAMP 'em:
CLASSIFIED
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