Tanon Niathal
Character
“…that such an approach to personalized offensive/defensive systems –miniaturized to such a nano-scale as described in the preceding proposal—seeks to bridge the gap between traditional technology as we know it and alchemy; to take what before now has been known as science fiction, and establish it as science fact. It is in reality, not at all an exaggeration to say that the ideas, concepts and (albeit limited at this point) prototypes presented here; the groundwork that has already been laid, represents, in fact beyond the cutting edge, the bleeding edge of what comes next in technological evolution: the merging of more standard –though still unbelievably advanced-- modes of technology with biology, with biological science, in ways that make even the most advanced fusions of flesh and machine created today look as archaic and as outdated as the crudest of crude prosthetic limbs and cybernetic constructs made in aeons past.”
Tanon Niathal paused to take a breath, his gloved hands stopping from where he had been ‘typing’ in midair— the actual view of his hands punching actually nonexistent, glowing keys supplied by the holographic projection painted directly onto the surface of his eyeballs from the viewscreens/lenses of the customized eyewear he wore. With a glance down –and a tap on the control panel that was attached to the minicomputer affixed to his left wrist (patent pending, Niathal Technologies)—he saved his work, before another deft tap closed the holographic interface, leaving nothing more visible in the young tech mogul’s sight than anything that he might have seen through an ordinary pair of glasses. Pulling off the wraparound visor from where it encircled his eyes and letting it drop to his lap listlessly, he sighed, screwing his suddenly-tired eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently in the hopes that some of the built up tension he was feeling might be dispelled by the motion.
“You know,” an electronically-modulated voice from the seat next to him remarked rather dryly, causing Niathal to open his eyes and cant them to one side to look at the speaker. “You don’t actually have to narrate aloud everything you’re typing—the new haptic interface is more than capable of logging the motions of your fingers, the same as if you were executing keystrokes on an actual keyboard; and the headpiece even does you the service of holographically displaying the very ‘surface’ upon which you are ‘typing,” at the words ‘surface’, and ‘typing’, a matching pair of mechanical index and middle fingers curled inward towards metal palms, in a flawless imitation of the nigh-universal hand gesture for “air quotes”. Niathal rolled his eyes, wondering where in the Galaxy his droid had picked that little tic of organic behavior up from.
“Narrating aloud only puts unnecessary strain on your vocal cords; strain which it would seems you can ill-afford, given the task that lies ahead of you today.” Wide, round, amber-colored eyes set in a black-and-silver-chrome face blinked once in what would be, to most people, an innocuous expression—however, his owner recognized an attempt (a failed one, at that) to look coy…well, as coy as one could look with a face with little capacity for expression OUTSIDE of the eyes, anyway. (The smarmy, teacherish tone of voice and wagging finger he’d used also really hadn’t helped his presentation either...)
The young Balmorran heaved a long-suffering groan at the intrusion of the voice. Great Lord, there were times that the bucket of bolts that currently served as his valet-slash-bodyguard-slash-personal assistant had proven himself absolutely invaluable to him--worth ten thousand times his weight in aurodium ingots. But there were other times, times such as the present moment, that Niathal would have liked nothing better than to have the owner of said snarky remarks totally circuit-purged then ripped into tiny pieces, with every individual piece mailed to a different, random sector so that it could never be reassembled. “Tell me,” he groused, giving the black-and-silver-chrome automaton a sidelong look “did I give you such a smart mouth on purpose when I programmed you, or did you just develop one spontaneously?”
“Well, if you can’t tell me, my Maker, what in all the foundries of Balmorra makes you think that I can, my Master?” the droid drawled, eliciting another pained groan from his owner, who buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.
“Largo, you are going to KILL me, I swear it…” the young heir to the vast industrial machine that was Niathal Industries sighed. The mechanical platform that housed the intelliengce of the Logical Analysis Rostrum—Generalized Operation (known as L.A.R-G.O., or ‘Largo’ for short, shrugged its metal shoulders in a noncommittal gesture by way of reply.
“We’ve been together for this long and haven’t killed each other yet—through our wordplay or any other means.”
“Against all odds, yes.”
Silence then fell throughout the cavernous antechamber/waiting room to the conference room where the man-and-droid duo had an appointment to keep with one Lady Lorelei Darke—an commanding female figure who held concurrently the posts of matriarchal ruler of the wealthy nexus of the shipbuilding industry that was the planet Kuat, AND President/CEO of the megalithic corporate titan that was singlehandedly responsible for making Kuat the aforementioned nexus that it was, the Kuat Drive Yards.
Certainly, all the wealth, power, influence, and prestige that holding ONE of those titles (to say nothing of both) would make anyone a daunting figure to contend with.
But Tanon Niathal found Lorelei Darke to be impressive –nay, intimidating—in a way that he suspected no one else in the Galaxy did…his expression darkened, as his thoughts turned to her, his brow furrowing, his lantern jaw setting in a grim expression that contorted his usually-strikingly handsome visage into something much less pleasant to look at.
And such a change in expression was not lost on Largo, who, besides being purpose-built to be the young heir’s attache, was one of the closest friends (if one considered such a relationship to be possible between a man and a machine, anyway) the man had—the droid did not have to discern any appreciable amount of computing power at all to deduce what had brought on Niathal’s sudden air of somberness.
“…you’re thinking about her again, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, so much as a statement. Hunching forward, resting his chin upon his clasped hands, elbows balancing upon his knees, Niathal nodded.
“Do you really think it’s her? That Lorelei is the one you’ve been seeing in your… visions?” Largo ventured carefully; this subject had been one that his Master had been known to act…somewhat unpredictably in response to. But this time, all Niathal did was nod, not verbally replying.
Oh, it had HAD to be her—he had been sure of it when he had seen her on news broadcasts, only a few days ago; in fact, he was frankly astonished that he had not noticed it before NOW—he had certainly seen the woman before this point in time; more than once AND up close and in person, matter of fact. But it had only been recently that he had definitively made the connection; and while the spectral figure that he had been seeing with increasing frequency (most often while dreaming during sleep, but here very lately, even while completely awake) had been wearing a hood that obscured most of her face, upon getting a very good look at the images presented on that holoscreen, he had been more than certain—the sharp, strong, severe facial features were identical:
It defied any logic, rationale, or reason he could think of, but it seemed to be true—the dark shadow that had plagued Niathal’s mind the past few months (the robed female apparition that he had come to title The Dark Woman), and Mistress Lorelei Darke, of the planet Kuat, were apparently one and the same. And while Niathal’s ostensible reason for being where he was now was to broker a deal allying the fledgling company of Niathal Technologies with the commercial juggernaut of the Drive Yards, Niathal had an ulterior motive for coming to Kuat, to the Lady Lorelei’s chambers; to confront her, once and for all, and if nothing else, learn the nature of these visions that had been tormenting him, that he was now certain that the Kuati aristocrat, somehow, was involved with.
Niathal took in a long, shuddering breath, and let it out slowly; despite his internal agitation and anxiety at the prospect of discovering the true nature behind his visions, he was feeling strangely, almost paradoxically, calm; almost certainly it had something to do with the sedating effect the complex pharmaceutical psychotropic cocktail that he had dosed himself with before coming here had on him (the time-released injection being deliberately taken as insurance against the possibility of the young man letting his anxieties get the better of him, resulting in him flying off the handle during the meeting, resulting in some…possibly very unpleasant consequences for him).
For his part, Largo fell silent—with no effort being made by his master to actively communicate with him, the droid decided that Niathal simply wished for quiet at this point; thus, man and machine sat in a in a room that was, in its current state, as quiet and still as any graveyard at night (and only slightly more well-lit; only areas where people would be seated were directly bathed in stark, sterile white light) as they waited for their hostess to summon them, indicating her readiness to receive them.
Tanon Niathal paused to take a breath, his gloved hands stopping from where he had been ‘typing’ in midair— the actual view of his hands punching actually nonexistent, glowing keys supplied by the holographic projection painted directly onto the surface of his eyeballs from the viewscreens/lenses of the customized eyewear he wore. With a glance down –and a tap on the control panel that was attached to the minicomputer affixed to his left wrist (patent pending, Niathal Technologies)—he saved his work, before another deft tap closed the holographic interface, leaving nothing more visible in the young tech mogul’s sight than anything that he might have seen through an ordinary pair of glasses. Pulling off the wraparound visor from where it encircled his eyes and letting it drop to his lap listlessly, he sighed, screwing his suddenly-tired eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently in the hopes that some of the built up tension he was feeling might be dispelled by the motion.
“You know,” an electronically-modulated voice from the seat next to him remarked rather dryly, causing Niathal to open his eyes and cant them to one side to look at the speaker. “You don’t actually have to narrate aloud everything you’re typing—the new haptic interface is more than capable of logging the motions of your fingers, the same as if you were executing keystrokes on an actual keyboard; and the headpiece even does you the service of holographically displaying the very ‘surface’ upon which you are ‘typing,” at the words ‘surface’, and ‘typing’, a matching pair of mechanical index and middle fingers curled inward towards metal palms, in a flawless imitation of the nigh-universal hand gesture for “air quotes”. Niathal rolled his eyes, wondering where in the Galaxy his droid had picked that little tic of organic behavior up from.
“Narrating aloud only puts unnecessary strain on your vocal cords; strain which it would seems you can ill-afford, given the task that lies ahead of you today.” Wide, round, amber-colored eyes set in a black-and-silver-chrome face blinked once in what would be, to most people, an innocuous expression—however, his owner recognized an attempt (a failed one, at that) to look coy…well, as coy as one could look with a face with little capacity for expression OUTSIDE of the eyes, anyway. (The smarmy, teacherish tone of voice and wagging finger he’d used also really hadn’t helped his presentation either...)
The young Balmorran heaved a long-suffering groan at the intrusion of the voice. Great Lord, there were times that the bucket of bolts that currently served as his valet-slash-bodyguard-slash-personal assistant had proven himself absolutely invaluable to him--worth ten thousand times his weight in aurodium ingots. But there were other times, times such as the present moment, that Niathal would have liked nothing better than to have the owner of said snarky remarks totally circuit-purged then ripped into tiny pieces, with every individual piece mailed to a different, random sector so that it could never be reassembled. “Tell me,” he groused, giving the black-and-silver-chrome automaton a sidelong look “did I give you such a smart mouth on purpose when I programmed you, or did you just develop one spontaneously?”
“Well, if you can’t tell me, my Maker, what in all the foundries of Balmorra makes you think that I can, my Master?” the droid drawled, eliciting another pained groan from his owner, who buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.
“Largo, you are going to KILL me, I swear it…” the young heir to the vast industrial machine that was Niathal Industries sighed. The mechanical platform that housed the intelliengce of the Logical Analysis Rostrum—Generalized Operation (known as L.A.R-G.O., or ‘Largo’ for short, shrugged its metal shoulders in a noncommittal gesture by way of reply.
“We’ve been together for this long and haven’t killed each other yet—through our wordplay or any other means.”
“Against all odds, yes.”
Silence then fell throughout the cavernous antechamber/waiting room to the conference room where the man-and-droid duo had an appointment to keep with one Lady Lorelei Darke—an commanding female figure who held concurrently the posts of matriarchal ruler of the wealthy nexus of the shipbuilding industry that was the planet Kuat, AND President/CEO of the megalithic corporate titan that was singlehandedly responsible for making Kuat the aforementioned nexus that it was, the Kuat Drive Yards.
Certainly, all the wealth, power, influence, and prestige that holding ONE of those titles (to say nothing of both) would make anyone a daunting figure to contend with.
But Tanon Niathal found Lorelei Darke to be impressive –nay, intimidating—in a way that he suspected no one else in the Galaxy did…his expression darkened, as his thoughts turned to her, his brow furrowing, his lantern jaw setting in a grim expression that contorted his usually-strikingly handsome visage into something much less pleasant to look at.
And such a change in expression was not lost on Largo, who, besides being purpose-built to be the young heir’s attache, was one of the closest friends (if one considered such a relationship to be possible between a man and a machine, anyway) the man had—the droid did not have to discern any appreciable amount of computing power at all to deduce what had brought on Niathal’s sudden air of somberness.
“…you’re thinking about her again, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, so much as a statement. Hunching forward, resting his chin upon his clasped hands, elbows balancing upon his knees, Niathal nodded.
“Do you really think it’s her? That Lorelei is the one you’ve been seeing in your… visions?” Largo ventured carefully; this subject had been one that his Master had been known to act…somewhat unpredictably in response to. But this time, all Niathal did was nod, not verbally replying.
Oh, it had HAD to be her—he had been sure of it when he had seen her on news broadcasts, only a few days ago; in fact, he was frankly astonished that he had not noticed it before NOW—he had certainly seen the woman before this point in time; more than once AND up close and in person, matter of fact. But it had only been recently that he had definitively made the connection; and while the spectral figure that he had been seeing with increasing frequency (most often while dreaming during sleep, but here very lately, even while completely awake) had been wearing a hood that obscured most of her face, upon getting a very good look at the images presented on that holoscreen, he had been more than certain—the sharp, strong, severe facial features were identical:
It defied any logic, rationale, or reason he could think of, but it seemed to be true—the dark shadow that had plagued Niathal’s mind the past few months (the robed female apparition that he had come to title The Dark Woman), and Mistress Lorelei Darke, of the planet Kuat, were apparently one and the same. And while Niathal’s ostensible reason for being where he was now was to broker a deal allying the fledgling company of Niathal Technologies with the commercial juggernaut of the Drive Yards, Niathal had an ulterior motive for coming to Kuat, to the Lady Lorelei’s chambers; to confront her, once and for all, and if nothing else, learn the nature of these visions that had been tormenting him, that he was now certain that the Kuati aristocrat, somehow, was involved with.
Niathal took in a long, shuddering breath, and let it out slowly; despite his internal agitation and anxiety at the prospect of discovering the true nature behind his visions, he was feeling strangely, almost paradoxically, calm; almost certainly it had something to do with the sedating effect the complex pharmaceutical psychotropic cocktail that he had dosed himself with before coming here had on him (the time-released injection being deliberately taken as insurance against the possibility of the young man letting his anxieties get the better of him, resulting in him flying off the handle during the meeting, resulting in some…possibly very unpleasant consequences for him).
For his part, Largo fell silent—with no effort being made by his master to actively communicate with him, the droid decided that Niathal simply wished for quiet at this point; thus, man and machine sat in a in a room that was, in its current state, as quiet and still as any graveyard at night (and only slightly more well-lit; only areas where people would be seated were directly bathed in stark, sterile white light) as they waited for their hostess to summon them, indicating her readiness to receive them.
