Rubin Hadyn, Miranda-22's very graciously named Chief of Security, serves as Port Manager Price's sole means of enforcing "law" and "order" on the station apart from his own pistol. His primary duties include tossing drunks into the station's storm shelter and locking the door before they can force it back open, loitering about Bertie's bar with his espatier's rifle at the ready, and being generally threatening to Miranda's two-hundred-or-so "patrons" when they refuse to comply with Bertie's directives, something that happens far too often when the beer runs low. Rubin, a "trained" espatier, is technically a veteran of a three-year tour of duty conducting anti-piracy operations in the Fourth Circuit, and thus is more than competent in the utilization of said espatier's rifle; however, the fact that he spent most of those tours in the spacers' bars and- where possible- red-light districts of most stations he visited should serve as a good indication of his priorities in joining up with the Corps. Namely, that he saw it as a means to enjoy himself and get paychecks for doing very little at all.
His assumptions were, depending on one's point of view, fortunately- or unfortunately- not entirely incorrect. However, they were undeniably unsustainable, and eventually he found himself left out to dry by superiors fed up with his constantly acting out. One thing led to another and the good "veteran" wound up forced off his last port of call, falling in with an odd little man with a brachistochrone freighter he refused to explain how he acquired, a pistol he would never mention and a penchant for very hard homemade liquor. Eventually, Rubin would choose to stay on with Bertie Price- already well on his way to a future kicking about a station orbiting a dying star in the middle of Nowhere, Space, breaking up the occasional bar fight, playing the odd game of poker, and generally making himself a mite more useful than he did for the majority of his younger years. Perhaps Rubin found himself unsatisfied with this far less exciting life, but if so he never brought it up- after all, Price wasn't a half bad brewer himself, and for a Deputy, the drinks all come free. ↻
◉ Early Life
Rubin Hadyn was, rather typically for most of the inhabitants of the outer frontier of the 2450s, born in the inner systems to spacer parents at the heart of the Authority's zone of control. In fact, Rubin was born in the orbit of Proxima, humanity's second colonized system and the heart of the Second Circuit's "outward ramp" from Sol heading rimward. While he would never leave the system during his youth, he crossed the breadth of its orbitals, from a young age taking up aboard mining ships and other slow-running haulers to escape the claustrophobic confines of his childhood home. While he would quickly find that a ship was far more claustrophobic than a station on average, he managed to find two passions: Firstly, he took easily to extravehicular activities, and would by the time he was eighteen have earned both hardshell and softshell suit certifications. Secondly, he was in every sense of the word a sailor, and would also by his eighteenth birthday find himself confined shipside at half the drifts in Proxima his ship routinely visited to prevent him from getting into even deeper trouble with their administrators than he already had. It was the latter that would eventually see him enlisted in the espatier corps and promptly shipped out to the farthest possible black of the frontier, his complete and total lack of self control inevitably leading to his ejection from the only home he'd ever known.
While he would later claim to his espatier platoon that on his nineteenth birthday he managed to sleep with the chair of the Proxima Belt Colonial Authority's personnel board's daughter, the reality was far less dramatic- she was a relative of a far less important administrator, he'd never gotten further than the bar, and if he had gotten any further he would've likely found himself on the outside of the habitat his shore leave mandated he wreak hell on without the privilege of wearing a space suit. As it was, though, his dramatized attempt at scoring with l'femmes managed to earn him a "re-tracking"- in simple terms, the Colonial Authority by delegating to its subordinate organs the power to determine personnel distribution gave those sub-organs' personnel committees the ability to redistribute skilled citizens found within their zones of control to necessary fields and locations. During the early 2400s it wasn't at all uncommon for one to be re-tracked at least once, as the Authority's policy of constant expansion mandated that its personnel were perpetually spread thin. However, it was rare for someone to be completely and thoroughly shuffled off to an entirely different field of work or stellar system. Rubin, having earned the ire of a mid-level administrator with sway over just such a personnel board, was subjected to a prompt and excessive re-tracking, his varied EVA certifications serving as justification for slapping him with a one-way ticket into the FZCA's Espatier Corps and a shipment out to the far frontier where he could raise as much hell as he wanted far, far away from a Proxima he'd slighted one too many times.
Rubin's induction into the Corps would serve as something of a rude awakening for the man, as while he had never had the greatest of interpersonal connections- preferring instead flighty relationships and self-indulgences in typically unhealthy fashion- he had nevertheless developed some degree of camaraderie and connection with the crew he'd worked alongside, and being shipped literal light-years away from them served to only add insult to injury. When he arrived at his new home for basic training, having been jumped from the Second to the Fourth Circuit and the edge of the frontier, he was a broken, depressed human being, exactly the sort of individual it was perfect to give a rifle and enforcer's status to, really. His superiors mistook his emotional withdrawal for the traits perfect in molding the ideal soldier, and several times lauded his compliance with even the harshest directives and his willingness to- as his personnel file's notes section put it at the time- "exemplify leadership through a propensity for self-sacrifice." Thus he was fast-tracked into an advanced role, earning command over his own squad and a number of awards and recognitions by the time he'd exited Basic and Specialty training. Things were looking up for Rubin, it seemed, and from the outside at least he appeared to be a model espatier.
Of course, it was only a mask. As before mentioned, Rubin had been given absolute authority in being inducted into the espatier corps- the armed astronauts were a class above the rest of their fellows in space, a warfaring class, and their access to tools of death meant that their status as enforcers was largely unquestioned except from within their own ranks. And they were hardly willing to question their comrades' choices. Thus, when Rubin hit his first duty station and almost immediately blew his paycheck on booze and other even less refined tastes, no one was immediately willing to stop him. Within a year of his graduation from training he had returned to his old ways, and despite masking it to his fellows with the guise of the suave, cocky soldier, he was this time going for keeps. Rubin's mentality had evolved from mindless self-indulgence to mindless self-destruction, determined to ruin himself as he was, and for two years he seemed to be going at it excellently. ↻
Eventually, though, Rubin's superiors tired of his near-constant indulging of his unsavory tastes; the Espatier Corps as a rule valued itself as a loved and dedicated member of the community, after all, and most definitely not the strike-busting enforcers and state-sanctioned privateers of a power barely thirty years removed from the brink of total collapse. The drinking, the, well, less savory acts, and Rubin's myriad other "contributions" to his local espatier detachment's reputation were beginning to become irksome to his commanding officers- his conduct was hardly becoming of a representative of the, ah, esteemed Colonial Authority. Thus, in 2445 he found himself facing the short end of the stick, his most pressing concerns in life going from where he'd find his next bit of fun to the fact that he had been cut off from his rather considerable espatier's pay all at once. Rubin had been living from paycheck to paycheck, hardly bothering to build up any bit of social credit to his name, and was thus immediately thrown out into the hallway of his habitat with only an EVA certification, a firearms license, and the few hundred CSEC constituting his discharge pay to his name. Rubin's response after that was hardly a sensible one. Gathering up his money he went down to his station's spacers' bar and, taking a seat between long-haul spacer with a face worn by past abuses and a burly-looking man who couldn't have passed for a long-hauler if he tried Rubin passed his PDA to the bartender and instructed the man to quite literally empty the thing. It would've likely bought him a good week of drinks or so, and while that same sum would've potentially got him transit to some place he could get work, Rubin was hardly willing to act sensibly.
In fact, he was so hell-bent on drinking himself to an early grave that he spent that entire waking cycle at the bar just downing glass after glass. Eventually the stringy long-haul spacer put down his own drink and turned to look at Rubin- an idot in espatier's costume, his cocked red beret bereft of a badge drenched in sweat- and gently took the drink from Rubin's hand. Rubin would've protested if he didn't promptly pass out over the table. The burly man left in disgust shortly after that, the stringy one soon to follow- but not before digging through Rubin's uniform to find a little plastic card in his left breast pocket.
When Rubin awoke the next waking cycle, precisely eight hours later, he found himself accompanied by two things- one, a splitting hangover, and two, his G6 espatier's rifle on the imitation-hardwood bar table next to him. The stringy man was sat one barstool over, holding Rubin's ID card in his calloused hand and wearing Rubin's beret on his balding head. The man put out his hand for a shake, introducing himself simply as "Bertie"; before Rubin could protest, he was being dragged out of the spacers' bar and into the airlock decontamination bay, still attempting to take back his beret as he did. His ID had not yet been scrubbed from the local espatiers' personnel network, and Price had taken the opportunity to use the passed-out soldier's identity to win himself a rare prize. An espatier's rifle was a true piece of work, and Bertie had five more stowed away in the Iceman's hold thanks to his new friend. But, he told Rubin, the both of them would be decidedly unwelcome aboard the station once the espatiers looked through their armory- and thus it would likely be a rather wise idea for Rubin to beat a hasty escape and fill a sudden opening in the Iceman's crew. He'd even get advance pay, Bertie told him, no questions asked. At the prospect of money and a quick escape Rubin cheered up, suddenly willing to overlook the fact he'd just been Shanghaied by this odd little man with more beard than hair in favor of another paycheck and a bunk to sleep in that wasn't two barstools.
He would soon find himself willing to overlook quite a lot more- upon joining the Iceman's crew and spending a bit of time in a survival bubble beneath a fuel tank to sober himself up, Rubin proved quite the loyal crewmate. Bertie, before now planning to pawn off the G6es at the ship's next port of call, determined that instead it would be prudent to keep someone trained in their use at hand, and thus chose to keep Rubin Hadyn on as his primary muscle. Rubin would prove Bertie's first real comrade aboard the Iceman, electing to stay on the ship even when offered double pay to leave, and as the other Deputies would collect in the wastebin for washouts that was the Iceman he would be there to meet them, and if they proved worthwhile, offer them an odd rifle he by all accounts wasn't meant to have and instructions in how to use it.
Such instruction was generally accompanied by oft-unwanted comments on their tastes in beverage. ↻
◉ Present Role
Rubin would prove instrumental in aiding Bertie's solidification of control over Miranda, he and his G6 acting as the older man's iron fist when subduing the station's thirty-odd half-mad inhabitants at the time. While Bertie had proved a charismatic enough figure to get his foot in through the airlock, and while it was true that they were in fact invited to stay aboard the station after getting the station's inhabitants nice and drunk pacified, it only took a few weeks for those occupants to begin questioning why precisely they now had to listen to some old man and more importantly a newcomer at that. When that unrest began to spread, it was Rubin who would go around confiscating the station's occupants' weapons at gunpoint and delivering them to Bertie to lock aboard the Iceman. When the mutinies and generously-termed "revolts" against the new Captain began, it was Rubin who with rifle in hand locked those inhabitants in the station's storm shelter. And when the madhouse finally grew too much to control, it was Rubin who stood down in the Iceman's hold and kept watch over those Bertie had decided to eject while they made the day-long trip to the Gate to dump them in the drunk tank there. While he refuses to talk about it, undoubtedly he had a hand in red-cording more than a few truly irksome individuals. After that period came to an end, though, and Bertie and his old shipmates had established themselves as the station's core permanent residents, Rubin became far less overworked- the station's new patrons were far more tenable individuals, and the original inhabitants left aboard were downright agreeable after their mates were, ah, deposed.
Thus Rubin settled into his modern role- that of chief enforcer aboard the station, and occasional drill-sergeant for the other Deputies when necessity mandates. Rubin, considerably more mellowed in his middle age, serves as a reminder for those aboard the station to keep to themselves and not overstep their bounds. To that end he often stays in the station's bar during the day, keeping his G6 beside him, and when on watch canvasses the station for contraband and for squatters overstaying their dues. He does his best to entertain those around him, of course, and Rubin might come off as incredibly personable, his polished suave personality still at the ready when he needs it and when he's sobered up enough to make good use of it, but those staying on the station for long enough tend to become incredibly uncomfortable around him. They might have not expected an enforcer aboard an ostensibly free station, after all, and certainly not one with such a reputation about him, but nonetheless on the station he is- Bertie's one-man security force, a close confidante for the port manager, and a man who one most certainly does not wish to cross.
Frontier justice, after all, is hardly known for being either a particularly just or a particularly soft thing. ↻
Despite living a very quiet life, all things considered, Port Manager Price finds himself unable to fulfill every duty that the position of "port manager" might require of him. In fact, with the time it takes to manage his side-job as a bartender, to keep the peace, to take trips off-station to negotiate trades with neighboring habs, and to simply work on his hobby of brewery, he hardly ever does anything to earn the name, except own a gun. Thus to get everything done that he can't, he has Lilia Nabatova. The youngest of the Deputies, Lilia serves as the station's actual port manager and chief communications operator, ensuring that Miranda remains up to scuff with its system's admittedly lax transit codes, that freighters fresh off the burn out of the gate and in need of a stop-over dock and are guided out with minimal trouble, and in conjunction with Rubin's rifle and a weighty spanner that when Bertie isn't present things don't spiral entirely out of control.
Lilia Nabatova is somehow perhaps both the oddest of the Deputies aboard Miranda and the most well-adjusted. She is a woman of, well, niche political persuasions, and in fact the singular most outspoken about them aboard the station; an avowed anarcho-syndicalist of the early Stepanovist variety, Lilia has, well, neglected to keep people in line with Price's will more than once in her day. However, in the absence of things she has strong opinions on, Lilia is perhaps the friendliest of the Deputies, devoutly believes in- politically, of course- the value of a strong sense of communities in the star, is of staunch conviction in her beliefs, and is probably solely responsible for the continued sanity of the station's management. Then again, such a thing makes sense- given that her opinions got her locked in a cell and left to rot, one step short of being shoved out an airlock, the people responsible for her liberation would be the greatest companions one could find. But no matter how she feels, what matters is that she remains alive, her little revolution continuing on with absolutely no drama whatsoever in the holes of space the powers that be forgot to fill in. ↻
🅐 Early Life
Lilia was born under similar circumstances to Rubin, all things considered, with the exception that they were not similar in any way whatsoever- Lilia was born to dock-workers on a middling station in a middling frontier system that's only detail of note was its outermost world, an ice giant with enough moons of interest that could serve as refueling hubs for the nearby Gates to mandate its development. It was here that Lilia spent her earliest days; her father a cleanroom worker and her mother a drone pilot, both of them kept occupied by the steadily-increasing workload typical of the middling systems as they were developed, there was hardly an opportunity for her to spend much in the way of "family time" with them, instead becoming increasingly withdrawn into her own life. In fact, she was nearly completely abandoned by her parents after the age of thirteen, though this was hardly their fault; Lilia was most definitively a "casualty" of the early Authority's system, slotted into a menial technician's role after refusing to fill in any vocational preference after her primary examinations. She would end up resigning herself to this fate for a grand total of two years, grinding away at technical and vocational studies she ultimately cared very little for, until she found herself in the possession of a single file folder, taken off her habitat's .fna archive file dump- a folder filled with ebooks on anarchism. Such materials weren't entirely uncommon, thanks to the fact that those disseminating them actively spammed them out to a degree bound to slip up practically any spam filter, but were nonetheless shunned and Lilia's habitat especially was not fond of their existence.
The political bent of the administration was typical of the middling, bureaucratic intellectual classes of the Stellar Renaissance, namely radicalized completely in favor of the newest theories on what was beginning to be called the "Colonial-Bureaucratic System", and unfortunately Lilia was a child of the 2420s in that regard. Her materials were not immediately confiscated, and her very underwhelming education provided her ample time to read through them before they were; by that point, she already had enough of a grasp on what Stepanov called "the liberation of the stars" to understand his theories. This understanding... did not go over well with Lilia's superiors. When fifteen, she had attempted to organize a general strike within her class; she was met with an empty response and a night in the station's makeshift brig. Similar attempts throughout her teenage years resulted in similar punishments, the espatier charged with looking over the brig even going so far as to provide her a mattress and hot water for her frequent stays there. The majority of the station found her acts incredibly amusing and entirely foolhardy, and as she lacked the skill to adequately communicate to them the motivating factors beyond her repeated attempts at revolution, that did not seem liable to change in any speedy fashion. Lilia's attempts from 2441 to 2445 to spread consciousness of class seemed to be doomed to amount to nothing more than a child's ranting against the System, full of sound and fury and signifying nothing.
But Lilia was determined; her complete and total hatred of the role she'd been assigned to play in the Authority's well-oiled machine made her a model revolutionary, and besides, even those little acts of resistance helped her to find herself some relief from what she saw as an inevitable and loathed future of uselessness. The goal wasn't particularly certain, but it was at least starting to distinguish her; the managers found her a frustration, but an ineffectual one, and the majority of her fellow workers found her to be, well, amusing. Lilia had in her readings of Stepanov's work essentially been ten or twenty years too late to act- the Three Eights reforms and other similar quality-of-life programs the Authority had effectively instituted in the inner systems around the time of her birth had been partially intended to undercut anarchist criticisms of the Authority's hyperstate, and her uncritical interpretation of those criticisms had not been effectively adapted to a state that was now making an effort to enforce labor standards and permit positive local self-determination. She had just so happened to be born at the wrong time to take advantage of a movement that had been only a few years ago a thriving one- unknowingly, Bertie Price was shaping her life even now, the riots around Enceladus he participated in helping to prompt the seeming death of the anarchist movement she considered herself a part of.
For Lilia at least, though, that death was far from seeming- in 2446, her twenty-first year kicking around the same few selections of stations, she finally managed to get traction with her fellows. The old middle management had been shipped off to other duty stations, replaced by new managers far more receptive to the upper administration's belief in "fueling the consumption of the state", and thus in the inevitable backsliding of T8 reform that followed an increasingly disgruntled worker base turned to the one who had been for the past five years ranting about just such a circumstance as the one they now faced. Lilia finally had a chance to achieve what she'd dreamed of for so long now. And she was not going to throw it away. ↻
Very quickly Lilia set to work attempting to determine a plan of action- after an informal poll that amounted to leaving leaflets about and seeing who went for them, Lilia managed to gather together a small gaggle of potential friends she generously termed a "dock-workers' union"; shortly after that, she began to plan to demonstrate. The basic idea she managed to come up with was a simple one, quite literally just a strike, and not even a well-planned one at that- it was to be confined entirely to the ports of the habitat, and considerations for the possibility of managers simply shutting off the life support and waiting for the strikers to fold or die escaped her entirely.
Unfortunately for Lilia's big shot, and quite understandably in any case, she would prove terrible as a strategic planner, and her little developing union of co-conspirators was very quickly found out. The espatiers were called to break it up within three weeks of its formation, "disciplinary action" passed out in spades to quell the "terrorist" threat, and Lilia herself was once again confined to brig- but this time without the courtesy of even a bed. The espatier captain who'd taken a liking to the angry teenager she'd once been had been shipped out, replaced by a far less forgiving one, and without any sort of friendship with her new jailers her acts of rebellion were no longer being tolerated. TBA
🅐 Present Role
tl;dr, marooned engineer who's had her aspirations of actually making a name for herself dashed not once, but twice, the second time leading her to be in her current role. happy enough where she is, if unsatisfied, because at least the wreck wasn't fatal.
► Early Life
► Present Role
tl;dr, very very un-smart electrician who got nicked off-station right as he was about to be spaced for short-changing one too many people. hasn't been spaced on m22 just because it turns out that the station's just in enough need of badly-done McGyvering to make it worthwhile to keep him about.
◙ Early Life
◙ Present Role
tl;dr, disaffected computer engineer who turned to selling liquor on an ethyl-mining station dug into the crust of a Europa-type planetoid. frens with Bert, serves more or less as his link out-of-system and primary means of human contact. good dude.
◍ Early Life
◍ Present Role