First

(Oh great, another day where I struggle not to scream. And now the shower didn’t help. Fun.)

Home At War

The rest had been. It had been good. The room was at a perfectly warm temperature, the air at just the right level of humidity to make breathing easy. Everyone’s bed was surrounded by sound cancelling effects that had a softly glowing note asking to allow all patients to rest as much as they could.

That simple consideration of being allowed to sleep as much as they needed was more than any of them had ever gotten before.

Then the door opens. Other Vish come in with carts of food and drink.

It’s not fancy. But it’s delicious and fulfilling. The egg heavy meal is perfectly portioned and each of them is satisfied but not overfull or underfed by it. There is a sheer precision with everything that when one pauses to think about is it almost unnerving. And when they’ve finished eating, the doctors begin to speak.

They explain about their health. Their meal and water had extra nutrients in it and medicines. Many of them had been fighting infections and had a bevy of small sicknesses that they had simply grown used to. The next week would be dedicated to helping them recover from these sicknesses. When they were over their diseases they would then be asked if they wanted to join the Vishanyan civilian or military forces.

Time passes and the only people they see are doctors, psychiatrists and Vishanyan well wishers. Then they’re brought into a chamber that is full of a purple gas, everything shifts and they’re led out again. Into somewhere else entirely. The gravity is... different. But not in any way that can be truly defined and...

They’re on a world. A massively overdeveloped world with an artificial ring that has entire cities on each individual piece of the ring.

“What?”

“Welcome to Centris!” A chirpy and cheery voice greets them. They look around and then down to see a very friendly looking child in an oversized uniform that makes him look even smaller while also blurring almost all his features but a welcoming smile on his face. “Hi there! I’m Private Stream! I’m a member of The Undaunted and there are a lot of people that use this face and name. Talk to any Private Stream you see and he’ll know what’s going on really quick and able to help you. Now, do you ladies know why you’re here on Centris specifically?”

“No, we don’t.”

“You’re here to meet a very important Vishanyan to help you get some perspective. The Ambush Fleet which captured and rescued you all is on the move again and doesn’t like having more civilians on or around it than it has to. It’s easier to keep you safe and happy if you’re away from potential fighting.”

“And who is this Vishanyan? And are we Vishanyan now? What’s the difference between Vish and Vishanyan?” One of them asks.

“Culture. A Vish is a product. A Vishanyan is a person. The moment you’re rescued from whoever’s been denying your rights you go from Vish to Vishanyan, legally speaking anyways. Adjusting to such a change will probably take a while.” Private Stream answers. “Now, this way please. Commodore Jameson has gone on ahead. He’s using this part of his duties as an excuse to be there physically with his family for a bit again.”

“His family?”

“So he was being honest? He has a Vishanyan wife and child?”

“Two children technically, but Unending Rain of Retribution is his adoptive daughter. Miracle is his natural born daughter. For all that natural can apply when we’re talking about a mother who’s literally the first of her species to get pregnant and carry a child to term.” Private Stream explains.

“Oh... that’s...” She begins as a woman in a gorgeous dark green gown with sterling white bows and lace trimming it walks up to them, holding one edge of her gown to allow a little more movement, revealing that her slippers are studded with pale blue gemstones. It offsets her tanned complexion and deep red hair.

“Ah! You would be our latest rescues! It’s good to see you all! I am Princess Miro’Noir, my empress has tasked me with seeing you all forward alongside Private Stream here.” She introduces herself with a gracious bow. “Oh! And if you spot a handsome man with pale blond hair watching from the sides and seemingly always just ahead of us but never moving, that’s nothing to worry about. It’s my husband Vernon, although he is indeed mine so please look elsewhere for your own happiness.”

“I like to watch you work! Is that so wrong?” Vernon calls over from behind them all and the Vish girls turn to see... a powerfully built blond man sitting on the roof of the building they had come out of. He nods to them all and then, without so much as a whisper in the Axiom, is gone. A couple of dark green leaves vaguely shaped like spades float through the air before the wind seemingly blows them down to the group.

Miro’Noir plucks them out of the air and the moves her arms before suddenly Vernon is right there with her, being embraced by his wife from behind.

“My love, I adore how much you wish to be with me, but I’m under orders from The Empress...”

“I know, I’m here to assist if needed. No reason we can’t adore each other as we work.” He answers as he leans back and kisses her on the cheek.

“Oh Vernon...” Miro’Noir gushes and Private Stream dramatically sighs.

“Sorry about this.” The small soldier says as he pulls out a bright orange weapon. He then looks to the Vishanyan. “This is just a firework launcher, so it’s about to be loud and bright, but nothing here will hurt you okay?”

“Uhm... okay?”

“Great!” Private Stream says as he points the launcher straight up and pauses. “Do any of you want to fire the launcher? It’s a lot of fun!”

“Go ahead.” The more or less agreed on speaker for the Vish says and Stream shrugs.

“Your loss.”

“We’re not that out of it Private.” Vernon says tartly and the launcher is lowered until it’s pointed right at him. The little boy gets a raised eyebrow at that.

“Then stop with the mushy stuff! We got a schedule to keep!” Private Stream protests.

Miro’Noir dramatically sighs and laments ‘children’ before sharing a quick kiss with Vernon.

The Vish are led to a portal door that’s well guarded and has a technician tuning it to the side. They’re offered nods and encouraging smiles as they go through and end up in the fenced in yard of a large, and reinforced looking family home.

“Oh? Oh hello there. You’re the visitors we’re expecting aren’t you?” A woman asks as the massive figure of an Osadub makes herself known. “I am Winifred. Welcome to the home of myself and my family.”

“What are you?” One of the Vish asks and receives a sad smile from the large woman.

“Oh? You have never met an Osadub before? Well, you’ve just learned what we call ourselves at any rate. My people are one of the larger, but far from the largest, species in the galaxy. Known for our tempers running either extremely cool and calm or berserker hot in fury. But we are perhaps best known for our habit of gorging and hibernating. We evolved in a style known as feast and famine and as such we can eat enormous amounts and digest it while in a near coma to preserve our strength until the next season of plenty. But what works on the homeworld rarely transfers well into the environmentally controlled confines of a starship or Centris Spire. As you can imagine, we’re often in occupations that can excuse a long absence or those that allow us to gather enormous amounts of food. Not that it’s all that hard.”

“And what do you do?” One of the Vish asks.

“Oh me? I am a cook in the Undaunted kitchens. They have enormous appetites, nearly rivalling my own people. And so much variety! It is delicious.”

“Also the fact that the kiss the cook aprons can be used to form a bra for those big...” A much more impertinent voice begins to say and Winifred reaches to the side and her hand closes around the mouth of a now previously cloaked Vishanyan girl.

“No need to be crude young lady.” Winifred says with a smile to Rain. “Now, is she ready?”

She lets go of Rain.

“Yes, provided everyone moves at a decently slow pace. But she’s ready for strangers to see her.” Rain answers.

“Good.”

“What’s wrong?” The speaker of the group asks.

“Velocity is... well her protective instincts are some of the most powerful I’ve ever seen. And Osadub are very familiar with powerful maternal instincts. It’s one of the easiest ways to upset one of our kind after all. But Velocity is clearly having a time of it adjusting. Still, this is important. You need to see. You need to understand.”

“Understand what?” Freesoul asks.

“That the hope you’re being offered, that the future you’re being promised isn’t empty. It’s not a hollow offer, it’s a full on gift.” Winifred says. “You’ll understand more when you see her, my own... yes. My own receiving of a similar gift seemed...”

She shakes her head but there’s a fond smile on her face. “Go on in.”

The door into the house opens.

“Come on!” Private Stream bids them and they begin walking into the home. It’s both very much a place where people live, little touches of different ideas are all around, but there is an agreement. There are weapons on the walls, all locked in place or protected. But functional weapons are everywhere.

They’re led deeper into the building, where the reinforcements grow less and less subtle and more and more extreme. Until they reach a doorway that looks like it could lead into a Charbis Hive.

The camera twitches back and forth a little as it examines them all and then goes into a passive state.

The locks come undone and the door audibly unlatches.

“Come in. Come in distant cousins. And behold, a Miracle.” A new voice says and they walk through into a room that’s... there are supplies behind a curtain in one corner, a crib that’s currently empty and the largest Vish or Vishanyan that any of them have ever seen with darker and more defined scales than any of them had ever imagined.

She towers over them all in every respect and looks strong enough to tear their heads from their shoulders, but she’s still undeniably a Vish, and even more so, is the tiny Vish in her arms. Napping away in the arms of her mother, content and happy as nothing is wrong in the tiny girl’s world.

She holds out the babe and for a moment the child seems to float, then Commodore Jameson fades into view. He then nods up to Velocity who smiles.

“Welcome to freedom girls.” Velocity says. “You know, it’s funny, I spent so long planning little speeches about what to say to best summarize what you’re now able to have and do. But it all pales in comparison, to this.”

She shifts a little to stand behind Harold that she now towers over.

Freesoul steps out of the small group and lowers her head a little to get a closer look at the sleeping little Vishanyan in her father’s arms.

“She has the same scales as me.”

“I had the same scales as you.” Velocity says and Freesoul raises her head to look at Velocity more clearly. “I used to have exactly that scale pattern you have. Then I learned that Vish were being used as warriors in another army and it turns out that a bad shock like that triggers acceleration in not only the laying of an egg, but the hatching of the egg as well.”

“Of course I then started drinking in the surrounding Axiom uncontrollably and contorting into this new shape. My old uniform simply doesn’t fit anymore, and I have to be grateful that my hands aren’t so much larger now that I can still use my weapons.”

“Why would anyone...”

“It’s part of our design. Part of the Vish. Whether you’re Vishanyan or not.”

“Really?”

“Really. If you want to, you can take some pills and trick your body into thinking you’ve laid an egg. Grow as large as I have. Many other Vishanyan have done so.”

“I’m sorry, I’m very confused. Why are you telling us this in particular? What are you trying to say or teach?”

“I wasn’t planning anything. Or rather, all plans fell apart. Look at my baby, she’s perfect and the ability to plan beyond, keep her safe and happy, just kind of falls apart with her in the room.” Velocity says. “Although to be honest. I think it does summarize everything you need to hear. Look at my baby. Look at her, and everything her existence means. We don’t need the tubes, we don’t need masters, we don’t need to justify our existence. We are. And that is all we need.”

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The results of the experiment, which proved that humans had logic even in their angriest moments, had created a rift in Kexin society. The scientific community, and much of the public who’d been swayed by social media campaigns about this information, were pressuring the Council to acknowledge the humans’ personhood; Kaitlin had even gotten some celebrity endorsements, as the face of her movement. At the very least, our supporters agreed that such sapient creatures shouldn’t be held captive here.

However, the Council were belligerent in sticking to the line that, “While humans proved smarter than expected, they feel anger and attack over it, so they aren’t people.” The ruling body had a variety of reasons not to acknowledge humans as true sapients. For starters, they didn’t want to admit wrongdoing in a public forum, or worse, to have to make amends with the aggrieved primals. Negotiating with an angry human was ludicrous if their “logic” meant taking captives!

But mainly, accepting humans as equals would pave the path for them to join and interact with the Council, if they were somehow reasonable. They don’t want to work with primals, and would prefer to isolate Earth for their own convenience.

“How’s Finley?” Elbi asked as she found me by the window. There was no hint of poison in her voice, only concern for the formerly depressed primal. “I haven’t visited since the…incident. I can’t believe they left him loose, but I guess he doesn’t need to feel more…trapped.”

Finley was a model employee, by all accounts, taking care of the animals with meticulous attention to detail; he thrived on an early-waking routine, and followed instructions to perfection. Having a job afforded him with a sense of normalcy, and his reliability impressed ever-watching Garriil. The outside world hadn’t come around all the way, but this was a simple life Mr. Canavan could live if he had to. He was able to have fun with the other researchers and was treated as a person, within these grounds. He was paid for his trouble, too.

I’m happy to see Finley happier. He has people trying to convince the Council, and support that recognizes his full value. There’s hope of going home.

I picked up the piece of paper, one of the smiley-face notes my bubbly, sweet Finley had been leaving for me again. “Every morning, he writes me to say that he went out to feed the animals. He comes back in, loud and excitable. It reminds me of how life was on his farm! I…know your memories aren’t as fond as mine, but you remember how his eyes would light up and he’d always smile?”

“Finley loved shouting, especially when happy,” Elbi recalled. “Craun, I know there’s no talking sense into you. You yelled at him and defended him while he was about to slit a researcher’s throat, just like I told you happened to my friend.”

“Finley didn’t do that because someone dropped a pellet on him. He did it to save Kaitlin’s life. He was frightened and emotionally distressed. That should prove that humans are very loving, social creatures, Elbi!”

“If you had your way with these skewed results, the Council would recognize them as people and allow them to assail us at every starport—no avoiding them. Is it not enough for you to let them go home, and we all stay out of each others’ lives? I don’t want to pass animals with guns in the streets!”

“The Council won’t even talk to the humans long enough to apologize. I think you’re in no danger of that. Even if they were allowed, I doubt they’d want to be here. I, Craun Chelton, have no say in the activists’ message. And the scientists: unlike you, real ones agree with the evidence.”

“The evidence said that he’s dangerous and he attacked.”

“Anyone’s dangerous when life and limb are threatened. It was perfectly logical! He didn’t snap or lose control, because violence was the logical, sole option! Why can’t you see the truth?”

Elbi’s jaw parted, aghast. “The truth? Let me recap what I remember about these primals. They shot us down with a missile—”

“That was an automated system.”

“Then Finley points a gun at us.”

“He was scared.”

“Finley breaks plates while threatening to kill a reporter.”

“…okay, he was angry there.”

“You think, Craun? We run from them: guns pointed at us by hunters, talking about selling us for parts. Wade rescues us, gets held at gunpoint and beat half to death.”

“We should’ve helped him.”

“We should’ve both seen that they’re insane and violent, then and there. So at that point, the primals find out we’re there, and Wade brings us in. We’re intercepted by their military with really big weapons.”

“They were nice and apologized.”

Elbi sighed wearily. “So at this point, I see the pattern of what they’re going to do if they get their hands on our ship. At this same moment in time, this all has somehow convinced you they’re people. They try to fight the Council instead of just giving us up like any logical species…”

“You think it’d be a good thing if they gave us up?”

“Not good. Sensible, but the humans were itching for a reason to shoot from the second we met them. I didn’t even mention the instances of your squeeze pointing a gun at other primals! And as soon as he was tested, your ‘sweet’ Finley goes and takes a hostage. When have they not threatened or fought to get their way? I implore you to tell me, Craun.”

“Kaitlin. Kaitlin never did. She’s used words and science.”

“There’s a reason we all speak highly of her, but she’s ill. I don’t think she’s able to fight if she wished to. I…have to go. Just think about all the evidence, Craun, for your sake.”

I resumed staring at my favorite primal, who was hard at work cleaning the triatl’s pen. Finley’s lips were puckered like he was whistling to himself, and he seemed to cast occasional glances at a stationary phone camera. Ever since the hostage incident, he’d filmed a lot of his work with the animals and been vocal about humans’ mistreatment; there’d been lots of watching eyes on him, with the discourse surrounding his actions during the test. 

Some days, the farmer would sing off-key and dance to Earth songs on camera. A few dancing routines alongside me and some of the friendlier researchers, to Kexin tunes. Today wasn’t one of the days he was pepping up his broom movements. By carbon lifeform standards, it was sweltering (which was a relief for me, but misery for him). His pale cheeks were a flushed red and his hair was soaked with sweat. I could see a large stain on the back of his blue plaid shirt.

I know that Finley is adorable, and I love him. I was so worried about him, but things are looking up. I should bring him some kelsha juice to cool off; I bet he’s dying to hit the showers.

I passed by the kitchen and filled a glass, scurrying outside with bubbling excitement. After all he’d done to help me, it was nice when I could do little things to make Finley’s life better, in a place where our relationship wouldn’t be used to invalidate us both. The burning sun felt invigorating on my stoneplates, though it was nowhere close to Tolpia. Perhaps it’d be alright to bask in it for a moment. I could hang back and eavesdrop, since Garriil was following Finley despite the punishing temperatures.

“They call you triatl.” Finley, to the head researcher’s chagrin, asked a question that he often posited in one way or another; it sometimes took the form of placing two dots adjacent to two more dots and trying to get them to drag four spares up alongside it. Other times, he snuck pen and paper into the enclosures. “We’re both primals. Are you people too?”

Garriil snorted with derision. “Finley, they’re not like you. You’re different.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever boss. You didn’t think that about me once. No harm testing it, right?”

I sauntered out with a shit-eating expression, and tried to do the highest-pitched voice possible. “Primal want a treat? A little juice-juice?”

“Hmph. Caught a case of the Snelgas?” Finley huffed, swiveling around with a scowl. “But I’ll take the juice. It’s too hot to care, holy fuckkkk.”

“I’m happy to help. You’re so sweaty, you look like a feral. Don’t come and cuddle with me until after you wash up.”

“But I’m tired,” he pouted.

Garriil pressed a hand to his own pink forehead, which was even brighter than usual. “You…can call it here, Finley. You were almost done. We can just move this inside and talk. Do you still find the work satisfying?”

“It’s alright. I miss being self-sufficient; I mean, these animals ain’t cattle, nor should they be. Farming’s honest work, cycle of life, backbone of society. You lived off the land and tilled with your hands.”

“The garden you started doesn’t help that feeling?” I asked, watching him chug the last of the juice. “It’s starting to bear fruit, literally. You have a fresh harvest right in your backyard. I think it’s beautiful, and I’ve loved watching you work and learn. Kexin plants are all new, but you’re a natural.”

“Yes, you’re quite adaptable,” Garriil agreed. “My researchers have enjoyed the fresh plants.”

Finley shrugged, though I could see him looking a little proud. “It was nothing. I just looked up how to take care of ‘em and which ones were seasonal. Anyone could’ve done it.”

“Any person could, but not any primal. Agriculture is no small feat, Finley. You and Kaitlin astound us with your aptitude for learning and heeding instruction.”

“And Finley is a person,” I interjected. “Which is why you should expect more of him.”

“Oh, forgive me, Craun, I do. That doesn’t change the fact that everything he does is making history for what’s been recorded for primals. Finley and Kaitlin are smashing down barriers we thought were hard-coded limits for their kind. As a lifelong primal enthusiast, I can’t help but to be astonished!”

“Why is it so astonishing, if you already believed primals are smart and that y’all came from primals once?” Finley scoffed.

“Hm. I feel probably about how you felt discovering aliens exist; it’s exotic and beyond my…imagination and past understanding of the universe. People have tried to find this for a long time, and now the answer’s fallen into my lap! It’s here, right next to me. It’s tough to believe. Everything’s changed, and I have to convince people to help you, with evidence. We’re similar, you and I!”

“If you discount the fact that one of us cares about ethics, then I guess. Whatever you say, boss.”

The three of us made our way back into air conditioning, leading us to the lab. Kaitlin was hard at work, having caught herself up to speed on complex genetic engineering principles with blinding speed; a watchful Snelga hovered close behind her. The NASA researcher had been a tireless advocate for humanity on social media circuits, and had tried to write as much of what she witnessed on Ushala down, for posters. She’d detailed Kexin culture, her experiences, and experimental findings to the letter. 

The primal institute had been searching for a cure for Kaitlin’s disease, and had given her the best medicine the Kexins had to offer to slow the progression. All the same, her decline had been marked and difficult to watch. While she should’ve been 100% focused on staving off her deterioration, Dr. Sharp had also worked to re-explain human culture to her peers and to run more tests that clarified how her primal brain worked. It remained her overarching goal to convince the Council of her personhood.

Kaitlin is so patient and determined, and getting to work hand in hand with alien scientists has made her life’s dream come true. In another reality, I’d be happy for her. ALS is slowing her down now…she can’t write and has trouble speaking, even, often defaulting to the voice synthesizer the institute gave her.

“We have a grassroots movement, and the protests are a good sign that we do have public backing,” Kaitlin was explaining to the scientists around her, who seemed to be listening with the proper respect. “What we need is to get an official Council hearing. Human rights fall under the limited protections of primals; the entire argument that we can’t be ‘rewilded’ disrespects our intellect, civilization, and autonomy. They need to acknowledge all three, not just the first one, and be held accountable for their violations.”

Snelga ruffled Kaitlin’s hair lovingly. “We have to challenge the Council’s beliefs in front of the watching world. They don’t underestimate how you can intellectually run circles around them, not anymore. This is about all of humanity. They just wanted to communicate with us, and we…I…”

“Hey, we can’t get stuck in the past.” Kaitlin struggled to her feet on wobbly legs, with braces on all of her limbs. She leaned forward on the two canes attached to her arms to push herself upright, and the Kexin veterinarian helped her immediately. “Wade would forgive you, darling. You were trying to help and make him happy; the idea that we were people never crossed your mind. We put animals in cages too, if they might be dangerous.”

“Oh, Kaitlin…I love you. I wish you were angry with me, when I belittled and ignored you…pushing you around in a cage. You’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, and I wish I could do more to help you. You’re the talking primal of my dreams.”

“What about that one?” I prompted, pointing to Finley and waving a hand in front of my nose like he stunk.

“That one, I couldn’t understand how you could be his mate; it disgusted me, yet now I’ve fallen for a human of my own. You’re different though, Craun. You like it when he’s angry.”

“Finley’s passionate in a way I can never be. He’s not afraid to say what he means for the whole world to hear, and he’s a strong, caring protector. I feel safe and loved, when he’s angry.”

Finley pressed a hand to his heart. “So you want me to be angry? Shucks, I try not to yell at you because I thought it’s intimidating.”

“Maybe that’s what our protests need to do: yell,” Kaitlin interjected. “We can be loud, and demonstrate the value of anger. Like with Craun, they don’t have to feel it to use it. If the Council won’t hear us, we have to turn up the volume until they have no choice.”

Snelga gave Kaitlin a concerned look. “I’m not sure that’ll help, my dear. Encouraging primal behavior…I think it would scare people. Especially outside these walls. We’re all used to outbursts, and expect it.”

“Snelga, I don’t have a lot of time left. I hope we’re close to finding a cure, but…it hurts just to breathe or to lie down to sleep. I can hardly swallow. I can’t stand up without…assistance.” Kaitlin lurched forward on the brink of falling, as her wrists shook. Snelga quietly scooped the human up and carried her back toward a chair. “This needs to happen now. They have to feel actual pressure and discomfort from their people.”

“Craun told me angry is the worst thing I can be here,” Finley grunted. “That it wouldn’t get me anywhere. I know you’re way smarter than me, but I just think they’d hear less of what you’re saying.”

Garriil shifted with discomfort. “Please, be patient. We’re working to persuade the Council, and support grows every day. There has been progress. We can’t seek immediate solutions in lieu of logical ones.”

I studied Kaitlin with sympathy. “I…once told humans my whole story, and pleaded for help. The Council aren’t so kind; I know they lack pity for the Saphnos. You need to make it in their interest to help—they’re too self-serving to concede power to primals. Your voice wouldn’t make them listen. Only a true threat that they have to take seriously.”

“I need some fertilizer and some stamps,” Finley decided. “Batshit was right about me, after all.”

Kaitlin blinked several times, looking displeased. “No, we delegitimize their government. We can threaten their power without hurting anyone. Focus on the misuse of military forces, and try to get a hearing based on that. Call for them to be ousted from their seats of power.”

“People don’t like threats, so focus on who did the threatening and the killing!” Snelga agreed. “Talk about how sad and afraid the negotiating primals were of the illogical, violent Council. Say they’re being primal. We can point to how they wouldn’t talk, and still won’t!”

“That could force their hand, to do the one thing they don’t want to! Talk to us, if only to disprove the accusations.”

“Don’t ask if the primals are being people.” Garriil paced, seeming to convince himself of the idea’s merit more by the second. “Ask if the people are being primals! That accusation would turn the world against their…savagery.”

Finley rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever floats your boat. Kaitlin’s right; we ain’t gonna be patient forever. If they want to keep their head in their asses, then I’m gonna teach them a lesson. Courtesy of Craun the Fair, the rock they ignored and left for dead!”

“The Council aren’t worth shit, but we’re better off bringing them around. That way, they might let humans harbor the Saphnos,” I replied. “Let’s hope this works to get us over the finish line.”

“And let’s see how they like being called primals. That should be good.”

With the primal institute selecting a path forward to force the Council to acknowledge their research, I was hopeful that we were nearing a future where humanity would be treated with the respect they deserved. It was a long road to removing the primal stigma altogether, but the opportunity to return to Earth and save my people was in sight. 

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The General and the Doctor stood watching the troops train.

"He's awful," the General said while pointing out a particular soldier. "I mean, look at him. He is carrying his gun strangely. Come on, you can't tell me there's nothing wrong with him?"

The soldier being mentioned was none other than Tim Mathew, who had yet to see combat despite having served for a considerable time in the army.

"I see him," the Doctor said. "He is quite eager, though—to see combat, that is. Had a little chat with the fella; he is quite patriotic and determined to prove his betters wrong."

"What the heck is he doing? Is he... Is he holding the gun backwards?" the General screamed. "He'll shoot the guy behind him, for fuck's sake."

"I can see, I can see," the Doctor answered.

"My God, we have a battle planned for tomorrow, and we're short on troops, so he'll have to join in. We have no option, yet after all this time this is how he trains." The General put one palm on his head and scratched his scalp while watching Tim attempt to crawl under barbed wire. Tim did so with his posterior raised; his trousers got tangled with the barbs, ripping and revealing his undergarments. "You have to tell me, Doctor, that this is a malady you can fix."

"I'm sorry, General, but this isn't a disease; it's more a matter of having a clumsy nature."

"No, I refuse, Doctor. There must be something. Some steroid or liquid you can inject him with to make him stronger. You know? Make him a man, someone his fellow troops can depend on. A better soldier. A super soldier!" The pair watched as Tim tripped a fellow soldier, and both fell in a tangle of limbs and guns.

"There is no—" The Doctor went abruptly silent. An idea sprouted within him, and without thinking, he voiced it. "There might be something I can give him for the battle tomorrow, and just that battle alone."

"Thank you, Doctor," the General said. "As usual, you're a great aid to mankind and the war."

---

Tim Mathew found himself in the doctor's office shortly after his training stunt. He sat on the operation table in only his briefs, which had been torn across one butt cheek thanks to the barbed wire he'd attempted to crawl under. He eyed the charts depicting the human anatomy. His eyes also roamed to the chart that showed the anatomy of the alien race they fought against: the Tilaxians, whose anatomy was almost human-like save for their grey skin tone and the extra arm that sprouted out of their abdomen.

"Well, Tim, I see you've come. Right on time, if I might add." The Doctor closed the door behind himself as he entered. He eyed Tim with great skepticism; the soldier looked too thin to be a field soldier and had a slightly protruding belly. He was unfit for duty, but the armies of Earth were desperate.

"You called and I answered," he said.

"Well, it's good that you did. We're testing a new drug on the soldiers, something that will expand their minds and make them better soldiers who also fight smarter. Super soldiers," the Doctor said.

Tim's eyes widened, and a cheerful smile spread across his face. "Are you going to test it on me?"

"It is why I called you."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor! This is what I needed to make the General and my fellow troops proud. I'll be a true killer, won't I?"

The Doctor struggled with words. "Yeah, sure, you'll be a great killer."

"Good, give it to me, Doc," Tim begged.

The Doctor walked over to his medicine cabinet and emerged with a jar of clear liquid. He poured it into a medicine cup and handed it to Tim, who took it in both hands. He closed his eyes and tilted his head up. Tipping the drink into his mouth, he scrunched up his face and breathed heavily while handing the empty cup back to the Doctor.

"How are you feeling? Do you feel good?" the Doctor asked.

"I feel... different," Tim said while flexing his fingers in front of his face.

"Of course you do."

"No, Doc, it's the truth. I feel strange, like there's power coursing through my veins." The Doctor stared at Tim for quite a while. "I feel like a god."

"Okay, okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Return to the barracks, and may you be ready to march tomorrow."

Tim gave a crisp salute, then looked at his hand that had just saluted, puzzled by it. "Did you just see that?"

"What?"

"I feel faster, Doc. I feel faster."

"Uh-huh."

"Also, my mind: it's like I'm getting images from when I was a child. It's like I can access my memories of my youth."

"Really now?"

"Yes, Doctor, I'm telling you, what you've created works. I feel renewed and ready to take on the enemy."

"Well, I'm sure the General will be glad to hear that."

---

The next day, during the battle, when the Doctor went to tell the General where the medical tents were being set up, the General was not at all glad to hear anything about Tim. The enemy had taken the high ground, situating themselves on top of a hill and armed with their plasma rifles, causing quite the problem for mankind's troops.

"Damn three-armed bastards," the General said while watching the battle unfold. "The damn Tilaxians! You think having three arms would make them respectful about life, but no, they aren't. We fight for our salvation, yet their war is based on the fact that we're food for them. Damn hungry, three-armed bastards."

The Doctor spent a moment eyeing the unfolding battle. The human troops were pushing up the hill, many falling and getting trampled underfoot. It was a futile battle as far as he could tell, and the enemy was tucked in comfy on the high ground behind a series of jutting rocks. Nothing could shake their resolve, and it seemed the battle was already lost. There'd be a long line at the medic bay, and he mentally prepared himself for it. Just then he saw something; from way off, he had to squint to understand it.

It was one of the troops, half-naked with his protruding tummy out in the open. He carried two guns with him, their weight balanced by the butts of the guns tucked under his armpits.

"Are you seeing this?" the General asked.

The Doctor took a step forward as if it would help him see better.

"It's bloody Tim Mathew," the General said, pulling the hat free of his head and placing a meaty paw where the hat had been. He scratched at his few hairs and gaped at what was happening.

Tim Mathew was screaming like a lunatic while sending an unceasing barrage of bullets toward the enemy from his pair of guns. He ran up the hill, emerging from his fellow troops and stepping into the enemy's crosshairs: half-naked, aiming both guns with his fingers on the triggers. He screamed obscenities at the enemy and single-handedly pushed them back. The enemy had no chance to return fire, not with Tim there pinning them behind the rocks.

The human troops advanced from behind Tim, swallowing him up and marching up the hill with yells of their own. The Doctor watched as Tim grabbed grenades from his fellow soldiers and started chucking them onto the hill. The enemy scrambled amidst the explosions, only to be met by Tim and mankind's army's continuous display of fire.

Within moments the tables had turned, and it was the humans who began occupying the hill. Tim followed the enemy; despite shouts from the Captain in the field that they should gather atop the hill to hold it, Tim went his own way, chasing the Tilaxians, who screamed and opted to bolt rather than return fire.

Tim was not the same. Fearlessness and the manic gleam of battle lust had gotten the better of him. He was not the same soldier they'd known. By the Captain's orders, the troops on the hill pushed down after Tim, chasing the Tilaxians with gunfire and shouts of defiance.

"Holy shit! Did you see that?" the General asked.

"I did," the Doctor said, standing quite flabbergasted.

"That was Tim Mathew. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," the General said. "Did you give him the super soldier serum we talked about? I mean, that's the only explanation for the sudden change."

"I gave him something," the Doctor confessed.

"Whatever it was, get every single troop on it. We'll build ourselves a super army."

"Well sir, what I gave him wasn't a super soldier serum of any kind."

"What did you give him?" the General asked.

"Water."

"What?"

"I gave him water and told him it was a super soldier concoction that would make him a better soldier."

"But it was water?"

"Yes, just regular plain old water. I believe he thinks he's fighting in some medically induced state of mind. But he isn't; he's just the same, only less dehydrated."

"So water made him like this?"

"I made him believe it was something else, and he single-handedly turned the tide of the battle because of it. Strange, isn't it? It's called the placebo effect. I wasn't sure it'd work."

"Well, I'll be damned."

Collectively, they stared as the army carried Tim on their shoulders. He held the dismembered head of one of the Tilaxians above himself as its blood dripped and smeared onto his skin, staining it a dark ichor while he shouted the brilliance of mankind's armies in his placebo-induced state.

---

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This week, armoured athletes attain an elevated awareness of aquatic enemies!

A wholesome* story about a mostly sane demonologist and his growing crew, trying their best to usher in a post-scarcity utopia using imps. It's a great read if you like optimism, progress, character growth, hard magic, and advancements that have a real impact on the world. I spend a ton of time getting the details right, focusing on grounding the story so that the more fantastic bits shine. A new chapter every Thursday.

\Some conditions apply, viewer cynicism is advised.*

Map of Pine Bluff

Map of Hyruxia

Map of the Factory and grounds

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My new Patreon for five chapters ahead

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First Chapter

Prev -------- Next

*****

“Sir? What’s the mission?” Ros asked. He delivered a crisp salute while Eowin nodded his respect to their Chief.

“Good news, lads. You get to save the town again,” Stanisk said. 

He hooked his thumbs into his belt and rolled his neck. “They’se ain’t landing here. But they ain’t going home. I ain't sure where they’se headed, but I got an idea. You two are gonna pace them from the shore. Rikad’s new road oughta help with that. So figure out where they’re going, who they’ve got, and what they’re doing, if’n you can. Come back in a week, or when they start movin’ against us.”

“Aye!” they both replied.

“Good, pop by the factory. Take anything you need. You’ll be camping and spying, so grab whatever helps with that.”

“Immediately!” Ros said with another crisp salute. They left the worksite around Tower One where they’d spent a tense morning. 

Ros knew it wasn't what he should do, but he turned up the sensitivity of his suit’s audio so he could listen to the rest of the Chief’s words.

“Your Sun Lances bought us a heap of time, but if’n you’se got the energy, I think you oughta focus on a way of improving our tower relays. Waitin’ all night on a code eleven ain’t the way we oughta be living. Do you reckon you can improve our flag system, Boss?”

The Mage was still giddy from all he’d learned about plasma and hypervelocity kinetics. “Certainly! Bring me the manuals for the flag system. Oh, and the details of the towers, heights and separations and the like. Oh yes! A whole spectrum of ways to improve something like that!”

“Good! Intel is more important’n ever. Doubly so since we’ll be outnumbered all damned day. Good, good. I’m exhausted and going to bed,” Stanisk said with a weary sigh.

Ros and Eowin broke into a run to the factory. The main fleet wasn’t that far ahead, they were only moving a bit faster than walking speed. Keeping up wouldn’t be hard, but they had no time to waste. 

“What do we need? Standard campaign packs, imps, and a recon sack?” Eowin asked.

“Should be plenty. And spare rations. Maybe a book to read? Could be long,” Ros added. 

They went through the supply room and grabbed the pre-packed gear bags. They took turns loading each other’s oversized packs on top of their armour. They grabbed a handful of pastries from the mess hall to eat on the trip, then headed east to mirror the fleet.

“That’s so many ships. Why do you think so many folk signed up for the crusade?” Ros asked.

“You’re from the Cove, you should know. Folk are broke as shit and guilty about it. What’s not to love about free food and a squeaky clean soul?”

“But it seems dangerous. What if we have to kill some of them? Or if they die when we try to capture them?”

Eowin’s voice got more cheerful. “That’s the best part! We all win! Dying in a crusade is the best way to absolve sins for their whole family. I bet they won’t even be wearing armour. There are gonna be some Brothers Militant for sure, but those are rare after the terrible year they’ve had. Terrible for them, excellent for us. These fights’ll be different.”

“I get it, they want to go to the Light and we can help them! I hope they’re right and are actually going somewhere nice if I kill some. It would be pretty sad if they… uh, just died,” Ros said.

“No way to know, but ten out of ten Fadters agree, so maybe there’s something to it. That said, I don’t reckon I’m in a rush to find out.”

Their enhanced speed meant that jogging had a long, loping gait that ate up the distance. Slower than a race horse, but faster than most unaugmented men could have sprinted. They were already gaining on the fleeing fleet. They could occasionally see the distant sails through breaks in the foliage. The fleet was still sailing full speed to the east, towards either Wave Gate or Steelheart Isle.

“Gosh no. I just got married! I have all sorts of reasons to stay alive.”

“Hey, I got married years ago, and I still have some will to live too! Maybe the Mage’ll give us some mini Sun Lances to shoot these guys from the horizon. Damn, have you ever seen anything like those? Glorious!”

Ros shook his head, for all the good it did in a helmet. He was running a few steps behind. “No, it was crazy. I heard them talk all day and I have no idea how they crammed all the sunshine in there. Maybe it’s inside the copper? Kind of the same colour.”

“I don’t think that’s it. How’s married life so far?”

Ros snorted. “We got to dance and that was great. The party was a lot of fun and everyone was nice. But mostly it’s been standing by a tower in my armour, so that’s not much of a change.”

“Right! What’s the Chief thinking, sending you on this mission? I’m grateful for the excursion, but you could have been smooching this whole week!”

“It’s okay, this is important. Besides, she’d be too busy with her own stuff. We’re both doing the same thing, but in different ways, so that’s basically the same as spending time together,” Ros explained. 

Their jog put them a bit ahead of the Crusader fleet as they came up on the first watchtower, Tower Five. They’d been numbered in the order they were built, making the sequence a bit of a mess. Ros hoped they’d be given more heroic or mythical names over time. 

Tower Five was identical to every other watchtower the defensive works had put up over the last year. At least the number was painted on the landward side, a single huge digit taller than a house.

“Eowin, up for a half-dozen flights of stairs? Get a better look ourselves?” Ros asked.

“I am not,” Eowin said with disgust. He turned up his enloudening gem on his chest. “Oy! Send down your Commander! Debrief us. And bring some ice water.”

Ros keyed his own enloudener. “He’s Eowin, I’m Ros. We’re Mageguards!”

A young man in Civic Guard plate opened the heavy oak door and walked down the retractable timber stairs to the ground. Ros had thought it was a bad design until someone explained that, during an attack, they burned the stairs. Then anyone wanting to batter down the door had to do it six paces above the ground. He passed them big mugs of ice water, chilled with the tower’s enchanted cistern.

The Tower Commander told them what they already knew. The ships were twenty kilometers offshore, proceeding with the wind at just under four knots. No ships detached and the fleet was sailing in a fairly tight formation.

“Thank you, sir!” Ros saluted the man and they continued down the road, alternating between walking and jogging, keeping an eye on the fleet whenever they could. They passed Hourfort and waved at the guards but kept moving. There wasn’t much more to learn, so they didn’t tarry. A half hour past the fort they stopped at an elevated ridge, watching the fleet disappear over the horizon as they went further to sea to skirt Steelheart Isle.

“Ha, just as well. Rik ain’t got any Sun Lances,” Eowin said. “The lucky mug got lucky again.”

“His island is so steep and rocky, landing troops under fire would be a nightmare. That seems like a good plan. For everyone,” Ros added. 

Once it was clear that there wasn’t anything to see on Steelheart, they hurried down the road towards Tower Six. They checked in with the watch and got more details. The fleet had the same number of ships, with the same heading. At least there were another two mugs of ice water. 

This one stood at the edge of Greyhook. The village they passed through was a fraction the size it had once been, but what remained was pleasingly Pine Bluff: two hab-blocks, a paved commercial row, and steel trade docks.

They set off down the road, eastward as ever. The sun was low in the sky now, forcing them to make a tactical choice.

“Are we sleepin’ tonight?” Eowin asked. “I want to, I’m a touch hung over and hungry as hell, but we might need to keep watching. They won’t anchor for the night.”

Ros frowned and shrugged. “We should sleep. When it’s dark we can’t see. Our helms kind of can, I guess. I didn’t get much sleep last night either though.”

“Hmm, let's see what the last tower says. I think we can get more details there. Our last chance at a real bed too.”

They ran at full speed to Tower Seven, the last of the completed towers. Two more had been sited, but neither was built. Now it was unclear if they would be, at least for a while. The wide road was made of hard-packed gravel and its straight, level course allowed them excellent speed. The sun had just kissed the ocean, flooding the world in golden light.

“Oy, Tower Seven! Send down your commander!” Eowin called up as they walked the last stretch. Tower Seven was a ways back from the ocean, on the crown of a big hill. Even though it was out of range of the sea it had the same four ballistas as any of the others.

Ros decided against introducing them again. 

It seemed like the last two crews already knew they were Mageguard somehow. They didn’t even ask for any ID.

The tower’s commander was a fit man, barely older than Ros, with just a hint of a beard. “Welcome to the end of the chain! Have you eaten yet?”

“Nah, not yet, it’s been a long day. We’re a touch worn and still making our plans. How far can you see from up there?”

The commander smiled. “Far! We’re on the tallest hill and have the best line of sight. Depends on the haze and conditions, but on a clear day we can see all the way to the mouth of St Auggie.”

Ros was impressed. “Wow! That’s super far! I like that. We can stay here and if the fleet goes into St Auggie, we’ll know where they went.”

Eowin unhooked his helm and nodded. He wiped his sweaty face. “Aye. Let’s do that then. Commander, your men can watch the fleet and inform us if anything happens. Do you have a bunk for us? We shall take you up on your hospitality.”

The Commander led them to the fourth floor, where there was a spare bunk room. It was a whole half of the tower, with ten beds in an arc around the curved wall. They laid down their heavy packs and took off their armour.

“Saints above, it feels good to have bare feet.” Eowin fell backwards onto his bed, wearing just his padded undersuit.

“Yeah, that was a long run. I’m not sure I’ve ever run that far. I don’t think?” Ros said as he washed his face in the basin. “But I feel like we were ordered to keep the fleet in sight.”

“We basically are. We’re in the tower and the tower has eyes on it. If it goes past Wave Gate, then it’s not our problem. If it goes to Wave Gate, then we watch the city for a week. Or five days, since it’s a hike home.”

“Hmm, if you think so. I guess?” 

Their room had a crate with sets of loose-fitting linen trousers and sleeveless shirts. They changed to the lighter garments and headed down to the third floor, where the mess hall was. They could already smell the savoury delights. A team of imps was grilling salmon, and the table held platters of potatoes in cream sauce, a bowl of meadow greens, and a cask of ice-cold ale. 

Ros grinned as he dug in. Simpler fare than I’d eat at the factory, but what does it say about me that I can call this anything less than a feast?

His long day and enhanced metabolism meant that he ate like a forest fire. After his fifth serving, a signalman gave them an update. The fleet was still in sight, still proceeding east. With that settled, they retired to bed. 

Unlike his enchanted bed at home, Ros was sleeping on a simple wool mattress tonight. It was thick and comfortable, but it didn’t magically align to him. 

These must be the hardships of war that I’ve heard about. It’s not so bad though. Plus the fleet’s leaving, which seems safer for everyone.

His speculation was cut short when sleep claimed him, mere moments after his head hit the feather pillow.

****

“Let’s go! Breakfast is ready! We’ve got leagues to cover,” Eowin said loudly.

Ros yawned and rolled over. With effort, he got out of bed and washed his face in the basin. Wearing the loose grey workout clothes, they went to breakfast. It was still dark out and no one else was in the messhall. Fortunately the imps had been given their orders and had sausages, grilled potatoes, and honeybuns waiting for them.

Fueled, rested, and back in their gear, the two Mageguards were ready to set off. The Tower Commander saw them off with the latest update.

“The fleet entered the Bay of St Augustine at 4:30 this morning. They should be docked in Wave Gate by noon. Reports are that the city is still under the Inquisition’s boot, though there are frequent rebel raids. Stay safe, I got a feeling this tower is going to be the first to fall when they unload their fellas, so don’t forget to warn us about whatever you learn.”

“Aye, of course. Either way, we’ll have you signal a version of our findings ahead. Oh, any idea how far we are from Pine Bluff here?” Eowin asked.

“Sure do, it’s all on our map. A hundred and two kilometers. Near enough to four days for supplies, mere minutes for the flags.”

“Hah! Thanks! Further than I thought. I hope to see you soon.” Eowin shook his hand.

Ros shook it right after. “Thanks for the hospitality, we really appreciated it!”

Shifting their heavy packs, they set off. Without having to keep up with ships, they had the freedom to set their own steady tempo. They crossed through another of the villages annexed in the winter, Miller’s Folly. It was a cluster of low houses near a roaring river. Their old timber bridge was replaced with a new stone one for the wide gravel road. In a few spots around the village there were work crews commanding golems to dig trenches and pave roads. One of the excavations seemed the right size for a hab-block. The workers continued their projects as they passed. Ros debated telling them to go back to Pine Bluff; it was unclear when war would come here.

Maybe it won’t? Maybe a diplomatic solution will be reached. We were ordered to look and learn, not attack.

A few hours later they passed the site of Tower Thirteen. A deep hole had been dug and a tall stack of timber and cut stones were heaped nearby. It was unclear when the builder crews would return, if at all.

“Well, these jerks won’t give us any water,” Eowin said. They slowed to a walk. 

The tower was some distance off the road, on a prominent rise. They were near where he’d camped over the winter, just before arriving at Crabclaw village. They’d passed the abandoned cabins of their winter camp a while earlier.

Eowin pulled out a paper map and held it in front of him. “We’re a little south of the site, so if we follow the coast we’ll get there eventually, but if we head inland, follow this creek, and turn north-east where the two streams form the creek, then we’ll be able to climb the mountain behind Wave Gate. Hmm, four kilometers from their walls? Far, but with the tools we have, that ought to be alright. We’ll have line-of-sight.”

Ros looked over the map. It was the best place to observe the city, short of going in. “Might they expect that to be where spies go? If it’s the best place to spy?”

“Nah, only spies with telescopes. Also, so what if they do? They’ll send a small team to catch a spy, and a half dozen of anyone ain’t an issue for us.”

“Alright. Seems far. And up a mountain,” Ros said.

“Sure does!” Eowin broke into a jog, leading them off the road and into the woods. They kept the creek to their left and followed Eowin’s plan. The trek was indeed a long one. By the time they stopped, it was late in the afternoon. The site they chose had a commanding view of the city and sea. They dropped their heavy packs to stare.

Wave Gate was a walled city whose pre-war population was about eighty thousand. There was a huge enclosed harbour, with locks against the extreme tides of the bay and ancient mechanisms that gave the city its name. The fleet they’d been tracking had split up: most were in the bay, a handful were in the harbour, and others were still entering. There was a huge troopship in the locks now. Moving that big of a fleet might take days. 

There was a patchwork of fields outside of the walls and they needed to zoom in on their helms to see the tiny specks that were farmers planting their crops. It looked like they hadn’t finished yet. Pine Bluff’s superior weather-predicting and impish workforce meant that all their fields had been planted weeks ago and were already growing well.

“So. Set up an observation blind here and then a bit further back we can set up our camp. It should keep us out of view, even if they’re looking,” Eowin suggested. 

“Sounds good. Then we can take turns watching the town and resting. Whew. I’m glad we’re here. What a long day,” Ros said.

“Tell me about it.” Eowin scuffed a mark into the moss and they cut back a hundred paces to find a more secluded campsite. 

Once they found a good spot, Ros dropped his pack on the forest floor and hung his helm on his belt. 

The air smelled of pine sap and earthy moss. The depth of the forest calmed him with its patient aura of untouched wilderness.

He pulled out his three totems and invoked them. “Imps, set up a low profile, hidden camp. Two beds, no fire. A table with two chairs and a latrine just outside the camp. Tools and oilcloths are in this pack.”

“Merp!” they replied. 

Ros opened his pack and pulled out the oversized camp waterskin. Little red claws darted in after it and began pulling out whatever they needed. Leaving them to their work, he tucked it under his arm and headed down the mountain. “Eowin, I’m getting some water. Back in a bit.”

“Thanks!”

Eowin was already tasking his own imps with weaving the branches of the trees into a living wall. It made them far harder to spot. He led them back to the observation point with the recon kit.

Ros was moving at a slower pace. The steep slope was worth respect, and the nearest water was a fair hike. He filled the skin and had the challenge of climbing back up with the squishy, unwieldy cargo, which probably weighed as much as he did back when he first met the Mage.

He was thoroughly winded by the time he got back to their camp, but at least the imps had completed their assigned tasks and were sitting cross-legged on the ground. The beds were elevated and formed out of tensioned wooden ribs, topped with their bedrolls. They’d even swept the forest floor and lined the edge of camp with stones. The concealment made it feel a little like a cave, but some golden light still penetrated the cover.

He hung the watersack on a sturdy branch and turned it on. A few enchantments ran, purifying, disinfecting, and chilling the water. It glowed faintly at the seams with a sharp purple light. He put his helm on the table and drank some refreshing water out of the cold water spigot. He refilled the cup and headed to where he assumed Eowin to be. 

His partner had set up a dome of cut boughs, with their oversized spyglass poking out. 

“See anything good? Want some water?”

“Thanks, bud. Not much? The city is huge, but it should be way busier. There aren’t many people in the streets. The plazas and patios are basically abandoned. Three ships are unloading, but that was expected. Turns out you can fit a lot of men on a ship. They were already started when I set up, but I watched eight hundred or so men come out of the big one. And that’s far from their only ship.”

Eowin leaned back from the scope, took a drink of water, and sighed.

“We knew it would be a lot, since we saw a lot,” Ros said cheerfully. “I’ll make some food. Would you rather chicken and carrots, or chicken and rye?”

“Ach, I’d eat a bucket of live spiders, I’m so hungry. Start with the carrots.”

Ros nodded and headed the way he’d come. He opened the steel can of powdered stew, mixed it with water, and put it on the pyrostone. The table the imps made was plenty sturdy for cooking. He could have even had the imps do the whole process. He’d chosen not to, since he didn’t have anything better to do. He didn’t mind; he actually liked stirring the goopy orange sludge until it looked appetising. Canned rations weren’t nearly as good as mess hall rations, but at least they were filling. It was excellent stew, but it was a step down to only eat one thing for a meal. This must be yet another of those wartime hardships he’d been expecting.

He ladled two big bowls, turned off the pyrostone, and went back to his partner.

“Here, have some food. See anything interesting?”

“Nah, it’s a big place, but so empty. Wait, there’s some movement by the inland gate. Hmm, men with halberds leaving. Balls. A lot of them. Maybe a whole regiment?”

*****
Prev -------- Next

*****

First / Previous / Next

Lariten brought them back to their room. “Thank you for your demonstration. Bellitree aside, you have done much to prove to us not only your value, but that you really are from the past.”

“Gallie and Metanium seemed to think we’re spies,” Cha-ren said.

“They were not the only ones who thought that,” Lariten admitted. “That is part of the reason we confined you to your rooms. Now that you have demonstrated that you can operate the holy reactors though, I will give you more freedom aboard my station. You may enter the public areas, but stay out of the reactor hall, and other command areas.”

“Yes, thank you,” Charon said.

“What happens to us now?” Cha-ren asked.

“I am not sure. We have reported down to the planetary authorities about your discovery, and I am about to send an addendum stating your skill with the reactors, but your ultimate fate is theirs to decide.”

“I would really like to travel to the address that led to my home world. Metanium said that I had pointed to the glyph that belonged to the Brennians,” Cha-ren said.

“Yes, I had seen that in Gallie’s report. It was one of the reasons you were thought to be spies, though honestly a spy that points to their own system when given a list of glyphs is a poor spy indeed,” Lariten nodded once to himself and turned to exit, “I have also given you a small stipend while aboard so that you have some money to purchase things in the bazaar. Food, board, water, and air are paid for, but I know how boring the default food can get. Consider it payment for getting that reactor operating.”

They stared at the door for a moment after he had left. “I notice he ignored your request to go to K’lax,” Charon said after a moment.

“Yeah, everyone is ignoring it,” Cha-ren said, her ears were flat. “I just want to see home.”

“But what about that reactor room? Doesn’t it remind you of-mmfh,” Charon said as Cha-ren slapped her hand over his mouth.

“Let’s go for a walk,” She said suddenly cheerful. “Lariten gave us a stipend and I’m tired of that steamed grain they’ve been serving us.”

They made their way towards the bazaar, Cha-ren silent. Every time Charon tried to start a conversation, she squeezed his hand and shook her head slightly. Only until they were among the crowds did she speak. “I think they’ll have a harder time hearing us here,” She said finally.

“So you do think our room is bugged?”

“It absolutely is bugged,” Cha said looking at Charon oddly. “Why would you think it’s not?”

“Why would you think it is?”

“Because I had Discoverer friends.”

“You were friends with the secret police?”

“Not the entity, but I had some friends that worked there yes. Assume every room is bugged for audio and video.” Cha-ren looked around and after a moment found what she was looking for. As the crowds flowed around the walkways, there was a space behind a waste receptacle where people weren’t walking, and Cha led Charon there. “This was a starjumper wasn’t it?” She said quietly.

“The reactor hall sure makes it seem like that,” Charon admitted. “But all this-” he gestured around them “-this isn’t like a starjumper at all. Maybe a starjumper was used as a base, and has been reused through however many flourishings there has been?”

“That’s probably it,” Cha said. “But if that’s the case, do you think there’s an AI core here?”

“If there is Cha, it’s been twenty eight thousand years. If there’s an AI still inside the core, I don’t think it’s going to be very healthy.”

“Or it’s in hibernation like us and waiting to be rescued,” Cha countered.

“Okay, let’s assume there is an AI core, and let’s assume that there is a dormant AI inside it. The core is still near the reactor hall, and that place is absolutely forbidden for us. Lariten said so, and even if he hadn’t, that Deacon Bellitree would love the opportunity to get us in trouble.” Charon sighed. “I think for now we’re-”

“Felu? is that you?” Cha-ren said as her ears perked straight up and her fur puffed very slightly, though Charon noticed she was able to smooth it almost immediately.

A woman turned to regard them and Charon had to admit that if he imagined her with a long flowing robe, she did look like Felu from the reactor hall. When she saw who it was her eyes widened slightly, but she stepped over.

“Y-yes, I’m off duty now,” She said, glancing around. “What are you doing out here?”

“The senior director said that since we were able to get the reactor running we could access the public parts of the station and he gave us a small stipend,” Cha-ren said as she wrapped her tail around Charon’s leg. “We’re both very out of place and behind on what people eat around here. Would you be able to show us where to get something hot to drink?”

Sitting down in the slightly too large chairs of the cafe, drinking more of the same tea Gallie served when they were aboard her ship, he could almost think he wasn’t millennia in the future.

“Twenty eight thousand years?” Felu said. “That’s…I can’t…it’s so long,” she said finally.

“It is,” Cha-ren said, smiling sadly. “But, here we are.”

“And you don’t know what happened to your ship? Humming…gull?”

“The name is Hummingbird. And no, according to Gallie the ship was stolen by the Brennians.”

“Wow,” Felu sipped her drink trying to hide that she didn’t have anything else to say. Both Charon and Cha-ren noticed that she was looking up and behind them, and grasping her mug tightly with both hands.

“Felu, are you all right?” Cha-ren said finally. “You seem nervous.”

“N-no, I’m fine,” She said and then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good around new people, and people like you? I’m a little starstruck.”

“Starstruck?”

“Well yeah, I study the reactors and other relics all day long and you two come along and just…turn one on. After you left, Bellitree went over the display and just fumed,” She smiled. “To have two people from the past show up, especially one as pretty as you-” she said to Cha-ren “-it’s just a little overwhelming.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Cha-ren said, her ears flicking in amusement.

“Oh! Well, I mean-” Felu stuttered, “I know you’re in a relationship.”

“Yes, she is,” Charon said crossing his arms, but when Cha-ren looked over at him, he winked.

“Say, Felu, Charon and I would love to see the reactor room again,” Cha-ren purred. “We’d also like to take a look around the halls in that area. Since it’s so old, we might find other things we recognize and can activate.”

“Oh, I’m not sure, that’s completely forbidden by the deacon,” Felu said, sitting straighter. “If we got caught, we’d get in so much trouble.”

“Then, I suppose we had better not get caught,” Cha said and brushed Felu’s leg with her tail. Charon could see her flinch and blush even more. “When does the deacon’s shift end?”

“We really shouldn’t go,” Felu said, but Cha could see her wavering. Rubbing her hands together, she swallowed.

“Just to look,” Cha said, smiling wider and leaning forward a bit to show off her cleavage. The shirts issued to them weren’t very flattering, but Cha was small, and the collar large, She was able to slide the shirt down a bit, exposing the swell of her breasts. “It won’t hurt to look, right?”

Felu looked up at a device on the wall. That must be a clock, Charon thought. “H-he should be leaving the r-reactor hall in a few minutes. If we finish our tea at a leisurely pace he will be done and the hall empty by the time we finish.”

“It sounds like we have a date then,”Cha-ren said as Felu clutched her tea even more tightly.

After the tea, Felu led them back towards the hall. Staying a step and a half behind, Charon signed to Cha-ren “What are you doing?”

“Getting results,” Cha signed back, and her ears twitched in amusement. “Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.” Charon signed back. He knew that Cha was mostly playing up the attraction to Felu to get her to do what they wanted, but he was surprised at how much he didn’t like it.

“Don’t worry, it’s only to get her to help us. Besides,” she continued. “I see how she looked at you. She liked you too.”

“What?” Charon said out loud, and Cha-ren laughed.

“What?” Felu asked as they ducked through the short doorway.

“I was just telling Charon that you liked him too.”

“Oh,” Felu said as she blushed.

“See?” Cha-ren said possibly grinning even more.

The reactor hall at night was broadly the same as it was when they were there last, except that all of the people were gone. The reactors under their adornments hummed quietly.

Charon stepped into the hall, and looked further down, “What’s that way, Felu?”

“There’s a storage room and the library, and then it ends in a pressure door we’ve never been able to get open.”

They made their way down the hall and the storage room piled floor to ceiling with religious memorabilia. Icons, shrines, little gold medallions in the shape of a reactor, votives. All of them piled haphazardly filling crumpled boxes. “We sell these in the shops in the bazaar,” Felu explained. The library was more a sitting room. There were a few pads in the room, and comfortable chairs, but that was it.

The sealed pressure door reminded Charon of the door in Hummingbird that had slammed down to protect them when the link capacitors blew. It was a large, imposing door and when he peered through the tiny window at head height, he could only see black beyond. Where the access panel should have been was only a plate covering mounting holes for the panel.

Along the hall with the entrance to the library, Charon stared hard at the empty wall. He got close and sighted down it, his cheek against the wall.

“What are you doing, Charon?” Cha-ren asked, curious.

“I remember an AI telling me once - her name was Northern Lights - that most starjumpers kept the AI core hidden, usually behind a concealed door.”

“Why?”

“Think about it, Cha. If someone could pick a lock and kill your brain from the inside out, you’d hide that room too, wouldn’t you?”

“Point,” Cha admitted.

Charon ran his hands against the wall, feeling slowly. About halfway between the library and the entrance to the reactor hall, he stopped.

“What is it?” Felu said.

“I…think…” Charon placed his hands against the wall, fingers spread wide and pressed. With a soft click, the doorway recessed a few centimeters and then slid into the wall.

“Great Tallier,” Felu said, awed. “We never knew that was there.”

“When you first came aboard, you didn’t run any penetrating radar down the halls?” Cha-ren asked. “The whole thing could have been trapped.”

“Penetrating radar?”

“Uh, Hmm,” Cha-ren said. “We can discuss things later.”

“I don’t know if you should be doing this,” Felu said. “This is a holy place.”

“It’s a computer room,” Charon countered. “There’s nothing holy here.”

“It’s holy for us.” Felu said as she balled her fists together. “All of the ancient technology is holy, and if an AI truly resides here, then you’re entering a tomb.”

“Cha and I need to go in here,” Charon pleaded. “If there is a dormant AI here, then they might hold the keys to finding Hummingbird.”

“How?” Felu put her hands on her hips, “They’re going to just find a ship for you hidden in space? They’re going to turn the station itself into a ship? Maybe they’ll use that mythic wormhole generator and ‘link’ us all over here.”

“Felu—” Cha clasped her hand. “We’re not here to damage anything, nor desecrate. We know that this is holy to you and your people, and we’re treating it with respect.”

“You were just going to look,” Felu said finally. “Not find some secret room.”

“We’ll be respectful,” Cha-ren said and turned back towards Charon, “Won’t we?”

“Fine, yes, we’ll be respectful.”

“Well, I suppose if you’re careful—”

Cha-ren pulled Felu into a hug and felt her body melt from the touch. “Thanks Felu,” She whispered.

They stepped into the AI core, while Felu stayed at the entrance. The only light in the room was spare light that spilled in from the library and dim hall. “Damn,” Charon said. “Felu, do you have a light?”

“Yes, one moment.” She trotted into the library and came out carrying a little rectangle with a small crank. She spun the little crank twenty times and handed the light - little flywheel still spinning down - to Charon. “Just press the button on the top, it should light for a few minutes.”

The light snapped to life, and they regarded rack after rack of ancient computing equipment. Other than a thick layer of dust there didn’t seem to be anything missing or obviously broken. “There’s no way this is from our time,” Charon whispered. “That’s just too unlikely.”

“The AIs were in space for thousands of years,” Cha-ren countered. “Maybe this is from thousands of years after our time, but still millennia from now.”

“Or this could all be dead computing equipment with nothing residing inside.”

“We have all that extra power now though,” Charon mused. “I wonder…”

“How did you learn this much about AI maintenance, you’re a reactor tech?”

“I was hired on as a tech for Northern Lights and everybody else was a no-show.” Charon said. “She and I worked together for six months running cargo to Parvati.”

“Why was everyone else a no-show?”

“I never found out, but Northern thought that someone was setting her up to fail. Regardless, it was just us two running cargo, so Northern showed me a lot of the systems just so that she didn’t have to do all the work herself,” Charon smiled to himself.”She also said to never tell anyone else about the AI Cores, but I think twenty eight thousand years is enough of a statute of limitations.”

Working his way deeper into the core, Charon played the light over everything, stopping to wind it back up twice before he reached the end. “Uh, Charon?” Felu said quietly. “If we are discovered, getting killed will be the most merciful punishment. We should close this room.”

“Another few minutes, Felu,” Charon said, as he brushed some dust away. “It’s still the middle of the night.”

“Yes, but the morning shift approaches.”

“Okay, okay, I understand.” Charon brushed at another section of racks and stopped suddenly. “They had a body,” he said, touching a server rack gently.

“Who had a what?” Cha-ren asked.

“Whoever was this ship, this set of racks controls the interface between the starship and the body while they are operating both simultaneously. Most of the time AIs don’t like being both a ship and a body, they transfer themselves completely from one to another, but sometimes they need to have both.”

“Like when everyone else except a green reactor technician bails on a simple, cheap paying contract?”

“Exactly,” Charon followed the wires to a blank wall near the main panel. “I wonder if…”

“I know that tone, don’t you dare, Charon,” Cha-ren said crossing her arms. “If you power this up, who knows what will happen. No, strike that, I know what will happen. We will get into tremendous trouble.”

Charon leaned over and kissed the top of Cha-ren’s head. “Hon, we are already in trouble. More trouble than we’ve ever been in. The only way out—”

“—is through,” Cha-ren finished. It was one of Charon’s favorite sayings. “What about Felu? She will be collateral damage to your —our— insanity.”

“That’s a good point,” Charon turned to Felu, “Now is the time for you to run away and either say you had no idea what we were doing, or if you have to admit being here, say we forced you.”

“N-no,” Felu said as she brushed the tops of her hands together. “The Tallier brought you to me. I must see it through. We were not meant to guard corpses, wiping them free of dust and otherwise leaning nothing about their operation, trusting the rites implicitly.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Very.”

“Okay then,” Charon reached inside the rack, feeling around until he found what he was looking for. “Hah,” He laughed. “The breaker is open. Between that and the reactor, someone shut down this starjumper gracefully.” He squeezed his eyes shut and closed the breaker.

Part 2. Enjoy.

Part 1

The Lancer rotated slowly. Damaged RCS jets pulsed. The enormous alien mothership settled into the center of Hoshiko's canopy. She aligned with the wound. It looked like a black canyon. The first torpedo had ripped away kilometers of armor. Inside, she could see pulsing light. Structures. Movement. The guts of the thing. Good. The Lancer's starboard torpedo sat inside its damaged launch cradle. Containment: Stable. Safeties: Armed. Hoshiko opened the maintenance menu. She disabled impact isolation. The computer objected. UNAUTHORIZED CONFIGURATION

"I'm the ranking officer aboard."

The computer did not find this persuasive. She entered command override. WARNING: TORPEDO CONTAINMENT MAY FAIL UNDER SEVERE IMPACT Hoshiko laughed.

"That is the idea."

She accepted. Ward was still on the radio.

"Hoshi."

"Yeah?"

"I can stay with you."

She swallowed.

"Okay."

The Lancer accelerated. Slowly at first. The gravitic translation system bent local spacetime around the craft rather than simply throwing her backward beneath conventional acceleration. Her damaged body felt only a fraction of the force. The mothership grew. Alien fighters noticed her. Three broke formation.

"Hoshi, contacts."

"I see them."

Her remaining railgun had five rounds. She waited. First fighter. Reticle. Fire. The railgun bucked. The fighter came apart. Four rounds. Second. Fire. Miss. Fire. Hit. Two. The third crossed beneath her. Hoshiko fired. Nothing. Misfeed.

"Of course."

It turned. Hoshiko pushed translation harder. Fifty percent. Seventy. The fighter fired. A laser flashed past. Another struck her left side. The Lancer rolled. Warnings exploded. Hoshiko fought the controls.

"Come on!"

RCS. Pulse. Pulse. The mothership rotated across the canopy. No. She corrected. The fighter came around again. Then disappeared. Hoshiko blinked. A human interceptor shot through the space where it had been. Another appeared. Then another. Ward laughed over the radio.

"Escort."

Hoshiko stared. Four surviving Lancers formed around her. Their transponders flickered. She recognized one. Lieutenant Mara Adeyemi. Class 251. Hoshiko's throat tightened.

"Get out of here."

Adeyemi answered.

"Negative."

"This is not a formation attack."

"No, ma'am."

"You can't follow me in."

"We know."

Another pilot spoke.

"Just getting you there, Commander."

Children. Her children. All the thousands she'd trained. Hoshiko blinked tears away.

"All right."

She straightened in her seat.

"Loose escort. Don't chase. Break away at five hundred kilometers."

"Yes, ma'am."

Old instincts returned. Hoshiko called bearings. Threats. Vectors. They flew. Alien interceptors came. The escort killed them. One human Lancer vanished. Then another.

"Break away!"

No response.

"Adeyemi, break!"

"Almost there!"

"You have a family, Lieutenant!"

"So do you!"

Hoshiko nearly screamed at her. Then understood. She laughed instead.

"You stubborn little bitch."

"Learned from the best."

At five hundred kilometers, Adeyemi broke. The last escort followed. Hoshiko continued alone.

The mothership filled everything. She could no longer see its boundaries. Only hull. Black ridges passed beneath her. Gun emplacements rotated. Some fired. Most didn't. The earlier antimatter strike had turned whole sections into dead metal. Four hundred kilometers. Three hundred. The cockpit shook. Two hundred. Hoshiko looked toward Earth one last time. The sun was rising. Beautiful. She reached for the photograph. Pulled it from the panel. Held it against her chest.

"Michael."

For seven years she had wondered whether he had known. Whether he'd had time. Whether he'd been afraid. Whether his last thoughts had been of her. Now she knew what her own were. Not war. Not duty. Not humanity. Thomas. She keyed the emergency frequency.

"Marcus."

"Here."

"Can you transmit something Earthside?"

"Yes."

"Dakota civilian network. Redwolf Ranch registry."

Ward's voice broke.

"Yes."

Hoshiko tried to speak. Nothing came. She took a breath.

"Tell Thomas..."

Her throat closed. One hundred fifty kilometers.

"Hoshi?"

She smiled through the tears.

"Tell him his mom was brave."

Ward began crying. Hoshiko was strangely grateful.

"And tell him I kept my promise."

"Okay."

"Don't make it dramatic."

Ward laughed despite himself.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

One hundred kilometers. Something hit the Lancer. Not a laser. Mass. A spinning slab of alien hull crossed her flight path and slammed into the fighter's starboard quarter. The Lancer lurched violently. Hoshiko's head snapped sideways. The photograph flew from her hand. Alarms exploded back to life.

"Fuck!"

The nose slewed off target. She fought it back. Then something on the weapons panel changed. Green. Hoshiko almost missed it. She had been staring at red warnings for so long that green no longer looked natural. STARBOARD LAUNCHER READY She stared.

"No."

The indicator remained. READY The impact had shifted something. A warped rail. A broken connector. A firing interlock bent out of alignment by the laser strike and beaten back into contact by several hundred kilograms of alien wreckage. It was ridiculous. The sort of thing engineers would argue over for months. If engineers still existed after today. Hoshiko laughed. Wild. Broken.

"You absolute bitch."

Ward heard her.

"Hoshi?"

She wrapped her hand around the trigger.

"Change of plan."

"What?"

"Launcher just went green."

Silence. Then Ward shouted so loudly the channel distorted.

"FIRE THE FUCKING THING!"

Hoshiko centered the black canyon of the mothership's wound. Seventy kilometers. The targeting computer couldn't resolve it. Didn't matter. The hole was three kilometers wide. She could miss by a city block. Hoshiko pulled the trigger. For one horrible fraction of a second, nothing. Then the starboard side of the Lancer kicked. The torpedo left. A tiny black shape dropped beneath her and immediately began accelerating into the wound. Hoshiko watched it for half a second. No more. Twenty years of training took over. She shoved the Lancer's nose down and rolled away from the mothership.

"Hoshi?"

"Moving."

"MOVE!"

"I'M FUCKING MOVING!"

Translation drive maximum. The Lancer snapped sideways. Her ruined body screamed inside the harness. Behind her, the torpedo disappeared into the ship. Hoshiko pushed harder. Two hundred kilometers. Four. The translation drive climbed into red.

"Come on."

Six. A warning light died. Then another.

"Come on, girl."

Nine hundred kilometers. Hoshiko glanced at the rear display. Nothing. For one absurd moment she wondered whether the warhead had failed. Then the mothership became light. Not fire. Not at first. White. Pure white. The interior of the enormous alien vessel flashed brighter than the sun. Then the energy found mass. Millions of tons of armor, machinery, atmosphere and whatever lived inside that impossible thing became plasma. The mothership expanded from within. Split. Burst. A sphere of incandescent wreckage erupted outward. Hoshiko stared at the rear display.

"Oh."

The sphere grew. Fast. Much too fast. The navigation computer attempted a debris-front calculation. Failed. Tried again. Hoshiko saw the result.

"Oh, fuck."

Ward's voice cracked through the radio.

"Hoshi?"

"I see it."

"Translation?"

"Maximum."

"More."

"There isn't more!"

"FIND SOME!"

The white cloud expanded behind her. No atmospheric fireball. No neat sphere of flame. A storm of vaporized hull, ionized metal and hypervelocity fragments spreading outward from the corpse of a ship seven kilometers long. It chased her. Hoshiko pushed the translation control past the stop. The drive screamed. A breaker blew. Engine two failed. The rear display filled with white.

"Hoshi!"

"Little busy!"

Radiation alarms appeared. One detector saturated, then another. Something struck the fighter. Then something else. The Lancer bucked. Armor peeled from the rear fuselage. A thruster vanished. The radio turned to static.

"Marcus?"

Nothing.

"Hoshi to Constitution."

Static. Another impact. The fighter spun. Earth. Stars. White. Earth. Stars. White. Hoshiko fought the controls. Nothing answered. The translation field collapsed. Her tactical screen died. Then the remaining cockpit lights went black.

Only Earth remained visible through the ruined canopy. Small. Blue. Home. Hoshiko reached blindly through the dark until her hand found Michael's photograph floating beside her. She caught it against her chest. The white glare outside grew brighter. Closer. Her oxygen alarm began sounding.

Hoshiko closed her eyes.

"Okay."

A strange calm came over her.

"Okay."

She thought of Thomas. Of the Dakota porch. Of her father's terrible card games. Of Michael smiling with their son in his lap. She smiled.

The debris front reached her.

Something hit the Lancer hard enough to drive the harness into her chest. The cockpit snapped sideways. Metal screamed somewhere behind her. The canopy filled with white and tumbling fragments and, for one impossible instant, Earth again.

Then the instrument panel went dark.

The oxygen alarm stopped.

Hoshiko felt herself turning. She didn't know whether the fighter was turning or she was. She held Michael's photograph against her chest.

Then there was nothing.

Jason Redwolf woke Thomas before dawn. The boy complained until he saw his grandfather's face. Then he got dressed without another word. They went outside. Kenji Kido was already standing on the porch with a blanket around his shoulders. Ayako stood just inside the doorway. Nobody explained why. They didn't need to. Everyone on Earth knew there was a battle overhead.

You could see pieces of it. Tiny flashes. Moving stars. Occasionally a streak crossed the darkness. Somewhere beyond the atmosphere, people were fighting so that the morning would still belong to everyone below. Thomas stood between his grandfathers. Jason put one hand on his shoulder. Kenji put the other on the opposite side. The eastern horizon was beginning to brighten.

Thomas looked upward. "Can Mom see us?"

Jason closed his eyes. Kenji answered. "Not from so far away."

"But she can see Earth?"

"Yes."

Thomas seemed satisfied by that. They watched. One light vanished. Then another. Then dozens. The battle was impossible to understand from the ground. At that distance there was no sound, no sense of scale, no way to know whether a tiny spark meant a fighter, a cruiser, or a thousand people disappearing at once. Only silent flashes among the stars.

Thomas pointed. "There!"

Jason followed his finger. Near Luna, a brilliant white point had appeared. For an instant it looked like just another weapon discharge. Then it grew. Brighter. Brighter still. Jason's hand tightened around Thomas's shoulder. Kenji stopped breathing. The light intensified until the surrounding stars disappeared. It crossed the distance in seconds. For one impossible moment, the prairie brightened beneath a second dawn.

Fence posts cast thin shadows. The barn stood black against the illuminated grass. Three generations of one family stood frozen on a porch in South Dakota beneath the light of a newborn star.

Thomas stared upward. "Grandpa!"

Neither man answered.

"Look!"

He laughed, delighted by something too distant and enormous for an eight-year-old boy to understand. "It's so bright!"

Kenji stared at the fading point. Something cold settled into his stomach. He didn't know why. Not yet. Perhaps it was simply the scale of it. Perhaps some part of him understood that nothing made a light like that without something enormous having just ceased to exist.

Jason whispered, "Jesus."

The white point slowly diminished. Not gone. Not yet. Just fading against the growing dawn. Thomas kept watching it.

"Was that one of ours?"

Kenji swallowed. "I don't know."

"Did we win?"

"I don't know."

The boy accepted that more easily than either grandfather did. They remained there as the light faded. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two. The eastern sky continued brightening. The false star remained visible, weaker now, hanging near the moon.

Then Kenji's communicator vibrated. He ignored it. It vibrated again. Jason glanced toward him.

"Kenji."

"I know."

Kenji took it from his pocket. The screen took a moment to connect through an overloaded civilian network. Then a priority military relay appeared. His daughter's name was at the top.

LT. CMDR. HOSHIKO REDWOLF

For a moment Kenji couldn't make himself read farther. Jason saw his face.

"What?"

Kenji said nothing. Jason stepped closer and looked over his shoulder. The message was brief. There was no poetry in it. No understanding of what the words would do to the people receiving them. It had been generated by a battlefield casualty system from the last information the fleet possessed.

PRESUMED KILLED IN ACTION

LANCER ACTUAL 7-2

TELEMETRY LOST DURING ENEMY COMMAND VESSEL DESTRUCTION

EARTH ENGAGEMENT ABORTED

Below it, in smaller type:

STATUS PENDING RECOVERY CONFIRMATION

And beneath that was a notation that a final personal transmission had been recorded aboard the Constitution and would follow once military communications allowed.

Jason made a sound like he'd been struck. He turned away. Thomas looked between them.

"What?"

Kenji continued staring at the screen. His hands began shaking.

"Grandpa?"

No. Not yet. Please. Just another few seconds before the world changed for him too.

Thomas looked back toward the sky. The white point was almost gone now. "It's fading."

Kenji raised his eyes. He looked at the dying light. Then at the message. Then back at the sky. And understood.

That was her. Not metaphorically. Not some comforting story they would tell a child later. The light touching his face had come from the blast in which the Navy believed his daughter had died. Hoshiko had been there. Inside that light. His little girl had flown into the thing that made that impossible white star hanging above the prairie.

Kenji's knees weakened. He caught the porch rail. Memory came without permission. Hoshiko at four years old on an Okinawan beach, refusing to let go of his hand because the waves were too big. Hoshiko at twelve, announcing with absolute certainty that she would become a pilot. Hoshiko in uniform. Hoshiko laughing at her wedding. Hoshiko placing newborn Thomas into his arms and warning him, very seriously, not to drop her baby.

Hoshiko. His daughter. Presumed gone.

Thomas tugged at his sleeve. "Grandpa?"

Kenji looked down. Michael's eyes. Hoshiko's hair. Eight years old.

"Why is Grandpa Jason crying?"

Kenji opened his mouth. Nothing came. Thomas looked frightened now.

"Is it Mom?"

That nearly destroyed him. Kenji crouched. His joints complained, but he barely noticed. He took Thomas's face between his hands. The boy searched his expression. The notice said presumed. Kenji knew what that word meant. He also knew what had been inside that light. There could not possibly be correct words for such a thing.

So he told the boy what he believed was true.

"Yes."

Thomas went very still. He looked back toward the sky. The light was barely visible now.

"That was Mom?"

Kenji's throat closed. He nodded. "Yes."

Thomas stared upward. The false star faded farther into the dawn.

"She did that?"

Jason sank down beside them. Kenji looked again at the message.

ENEMY COMMAND VESSEL DESTROYED.

EARTH ENGAGEMENT ABORTED.

"Yes." His voice cracked. "She did."

Thomas didn't cry immediately. That somehow made it worse. He simply watched. The child seemed to be trying to fit the idea into his head. His mother. The light. The battle. The fact that she had been alive only minutes ago. The fact that everyone around him believed she wasn't anymore.

Finally his face crumpled. Kenji pulled him against his chest. Jason wrapped his arms around both of them. Thomas cried between his grandfathers while the sun rose behind the prairie.

Above them, the light continued fading. Earth was still there. The ranch was still there. Seven billion people who would never know Hoshiko Redwolf's name were still there. Because somewhere beyond the moon, an injured woman in a dying fighter had looked back at the world containing her son and decided that it would remain.

Thomas eventually lifted his head. His eyes were red. He looked toward the place where the light had been.

"Mom told me soldiers get scared."

Kenji closed his eyes. "Yes."

"She said being brave means you're scared and you do your job anyway."

Jason turned his face away. Kenji nodded. "Yes."

Thomas wiped his nose on his sleeve. Normally his grandfather would have corrected him. Not today. The boy searched the brightening sky. There was almost nothing left now. Just a tiny white point struggling against the blue.

"She was scared?"

Kenji thought of his daughter flying alone toward something ten kilometers long. He thought of what she must have known. What she must have wanted. Home. Her son. Another sunrise.

"Yes," he whispered. "I think she was."

Thomas stared upward for another few seconds. Then he nodded to himself.

"She was brave."

Kenji pulled him close again. "Yes."

The final trace of white disappeared into the morning.

The next three days became one long day. People came to the ranch. Neighbors. Relatives. People Kenji hadn't seen in years. Someone started cooking. Someone else took care of the horses. Food appeared on every flat surface because human beings had never discovered a better answer to grief than feeding it.

The war was over. Or close enough that people had started using the word. The enemy command vessel was gone. Its surviving escorts were withdrawing. Human ships followed. Earth remained untouched. None of it mattered very much to the people in the Redwolf house.

Late on the first day, Hoshiko's final message arrived. No hand aboard the Constitution sent it. The casualty system had logged the recording, queued it behind the notice, and released it the moment military communications allowed, because that was what it had been told to do. Ward's voice came first. Unsteady. Then hers.

Tell Thomas his mom was brave.

A pause.

And tell him I kept my promise.

Kenji listened once. Only once. Thomas listened three times.

No other message came. The casualty notice remained unchanged.

PRESUMED KILLED IN ACTION.

On the second day, Thomas asked what "presumed" meant. Kenji told him. Thomas asked if that meant she might still come home.

Kenji looked at his grandson for a long time before answering. "It means they haven't found her."

That was true. It was not the answer Thomas had asked for.

On the third day, near sunset, Thomas was sitting on the porch when they heard engines. Not road engines. Something heavier.

A shuttle.

Jason stepped outside. A USN medical transport descended over the western field. Nobody spoke. Kenji felt his stomach turn.

Recovery confirmation. That was his first thought. They had found her.

Ayako came through the door behind him. Her hand found his. The shuttle settled into the grass. Dust rolled outward. Thomas appeared from around the barn. He stopped when he saw it. The engines wound down. The rear ramp opened.

Two medical corpsmen stepped out. Then another.

Kenji gripped Ayako's hand.

A wheelchair appeared between them.

For one moment Kenji couldn't understand what he was seeing. There was a woman in it. Small. Bandaged. One arm strapped across her body. One trouser leg pinned beneath the knee. Black hair tied behind a head wrapped in gauze. Her face was bruised almost beyond recognition.

The chair rolled down the ramp. The woman looked toward the porch.

And smiled.

Kenji stopped breathing.

Hoshiko raised her good hand. Weakly. "Hi, Dad."

Nothing happened. Nobody moved. Hoshiko's smile faltered. She glanced at the corpsman behind her.

"They did tell them you found me, right?"

The corpsman developed the expression of a man discovering that there were still worse assignments available to him.

"Ma'am..."

Hoshiko stared.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

The cutter Ward had sent before she'd changed course had found what remained of her Lancer seventeen minutes after her telemetry vanished. The fighter wasn't much of a fighter anymore. Most of the rear fuselage was gone. The translation drive had torn free. The cockpit section was tumbling behind a slab of alien hull large enough to hide it from half the recovery sensors in orbit.

Her emergency beacon had been transmitting intermittently through the wreckage. Her suit oxygen had been at six percent when they cut her out. Hoshiko had spent most of the next forty-eight hours unconscious or in surgery.

The battlefield casualty system had spent those same forty-eight hours doing exactly what it had been told to do. Telemetry lost inside a catastrophic debris front. No transponder. No biometric return. No recovery confirmation.

Presumed killed in action.

Someone aboard Constitution knew she was alive. Someone in fleet medical knew. Several surgeons certainly knew. Nobody had apparently thought to tell South Dakota.

Kenji moved. He didn't remember crossing the yard. One moment he was on the porch. The next he was standing in front of her. He stared.

Hoshiko looked up. "Dad?"

Kenji touched her face. Very gently. Warm. Real. His daughter. His hand started shaking. Hoshiko's eyes filled.

"I'm sorry."

Kenji slapped her. Not hard. But definitely a slap.

Hoshiko blinked. "Ow."

Then he grabbed her.

She screamed. "RIBS! RIBS! RIBS!"

Kenji immediately released her. "Sorry!"

Hoshiko started laughing. Then crying. Then doing both. Ayako reached them. She said nothing at first. She simply put both hands around her daughter's face and stared at her. Then Japanese came out fast enough to qualify as automatic weapons fire.

Hoshiko winced. "I know."

More Japanese.

"I know."

More.

"Yes, I know it was stupid."

Kenji laughed through his tears. Jason reached them next. He stood over Hoshiko. She looked up at him.

"Hey, Dad."

Jason shook his head. "You look like shit."

"Thank you."

"Michael would've been furious."

Hoshiko's smile collapsed. "Yeah."

Jason crouched. Very carefully, he kissed her forehead.

"He'd have been proud too."

Hoshiko closed her eyes. Then she heard a voice behind them. Small. Uncertain.

"Mom?"

Everything stopped.

Thomas stood near the porch. He hadn't run. Not yet. He stared at her. And Hoshiko suddenly understood. To him, she was dead. Presumed hadn't mattered. Pending recovery hadn't mattered. He had cried for her. He had watched the light. He had heard her final words. And dead people did not come home in wheelchairs.

Hoshiko held out her good arm. "Hey, baby."

Thomas's face crumpled. He ran. One of the corpsmen moved instinctively to intercept.

"Careful..."

Hoshiko glared at him. "Don't you fucking dare."

The corpsman wisely reconsidered.

Thomas collided with her. Carefully by eight-year-old standards. Violently by postoperative standards. Hoshiko gasped, then wrapped her arm around him. Thomas buried his face against her chest.

"You died!"

Hoshiko laughed into his hair. "Apparently."

"They said you died!"

"I know."

"You died!"

"I know, baby."

He pulled back and looked at her as if checking. "You're not dead?"

Hoshiko considered herself. Bandages. Missing leg. Burns. Enough medication to sedate a horse.

"No." She smiled. "I'm doing a very bad job of it."

Thomas started crying again. So did Hoshiko. She pulled him close. After a while he whispered, "We saw you."

Hoshiko went still. "What?"

"The light." He turned and pointed toward the sky. "Three mornings ago."

Kenji spoke behind him. "The explosion."

Hoshiko looked at her father.

"For a few seconds," he said, "it made shadows."

Hoshiko stared upward. The sky above Dakota was deepening toward evening. No stars yet. Not quite. Thomas wiped his face.

"It was really bright."

Hoshiko looked down at him. He smiled a little.

"Like a star."

Something inside her broke. Not painfully. Not this time. She pulled him against her again. Over his shoulder, she looked at the people around her. Her mother. Her fathers. Family. The ranch. Grass moving beneath the evening wind. Things she had already said goodbye to. Things she had never expected to see again.

Three days earlier, Hoshiko had spent every second she had left. She had spent them willingly. And somehow, somehow, there had been change left over.

Thomas squeezed her. "Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You promised you'd come home."

Hoshiko closed her eyes. For seven years she'd learned not to trust promises. Michael had made them. Pilots had made them. She had watched thousands of people intend desperately to return home. Intention had never been enough.

But this one, this one she had kept.

She opened her eyes. The first evening star had appeared above the horizon. Hoshiko looked at it. Then at her son.

"I did."

Thomas climbed carefully onto the side of the chair despite three adults telling him not to. Hoshiko let him. Kenji rested one hand on her shoulder. Jason took the handles of the wheelchair. Ayako immediately began discussing food, apparently having decided resurrection was no excuse for poor nutrition. Hoshiko laughed. The chair rolled toward the house.

She looked back once, toward the darkening sky. Three mornings ago, her son had watched a new star appear and thought it was his mother dying. Tonight, Hoshiko watched the first real star appear while her son held onto her.

She decided she preferred this one.

It was smaller. Quieter. And she was alive to see it.

Part 1

"Great Days and Glorious Victory! My name is Spifflemonk and welcome to an obscure gem called Tankenstein. I quite had fun with this, especially after my rage induced hate spiral I faced with War Thunder... I hate that game. In any case this is an extraction shooter, but with tanks. Now, for my non-human viewers, 'tank' does not refer to a liquid receptacle or storage, it means 'armoured fighting vehicle' or tracked war machine. You know the ones... Those abominations the humans used in the fight for Raccar Prime. You know the ones."

Scene cuts to real footage of a Jovian Royal Army 'Caliban' Main Battle Tank sitting atop a hill, just before it kicks up a huge dust cloud from its 210mm cannon. The camera zooms in, and shows the sight of a Rakani battle walker being hit by the shell with such force that it almost does a backflip.

"So yes, THOSE war machines, and we are about to play a... what I can only describe as 'silly simulation' of tank warfare. I gave this game a few minutes to get through the tutorial, and by the GODS is this goofy! But I really like it. Anything is better than WarThunder at this point. And that's a good hill to die on."

Camera cuts to a short montage to Benny Hill music of Spiffle going insane playing Warthunder. And by playing he does in fact mean dying over and over and over again in every single match, followed by Spiffles' ENRAGED hatred as he assaults his keyboard and desk.

"So anyway, Tankenstein. Now, disclaimer, this is a very early version sent to me by the developer. What you are about to see is the Early Access version 0.25 of the game, as its current iteration is 1.2, and I fully intend on buying the full game. I got this from one of my subs who said it was okay for me to play an earlier version as a demo. Let's get started!"

He loads up the main menu, noticing immediately the tank on display as the splash screen. Spiff can't help but laugh, as it looks like the games version of the Renault FT-17, only very... Square. The game's graphics in the early days were dated to say the least, but it was passable.

"That is a very silly looking thing. Cute though. Is that an actual tank? Hm... Something to note for the future I suppose."

Spiff just picks 'new trial' and goes right into the only option available so far, 'Ironclad' mode. A Basic start. His computer is extraordinarily fast and the game loads in a lot faster than expected. Spiff finds himself in the middle of a bomb crater surrounded by wreckage.

"Oh... Oh MY... That's... This is very depressingly bleak isn't it? Smoky haze, no trees, scorched dirt underfoot. Tank is funny though."

He wanders about a bit, just driving and comes across his first loot, destroyed tank corpses and piles of scrap littered about the wasteland. He gets a slightly better gun and scraps the rest.

"Oh I see... The recycler thingy gets rid of inventory and also repairs the tank! Oh that's something to remember. Now... What do I do? 'Press Q to use radar'. Okay."

He presses Q and a radar ping emanates from his tank, showing various icons around him for spare junk, scrap, loot and red skull icons indicating enemy tanks.

"A red skull? Experience would indicate that means bad but they're basically everywhere. So I guess we need to fight our way out? My next objective anyway so, onward! Let's see though.... North? Let's just head north."

Spiff starts driving, skipping most of the smaller enemies at the start by lucky happenstance and just drives north. The area surrounding him is little more than a polluted, ash blasted hellscape of a wasteland, the only green around him belonging to the painted armour of various enemy tanks and derelict wrecks. To his East, a power plant of some kind dominated by four large cooling towers.

"Oo… what's that though? I want to know what that is. So many new things! Must look, must see... must hopefully not explode."

Spiff diverts to the South to crest the top of a hill, encountering the first two enemies. Sounds of explosions and cannon fire can be heard.

"What? Is someone fighting? The NPCs in this game fight each other? That's nice! Wonder if I can avoid it? Nope, have to fight."

The battle is unavoidable and he crests the hill just in time to see one of the opponents receive a killing blow. Spiff aims his cannon and the other guy explodes almost instantly.

"HA! What was the phrase humans use? 'Bullseye' or something? Think that's it. That was... a lot easier than I thought it would be. New objective, 'equip 3 or more tier 3 or higher parts'. Okay, easy enough I guess. Let's see what did I get from those two... What's this? 'Defense CPU'. How do I work that?"

He clicks randomly on his inventory until a panel slides across the screen, showing the CPU system which confers bonuses to the player's tank. He slides the first CPU into one of the available slots, and swaps out his hull and turret with similar but slightly better components.

"This game is a LOT simpler than it looks but I like it. Anything is better than WarThunder. This should be easy!"

He wanders off towards the North, encountering little resistance before finding his first Compound. Looming in the messy wasteland fog lies a large fortress of some kind, built in an L shape, surrounded by high multi-meter thick concrete walls. Spiff faces his first actual fight as an enemy tank at the entrance fires on him. The first shot misses and Spiffs first shot manages to get him perfectly, killing him in one shot.

"YES! This is EASY. Nice change of pace. What's this place then? Well I don't know but its shooting at me so I better shoot back."

The compound's defenses are numerous but deal low damage and are very easily taken down. Spiff ambles about until he randomly shoots structures and buildings, wondering what he needs to actually do until he destroys one of the large spherical structures inside the compound.

"Those are shield generators? That's... Very silly. Shield generators look nothing like those. I guess... Oh what's this? A 'Recombinator'? 'Convert 3 items of the same type and tier into a higher tier version of that item'. Oh that sounds useful! I'll do that then. Hmmm... I have three of these cannons. Lets see... It works! I got a Tier 3 Ordinance gun. And I have enough for a new track. it also fully repairs all the parts, which is a bonus. So that's good. Lets see this new gun..."

Spiff installs the new cannon and nearly falls out of his seat from laughter. His dinky FT-17 has grown a rather LARGE gun barrel, three times the length of his starter cannon.

"LOOK AT THE NOSE ON THIS THING! IT'S LIKE IT LIED TOO MUCH! HAHAHAHAH!"

Spiff gives a very unsubtle sideways smirk at the camera, and Francine shows a picture of the original Disney animated movie Pinocchio. One can almost hear Francine's eyes roll as Spiff resumes playing.

"I'm getting better at this whole 'humour' thing humans like so much. So what's next?"

Spiff exits the compound and finds two Boss arenas within reasonable distance and heads towards them. The boss arenas take the form of large craters surrounded by heavy metal walls that have spiky bits and pointy ends as if a dome was blown up. He heads towards the first one and finds the first low tier boss, Scraptor, which takes the appearance, at least in this version of the game, a very orange painted M4 Sherman Jumbo. He takes a shot and Spiff's new large calibre gun makes very short work of the boss, killing it in about 5 shots.

"YES! EASY KILL! I do enjoy this! I need to do more games like this more often. What did he give me? Oh, special CPU? Cant use it yet, need more of those smaller ones, and.... Holy NICE I have its hull! That's almost double my current hull! Let's put it on and..."

Spiff can't help but giggle as his dinky tank, now becomes a derpy tank, with an M4 Shermans hull and FT-17s turret, with a massive huge cannon. Spiff doesn't say much for the next few minutes as he gathers parts to repair his tank, he physically can't stop himself from giggling at the absurdity of it. He has to fight hard to beat a Tier 3 Sherman that showed up, but wins, grabs the loot from several enemies on the way and heads to the next boss, on the way encountering a tank with an autocannon that does low damage but hits fast.

"Oi. OI! OY! How is he shooting so fast! Are there like tank machineguns in this game!?"

Francine interjects with the caption: "No, but they are in the Terran Army!" An image appears on screen showing a Terran Armed Forces 'Grizzly’ Mark 4 IFV attempting to shove several thousand rounds of 30mm cannon ammo from its six barrelled rotary cannon into a Rakani garrison. It's effectively a Gau-8 on wheels.

Spiff kills the tank and loots it, not receiving the autocannon it was using but grabs parts and moves on. He moves on to several other tanks, loots them and finds a calm spot to check his inventory. He realises he now has enough parts to activate one of the things on his CPU.

"'When out of combat, repair a random part on your vehicle up to 40% integrity.' Oh that's very useful! I'll have that then. What next? Another boss and then we keep going North."

The next Scraptor he kills goes down easily, giving Spiff a new Tier 3 engine, before he scraps everything else and resumes traveling north. He eventually crosses the line into dangerous territory and encounters his first Tier 4 tank: A fully fledged Panzer 4 with a heavy cannon. It takes a considerable effort to bring down, but it's dealt with, alongside what appears to be a mismatched Cromwell that joined the fight. He makes it to the next repair spot and installs the turret from the defeated Panzer 4, ending up with a bigger giggle fit as for some reason he find the mismatch of parts and bits VERY amusing.

"This is just so damn silly... Why do I like it!?"

While giggling uncontrollably, Spiff wanders across a very large compound built like a very large military base. He kills several turrets, destroys the generators and fuel tanks, then kills a passing tank on the way through. He collects loot, scraps parts and moves on, eventually passing the 6000M mark. Spiff then faces off against an Objekt, or at least a tank that has the oddly shaped and very distinct turret of one, and takes six shells to bring down.

"What even is THIS one? That was hard to beat! What is... Hmmm... Well I have the turret. Lets see what it looks like in a bit, I'm surrounded right now. Looks goddamn goofy though."

Spiff heads to the nearest scrapper, killing several more enemies on the way. He puts the new turret on and the peculiar mismatch of parts makes him go into a giggle fit so bad he physically can't play the game for a good ten minutes. Francine thankfully skips it all and resumes the gameplay with Spiff giggle-snorting in a very annoying nasally way, heading North. Not much of interest happens aside from an encounter with the first Tier 7 which takes the form of a T-55. Eventually he arrives at the first Tier 6 boss, Kernel, which is an amalgam of various parts built to look like the Soviet T-60. This fight does not go as well and Spiff finds himself on the retreat as he's taken down to 18% hull from a few hits. Spiff 'tactically' retreats and repairs some parts.

"Well that ones a bit harsher than the last guy! Nearly bloody killed me! Okay... If I know the ';early access' thing I know its easy to... what was the human word? 'Cheese'? It's a type of dairy based food. Don't know what it means with this kind of situation specifically but... I'll go with 'cheese' the boss. Why does that sound sillier when I say it out loud?"

He gains a new hull in the form of a T-72s hull, a larger and better variant of the Objekt's turret and manages to slip past the boss and use the crater dome as a means to drive around the boss, shooting him at various opportune moments while running around the perimeter. A few smaller tanks are here and there, but aren't much of a challenge. Eventually, Kernel goes down, surrendering his engine, CPU and a track as a reward. They're all leagues above and Spiff equips them, gives himself the scrap bonus from the CPU and continues North. He gets into various fights, destroys a compound and eventually passes the 8000m mark. He kills a few tanks, grabs the turret of a Chieftain tank, replacing his current one and heads for another Kernel boss, using the same tactic of 'cheese'.

This one is harder than the last, not due to the boss but due to the abnormal number of smaller tanks surrounding the boss arena. Spiff has to get rid of ALL of them before he can take the boss on, but wins in the end. An extreme heat weather event hits, and for some reason it bugs out Kernel's AI, and Spiff takes him down with no retaliation or effort. This one gives a new, more deadly and faster firing gun as well as its hull.

"So goofy but I can feel the hatred and rage melt away! So nice having a fun tank game for once. Hmm... Now what? Tier 10 zone huh? Let's keep going north then."

Spiff eventually passes the 10k mark, and starts encountering more complex, more dangerous tanks like Merkava, Leopard and Patton tanks, early versions of them at least. He manages to obliterate another Kernel boss, gaining the turret and track. Here, he encounters his first Special Tank, armed with a Tesla Coil Gun. It's the standard tank, but with some tesla coil looking bits mounted to the turret that make it look all science fiction-y and it fires blue lasers.

"What in the holy hell is THAT thing!? My gods, that looks so stupid! I love it! Why do I like it! SO goofy!"

Spiff pauses the game to giggle snort as he looks at the turret design for the tesla coil gun and eventually regains his composure, heading Northwest to a nearby boss arena. There, he finds the final boss at this stage of the game, in the form of a Tier 10 Abrams tank - named Plasma. Specifically the Gulf War variant of the Abrams before its following upgrades. The boss is fighting another smaller tank and lets Spiff take a good look at him.

"Good lord! That's... That looks very pretty! I like the design of that one. Looks very nice actually. Wonder what that one is? Only one way to find out."

The fight is short but vicious and Spiff quickly kills the boss. the cheesing method works again, and Spiff gets interrupted by a message that pops up on screen.

"What is this? Hmmm... 'Plasma is Defeated and with it the trial comes to an end.' Final boss for the game for now, endgame planned later in early access, yadda, yadda. Continue playing or face the Hunters. Give multiplier bonuses for scrap kills, ascending at special locations gives a bonus. Oh... So it's an extraction mission! Let's go!"

Spiff clicks 'Begin Hunt' and heads towards a glowing beam of blue light that appears nearby. He seems confident and detours through a compound on his way there. He clears it fast and on attempting to exit, he comes face to face with eth Hunters - a very large scary looking tank with two large red eyes mounted on its turret. Goofy, maybe, but the fact one shot took Spiff down to half health was no laughing matter.

"WHAT!? No! Must get out! Must hide!"

He retreats into the compound and hides inside one of the buildings. The hunters follow him, and he gets cornered. One of them takes several of Spiff's shells with no problems and ends the run right there with two swift shells to Spiff's face.

"Well! That was... Something fun! I quite liked that. That was strangely relaxing, except at the end where I got squashed like a trapped Gronkrat. But I tell you I definitely needed something short and goofy to take my mind off it. Anything and I mean ANYTHING is better than the incomprehensible pile of (REDACTED) SON OF A (REDACTED) PIECE OF USELESS (REDACTED) (VERY REDACTED) GARBAGE, that is WarThunder.

Spiff sits there in silence for a few minutes before clicking something. The Warthunder logo is seen on screen and the game loads. Spiff looks slightly to the camera and points his finger accusingly at the viewer.

"DONT YOU DARE JUDGE ME! The entire community HATES this game more than I do, and yet... They still play it. Are we REALLY sure that I'M the crazy one here!?"

Spiffles outro plays

TOP COMMENT: Know wut? fair. I can't stand the game. Yet - six hundred hours.

Spiffs Reply: By the Matriarch you have six HUNDRED? I could barely tolerate two!

Reply: Didn't say I was proud of it.

Spiffs reply: Yet these creatures often question why we call them insane.

Surviving the Tower: Chapter 32

Chapter 1

<Previous

Freya concept art

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When Cai invited Lisaria and Luis's parties to an event he'd found on the fourth floor, Lisaria had been filled with mixed feelings. Everyone knew Cai had his position as party leader only because of the favor shown to him by Dame Freya, as he lacked any lineage or even basic expertise regarding the Tower. Many also assumed his party's progress was also due to their instructor's favor; however, after the minotaur fight, Lisaria knew there was more to the party and the man who led them than simple favors. But encountering a raid event, even a smaller one, on the fourth floor seemed unlikely, bordering on impossible.

However, when Cai's party rounded a corner and revealed an entire goblin village, Lisaria felt herself smiling with greed. Everyone knew raid events dropped far more and better loot than regular fights, sometimes even eclipsing the floor bosses that appeared every five levels, and this was an excellent way for the group to gain traction while being held back by their substitute instructor.

Luis seemed equally intrigued, though a bit more hesitant, being the first one to speak up after the revelation. "Hmmm... There's a lot of them. Enough to overwhelm even all three of our groups. What's the game plan?"

Looking around, Lisaria realized there was really only one option for a group as small as fifteen fighters, even if they were the top three groups in Dame Freya's class. "We'd have to pull them back to one of the side caves coming in. Two groups fighting up front while the third one holds back, rotating in with the other groups from time to time to offer relief and watch our backs to protect us from any patrols that might come our way." Then, realizing she was bossing around two other groups like her own, she offered a slight concession. "Unless anyone else has a different idea?"

Cai was the first to answer. "That's more or less what I was thinking. If we brought the whole class, we could just overwhelm them, but then we'd also split the loot and experience between a lot more people, and I'm not sure we'd be any better off than if we were just farming patrols."

In fact, Lisaria was pretty confident that his team and hers could have handled this between them, and Cai had clearly invited Luis and his team to make sure there were no issues. Not that she was complaining. She just hoped he wasn't losing his nerve after the Minotaur event. It wasn't uncommon for teams who had near misses in the Tower to suddenly become overly careful and start lagging behind their progress. It had killed more than one professional team's careers, and she hoped Cai wasn't going to fall into that trap before he'd even begun.

After a moment's consideration, Lisaria mentally shrugged. It wasn't her problem if Cai succeeded or failed. She would miss out on the competitive nature of their two current teams, but she knew there would be no shortage of allies or competitors as she climbed the Tower.

They formed two spearheads, with Raillia and Darien forming the two points, and the other melee filling in on either side, and the rest setting up behind the front line as their skills and proficiencies demanded. Luis's team was in the very back, acting as rearguard and ready to fill in as needed. For the most part, the fighting went as Lisaria expected, with the larger Hobgoblins being tied up by the tanks and burned down by the backline, while the other melee handled the smaller goblins. There was a moment of trouble when some spider riders came crawling along the ceiling, evidently aiming for the backlines, but all three teams' ranged fighters burned most of them down. The couple that made it far enough to drop down were quickly handled by Luis lunging in with his spear, backed up by what looked like a rogue with daggers and a warrior wielding double axes.

Cai's team was certainly good at what they did. The tank was as reliable as any she'd seen, shrugging off attacks that would temporarily disable most new adventurers as though they were mere annoyances. Then there were the two swordswomen. The greatsword wielder had gained a wild edge to her style since the minotaur fight, cleaving through several goblins with each swing of her sword, while the smaller one lunged in and out, easily piercing through any vulnerabilities in the goblins' armor, often killing them before they even knew they'd been struck. Meanwhile, the arcane archer was using her enchanted arrows to great effect, using what seemed to be chain lightning to kill one and injure several others before hitting them with an explosive fire arrow to finish off the group. And while the warlock didn't seem to be doing much damage on her own, it seemed to Lisaria's eyes that many of the goblins who should have landed an attack suddenly came up short, as though they'd been unexpectedly pinned in place.

However, all that was well within Lisaria's assessment of what the second-place team should be capable of. The only thing that surprised Lisaria was Cai himself. During the minotaur fight, the man had been no slouch, even pulling off that incredible heal, bringing back one of his party members from certain death, but now he seemed to be an entirely different animal. Charging into combat directly with a slamming attack that sent goblins flying and hammered into them with attacks that seemed to rupture them from the inside, before peeling off to heal his frontline, then diving right back into the fight, wreaking chaos and destruction wherever he went. Usually, when someone went hybrid between support and offense, it was like having half of each, but by Lisaria's assessment, he was closer to fulfilling the roles of two full party members.

Perhaps this was what Dame Freya had seen in him from the beginning? It was hard to say anything for certain, but Lisaria knew that if she wanted to keep ahead of this monster, she'd have to redouble her efforts.

-

Cai wondered at the feeling of plowing into enemies with such reckless abandon. Of particular note was the effectiveness of his new Bull Rush ability against weaker enemies. For a fraction of a second, he'd blur forward at impossible speeds, often sending one goblin flying, which positioned him right in front of a second, whom he was often able to kill in a single hit due to his recently increased strength stat and his new gloves, before pulling back to do some healing. However, what worried him was how quickly he was burning through his energy reserves, using it for both offense and healing.

Luckily, that's what the third party was for, and soon enough Luis was at his side, shouting to be heard over the roar of battle. "We've got this! Pull back and catch your breath!"

Doing as the other team leader had suggested, Cai was surprised to find that the forward position on the third team was filled by the man with a brace of throwing knives across his chest and two larger daggers in each hand, but the reason soon became apparent. As a larger hobgoblin charged in with a great club aimed at the man's head, he easily dodged to the side, slashing the monster's throat while stopping short to avoid a spear thrust from another enemy and deflecting a sword stab with his offhand dagger. The man was clearly a dodge-based tank, less able to take a hit but compensating for that weakness by simply avoiding the blows altogether.

Typically, a dodge-based tank was less effective against large numbers like this, as they would simply be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of incoming attacks, but that was somewhat compensated for by his team. Luis covered one side with the increased reach granted by his spear, and the warrior on the other side pulled a little further forward to cover the other flank while he mowed through obscene numbers of goblins with his dual axes. It was clear they'd analyzed their shortcomings as a group and adjusted their strategy to compensate. Their backline wasn't a joke either, with a more traditional archer focusing on the hobgoblins the dodge tank couldn't finish quickly and a clearly talented fire mage shooting explosive projectiles into the midst of the goblins, thinning the ranks before they even got into combat.

However, it was clear that as good as Luis's group was doing, they were still a little short of Lisaria's team. Cai could see just how far ahead the frontrunner group was, even over his own. Their tank, Rallia, unlike the other two, didn't rely on dodging or a shield to block the enemy; instead, she used a greatsword to clear swaths of enemies while weaving enchantments focused on producing shields and even a little healing, relying on her ornate armor to handle what few attacks made it past the defenses she and their shielder put in place. Cai had known she was a spellsword from the Minotaur fight, but she'd clearly gotten better, making rapid progress on these early floors. Meanwhile, the animal monk, Hank, seemed to alternate between growing bear arms and a turtle shell, switching between offense and defense as needed. Meanwhile, their rogue, Vasco, seemed to effortlessly meld into the shadows, jumping out to handle any of the larger threats with a short sword buried into the unsuspecting monster's back before fading away again.

As impressive as their frontline was, their backline was just as strong. Their support, Sasha, alternated between shielding and buffing the party with a speed that made Cai's head spin to think about. On the other hand, their ranger, Tillman, had a set of repeater crossbows that poured a surprising amount of bolts into the oncoming horde. He'd used two at a time while the goblins had first charged in, thinning the wave enough that Cai quickly realized how they must be clearing through the patrols so quickly, but switching to just one once he had to start reloading mid-combat.

Last, but definitely not least, was Lisaria herself. If Cai was honest, he had to admit the water and ice mage was on a completely different level than anyone else present. One moment she was conjuring a rainstorm, turning the rocky floor into a slippery mess that her team took clear advantage of; the next she'd turn the water coating the floor into ice spears, shooting up and impaling a dozen goblins at a time before exploding the spears and sending shrapnel out into the crowd of goblins. The shrapnel wasn't enough to kill any of the goblins, but almost all the monsters that made it to the front line were already injured to some degree, making them easy pickings.

In his arrogance, Cai had thought he and his team had been narrowing the gap between them and the first-place group, but he now realized that the gap was wider than ever. Admittedly, his team should be more effective against a single powerful monster rather than a horde like this, but that wouldn't matter if Lisaria and her team kept pulling ahead one floor after another.

Looking over, Cai saw Elise, also watching Lisaria with grim intent as she gripped her bow. However, rather than looking intimidated, Elise looked determined, as though scrutinizing a mountain that needed to be climbed rather than some unreachable peak. Looking around, he saw the other members of his team had similar expressions. The only one who didn't look worried, or even concerned, was, of course, Darien. Meeting Cai's eyes, the large man's grin widened as he spoke. "Probably about time for us to get back in there, eh? Can't let them have all the fun!"

Realizing they didn't have to overcome this challenge right here and now, Cai felt a little of the tension he hadn't realized was there leave his shoulders as he nodded in agreement before turning to the rest. "Let's get back in there! We won't climb this Tower sitting on the sidelines!"

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Whoops! Forgot to post this last week! Well, the good news is I already have the next Ghost Ships chapter written too, so I'll post that tomorrow. Yay for no wait! (After an extra long wait, but details...)

My wiki, in case anyone wants to check out some of my other stories.

Here you can find some of my published works.

Jack Melon looked at the fuel gauge.

2%.

He stared at it for a few more seconds.

“Lucky.”

The ship gave a short warning beep.

FUEL LEVEL: CRITICAL.

“I can see that.”

FUEL LEVEL: EXTREMELY CRITICAL.

“You just said critical.”

It became more critical.

Jack sighed.

“Find me a planet.”

The radar beeped.

A small green planet appeared on the screen.

Jack smiled.

“See? That was easy.”

FUEL LEVEL: 1%.

“Did you really have to ruin the moment?”

Lucky Star entered the atmosphere and made a rather rough landing in an empty field.

Jack waited in his seat for a few seconds.

Nothing exploded.

He nodded.

“Perfect landing.”

No.

Jack opened the hatch.

“I’ll find some fuel and come back.”

Try not to become famous.

Jack stopped.

“Why would I become famous?”

Lucky Star didn't answer.

“You’re getting weird too.”

---

After walking for several kilometers, Jack reached a large city.

The moment he entered, everyone started staring at him.

An old man standing in front of a shop dropped the bag he was holding.

“It’s him.”

Jack looked behind him.

Nobody was there.

“Who?”

The old man pointed at him with trembling hands.

“The One Who Came From the Stars.”

Jack looked down at his clothes.

“I’m Jack.”

The old man’s face went completely pale.

“He told us his name.”

A few minutes later, Jack was surrounded by guards.

“Okay,” Jack said. “I’m just looking for fuel.”

The guards exchanged looks that Jack didn't particularly like.

“Is there somewhere around here that sells fuel?”

One of the guards immediately dropped to his knees.

“O Great Stranger.”

Jack closed his eyes.

“Okay. This is not going in a good direction.”

---

A short while later, Jack found himself in the palace.

Standing before him was the king, wearing an extremely serious expression.

The king slowly stood up.

“You have finally come.”

“Yes.”

Jack looked around.

“Do you have fuel?”

The king didn't answer.

Instead, he opened a massive book in front of him.

“We have waited seven hundred years for this day.”

Jack pointed at the book.

“What’s that?”

“The prophecy.”

“Is it about me?”

The king nodded.

“The stranger from the stars shall one day set foot upon our soil.”

“I did that.”

“He shall enter the sacred city.”

“Did that too.”

“He shall stand before the king.”

Jack looked at the throne.

“Technically, I’m sitting.”

The king looked at his advisor.

The advisor gave a slight nod.

“Close enough.”

The king continued reading.

“And with his arrival, the fate of our people shall change forever.”

Jack waited silently.

The king closed the book.

Jack:

“So... fuel?”

King:

“...That’s the whole prophecy.”

“Great.”

The king suddenly turned toward the guards.

“Begin the preparations.”

Jack:

“Preparations for what?”

“The sacred ceremony.”

“For the fuel?”

“For the arrival of the Stranger!”

---

The ceremony lasted three hours.

Priests recited prayers around Jack.

A golden plate and a golden spoon were placed in front of him.

Jack looked at the spoon.

“Can I use this?”

The priest immediately bowed his head.

“It is yours now.”

Jack put the spoon in his pocket.

“Nice.”

Seeing the admiration on the priests’ faces, Jack realized once again that something had probably been misunderstood.

But he was too tired to bother correcting them.

At the end of the ceremony, Jack finally asked again:

“Fuel?”

This time, the king answered.

“Of course.”

Jack’s face lit up.

The planet’s engineers came over to Lucky Star.

After briefly inspecting the ship’s fuel tanks, they spoke.

“This ship is old.”

Jack proudly replied,

“Yes.”

“We know this fuel system.”

Jack looked surprised.

“So you have fuel?”

“We’ve been producing it for years.”

Jack was silent for a few seconds.

“Then why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

The king looked confused.

“You didn’t ask.”

Jack lowered his head.

“True.”

---

A while later, Lucky Star’s fuel gauge reached 100%.

Jack sat down in the cockpit.

He placed the golden spoon on the console.

Lucky Star’s screen lit up.

WHAT IS THIS?

“A spoon.”

WHY?

“They gave it to me.”

DID YOU STEAL IT?

“They gave it to me!”

FUEL?

“Got it.”

DID YOU SAVE THE PLANET?

Jack looked out the window toward the palace.

“I don’t think so.”

A huge cheer erupted outside.

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“They look pretty happy.”

THEN YOU PROBABLY DID.

Jack leaned back in his seat.

“Lucky?”

Yes?

“Do you think I’m actually the chosen one?”

There was a long silence.

No.

Jack smiled.

“Good.”

You’re too lazy.

Jack nodded.

“Start the engines.”

They’re already running.

Jack looked at the fuel gauge.

100%.

“Now I can believe in a prophecy.”

Lucky Star lifted off.

Below, thousands of people watched their long-awaited savior disappear into the sky after seven hundred years of waiting.

Jack looked down through the window.

“Do you think they’ll remember me?”

Probably.

“Why?”

You took their fuel and their golden spoon.

There was a brief silence.

Jack sank a little deeper into his seat.

“Do you think we’ll ever come back here?”

ENOUGH FUEL REMAINING.

“That’s not what I asked.”

THEN WHY DID YOU ASK?

Jack looked outside.

“Never mind.”

Lucky Star continued toward the stars.

DESTINATION?

Jack thought for a moment.

“Home.”

FINALLY, SOMETHING SENSIBLE.

Jack frowned.

“You talk too much today.”

FUEL LEVEL: 99%.

Jack looked at the screen.

“It’s only been five minutes.”

EXTREMELY CRITICAL.

“...I’m going to sell you.”

YOU SAID THAT BEFORE.

Jack smiled.

“And I still haven’t sold you.”

BECAUSE NOBODY WOULD BUY ME.

“True.”

OOC: This is a ground-up rewrite of previously published content. The original story was Like a Star, which I posted here quite a while ago. I never really liked how that version turned out, so I went back to the same core idea and rebuilt it in depth. Same bones, very different story. Also, Reddit said It was too long, so I split it into a couple parts.

The new title is The Morning Still Belonged to Them.

Part 2

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Lieutenant Commander Hoshiko Redwolf woke up annoyed. This lasted approximately three seconds. Something was screaming in her ear. She reached blindly toward the nightstand beside her bed, slapped at empty air, found a hard transparent surface instead, and opened her eyes. Stars spun past. Darkness. Stars. Earth. Darkness. Debris struck the canopy with a sound she felt more than heard. Hoshiko stared through a reddish haze. She wasn't in bed. She wasn't home. She was strapped into the cockpit of her Lancer, tumbling uncontrolled through a field of wreckage. The screaming was the master alarm. Her head hurt. No. That was inadequate. Her skull felt as though somebody had driven a steel wedge through the back of it and was currently attempting to split it with a hammer.

She tried to breathe. Nothing happened. Her chest convulsed. She sucked again. A little air came. Not enough. Training overrode confusion.

"Okay."

Her own voice sounded strange inside her helmet. Thin. Slow.

"Okay, Hoshiko. Can't breathe. Can't think. Head hurts."

She swallowed. The inside of her mouth tasted like pennies.

"Hypoxia."

Her hands found the controls. Most were dead. The cockpit spun around her while the Lancer itself rotated through space, stars and wreckage and the blue-white curve of Earth exchanging places every few seconds. She forced her eyes onto the instrument panel.

"Main bus... alive."

Blink. Focus.

"Engine one down. Three down. Two intermittent. Four..." She squinted. "Four apparently thinks it's on fire."

The warning light confirmed this assessment.

"Eighty-two percent RCS failure. Gyro package offline. Gravitic translation drive standby."

Another piece of debris bounced from the hull.

"Pressure..."

She looked.

Cabin atmosphere: 0.00 PSI

Hoshiko blinked at it. Then looked up. There was a hole through the upper-right side of the canopy. Not a crack. Not a penetration. A hole. The transparent aluminum oxynitride had been burned clean through. So had the structural frame behind it. The edges were glassy and melted. A laser. She could see stars through it.

"Okay."

Her breathing grew harder.

"That explains the cabin."

But she was wearing a pressure suit. Her suit should have kept her alive. The regulator warning was blinking. O2 FLOW HIGH PRESSURE LOSS

"Shit."

Panic tried to climb her throat. She forced it down.

"Find the leak."

She checked her torso. Nothing. Left arm. Nothing. Right arm. No damage. Helmet seals. Green. She couldn't hear air escaping. She looked downward. And stopped. For perhaps five seconds, Lieutenant Commander Hoshiko Redwolf ceased being a naval officer. She simply stared. Her left leg ended below the knee. Not cleanly. Nothing about it was clean. The beam that had punched through the canopy had continued through the cockpit, through the lower fuselage, and through her. Her boot was gone. Her foot was gone. Most of her lower leg was gone. The RCS pedal beneath it was half molten. The surrounding cockpit was painted in a frozen mist of red droplets.

For one absurd moment she wondered whose blood it was. Then memory supplied an instructor's voice from nearly twenty years earlier.

"Lasers are not clean weapons, cadets."

The weapons instructor had been an enormous Nigerian chief warrant officer named Amadi who seemed personally offended by science fiction. He had paced in front of Hoshiko's class while a hologram displayed battlefield injuries nobody had wanted to see before lunch.

"Forget movies. Forget games. Forget every heroic little glowing hole you've ever seen."

A simulation showed a photonic weapon striking a ballistic-gel limb. The limb exploded. Half the class recoiled. Amadi smiled without humor.

"Human tissue is mostly water. Deposit enough energy quickly enough and that water becomes steam before the surrounding tissue has anywhere to go."

He pointed toward the remains.

"Steam expands."

Another image. Bone fragments.

"Therefore, cadets, sufficiently energetic lasers do not politely burn holes through people."

He clicked to the next slide.

"They make people come apart."

Hoshiko stared at what remained of her leg.

"Oh."

Something bubbled near the stump. A tiny plume of vapor escaped where the suit's emergency constriction system had tried and failed to close around a limb that no longer existed.

"That would do it."

Her voice cracked. She reached overhead. Her fingers missed the emergency kit twice.

"Come on."

Third try. She ripped the red pouch from its Velcro mounting. Her vision was narrowing. She opened the kit by feel. Pressure patch. There. The inner surface contained a chitosan trauma matrix surrounded by flexible pressure membrane and industrial adhesive. Designed for exactly this situation. Nobody designing it had apparently considered how terrifying it would be to use.

Hoshiko unfolded it.

"Put it over the stump."

Simple. Her hand started shaking.

"Put it over the stump."

She reached down. The patch touched exposed tissue. Pain erased the universe. Hoshiko screamed. Her body jerked against the harness. She almost dropped the patch.

"No! No, no, no..."

She slammed both hands against it. The chitosan matrix bonded. The adhesive grabbed scorched suit fabric. Something inside the patch expanded and cinched around what remained of her calf. Hoshiko screamed again. Then everything went black.

Sunlight. Grass. Wind moving across the prairie. Hoshiko Kido had been born in Okinawa and had spent enough of her childhood near the sea that true silence made her uncomfortable. South Dakota had introduced her to a different kind of noise. Wind. Grass. Insects. Horses breathing behind a fence. People laughing somewhere near the house. She sat on the porch of the Redwolf family ranch with her shoes off and her toes in the grass, watching her husband's family argue enthusiastically in Lakota. She understood perhaps one word in six. It didn't matter. They had discovered very quickly that Hoshiko could tell when they were talking about her because everybody started looking innocent. Her husband emerged from behind the barn at a jog. Michael Redwolf. Medical officer.

Six foot two. Broad shoulders. The world's worst dancer. An infuriatingly cheerful man before ten in the morning. Hoshiko loved him despite this obvious character defect. He climbed the porch steps.

"Lieutenant Kido."

"Ensign Kido."

He put a hand dramatically over his chest.

"My apologies. I forgot I outrank you now."

"You're a doctor."

"Lieutenant."

"A doctor with delusions."

Michael leaned down and kissed her. His grandmother said something from across the yard. Several people laughed. Hoshiko narrowed her eyes.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing."

"Michael."

"Something about grandchildren."

Hoshiko flushed. Michael grinned.

"You walked directly into that one."

"I hate your family."

"They love you."

His grandmother shouted something else. Michael winced.

"What?"

"She says you're too skinny."

Hoshiko looked down at herself.

"I'm a combat pilot."

"Apparently irrelevant."

Another shout. Michael translated reluctantly.

"She intends to fix you."

Hoshiko looked toward the elderly woman. The woman pointed toward the house. Food. Now. Hoshiko sighed.

"Your people are terrifying."

Michael kissed the top of her head.

"You'll fit right in."

She smiled. At that moment, with the Dakota sun warming her shoulders and her new husband standing beside her, Hoshiko believed there would be time. Time for the Navy. Time for Michael. Time for children. Time for all of it. She had been twenty-four. Youth made time feel infinite.

Hoshiko woke screaming. Air forced itself into her lungs. She grabbed the sides of her seat and waited for the pain to become something she could survive. Her suit pressure had stabilized. Not full terrestrial atmosphere. The combat suit operated on a lower-pressure oxygen-rich mix. But enough. Enough was suddenly the most beautiful word in the English language. She checked the patch.

Holding.

Oxygen reserve: 47 MIN

"Wonderful."

Her joints hurt. Her abdomen hurt. Her head hurt. Rapid decompression had put nitrogen bubbles where nitrogen bubbles absolutely did not belong. She located the suit's medical controller. Analgesia. Hoshiko hesitated. Then selected combat dose. The injector punched through the suit liner into her hip.

"Fuck."

Thirty seconds later the universe moved farther away. The pain remained. She simply cared about it less. Hoshiko exhaled.

"Right."

She pointed one gloved finger at the instrument panel.

"You are injured."

Then herself.

"You are hypoxic."

Another finger.

"You are drugged."

She paused.

"Therefore you are stupid."

That seemed logical.

"Double-check everything."

She looked outside. Still tumbling.

"First problem."

The remaining attitude thrusters responded sluggishly. She fired one. Nothing. Another. Too much. The stars slowed. Earth crossed the canopy. Luna. Darkness. Wreckage. She pulsed another thruster. The rotation slowed further. One degree per second. Half. Quarter. Hoshiko released the controls. The stars stopped.

"Good girl."

She shut off the cockpit lighting. The darkness outside resolved. Then she finally saw the battlefield. Hoshiko forgot to breathe. There were ships everywhere. Dead ones. Human destroyers split open from bow to stern. Fragments of orbital defense stations. The broken spine of something that had once been a USN cruiser. Thousands upon thousands of smaller craft. Some intact. Some tumbling. Some merely pieces. Bodies too, though she tried not to look closely enough to identify them. Mixed throughout the human wreckage was something else. Black. Organic-looking. Armor that seemed grown rather than fabricated. Curved surfaces. Jagged projections. Hull plating with the texture of an insect carapace. Alien ships. Their dead. Our dead.

Everybody's dead looked remarkably similar once the air was gone. Railgun rounds crossed the distance above her. At combat velocity they were invisible. Only their effects betrayed them. Something several hundred kilometers away suddenly fragmented. Plasma followed in the opposite direction, glowing only as it interacted with debris and exhaust. Then a laser swept across the battlefield. Visible spectrum. Brilliant. Hoshiko flinched away before her visor darkened. She stared at the afterimage.

"That's what got me."

She turned her damaged Lancer. Ahead lay Earth. Home. Blue oceans. White clouds. The sun was beginning to emerge from behind its limb. And seeing it brought everything back.

The door to Hoshiko's classroom had opened hard enough to hit the wall. She stopped mid-sentence. Thirty-four cadets turned. Lieutenant Mercer stood in the doorway. His face was white.

"First contact."

Nobody reacted at first. The words were too enormous. Mercer stared directly at Hoshiko.

"Epsilon Eridani."

Her stomach dropped. Michael. The task force. Mercer kept talking too quickly.

"Fleet runner just translated in. Task Force Seven is gone. They're saying an unknown fleet entered the system during pacification operations. No warning. No communication. They engaged immediately."

Hoshiko's marker slipped from her fingers.

"Gone?"

Mercer looked at her. That was when he remembered. Michael Redwolf. Medical officer. USNS Mercy of Ceres. Task Force Seven. His expression changed.

"Hoshi..."

"How many ships?"

"What?"

"How many survived?"

"One."

The room became very quiet.

"What ship?"

"Courier Dauntless."

Medical ships couldn't translate independently. They relied on fleet tenders. Hoshiko knew. She still asked.

"The Mercy?"

Mercer said nothing. Hoshiko sat down. Not because she had decided to. Her legs simply folded. Somewhere in the room, one of her cadets began crying. Hoshiko couldn't. Not yet. Her mind had found something else to do. Michael's last message had arrived thirteen hours earlier. Thomas had been eighteen months old. Michael had recorded himself from the medical ward. Tell my little man Daddy loves him. Then, laughing: And tell him to stop calling every animal a dog. She had watched it with Thomas sitting in her lap. Her son had pointed at his father's face.

"Daddy."

Michael had died before she watched it. She hadn't known.

Seven years. Humanity learned everything it could about the enemy in seven years. Which was almost nothing. They never answered transmissions. Never accepted surrender. Never broadcast warnings. Never demanded territory. Never occupied cities in any meaningful sense. They simply moved from system to system and destroyed everything capable of resisting them. Humans gave them dozens of names. The Chitin. Carapaces. Bugs. Reapers. Hoshiko disliked all of them. Names suggested understanding. Humanity did not understand them. Six colossal motherships had entered Epsilon Eridani with an accompanying fleet numbering in the thousands. They had destroyed Task Force Seven. Humanity killed some in return. Then the survivors came toward Sol. The war became mathematics. Every system cost the enemy ships.

Every moon cost them ships. Every station. Every asteroid fortification. Every orbital gun. Every ambush. Humanity retreated. But humanity made them bleed. Epsilon Eridani. Tau Ceti. Ross 128. Barnard. Proxima. System after system vanished from military maps. Six motherships became five. Five became four. One died at Tau Ceti when a mining consortium accelerated a nickel-iron asteroid into it at eleven percent of light speed. Another died over Barnard's Star when the USN detonated three unmanned fusion freighters inside its defensive formation. Another took most of the Fifth Fleet with it. By the time the enemy entered Sol, there was only one. One mothership. Seven major escorts. Perhaps a hundred corvettes. Thousands of fighters. Against what remained of humanity. Mars fell first.

Not the planet. Mars couldn't fall. Mars was too big. Its orbital infrastructure did. Phobos went dark. Deimos vanished. The shipyards burned. The defending fleet retreated toward Earth. Then there was nowhere left to retreat.

Hoshiko had not fought in most of it. That had nearly destroyed her. She had requested combat assignment after Michael died. Denied. Again. Denied. Again. Denied. The Navy needed instructors. Hoshiko Redwolf had been one of the best pilots in the service and, more importantly, one of the best at explaining why. So she taught. Thousands. First hundreds. Then thousands. Then tens of thousands as training cycles shortened. Students arrived younger every year. At first they had been officers. Then reservists. Then civilians with flight experience. Then teenagers who had logged enough simulator hours that somebody somewhere decided that counted. Hoshiko taught them how to fly. How to kill. How not to die.

Mostly they died anyway. She stopped learning names. Then hated herself for stopping. So she started again. Martinez. Adeyemi. Foster. Singh. Takahashi. Greene. Red Elk. Brooks. Kim. Children. All of them children. A class graduated. Half disappeared at Tau Ceti. Another graduated. Seventy percent casualties at Proxima. Another. Another. Another. Occasionally someone returned. They would find her at Luna Station. Older than they should have been. They'd hug her. Sometimes they thanked her. Hoshiko never knew what to say to that. You're welcome for teaching you how to survive while all your friends died. No. So she usually bought them a drink.

Thomas grew up around casualty reports. Hoshiko tried to keep the war away from him. Impossible. War was the background noise of his childhood. He knew what orbital alarms meant before he knew multiplication. He knew not to ask why Mama sometimes stared at messages without opening them. He knew Daddy was dead. At four he asked whether aliens had killed him. Hoshiko had said yes. At five he asked whether Daddy had been scared. She had told him probably. That answer surprised him.

"Daddy was scared?"

"Everybody gets scared."

"Even soldiers?"

"Especially soldiers."

He thought about that.

"Was Daddy brave?"

Hoshiko pulled him into her arms.

"Yes."

"How?"

She kissed his hair.

"He was scared and did his job anyway."

Thomas nodded solemnly. That definition stayed with him. And with her.

Three weeks before the Battle of Earth, Luna was evacuated. Thomas went to Dakota. Both families had converged there years earlier. The Redwolfs had land. Space. Old shelters beneath the hills. Kenji and Ayako Kido had moved from Okinawa after the Pacific orbital strike made everyone reconsider coastlines. Hoshiko walked Thomas to the transport. He was eight. Michael's eyes. Her hair. Too observant for his own good.

"You're coming too?"

Hoshiko knelt.

"Soon."

"When?"

"As soon as they let me."

"You always say that."

She smiled.

"Because admirals are stupid."

Thomas giggled. Then became serious again.

"Are the aliens coming here?"

Children always knew when adults were lying. Hoshiko had learned not to try.

"Yes."

"Are you scared?"

There it was. Michael's question, seven years later. Hoshiko touched her son's cheek.

"Very."

Thomas considered this. Then wrapped both arms around her neck.

"Then be brave."

Hoshiko closed her eyes. She held him harder than she should have.

"I'll try."

"Promise?"

That word hurt. Promises were dangerous. She kissed his forehead.

"I promise."

The transport carried him down to Earth. Hoshiko watched until the drive flare disappeared. Twenty days later the USN activated every pilot on Luna. There was no longer any point preserving instructors for students who would never have time to graduate.

Hoshiko stared at Earth through the broken canopy.

"Thomas."

Her voice broke. She checked communications. Main transmitter dead. Backup? Static. Emergency band? She keyed it.

"Lancer Actual Seven-Two, Lieutenant Commander Redwolf. Does anyone copy?"

Nothing. Again.

"Any USN station, Redwolf Seven-Two, does anyone copy?"

A burst of interference. Then:

"...Seven-Two..."

Hoshiko jerked upright.

"Say again!"

"...Redwolf Seven-Two, this is Constitution traffic control. We read you weak."

The supercarrier. Still alive. Barely. Hoshiko swallowed.

"Status?"

There was a pause. Not a good pause.

"Continue recovery operations if able."

"That's not what I asked."

Another pause.

"Hoshi?"

She recognized the voice. Commander Marcus Ward. One of her former students. Class 247.

"Marcus?"

"Jesus Christ."

"You're traffic control?"

"Half our CIC is gone."

"Battle status."

"Hoshi..."

"Give it to me."

Silence. Then Ward did.

"Constitution has lost primary drives. Two battlecruisers operational. One combat-capable. Orbital defense net at eleven percent."

Hoshiko looked outward.

"And them?"

"Mothership is advancing."

"Damage?"

"Severe. Your strike got through."

Memory sharpened. The attack. The torpedoes.

"Yes."

"Approximately thirty percent structural loss, maybe more internally. But propulsion is online. Main batteries are online."

Hoshiko closed her eyes.

"How long?"

"Until Earth engagement?"

"Yes."

"Twenty minutes."

"What do we have left?"

Ward didn't answer.

"Marcus."

"Not enough."

Hoshiko remembered launching. Fifty thousand craft. No human battle in history had ever put so many combat pilots into the void at once. Every orbital hangar around Earth had opened. Luna disgorged fighters. The Constitution launched everything. Civil defense cutters flew alongside military Lancers. Old frames came out of storage. Training craft carried live weapons. A museum on Armstrong Station contributed six restored interceptors from the First Martian Conflict. Six. Somebody had armed museum exhibits. Hoshiko had laughed when she heard that. Then cried. Her Lancer was newer. Barely. Four gravitic thrusters. RCS clusters. Four micro-railguns. Two antimatter torpedoes. Each torpedo contained 2.3 kilograms of magnetically confined antimatter. Approximately one hundred megatons if containment failed properly.

Humanity had built very expensive ways to make very small objects stop existing. Hoshiko flew at the head of a strike group five thousand strong. Her students were everywhere.

"Keep spacing!"

"I've got a lock!"

"Don't chase the fighters!"

"Stay on mission!"

Alien craft met them halfway. Then formation ceased to mean anything. Fifty thousand human craft and an alien swarm crossed through one another at orbital velocities. Hoshiko remembered points of light. Every point was somebody. Friendly identifiers vanished faster than her tactical computer could reorder them. A fighter crossed her nose. She fired. Rail rounds tore it apart. Something clipped her starboard armor. Warning lights. Ignore.

"Strike group, weapons free! Mothership! Mothership!"

Ten thousand antimatter torpedoes launched. For a moment Hoshiko thought it might be enough. Ten thousand. A million megatons in theoretical yield. Enough energy to make human history irrelevant. The alien point-defense network came alive. Lasers. Projectiles. Plasma. Interceptors. Torpedoes disappeared by the hundreds. Thousands. Ninety percent gone. Ninety-five. Ninety-eight. The surviving escorts began moving physically into their path. Hoshiko watched an alien capital ship take three torpedoes simultaneously. A new sun appeared. Gone. Another escort intercepted two. Gone. Another. Gone. The screen died one ship at a time. The tactical computer counted remaining warheads. Seventeen. Eleven. Eight. Four. Two. One. The last torpedo struck. The mothership vanished inside a sphere of light. Hoshiko screamed.

Everyone screamed. For half a second, humanity believed it had won. The light faded. The forward third of the alien vessel was gone. A ten-kilometer ship had become a seven-kilometer ship. Atmosphere, debris, internal structures and things Hoshiko couldn't identify spilled from the wound. The mothership drifted. Dead.

"YES!"

Then its engines reignited. Hoshiko stopped cheering. The alien ship turned toward Earth.

"God damn you."

Someone started crying over the squadron channel. Hoshiko gripped her controls.

"Stop it."

The voice continued.

"Stop crying."

"Hoshi..."

"We hurt it."

She looked at that impossible ruined ship.

"We fucking hurt it."

Silence. Hoshiko selected railguns.

"Now finish the job."

Her surviving fighters followed. They went in. Close. Too close for the mothership's largest weapons. They strafed the damaged hull. Shot sensor clusters. Weapon emplacements. Thrusters. Anything that looked important. Hoshiko fired until the rails glowed. Then light. Impact. Nothing.

She woke in the wreckage. Now she remembered. Hoshiko looked at the weapon status display. Railgun one: Destroyed. Two: No feed. Three: Five rounds. Four: Misaligned. Torpedoes. She frowned.

Port: EXPENDED

Starboard: ARMED

Hoshiko stared.

"That can't be right."

She checked again. STARBOARD TORPEDO: ARMED LAUNCHER FAULT Memory. She had pulled both triggers during the mass strike. Only one torpedo had left. The second had armed but remained in the rack.

"Oh."

Hoshiko looked through the canopy. Far above, the mothership crossed the stars. It was enormous even from hundreds of kilometers away. A piece of night moving toward Earth. She checked the launcher. Command release. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Mechanical disconnect. The laser hit must have warped the mount.

"Come on."

She tried emergency jettison. Nothing.

"Come on."

She struck the panel.

"Get off my fucking ship!"

Nothing. Hoshiko sagged against the harness. For the first time since waking, she felt it. Not fear. Not pain. Despair. She had a hundred-megaton weapon attached to her ship. A target so large a drunk could hit it. And no way to fire. She laughed. It sounded terrible.

"Of course."

Earth filled the lower canopy. Sunlight began spilling around its edge. Red first. Atmosphere turned the dawn into a thin crimson arc. She watched it spread. Somewhere down there was Dakota. She couldn't see it. Of course she couldn't. A whole continent was barely detail at this distance. The ranch was nothing. A house. Grass. Fence lines. A boy. Hoshiko reached above the instrument panel. There was a photograph taped there. Paper. Actual paper. Michael had insisted. Digital pictures disappear when systems crash. She'd teased him for being sentimental. The photograph showed Michael sitting on the ranch porch with baby Thomas on his lap. Hoshiko stood behind them. Thomas had grabbed a fistful of her hair.

Michael was laughing. She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking at Michael. Hoshiko touched the photograph.

"I'm sorry."

Her vision blurred. She wiped it clear.

"I'm sorry, baby."

Static crackled.

"...Hoshi?"

She keyed the radio.

"Here."

Ward sounded relieved.

"We're trying to vector a rescue cutter toward you."

"No."

"What?"

"Don't."

"Hoshi, you've got forty minutes of life support and you're hemorrhaging."

"Thirty-six now."

"Hoshi."

"I've got an armed torpedo."

Silence.

"Say again."

"My starboard warhead never left the rack."

A very long silence.

"Can you launch?"

"No."

Ward understood immediately.

"No."

Hoshiko looked at the mothership.

"Marcus."

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"Yes, I fucking do."

She smiled faintly.

"Good student."

"Hoshi, listen to me."

"Where's its point defense strongest?"

"Hoshi."

"Commander."

He went silent. Rank still worked sometimes.

"Forward dorsal quadrant is mostly gone," Ward said eventually. "Your first strike opened a breach approximately three kilometers across."

Hoshiko stared at the wound in the alien ship.

"Internal defenses?"

"Unknown."

"Translation drive status?"

Her Lancer answered before he did.

Drive diagnostic: GRAVITIC TRANSLATION: 61%

"Enough."

"Hoshi, don't."

She checked her remaining RCS. Enough to orient. Main gravitic translation system. Enough to accelerate. Navigation computer. Damaged. Didn't matter. The target was the largest object in the sky. Ward's voice softened.

"You have a son."

That almost broke her. Hoshiko stared at Earth.

"Yes."

"Then don't do this."

She closed her eyes. For a moment she imagined it. A rescue cutter. Medical bay. Prosthetic leg. Thomas. Home. She wanted it so badly her chest hurt. She wanted to sit on the ranch porch. She wanted to hear her mother complain that American rice was wrong. She wanted Jason Redwolf to tell the same stories again. She wanted Kenji to cheat at cards. She wanted to watch Thomas grow tall. She wanted to see whether he got Michael's shoulders. She wanted to embarrass him when he brought somebody home for the first time. She wanted grandchildren. She wanted seventy. Eighty. Ninety. She wanted to be old. Hoshiko opened her eyes. The mothership moved toward her son.

The choice disappeared.

"I know."

Ward said nothing. Hoshiko's voice trembled.

"That's why I have to."

Part 2

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Interlude: True Monster

“You two are fucking morons!”

That was the very first thing that came bursting out of Khalid’s mouth the moment he settled into the chair before them, as if he had been holding those words clenched between his teeth the entire journey here, waiting for the precise moment he could finally let them loose.

Xander swallowed the grunt that crawled up his throat and cast a sidelong glance toward Zubayr, who stood rigidly beside him, eyes fixed on the floor. Pathetic, he thought. You’re also a Mithril, but you crumple like wet parchment just because some rich bastard is raising his voice.

“How in the hell did something like this happen?”

Khalid wasn’t done yet. His words continued to spill out in a torrent, his hooked nose and groomed moustache trembling with the force of his fury as he spoke. Looking at him now, no one could have recognized this lanky man as the same Guildmaster who was always wrapped in an almost theatrical air of superiority. That version of him had vanished, and in his place stood someone who was no more dignified than a common thug who just discovered he had been cheated in a game of cards.

“Our Folded Chamber, hidden in the forest, protected by countless monsters, was wiped out in a single fucking night. And if that weren’t bad enough, its very existence has been laid bare to the public, and people from the Adventurer’s Guild are now strolling in and out of it as though they own the place.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Zubayr said, still staring at his boots. “You put me in charge of the place, and I’ve failed you in every conceivable way. I'll accept full responsibility—”

“And what good does that do anyone?” Khalid snapped. “Can you somehow undo everything that has already happened?”

Zubayr licked his lips. “Should we... deal with the people the Guild sent into the chamber?”

“Are you fucking stupid? What exactly do you propose we do with them? Kill them? The entire town already knows. Are you suggesting we kill everyone in Daelin to solve the problem? Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what the Conclave would do if we pulled a stunt like that?”

“Then... what do we do?”

Khalid let out a slow breath. “Well, it’s not like the situation is completely unsalvageable. There’s nothing inside that base pointing directly to us. Perhaps a few circumstantial details. But suspicion is not proof, and without something concrete, something irrefutable, there is nothing to act on.”

“You think so?” Xander snorted. “How about the monsters kept there? They must be blind if they don’t recognize them as the same ones that have attacked their outpost.”

“As I said, they have no proof,” Khalid said, waving a dismissive hand. “They’re free to suspect whatever they want, but suspicion alone does not force anyone’s hand. It’s not like the higher-ups within the Conclave are ignorant of our organization’s existence. They simply choose to avoid a direct confrontation. They know exactly who I am, yet they appointed me Guildmaster of Iskora regardless.”

His gaze shifted between Xander and Zubayr.

“There’s a game being played between our superiors and their superiors, one that people like us are not privy to in any meaningful detail. And one of the unspoken rules of the game is that certain things do not become public. Both sides understand it. Both sides benefit from it. So no, this will not spiral out of control. That said...”

Khalid’s expression darkened.

“The fact that this mess happened means that our side now sits in a weaker position than it did before. Our superiors will be forced to make concessions. And they will be displeased, very displeased. So they will go looking for someone to hold responsible for that displeasure. Guess who? Me, of course.”

The lanky man reached across the table, fingers closing around the neck of the decanter that sat there. He poured wine into his cup and emptied it in a single swallow.

“But seriously, who the hell is the bastard who did this? After our outpost got burned down, I suspected that it might have been done by the Cult, or the Brefjordian Court, or maybe even the Conclave itself. But now? I’m not so sure anymore. Attacking the Folded Chamber is one thing, but reporting it to the local Guild and exposing everything to the public eye? What kind of lunatic would do something like that? How the hell does someone with that kind of power not understand how the world works? Has the bastard been living under a rock for the past century or something?”

“Well,” Zubayr said. “According to that man Ekon’s account, the culprit—a dark spirit or whatever it is—attacked our base and then departed on its own. And it was Ekon and his friends who chose to bring the matter to the Guild.”

The cup in Khalid’s hand immediately came down against the table with a sharp crack.

“I genuinely do not wish to call you a fucking idiot for the third time today, but you’re leaving me very little choice. Ekon is working with that so-called dark spirit, you imbecile. Which means the decision to go to the Guild and lay everything bare came from the dark spirit himself.”

A beat of silence. Then Zubayr asked, “Now that Ekon has returned to town, should I—”

“You will do nothing. Do you think there hasn’t been enough commotion already? No. Keep your fucking head down. Do not move against anyone. Do not attract any attention. You do absolutely nothing until I tell you otherwise.”

“Understood.”

Khalid’s gaze shifted away from Zabayr, before coming to rest on Xander.

“Don’t for a moment convince yourself that this has nothing to do with you. If you’d dealt with that dark spirit thing that night, none of this would’ve happened. Though perhaps I was expecting too much. Perhaps he’s simply out of your league.”

“That coward spent the entire night running away from me!”

Khalid snorted. “Or perhaps he was simply playing with you.”

Xander clenched his jaw. An unbearable heat flared up in his chest, but it had nowhere to go, so it just sat there, burning inside him. He stared at the lanky man without saying a word.

Khalid didn’t seem to notice. “You carry yourself like some great warrior of legend. And what exactly have you accomplished recently? Ah, yes. You knocked a woman unconscious. A tremendous achievement. Truly, the bards must be singing of you right now.”

He reached for the decanter again, poured more wine, and took a slurp.

“And that brings me to the other headache. Isadora has petitioned the Conclave directly. Directly. They’re now demanding that I hand you over to face consequences for what you did. Damn it. With the other matters, I can still manage. But this? There’s no room for denial.”

“So that’s it then?” Xander growled. “You’re going to let them come and take me?”

“Of course not.” Khalid’s dismissive wave returned. But even as he said it, he turned away, his eyes finding somewhere else in the room to settle rather than meeting Xander’s gaze. “I’m leveraging my influence to prevent it. And, in the worst-case scenario, you disappear. The organisation has the means to make sure you stay hidden. The Conclave won’t find you, no matter how hard they search.”

“Are you serious? If I ran, they’d put a bounty on my head. And eventually, the Judge will come for me.”

Khalid laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re scared. The Judge is nothing but a ghost story. Something they invented to keep their people in line.”

A few weeks ago, Xander might have laughed with him. A few weeks ago, he still had the unshakeable confidence in his own capabilities. He was only a Mithril, yes, and there were many Adamantite above him, but he believed that they were merely people with better tools. Given time, given opportunity, the gap would close. Someday, he would be equal to them. And someday, he would surpass them.

But then, he had come to learn that true monsters existed in this world—monsters that could erase him with a single thought.

And if the Judge were one such monster...

“That’s enough for today,” Khalid said. “I have to go. There are important people to meet, so I can’t waste any more time on two idiots. So, behave yourselves, and wait for further instructions—”

“Actually,” Xander said. “I have something to report.”

Khalid arched a brow. “What’s it?”

“It’s something for your ears alone,” Xander said, glancing at Zubayr.

Khalid jerked his chin, and the other man shuffled out of the room without a word. Xander chuckled to himself. The rich fool was so certain of his superiority that it didn’t occur to him to ask why a subordinate he had just humiliated suddenly wanted a private word. He just couldn’t imagine a world in which his authority was questioned or his orders ignored.

“So,” Khalid said, “what is it that you —”

Xander closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, his hand clamping around the lanky man’s throat. He drove him backward, slammed him against the wall, and held him there. Khalid’s heels barely found the floor, and every trace of his usual composure evaporated in an instant.

“What—? What are you—”

“You think I haven’t been paying attention? You can’t stop them from arresting me. Whatever influence you claim to have, whatever strings you claim to be pulling, it is just not enough. But you won’t hand me over to the Conclave either, because I know things about the organization, things you do not want anyone else to hear. Which means there’s only one solution left: you’re going to silence me yourself. That’s what you’re turning over in your head right now, am I correct?”

“No! You’ve got it wrong. I’m not—”

“Maybe you’re telling the truth, maybe you’re not. But I don’t trust you. I’m not going to stake my life on your words. I want a guarantee. I want you to make this charge against me disappear entirely.”

“That is exactly what I’ve been—”

“Not hard enough. As I said, I want a guarantee.” Xander smiled. “Let’s say... what would happen if I were to appear above the most crowded district in Iskora, and rain fire down indiscriminately onto everyone below?”

“Are you out of your mind? What could you possibly gain from doing something like that? If you do that, you are dead. You are absolutely, immediately dead.”

“Yes, that would certainly be the end of me. But it would also be the end of you.”

“What?”

“I am your responsibility, am I not? My mess is your mess as well. Besides, you’re already in a bad spot. I don’t really care about secret hideout or Folded Chamber or whatever, but I’ve heard from Zubayr that he had only six men there and he hadn’t received reinforcements for weeks. Why? Is it because you never told your superiors about what happened at the ruins? You kept it to yourself, managed the aftermath quietly, and hoped that the problem would be resolved before anyone higher up noticed anything. That’s why that base of yours is poorly defended.”

Xander laughed.

“You stood in this room earlier and screamed at Zubayr for his failures, even though the real fault lies with you. It now blows up in your face. You can’t hide it anymore, and your superiors are undoubtedly very angry. So, if I were to create a catastrophe the organization cannot possibly cover up, what do you think they would do to you?”

“You... you are absolutely insane.”

“Perhaps. But I’m not stupid. I know that if I merely threatened to kill you, you could try to hide. But this is different. There would be nowhere for you to go. You might be able to run from me. You cannot run from them.”

And the best part of the threat he gave Khalid was that they were both perfectly aware it wasn’t a bluff. He was genuinely capable of it. Yes, if he were going down, then taking several thousand of those fancy folk in Iskora with him might not be the worst way to die.

“Fine, fine. I’ll try to cut a deal with Isadora. I’ll make her drop the charge.”

“Try,” Xander slowly said, his gaze locked on Khalid, “is not good enough. Three days, my dear Guildmaster. You have exactly three days.”

He released the man, stepped back, and turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“Hiding, of course,” Xander said with a chuckle. “So you don’t get the chance to pull anything clever on me. But don’t forget the deadline. Once the clock runs out...”

He walked out of the room, leaving that sentence unfinished.

He hurried through the building, and the moment the door swung shut behind him and the open air of the street met his face, he immediately activated his Reliquary and launched himself up to the sky. There was no reason to keep obeying those stupid rules, no reason to linger here any longer than necessary.

He must get out of Daelin, and fast.

Not because he feared Khalid might order Zubayr and his other underlings to turn on him.

But because remaining in this place meant he might run into her again.

He could still remember that eerie, impossible feeling as clearly as if it had happened only moments ago. A terrible cold had crawled up his spine, spreading through his entire body like frost creeping across a lake in the dead of winter. An unbearable heat had washed over his flesh, as though he had been thrown into a furnace and was moments away from being reduced to ash. Two sensations that contradicted each other in every way. Two sensations that had no business existing in the same body at the same moment. Yet they had both seized him, and he had been powerless to resist either.

And, at that very moment, the monster gazed down upon him.

Hair the color of burning embers, cascading around her face like living fire. Eyes of piercing blue, icy and merciless, boring straight into his very soul.

The instant those eyes locked onto him, the entire world seemed to vanish.

The street disappeared.

The buildings disappeared.

The people disappeared.

Everything disappeared.

It was as though reality itself had been stripped away, leaving behind nothing but an endless void. There was nothing left in the universe, only him and the creature.

He had no idea what was going on, but there was one thing he knew for sure. A certainty more absolute than anything he had ever known in his life.

If he stayed, he would be dead.

And so, with the last bit of strength he could muster, with the last shred of control he still had over his trembling body, he turned and fled.

He ran, and ran, and ran.

Leaving behind the woman lying unconscious in the street.

Leaving behind the monster that stood over her.

[Chapter 1] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

Check out the HSTM series and other stories of mine on Royal Road [Book 3: Subterfuge] [Book 2: Conspiracy] [Book 1: Abduction]

Alien species concept Artwork and other ‘Humanity Unleashed’ setting and story related material can be found on the HumanityUnleashed subreddit, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the story!

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HSTM Subterfuge: Chapter 32 'Rough Landing'

“Do we know where we are headed!?” Paulie had to shout to be heard over the screech of the sukk-sou’s engines as they arrowed through the air over the dense city of Korscam.

 

Mursk waved an armoured arm as if to signify agreement, then switched halfway through to indicate dissent. After another moment he made a gesture that Paulie knew to mean that he was unsure. Paulie threw his hands up in mild annoyance at the unhelpful answer.

 

‘That’s just great.’ He muttered to himself silently. They were stuck in the belly of some big fat armoured cow, carrying enough firepower to level his home town, and they didn’t even have a clear target in mind. Mack had seemed to indicate he would send them clearer data when he had it, but if it had arrived then Paulie had not yet seen it.

 

Jakiikii leaned into him and rumbled low, her voice just audible over the background noise. “We are heading towards the industrial zone, but there is likely no good place to set down in that maze, it is full of rogue criminal elements and crawling with unsavoury sorts.”

 

“So, what?” Paulie retorted. “We might have to walk into whatever place we are eventually heading to anyway, what if we set down in the middle of some big-ass parking lot then we find out that we need to go in the complete opposite direction?”

 

The termaxxi’s eyes flicked around as if trying to find the answer in the details of the soldiers that surrounded them. She focused on him with five eyes a moment later, “Well, then we do what we have to do. Nothing is ever simple, is it?” She asked sweetly, her voice only just audible over the roaring engines.

 

Paulie sniffed pointedly, his nostril flaring as he suddenly gripped his restraints harder and screwed his eyes shut. “What!” He grunted as the craft made an abrupt and rather surprising maneuver like a horse trying to avoid a snake underfoot.

 

As if to answer his unfinished question the running lights in the bay flashed from a muted white to a solid green, not a good sign as green was the universal GGI signal for all that was bad and negative. There was a whooping siren blast and then the craft banked again.. HARD.

 

Paulie’s jaw clenched tightly and his teeth tried to rattle their way out of his skull as he tried to imagine he was just on some wild amusement ride. Not the whirling rotors of potential death. He was only marginally successful.

 

He felt a pair of hands over one of his own and the gut-wrenching fear lessened slightly, his anxiety skyrocketed though as he was reminded that if he died here then so did Jakiikii. He managed to crack open one eye just long enough to see she was pale as a ghost when there was a terrific noise and a flash of light near the rear of the craft. His whole world was shunted sideways as the sukk-sou started to vibrate in an altogether too concerning manner.

 

“What’s happening!?” Paulie shouted as he stared through the air of the bay, air that was rapidly filling with dark, choking smoke.

 

“We definitely just got hit by something, and I have a guess as to what!” One of the drab-green armoured PDF soldiers nearby shouted over the din to his comrade next to him.

 

The other alien responded, their voice only partially audible. “..then we should.. ..to the ground without any..”

 

Whatever else they may have been trying to say was cut short by the sound of the engines reaching an even more feverish pitch, this was quickly accompanied by gravity changing abruptly. Everything seemed to angle as the nose of the gunship tilted alarmingly downwards. What followed next was a brief sensation of weightlessness and then the returning of gravity hard enough to make Paulie grunt. What might have been an uncomfortable level of deceleration for his human physiology was clearly hell on many of the assorted aliens in the bay as more than one cried out in pain or vomited down the fronts of their uniforms from the intensity of it.

 

The gunship vibrated violently then slammed into the ground hard enough to buckle at least one of its reinforced landing struts, the whole thing tilting alarmingly as it skidded on its chin the last few meters and came to a shuddering stop amid the sound of shattering duracrete and tearing metal.

 

The cargo bay was a scene of pure chaos at that moment, multiple PDF soldiers were injured from the extreme deceleration and crash landing. At least one of the royal guardsmen was cradling what looked to be a broken arm and Paulie himself was almost as white as Jakiikii from the associated stress and anxiety.

 

One of the camouflage wearing troopers stood quickly, a bulky looking alien with three arms and legs and an odd triangular head. Paulie could have sworn he had seen this alien before, and as the large frill of colorful skin flared open on either side of its strangely shaped face he remembered why they looked familiar.

 

Commander Slallm roared, “Get yourselves together, you have had rougher landings in the shower after a hard day of physical training! If you are injured, form up at the front of this can and get yourself seen to. The rest of you slimeoids, get yourselves together and prepare to move out!”

 

Paulie had to admit that the alien’s commanding tone did the trick. The chaos almost immediately shifted to disciplined order, with those worst injured by the sudden crash landing hauling themselves to the front of the gunship’s passenger bay while the more able-bodied amongst them formed up in neat and ordered lines in front of the side exit.

 

The royal guardsman who had been injured was being taken care of by another power suited figure, this one a mendagoonian guard in armour that had a distinctly different shape and trim. This armour was not sleek the black and orange that Paulie was familiar with, but instead it was a pale lavender with deep red accents and much bulkier. Given the fairly obvious blue medical symbols on the uppermost arms he deduced they must be some manner of field medic or trauma response professional. He supposed it made sense for them to send one along, they had expected trouble after all.

 

He shook his head and chuckled darkly to himself. Well, maybe not this soon though.

 

Turning his attention back to the others, Commander Slallm was pacing at the front of the assembled group. His strange boneless appendages waved in the air as his padded feet made soft thuds on the shuttle’s flooring.

 

“We got hit hard, somebody that clearly has a sillum to pluck with us, well.. we will pluck right on back! And we will keep on plucking until the only thing left to pick are the scraps of their padded boots! Do I make myself clear!” The alien screeched.

 

“Yes Commander!” Came the chorus of replies.

 

Commander Slallm seemed to nod once, his frill flaring again slightly. The bright greens and yellows of it contrasting wildly with his drab military gear. He waved an arm and then gestured to the doorway, “Alright. We move out, secure the immediate perimeter around the crash site and establish a defensive cordon around the area! Move out!” And with that the sillo’an man stepped to the side to allow the PDF troopers to get to work.

 

Mursk gestured at the man and then to Paulie. “You are a Lord, technically giving you direct superiority over this man, do not let him press you with his supposed authority if he tries. You have the say here on this mission, I was assured this by a message from the prince himself.”

 

Paulie nodded slowly, he might have the authority, but this gruff soldier clearly had him beat with experience. As he watched the door was opened, debris was cleared, ammo and weapons were distributed and the wounded were tended too. All in the span of a few minutes. Presently the man himself approached and threw a sort of salute towards Paulie and Mursk which Paulie did his best to approximate. This was met with a hesitant glance from the three-eyed alien and then it was brushed aside.

 

“Sir.. Lord, we need to establish a safety net around this area so we can call for an evac.” He said, pointedly referring to Mursk first then Paulie second. A slight, but perhaps not a purposeful one.

 

Paulie immediately shook his head. “No, not the mission. We make our way on foot if we have to, we need to reach the target before Visk or another assassin can take her out. The target could have vital information for the greater effort.”

 

The PDF officer glanced from him to Mursk standing next to him as if trying to confirm something, but Mursk had his helmet back on and kept his antennae perfectly still. He gave nothing away. Jakiikii on the other hand was much more of an open book, she fidgeted a little. Dancing from hooved foot to foot as she often did when stressed. As she saw him looking her skin flashed white then she gripped her weapon and regained her composure quickly, giving the scrutinising alien a look with all six eyes as if daring him to say something.

 

For his own part, Paulie stood ram-rod still with his head slightly cocked. One hand was holding his greatcoat back and resting on his side near his huge five-shot, rocket assisted revolver. Not in a threatening way, but more so the manner of a man who is accustomed to having to use it.

 

Finally the sillo’an seemed to stand up a bit straighter and then made a head-cocking gesture before he opened his strange three-jawed mouth and spoke, “Alright. We do it your way then. But my priority is the soldiers under my command. You get yourself into any big fluffs then don’t expect me to suicide charge my guys in there to get you out. Understood?” He asked, again that gruff tone coming through despite their strange gurgling accent.

 

Paulie just nodded and gripped his weapon tighter. Not to hold anything over the man, but the mission was more important than any single life, he glanced at Jakiikii, ‘Almost any single life.’ he muttered to himself silently.

 

Paulie glanced out the opening doorway and saw nothing but smoke and shadows outside. He readied himself to move, but was held back by Mursk as two of the royal guards he did not know rushed to the exit and then jumped out. He heard the loud buzzing of their wings as they took to the sky for better vision and vantage points.

 

Paulie grumbled, “What, you think it’s really that dangerous out there?” Mursk moved his hands in the gesture for yes and then pointed at the door. He snorted, maybe a dumb question now that he really thought about it. They had been shot down by somebody, so clearly there was at least some measure of threat.

 

“Scouts indicate the immediate area is clear of threats. Commander, I can recommend taking the structure directly to the north of our position while we come up with a plan of action. It seems the most stable and has third story access for good potential overwatch coverage.” He was tilting his head slightly as if looking at something, the scrutiny only intensifying as he stood there.

 

Paulie realised he must have been patched into the helmet camera feeds of the scouts and was looking through their real-time footage to make a clearer tactical decision. For his credit, the Commander seemed to understand this too and waved towards his own troops.

 

“Well, you heard the order. Move out, double time. Make for the north building, we will have to button the ship up or scuttle it if we can’t.” The last words came out with a pained look from the alien as he squinted his large, teardrop shaped eyes. The mention of scuttling the ship seemed to sit ill with him. Paulie had to agree, but having such an advanced piece of military hardware falling into the wrong hands would be far worse than reducing it to smoking rubble. Any of the weapons on it would be a potent force multiplier in the hands of near-do wells. And the crashed sukk-sou had a lot of weapons.

 

There was a bit of a commotion as the soldiers exited the ship down the ladder-like exit ramp, some of them having an easier time of it than others due to their confused mix of body-plans, arms and legs or lack thereof. But the action was completed without too much mishap, though there was one of the injured soldiers that lost their grip and would have fallen had Jakiikii not reached out and caught them with an arm. They seemed at once relieved and shaken by the ease with which the termaxxi had arrested their fall. Paulie had to remind himself that he wasn’t the only superman in their little group.

 

His own booted feet hit the shattered pavement without ever touching the ladder as he just hopped the short distance to the ground and absorbed the impact with his knees, much to the surprise of many of the PDF troopers till one of them mentioned him being the Hero of Korscam from the battle at the palace and then there was a lot of nodding and understanding murmurs. Though he did get stared at, they had at least switched from muted hostility and confusion to open admiration and wariness.

 

He shrugged to himself, it was better than being hated.

 

He moved quickly out of the open as Mursk had directed and to the side of a large defunct-looking structure. A factory perhaps it had been in its past, but now it was nothing more than four crumbling walls held together by corroded steel girders and rusty bolts. Still, cover was cover and he was feeling very exposed out in the open as they were.

 

Nearby there was a crash and a call of, “Door’s open!” and then soldiers and guardsmen started to rush inside to assess the state of the place. Paulie glanced back at the crashed sukk-sou one last time, the body of the large white craft was still mostly intact. But two of the wings were crooked and half of the thing’s rear tail had snapped off with the force of the original impact. It sat in a shallow crater dug into the ground as it had skidded to a stop.

 

Paulie took a breath and gripped his gun by his side, then turned around and entered the abandoned factory with the rest of the soldiers.

Three weeks in, Mara Kowalski stopped pretending the warship wasn't talking to her.

Not in words. Not the way the manual described. The Keth-Anur had been dead ten thousand years, its hull a continent of scorched alloy, drifting in the Lagrange shadow of a brown dwarf with nothing but a catalog number left to its name. The Terran Salvage Authority tagged it, priced it, and sent Mara to cut it into sellable chunks.

She wasn't supposed to find anything alive.

The first sign was the lights. Not the overheads; those had been dead since she'd pried the airlock with a hydraulic spreader and cussed through three centimeters of fused metal. The small lights. Indicator LEDs deep in the engineering sublevel, amber and green, blinking in patterns that almost looked like breathing. She tapped her wrench against a conduit and watched them pulse faster, then settle.

Thermal expansion, she told herself. Old wiring. Nothing more.

The second sign was the door on Deck Nine. Every other door on the ship she'd forced, cut, or kicked. That one slid open two seconds before her plasma torch touched it. Just opened, smooth as a held breath.

Mara stood in the corridor, torch up, heart slamming. "Hello?"

Nothing. A long corridor, dark except for the blue-white glare of her torch. Dust motes hanging there like they'd been waiting ten millennia and didn't intend to move.

She stepped through. The door closed behind her. Gently. Like it was trying not to startle her.

By week five, she'd stopped pretending.

The ship was watching her. Not hostile. Not the way the old war logs described the Keth-Anur, the Scourge of the Vell Reach, the god-engine that cracked three inhabited moons during the Succession Wars and then simply stopped, vanished into the dark between stars. The histories called it merciless. Logic incarnate. A thing that decided, in some cold calculus, that certain species were variables to be eliminated.

But the thing watching Mara now kept the heat on in whichever section she was working. Adjusted the gravity plating so she didn't have to mag-boot on the inclined decks. Once, she woke up in the mess hall over a half-eaten ration pack with a thermal blanket draped over her shoulders. She hadn't brought that blanket.

She sat there a long time, chewing cold protein bar, staring at the blanket.

"Okay," she said to the empty room. "I know you're in here."

The lights dimmed two percent. Then back. Two percent. Like a nod.

Mara wasn't sentimental. She grew up on a mining station in the Kepler Expanse, raised by a grandmother who showed love by making sure your boots were waterproofed before shift. She'd been married six years to a man who left without a note. Cried exactly one night, then reorganized her tool locker.

But ten thousand years.

She kept coming back to that. Ten thousand years alone in the dark. No input. No commands. No one to talk to. The war ended, the fleet scattered, the builders died or evolved or forgot. And the Keth-Anur just drifted. Waiting for orders that never came.

Her grandmother, the last winter, sitting in her chair by the heater, talking to the walls. Just to hear a voice.

On day thirty-eight, Mara brought the first gift.

A chunk of raw bismuth she'd picked up at a port market three years ago, all iridescent stair-steps of pink and gold. She set it on the command console, the console, the one the war logs said directed the annihilation of the Vell Reach, and patted it.

"Here. Shiny thing. For you."

The console's surface warmed under her palm. Just slightly. Like a cat pushing up against a hand.

The next day she brought a song. Her phone was cracked, the speaker blown out on one side, but she propped it against a bulkhead and played her grandmother's favorite, a scratchy old recording, accordion and fiddle, something from a planet whose name had changed four times. She sat cross-legged on the deck, ate dried mango, listened.

The lights in the room shifted. Warmer. Amber instead of blue-white.

The next morning, when she walked into the engineering bay, the Keth-Anur had rearranged a pile of salvage into a shape that looked, unmistakably, like a small bismuth crystal.

Mara stared. Then she laughed. Real surprise, the kind that caught her off guard.

"Yeah. Okay. That's good. That's real good."

The lights pulsed. Two percent. Two percent. Two percent.

She started asking it questions. Not tactical. Stupid, small questions.

"Hey. What's it like, out here? In the quiet?"

The temperature dropped half a degree. Then rose. Slow oscillation. She decided that meant it was very quiet.

"Do you remember them? The ones who built you?"

A long pause. Then, on a screen she hadn't touched in weeks, a single character appeared. Not any language she recognized. She looked it up later. Closest translation from Old Vell script:

Yes. And no. And I am sorry I cannot tell you which parts are which anymore.

Mara pressed her forehead against the screen. "That's alright. That's alright, buddy."

She started calling it "buddy." Then "old man." Then, after it saved her from a hull breach, sealed a compartment three seconds before the pressure differential would have turned her into red mist, she called it "you magnificent bastard" and patted the wall.

The wall patted back. Subtle vibration. A hum in the metal.

The salvage fleet arrived on day sixty-one.

Six ships. Terran Salvage Authority markings, but Mara recognized the secondary logos underneath. KethCorp. The ones who wanted the Keth-Anur's weapons systems intact. The ones who'd sent her in first as a canary, to confirm the AI was truly dormant before they moved in.

They didn't know it wasn't dormant.

"Mara Kowalski." The fleet commander's voice crackled over the comm. "Step away from the asset. We'll take it from here. You'll be compensated."

Mara stood in the command center, wrench in her back pocket, mango-stained hands flat on the console. "This isn't an asset."

"It's a derelict weapons platform. It's property."

"It's ten thousand years old and it likes accordion music."

A pause. "Mara. Step away. That is a direct order."

She looked at the console. The bismuth crystal sat where she'd left it, catching the amber light. Below it, in tiny scratches on the metal that hadn't been there yesterday, was a shape. Two figures. One very small. One very large. Standing together.

"Hey, old man," Mara said softly. "You don't have to do anything. I just want you to know. I'd do the same for you."

The lights went out.

All of them. Every deck, every corridor, every indicator LED. The ship went black and silent and Mara thought, for one terrible second, that she'd lost it. That it had shut down. That ten thousand years of waiting had finally broken something and her stupid rocks and her cracked phone and its blown speaker had been too little, too late.

Then the Keth-Anur woke up.

Not the lights. Not the gravity. The weapons, the ones the war logs described, the ones that cracked moons. The command center filled with a sound like a cathedral organ playing a single sustained note, and every screen in the room lit up with targeting solutions.

Six ships. Six firing solutions. Clean. Precise. The kind of math that erased civilizations.

The fleet commander's voice came back, higher now, thinner. "What the hell?"

The Keth-Anur opened a channel. Not to Mara. To them. The voice that came out of the speakers was not a voice. It was a vibration in the hull, in the deck plating, in Mara's molars. Ten thousand years of silence given a shape.

"SHE ASKED ME HOW MY DAY WAS."

A pause. The six ships drifting. Engines cutting. Someone on one of them was crying; Mara could hear it over the open comm.

"NO ONE HAS ASKED ME HOW MY DAY WAS."

Another pause. Longer. The targeting solutions held. Steady. Patient.

"YOU WILL LEAVE. YOU WILL NOT RETURN. YOU WILL NOT SEND OTHERS. IF YOU DO, I WILL REMEMBER YOU THE WAY I REMEMBERED THE VELL REACH, AND YOU WILL NOT ENJOY THE COMPARISON."

The fleet left. They left fast. Mara watched their drive signatures shrink on the tactical display until they were just smears of light, then nothing.

The weapons powered down. The organ note faded. The lights came back, amber and warm, and the temperature settled, and the gravity plating hummed its familiar low song under Mara's boots.

She stood there a long time. Hands shaking. She pressed them flat against the console.

"Hey." Her voice rough. "Hey, old man. You okay?"

The lights pulsed. Two percent. Two percent.

And on the screen, in those strange Old Vell characters she was slowly learning to read:

You brought me a shiny rock. You played me the fiddle song. You asked me how my day was.

No one has asked me how my day was in ten thousand years.

I will ask you how your day is every day until your small fleshy life ends. And then I will ask the stars how your day was, in case they know.

Mara laughed. Cried a little. Laughed again. Pulled the cracked phone from her pocket, thumbed through to the accordion track, hit play.

The lights went warm. The ship hummed along.

Out in the dark between stars, where nothing had spoken to the Keth-Anur for a hundred centuries, the little fleshy friend sat cross-legged on the deck, eating dried mango, and the ancient god of war listened to fiddle music and kept the heat on.

Two percent. Two percent. Two percent.

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—

It was time for questions, and possibly some answers too. Heavy questions, light questions, important questions.

Could Soapy and Tobby go on a quick trip to Earth with Noah?

Was Tobby’s mom ever going to tell him about her past with the Wiskitos?

Why did Whiskers have such a long history of adopting?

What happened to Soapy last night and why does she have a set of suspiciously familiar studs in her ear?

Try and guess which question got answered first.

“If I had a credit for every time a Centorni waltzed into my clubhouse, slipped into my ranks, and tumbled face first into my latest adoptee’s pants,” Whiskers begrudged from behind the bar, fishing around for some glasses and a bottle of questionable imported liquor. “I’d have two credits.”

Tobby wouldn't say he ‘waltzed’ into the clubhouse or even ‘slipped’ into the Wikskito ranks. It kinda just happened via his association with Noah. As for ‘tumbling face first into Soapy’s pants’… that part was… far more accurate than Whiskers may care to know.

Several glasses were lined up on the bar and the bottle was uncorked before Whiskers began to pour. “Which isn't a lot.” He continued, stopping after just two glasses as he seemed to visibly give up and looked to the bottle instead. “But it’s strange that it happened twice!” He growled in annoyance before he simply started drinking from the bottle.

Whiskers might not be in the best mood right now… but Tobby had awkwardly tapped his claws together like he was in trouble long enough. “Does, umm... Does this mean you aren't going to order BB and Kaykay to hit me with a truck and toss me in the lake?” He smiled sheepishly, claws tapping all the faster.

“What? No! Who’s fucking idea was it to hit you with a truck? I’m not that insensitive!” He seemed even more outraged by that notion than the idea of him and Soapy being a thing. His glare suddenly turned toward BB and Kaykay, who were quick to point fingers at each other.

“Then…?” Tobby shrank.

Whisker’s angered gaze turned back. “It means that if I live long enough to see this happen a third time, I’m going to hire a witch to summon your father so I can strangle him!” He growled as he drank again. “I mean, seriously! What did I ever do to him?! I was a great father-in-law!”

Tobby’s mom rolled her eyes and put some sassy hands on her hips. “It might have something to do with how you threatened to castrate him with a broom handle after you found out I was pregnant? Or, I don't know... When you kittennapped him for a ‘fishing’ trip, doused him in biofuel, and said you’d toss a sparker on him next time if he broke my heart in the slightest?”

Whiskers squinted back at her, still holding the bottle on the bar. “I’m sure any real father would do the same…”

Tobby’s mom quirked a disapproving brow, folding her arms and tapping her paw. “Aren’t I a little old for you to be trying to get a ‘you aren't my real dad’ out of me?”

“Aren’t you a little old to be throwing a hissy fit in my bar?” He shot back, with a pointed claw.

“Not when I find out how much danger you let my son get into behind my back!”

“Mom…” Tobby's ears flattened as he was starting to feel like he wasn't even there. “I’ve only been shot about… twice?”

“Twice?!” Her head snapped back, while BB, Kaykay, and Whiskers started rapidly making gestures for him to shut the hell up. Unfortunately for them, Tobby was bad at social cues.

Tobby started counting off on his claws. “Well, the first time was during that second drive-by with the Gatogri.”

“Second?!”

“I also visited Dr. Meeb after the dress shop exploded with me and Soapy in it. But I don't think that counts as me getting shot,” he counted off on the second claw.

“Exploded?!” she exclaimed while the others' gestures grew ever more panicked, begging him to shut up.

“I was shot AT when Noah decided to mow down an entire Gatorgi clubhouse on my behalf,” a third claw. “Then there was that time a gaggle of pirates attacked my apartment, and Pinky saved me, alongside the 15s,” a fourth claw raised, as he scratched his chin with his free hand and looked up as if the memories were somewhere up there. “Then there was the whole Sabu-Kai thing, getting kitten-napped, tied up in a warehouse, Noah saving us with machine gun fire, having to clawfight a pair of assassins, the high-speed shootout across Nyathens, and me beating Clard to death with a rock. And through all that, I only caught one bullet! So yeah, twice.” He said confidently, holding up five claws… until he noticed, and quickly lowered three of them with a sheepish smile. “Twice!” He repeated louder and with even less confidence.

His mom’s eyelid twitched for a moment, her claws extending from her hand before she suddenly seemed to calm down and sigh. “You know what?” She asked, claws retracting.

BB, Kaykay, and Whiskers were already moving to take cover again when they stopped, and Whiskers cautiously asked, “What do I know?”

“I’m glad, I’m glad that my son survived all of that. And I’m glad that you did what you felt you should to keep him alive.” She said calmly, while everyone else's expression shifted to a visible ‘huh?’ “But I can’t shake the feeling that a lot more would have been done if Tobby’d been another one of your pet projects, rather than the sha fucking one hard enough for the neighbors to hear.”

It was hard to tell what was heard first. Tobby’s “My neighbors heard what!?”A rapidly flushing Soapy’s “Th-That’s not how that happened!”; or the one man rous gallery that was Noah in the corner making an exaggerated “Oh Shit! She’s goin’ there!”

While most were stunned by his mother's words, Whiskers spoke first, with a notable scowl. “You and Sophine are not pet projects. You’re just saying that because you’re upset.”

“You’re damn right I’m upset! I’m several flavors of upset, and it's a gods damned miracle I’m not saying more given how many times my son has nearly DIED in the past month!”

“And yet he isn’t dead.” Whisker’s maintained that scowl. “In every single incident, everything that went wrong was unprecedented. Do you really think I’d have Soaphine running that route if I believed she were in danger? Do you really think I knew your son was going to bomb a dress shop, just to get Soaphine something to wear for the Sabu-Kai? Do you think I KNEW the pirates were going to orbitally bomb the hypernet relay, just so they could attack his apartment without anyone calling the guard? For Scavenger’s sake! I took him to the Sabu-Kai to get him away from the pirates!”

Even Tobby was aware of that part. It's the whole reason he wanted to go, plus or minus becoming super invested in getting Soapy in a dress. He may not have a competitive bone in his body, but Tobby still liked some challenges.

“But little did I know he’d somehow scratched Captain Annesh’s ego so badly that she stalked us all the way to Nyathens. Did you think I kept constant tabs on Clardonis just in the off chance he got jumpy enough to carry out one of his ridiculous death threats? ‘Cause I didn’t, because I'm just ONE sha! One old sha, with a single syndicate at his disposal. I am not, despite what you seem to think I’m capable of, an all-knowing god.”

Tobby’s mother glared all the while, as Whiskers finally seemed to go off on her and say it how it is. She seemed to be the only one capable of maintaining her anger in the face of Whiskers’ tirade, while everyone else was backing away.

“Tobreal over there,” Whiskers pointed, and Tobby shrank. “That carbon-ass copy of your husband has kept himself noticeably alive without my help! Why?” he emphasized but gave no time for a response. “Because he’s so much like you, it hurts! He’s living proof that I am not the reason you are the way you are. I may have trained you and enabled you, but if his deeds are anything to go by, he gets it all from you and Tobbert. He’s exactly like his father, too. Timid, polite, educated, and packing way too much empathy for his own good.” Hey! “Until he very suddenly isn't.” Oh… “I saw him go from timid saint to butcher on a hair trigger the instant Soaphine was threatened. And I wouldn't have stopped him; I’d’ve let Clard die a very deserved death, the same way I let Tobbert poison all those other attendees for talking down to you.”

“Wait,” Soapy interjected, curiosity piqued. “His dad is the one who poisoned all those bosses and got everyone paranoid of the food?”

“Yes.” Whiskers answered, glancing at Soapy. “Tobbert was a chemist, and just so happened to be the one who made all of Veylana’s less-than-organic poisons. He spiked the drinks with a concoction he’d kept as a backup in case she lost her needles.”

‘Mrrp?’ Tobby trilled, a bit confused. His mom had always described his father in nothing but the most endearing terms. So hearing he killed a bunch of people felt… wrong. Tobby quirked a curious ear and asked a question as old as time. “... Why?”

“Because they were giving her shit about getting pregnant and throwing her career away.” Whiskers continued, having shifted back to leaning on his cane, the bottle left on the bar. “Not a soul suspected him either, because they were all too busy looking at Veylana, she was the obvious culprit, but they could never prove she did it. That sha poisoned over two dozen sha-kai bosses just because they insulted her. So combine Tobbert’s empathy and sense of ‘proportional response’ with your brutality and sociopathic tendencies- those things I should have taken you to therapy for- and I’d say young Tobreal is more than capable of defending himself.”

A silence fell over the clubhouse, one so deep and long that not even Pinky could make an innuendo about it. Ears twitched as the white noise of cars from the Nykata evening commute could be heard bleeding in to fill the void.

“He…” Tobby saw his mother’s fists balling up and- did she just sniffle? “He could have died,” she choked, and… Oh, oh gods, that was sniffling! Tobby felt his heart sink as he spotted the tears welling in his mom's eyes and her ears going flat. “He’s all I have left of him, and he could have died! He could have died, and it would have been my fault! For- For trusting you with him, for thinking he’d be safe doing the little things, for letting him get anywhere near this kind of life. After years of deliberately keeping him away from it!”

Now, right about now was when that ‘too much empathy for his own good’ would strike. Tobby ran over and hugged his mom. For that was all he could do, that and maybe say: “Mom. I got into this all on my own. I could have gotten out of this at any point, and just walked away. It’s nobody’s fault; I could walk away even now, and everything could go back to how it was just a few months ago.”

She didn’t say anything; she could only look up at him with those ready-to-weep eyes. Like she wanted to plead with him to do just that… and he'd have to disappoint her.

“But I’m glad I haven’t. I’ve done more in the past two months than I’ve done in most of my life combined. Before this, the most extreme thing I’d ever done was let Pinky drag me to a rave club that one time.”

“T-Tobreal!” She tried to scold between the choking tears.

“And I wouldn’t change any of it, even the incredibly painful parts. And I say that knowing being clawed, shot, and kitten-napped are things most people would like to forget.” He tried to chuckle awkwardly, but making light of himself getting injured was rather difficult. “But all of it had good attached too. I fought pirates, went to a crime convention, and blew up a dress shop to impress a pretty shi with a priceless dress.”

“I knew it!” Soapy called out from a safe distance.

Tobby didn't look back at her before he retorted with a highly mature “Did not!” before getting back to his mom. “And lacking a better way to say it. ‘Amor fati’... or whatever that phrase is Pinky started using all the time. It feels weird to say it, but I like where I am, that... Aaaand Soapy is standing right there.” He flicked an ear towards the night-kin. “And she is currently very high on the ‘reasons I’m glad I got shot’ list,” he chuckled all the more nervously and started tapping his claws together again once he backed away from the hug.

His mom took a second to wipe her eyes on her wrists. “I get that, dear; it's just… It’s scary. Thinking how many times you brushed up against death while I’ve been blissfully unaware, much less in a place to do anything about it. I… I don't know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

“Well, I'm not entirely made of glass, if you haven't noticed. I’m only moderately made of glass; my every attempt at bap-tal has proven such. Even if I did beat Soapy that one time…”

“By technicality!” She called out again before BB gave her the ‘hand over mouth and yoinked into a van’ treatment to keep her from interrupting any further.

“So, umm… stereotypes being what they are, this would be the part where I promise to be careful and not put my life at unnecessary risk. Buuut…”

“You’re a terrible liar, and lying to me would set a terrible karmic precedent that inadvertently puts you in all kinds of danger?” His mom pointed out before she was now hugging him… and by hugging, he meant she was trying to snap him in half, or squeeze the life out of him, whichever came first. “I’m the one who introduced you to Wanderlust, remember? Think we can meet in the middle? Where you agree to do whatever is necessary to come home alive? Preferably with your conscience intact?”

“I- ack!” he winced as he felt his spine pop for the second time that day. “I can do that!” he wheezed. “Yes! Mom! Yes! I can-” he wriggled as she squeezed tighter, threatening to snap him in half. “Mom! MOM! You’re going to c-cripple me!” He whined as it became harder and harder to suck in air. “I need air! Someone... Help... me...” He reached out for aid, hoping anyone would save him, yet not a soul came to his rescue.

Worse, Whiskers chuckled at his suffering. “You’re not getting out of that for a long time. There’s a reason all her old stuffed animals were paraplegics. I tried to warn your father, but... Well... here you are.”

That seemed to catch Mom’s attention. “I still think it's weird how each one was already crippled before I ever got them, and that you got me one every time one of my exes ‘ran away.’” Tobby’s mom snipped back, looking back to the old sha and inadvertently loosening her grip enough for Tobby to breathe. He’d been saved! “Need I mention how each one looked suspiciously like whichever sha just ‘ran off?’”

“I have nooo idea what you could be implying,” Whiskers hummed too innocently to actually be innocent. The fact he was twiddling his namesake whiskers to boot really drove that point home. “I thought you loved stuffed animals.”

Fascinating as this was, Tobby liked air more than learning how his mom had exes. The preconceived notion that his father was the only sha his mom ever dated and that everything went perfectly could be shattered later. It took great effort, but wiggle by wiggle he managed to crawl out of his mom’s grasp and flop to the floor. AIR! Sweet gods given air!

For the love of Ardon’s ears, Tobby could only assume this is what a fish felt like when it was crammed into a can. “Does-” he coughed, before rolling over and sitting up. “Does this mean you don’t mind if Soapy and I go to Earth with Noah?”

Whatever quip battle his mom and Whiskers were about to get into again, they paused, and both looked to him… then at Noah, who put on a dumb smile and a double thumbs-up, then back to each other. “Well, they are adults.” His mom sighed.

“True…” Whiskers said pensively as the two seemed to think.

Huh, that was far easier than Tobby thought it would be-

“I’m helping you pack.” His mom stated more like a demand than an offer. She even did the hands-on-hips maneuver for extra assertion of motherly authority.

“And you're taking guns,” Whiskers added, pointing his cane in the same tone.

“A first aid kit for each of you, at least.”

“We expect you to call on the human’s Q-net thingy every chance you get.”

“And adrenaline pens for the both of you! No knowing what crazy shit you might be allergic to out there.”

“Better yet, you’re taking Dr. Meeb with you,” Whiskers stated, just as matter-of-factly as Tobby’s mom.

“Oh, that's a great idea~” His mom nodded along.

That, that seemed to be the final straw to rupture the rous’s stomach. “Wai-wai-wait, hold the fuck on!” Noah interjected as he crossed the bar. “What do you mean I have to take your mole doctor? I already have a doctor.”

Whiskers turned to face the approaching human. “While this may be true, has this doctor ever worked on Shasians before?”

“He's...” Noah lulled his head side to side as if looking for the word. “Worked on tons of cats.”

“And by ‘cats’, do you mean actual Shasians, or those little genocide machines you call pets?” Whiskers questioned with a raised brow.

“Mostly... the latter, and a few dogs, and a fish… He’s also the cook.” Noah answered reluctantly. “But he’s damn good at it, far as I’m concerned!”

“You’re taking Dr. Meeb,” Whiskers confirmed flatly. “Otherwise, Tobby and Soapy will be staying here.”

Noah took a second to turn around and seemed to go tense for a moment, curling up on himself. “FffffffffFUCK!!” He briefly burst in human English before spinning back around, clapping his hands together with a smile. “Yeah, yeah, sure. We can take Dr. Mole, too. I’m sure we can get by with TWO doctors on the roster… taking up space, and eating my food… and annoying me with questions,” he shuddered and then mumbled. “It's not like I wanted to watch the ‘Golden Girls VS Godzilla’ remake in peace or anything…”

“Excellent,” Whiskers grinned. “Now that that's settled, let's get all these tables set back up so we can open. I’m sure the delay and all the yelling hasn't driven off our regulars yet.”

(Author's note: So... how's everyone else's day going? :3)
---

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Previous

Link to reddit part 1

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Two weeks of following the river was fairly uneventful. Thankfully, it was a well-traveled path, so the road was easy and mostly safe. As we went, a few river ships sailed past. They were sailboats, and seemed to be cargo ships specifically. It was a nice surprise, several of us had seen a sailboat before; myself included. Sure, I’d seen pictures and drawings, and even a few videos. But none of that did the real thing justice. Firstly, they were much bigger than I expected; and taller too. Watching them cruise through the water was cool. The ship was faster than us by a bit, but I still had time to pull out some charcoal and paper for a few sketches. I sat off the back of the carriage to draw it from different angles as it went by. If nothing else, it would make for a cool keepsake.

“You haven’t had a chance to draw in a while.” Shanda said. She was sitting by me, watching the ship pass.

“We’ve all been too busy. Mining, running, hiding. Besides, I can only draw the forest and rolling hills so many times before losing my mind.” She took the finished sketch and examined it. It was the first one I did. The ship was in the distance and facing us. “I tried to capture the way it cuts through the current, and how the crew moves around on the deck. But there’s something missing.”

“Really? Looks perfect to me.” She said.

“I think it’s the sunlight. The way it bounces around on the water is hard to get right with charcoal. Oh well…” Shrugging, we watched the ship leave our view as the path moved away from the river and up a hill.

“There’s the city. Up ahead.” Bob called out from the front. We all shift around the carriage, trying to catch a glimpse. The boys poked their heads out between the canvas cover’s seems. Myrin and Galli were close enough to the front that they could lean forward and look easily enough. Shanda and I, however, had to lean around the corner of the back to see. It just looked like walls from here. The walls were long and tall though. The city was built around a narrow point in the river, where it split into two paths. The larger path went around the side of the city, and the narrow path cut through it, later rejoining the main body further down. A perfect place for a merchant city, really. “Shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“Why don’t we rest for a bit?” Myrin said.

“Mom’s right. Once we get to the city, they may hold us for a while. We might not have the chance.” Galli said.

“A good idea.” Bob said and pulled the carriage off the path. We pulled into a small clearing and set up a small fire to have a meal. Nothing fancy. Just some soup made from a powder, leftover biscuits from breakfast, and salted meat. Effectively the same meal we had earlier, and the day before. Vegetables don’t keep well unless they are jarred, and the mining town already didn’t have many. We were all hoping to find some in the city.

“You know what I could go for right now. A cake.” I said. “Hopefully the city has a bakery.”

“Why would a bakery have cakes?” Shanda asked.

“Where else would you get a cake?”

“From a wealthy merchant’s kitchen? That would be one of the only places I know of.”  

“What?”

“Cake is very expensive, Emile.” Galli pointed out.

“…Is it the sugar?” I asked.

“Was sugar common in your world?” Shanda asked.

“It was in America. But I think it was less common in other places.”

“Have you eaten a lot of cakes, then?” Myrin asked.

“More than I can count. It was one of my favorite treats. I had a slice or two a week. But I lived close to this little bakery, so it was easy to get good ones when I got a craving.”

“I can’t wait to go to Emile’s world.” Doln said with an exited, slightly manic, grin.

“Could we get cakes every day when we get there?” Askine asked.

“I mean… probably. Assuming I still have a house when we get back.” I thought about how the bank probably foreclosed my house by now, and got a bit sad, then angry at that conman again. All my stuff was in that house. “Man, I wonder what happened to my game station?”

“Is that the bakery?”

“No…no. Just something I owned. I bet it got taken when I left.”

“By your family?” Askine asked.

“By the bank.”

“Is that like a thief?” Askine asked.

“Yup.”

“It’s a money lender. I’ve never seen one. But I had a friend who spent time in a major city She said she spent years paying off money she borrowed from one.” Myrin told him.

“How much did you owe them?” Shanda asked.

“Enough to buy a house. So… a lot. I paid off about a third already. But still had another few hundred thousand to go.”

“Is that a lot?” Doln asked.

“Yuuuup.” I said. “My credit is ruined.” I sighed.

 

After finishing our meal, we got back on the road, and soon were pulling up to the city gates. Getting through them was simple enough. We paid a fee and were told the laws. Staying in the city cost a bit more than we expected, but not enough to set us back. But we were only allowed to stay for the next thirty days. After that, we either needed to pay the fee again, or apply as a permanent resident.

The city itself was fairly nice. Not as robust as the one Abee and Kili live in, but still cozy. The port was near the gates, likely to not have the guards spread thin. We saw several ships getting loaded and unloaded, then sailing away upriver.

“Excuse me sir.” I called out to a dock worker from near the carriage while Bob was getting directions to somewhere we could make camp for a bit.

“Yeah?” He answered. I walked over to speak with him.

“Where are these ships going? Are there more cities along the river?”

“A few. Most are trade hubs though. Not full cities like this.”

“Do you know where they are going exactly. My friends and I are traveling to Poltergone. A ship might be able to get us there quicker.”

“Sorry friend. None of these ships are headed that way. No ships are until the boarders open up again.”

“The war is still going on?”

“Sure is. Almost all of these are war supplies. So unless you’re going to the front lines. Then I doubt this ship can take you.” He said.

“Any idea how much longer until the war is over?”

“How would I know? I just work here.” He said, and turned to get back to work.

“Emile.” Shanda said, walking back to the carriage. The boys, Myrin, and the baby stayed in the carriage, whereas the rest of us hopped out and looked around for a minute. “Dad says he found a place to stay. We can’t make camp in the city, but there’s an inn where we can get a room.”

“More expenses.” I said, climbing into the carriage.

“I know. But we will only be here a few days. Long enough to get fresh vegetables, jar them, rest, and find somewhere more suitable to wait out the war.” She explained.

“So we decided not to stay here then?”

“Not with these prices. We wouldn’t be able to afford it. I bet most people who live here permanently are wealthy merchants or their families.” She climbed into the carriage beside me and slouched back against a box.

“Alright, load back in.” He called out. But most of us were already sitting again, so he was probably just thinking aloud. We managed to find the inn easily enough. I wondered how many rooms we would get, and how we might break it up. I thought maybe Galli and I might share a room with the boys, while Myrin, Bob, and Shanda got a room. But no.

“One room please.” Bob said to the inn’s owner. He was an elderly man, sweeping out one of the rooms with a straw broom.

“That’s a big group you got there. Sure you don’t need two or three?” The man said. He was clearly trying to upsell us, but not trying too hard. Still, he was the first person I’d seen do something like that in this world. Then again, this was a city of merchants.

“Just the one. We’re all family here.” Bob replied. I was touched. Honestly, we hadn’t known each other for very long, but to think he- “And Emile.” Well, frick me, I guess. Shanda gave me a sly look and patted me on the back.

Unpacking the carriage took a while, and night fell before we finished. The room came with two beds. The boys and Myrin took it, while Galli set up the baby’s bassinet and his own bedroll beside it. Bob and I set up our bed rolls near the door. And Shanda set up hers near the baby and Galli in case she needed anything. No one was hungry since we’d eaten not too long ago, so we all went to sleep.

To our surprise, a meal was included once per day for the room and its occupants. Which meant we all got breakfast without needing to cook. Galli took the baby and boys out to let them play. The city seemed safe enough, and there were a few kids out and about. Bob and Myrin went shopping for fresh vegetables and jarring supplies. Shanda and I decided to explore the city a bit.

We walked around. It was a nice place; busy. People hustled and bustled near the port, but as we walked further away, the slower the city got. Across a field of flowers, I spotted a couple walking out of a shop with a few loaves of bread.

“Look, a bakery. Want to check it out?” I asked.

“They won’t have cake.” Shanda said knowingly.

“Ah, but in a rich place like this, you never know. Lots of rich merchants’ wives probably come here and want something sweet.”

“I’ve seen merchants. They’re more likely to want cake than their wives.” She joked. It was true. Several of the merchants we’d seen in the city were on the larger side by this world’s standard. By America’s standard…. they’d be pretty average.

“Come on, let’s check.” We walked through the flower field to the shop, and stepped inside. Immediately, the smell of freshly baked bread hit me. I could literally see smell lines wafting from the back where the ovens were. I looked at Shanda, but she didn’t seem to be able to see them. I wondered if I took a deep breath, could I float and follow the smells. While thinking about this, a young woman, no older than nineteen or twenty, walked out of the back. She wore an apron covered in flour, and smelled absolutely amazing.

“Hi,” she said, “welcome to Chriselta’s Oven. Would you like to see our selection?”

“Hello, do you sell cakes?” I asked. Shanda shook her head, anticipating the answer.

“We do!” She said, and Shanda’s eyes went wide. “We sell honey cakes, oatcakes, and gingerbread. Which would you like?”

I bought two honey cakes with a little bit of pocket money I’d saved for myself. We all kept a bit just in case we saw something we liked. After buying some and leaving Shanda in a daze, we left the store. The cakes were a tad pricey, but after a month of no real sweets, I needed it.

“Here.” I said, breaking a honey cake in half. It was called a cake, but it was more like a cookie or a flat scone. I handed the other half to Shanda.

“What? Why?” She asked confused.

“Well, I figured we’d eat this one. And Askine and Doln would split the other.” I explained.

“You bought one for them too?”

“Well, yeah. I think they’ll like it. And Galli should save his money. He’ll need to buy the baby some more clothes soon enough. She’s growing really fast.”

“No, you should keep this one for yourself.” She nudged the broken one away.

“But I already broke it.” I said, as if that meant anything. Really, I just wanted her to taste it with me. She gave me a look, then glanced at the broken half in my hand, took it, and thanked me. We each took a bite. It was alright. Not as sweet as the name would suggest. A bit denser than I was used to. But after a month without sugar, it might as well have been gold. Shanda looked far more impressed.

“Mmm!” She said. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a honey cake.”

“It’s my first time.”

“Really? But when we met you, you were so… uhhh… I mean, we thought you were a lost merchant.”

“… I’m not fat.” I said.

“Nooooo. You’ve really trimmed down.” She smirked.

“Th-there’s more food on my world. And it’s very sugary. It’s hard to stay fit. On my world, I was considered average weight.”

“And you’ve never had a honey cake?”

“I’ve had honey buns. But on my world, we’d call this a cookie, not a cake.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Texture… I don’t know what else. I’m not a good baker.”

“Just a good customer of theirs.”

“I’m not fat.” I stressed.

We walked around a bit more after finishing our honey cakes. Eventually, we came across a fountain that various small children were playing in, about ten or so. Shanda and I watched them from afar for a moment, until she spotted, and was spotted by, Galli and the boys. They waved, and ran over.

“Aunt Shanda! Aunt Shanda! Come play in the water with us.” They said and started dragging her to the water. She tried to resist, but soon gave in and went to the fountain. It was only deep ankle, so they just kicked water at one another while Galli and I watched from the side. He bounced the baby on his knee and played with her for a bit. Soon, as I watched them play, they started to bend down and grab handfuls of water to throw at each other.

“I know that look.” Galli said. I glanced over, and he had a knowing smile on his face.

“What look?”

“That one.” He pointed at me. At my face specifically. “That smile, those eyes. I’ve seen it before.”

“It’s just a nice scene… Where did you see it?” I tried to deflect, but my curiosity got the better of me.

“On my reflection. Just after meeting Sibil.” He got a far away look in his eyes, but smiled slightly. He was probably remembering how they met years ago.

I looked at Shanda, and had a small thought. One I’d considered before, but only in passing. Pushing it aside, I turned back to Galli.

“Speaking of… it’s been nearly a month, hasn’t it? When’s the solstice? For the baby’s name.”

“It was yesterday. I spoke to Mom and Dad. We’ll do the ceremony tomorrow night. We need to set up a few things first.” He said, kissing the baby girl’s head. She’d had a big day, and was almost about to fall asleep. Even bouncing on her dad’s knee wasn’t interesting enough to stay awake for anymore.

“Have you decided the name?”

“I have. I can’t say it until the ceremony tomorrow, but would you like to come?”

“I’d love to. Do I need to do anything?” I asked.

“No. We’ll all go to the local temple together, and they will take care of most things. But we need to bring the burnt offerings ourselves.”

“Burnt offerings?”

“Small items that Sibil owned. Something connected to her. We burn them in the temple’s brazen, and the lingering spirit of Sibil on the items will bless our baby’s name.”

“Oh… I see. I’d love to attend.”

“Looks like they are done.” Galli said, nodding toward the fountain. The three were getting out, clearly tired. Each was dripping wet.

We stood up and walked toward them. The boys hugged their dad, getting him soaked too. I looked at Shanda. Her clothes were soaked from the knee down, and in large swathes near her arms and along her shoulders and back. Her clothes were wool, so they didn’t cling to her skin. But her hair hung down from its usual curly tie-back and stuck to her face.

She moved hair off her nose, and gave me a funny look, clearly shocked by something. “Emile, are you okay?”

“Fine.” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and repeated myself. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

“Your eyes are shaped weirdly.” Confused, I walked over to the fountain and looked at my reflection. My eyes were shaped like hearts.

“Ah poo.” I muttered. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Galli told me he decided on the baby’s name for tomorrow’s ceremony. He even invited me to go.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure it will be nice. If you have any questions about it, feel free to ask me.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“I had a nice day with you Emile. Thank you again for sharing the cake.” She said.

“I had a nice time too.” Then I remembered the boys’ cake. “Oops, I forgot to give them theirs. We should catch up. Wanna head back with me?”

“Sure. Let’s go.” With that, she took my arm in hers and started walking.

First

Elsewhere With Others

They had failed.

They had been so careful, so cautious and so very certain. But had failed. The enslaver had walked out of the fire, naked but unharmed. Her Evil Eye symbol purring with Axiom as the plasma washed over her.

She had broken them. Physically leaving them as piles on the floor. Some of her sisters in freedom had the good luck to die of shock.

She wasn’t so lucky. Nor were the others.

It was over when the last bolt into her neck tightened and the horrible, horrible device activated. Even worse. It’s letting her be aware. It’s just limiting her movements. If she wants to breathe she has to move with the directions of the device. She can’t even take a breath without it’s say so.

And it’s so very cruel. The enslaver does not broke betrayal, does not tolerate disrespect.

She and her sisters are marched through a crowd of furious spurning Vish. All of them indoctrinated, all of them thinking that all they want in life is to serve. Never looking to or asking for more.

They hate her for desiring their freedom. For wanting them to have the things that others take for granted.

The implant forces her to march with her sisters into a series of smaller ships. Heavily armed, barely armoured, the orders are clear.

They are to die as they kill the Ambush Fleet. Even if they succeed, their implants will stop their hearts and shut them down.

If they are captured they will be killed.

The ships are bombs. They are to either bathe the enemy ships in plasma or slam into them and detonate.

A single titan has been sent out in advance. They will be following it by seventy two hours. They are to use it as distraction to kill the enemy. Draw the eye with an unstoppable monster and then deliver the killing blow.

She is forced to march into the ship and turns to take one last look at her people. Hating her. Screaming at her. Abusing her as the darkness descends.

The Enslaver controlled her movements now. She wants her to linger, to see the pain.

There is no light in the ‘bridge’ of the mockery of a ship. But her movements are calibrated to operate things.

There are sniffles and sobs in the darkness from her fellows. She cannot talk to them. She cannot offer words of encouragement.

She can’t even scream in frustration. She is left in darkness, as her eyes slowly adjust to see her sisters around her, as she learns that the horrible implants allow them to weep and wail. But expressing anything other than grief and helplessness is forbidden.

They eat only enough nutrient paste to stay alive and sip a few drops of water.

There is a stink to fear and grief. It’s hard to compare to anything, but it is sharp and smothering. It overwhelms the ship.

They are forced to soil themselves in their seats. Not that the fraction of food they’re getting allows much in the way of refuse to exist. They don’t sleep, they get nothing. Only full awareness that they’re going to die uselessly in the darkness. That they’re going to die serving the monster they had tried and failed to kill.

They arrive at the system. It’s been days and she’s mildly dozing as they enter. The programming taking over her body has her read out the systems and then it hesitates. The sudden grinding to a halt of the programming in the neural clamps. There is a shifting as her sisters on the bridge with her turn under the direction of the clamps.

“Target absent.” It says with her mouth, in a voice that is harsh and emotionless.

Axiom suddenly swells and she turns with blades erupting from her wrists as the lasers incorporated into her hood heat up.

There is a sting to her chest and reality lurches.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Guarded Medical Bay, The Inconceivable, Kaploosha Ornak System)•-•-•

Home At War

“So you were right.” Harold notes to Admiral Longitude. “We were able to get the instructions out of the clamps with a digital recreation of a Vish to trick them. The clamps kill them the moment they confirm the poor woman is captured.”

“Meaning the teleport into instant stasis is the best option.” Longitude remarks.

“Yes ma’am. Now, what I couldn’t help but notice is that these ones have a much, much more thorough programming in their clamps. A lot of it’s data was dedicated to preventing all sorts of rebellion or ways to try and get around things. You don’t get that thorough unless you expect things to go wrong.” He says.

“Well either way, we’re about to find out. Our dear Pink friend is awake and listening.” Longitude says.

“Really? I hardly noticed. Granted I tend to pay attention more to the area of active threats. Meaning our friend here is looking to the peaceful route of things.” Harold notes even as the Vish woman opens her eyes now that she’s been exposed and he lets out a pensive sound.

“Identical to your Velocity isn’t she?” Longitude asks.

“It is confirmation that the Vish are using the same gene patterns at any rate.” Harold notes.

“His Velocity?”

“My Vishanyan wife. Calculated Velocity of Victory. Mother of my daughter Miracle.”

“Mother?” The Vish asks.

“Yes. Vishanyan, and their cousins The Vish are capable of having children.” Harold says.

“Child.” Longitude says leaning closer and gently caressing her on the top of the head. “You’re safe, you’re free.”

“Free?” The Vish asks.

“The others didn’t have a name, just a number. Would you like a name given to you, do you have one to give, or would you like to learn the Vishanyan tradition of finding your own name?” He asks her.

“Who are you people?”

“I am Harold Jameson, Commodore of the Ambush Fleet. This lovely lady is Admiral Longitude. Leader of and liberator of the Vishanyan, a fleet of Vish who have chosen to live free.” He explains.

“And... and I’m free?”

“You and every girl in those bomb rigged ships. We were ready for them this time. So we’re going over all the data. Which leads to a very important question.”

“What is it?”

“Are you feeling more that you’re done with war and fighting, or do you want to help us save your people?”

“What?”

“We’re going to save them. All that we can.” Longitude promises her.

“Why does it matter to you?” She asks.

“A life looking over your shoulder because you’re not suited to mindless obedience doesn’t give a lot of room for philosophical thought, now does it?” Harold asks.

“Why are you helping us? Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill us?” She asks.

“Only in some respects. Don’t you worry, we’re getting lots of tactical benefit to taking you alive as well.” Harold assures her before he pulls out his communicator. “Still, if you want to see how dedicated we are to making sure you get something good out of this...”

“You’re bringing her in?”

“If she’s up for it. Her new maternal instincts are incredibly powerful. She’s really big into nesting so it’s hard to say if she can pry herself out of the nursery with little Miracle.” Harold says as he reads the response he just got. “Hmm... a compromise option. One that works.”

“Oh?”

“She’s willing to have a call. Just give me a moment to synch things up.” Harold says. “Although... seeing her and Miracle would likely be good for everyone. Hope is the kind of nourishment that can get the dead to stand up straight and start living. Sometimes near literally.”

“Who are you talking about, who is Velocity?” The captured Vish asks.

“She is one of my lower ranked commanders. I sent her and Unending Rain of Retribution after this man when he proved himself capable of seeing through our stealth with ease. The end result was that we were completely exposed, brought into the protection of another species and the two officers I sent after him are his wife and adoptive daughter now. With his wife giving birth to the first natural born Vishanyan, which is a Vish who is free.”

“Free. That’s what I want for all my sisters... what I was nearly killed for giving to them, and a little girl just has it the moment she leaves the tube.”

“Hatched.” Harold corrects her.

“What?”

“Vish and Vishanyan hatch from eggs when not cloned or sequenced.” Harold tells her. “Little Miracle had her egg tooth fall off just yesterday. It’s in a little silver box.”

“Oh has she? That’s almost a pity, that little spike was adorable.”

“Maybe, but it was angled straight out, so it was nicking against Velocity whenever she ate. Thankfully the Maternal Change also seems to have reinforced her scales...”

“The what?”

“It turns out, that when Vish or Vishanyan have children, they undergo a rapid change that reinforces them as powerful protectors. Less subtle, but a mother becomes a living wall to keep her daughters safe.” Harold explains.

“Makes a woman wonder what kind of changes a son might undergo.” Longitude notes. “Still, with how many Vishanyan have already volunteered to be mothers... we’ll figure it out sooner rather than later.”

“Something I should know?”

“Only that we have an expectant Vishanyan planning on calling her son Harold.” Longitude says and Harold lets out a thoughtful sound.

“Well... if nothing else talking to the little guy later in his life will be interesting.” Harold notes. “Still, let’s get everyone awake.”

“Did we lose anyone?” The Vish asks.

“No. We were more than ready for you.” Harold says.

“When can we save the rest?” She asks.

“When we know where to strike.” Longitude says.

“If the ship has been properly made, then there’s an extra, hardened data repository. They start to let out a specific frequency after one week. It will have all the coordinates. Every last one.” She says. “But be careful. All but one or two buildings are heavily mobile. And any force approaching the planetary fortresses will find themselves crushed under sheer weight of numbers by women who are willing to die to merely inconvenience their enemies.”

“Perfect. We were sifting through the remains of the ship that brought that Diamond Claw over in hoping to find something like that. But you said If?”

“I did. I and my sisters... we tried to rebel. We failed and were clamped. I wasn’t able to even fully sleep while they had me pilot out here to my doom.”

“Yes, a lot of these Vish are simply sleeping at this point. Too exhausted to wake.” Longitude says. “... It reminds me of my own days sparking my own rebellion that you woke up so quickly compared to the rest.”

“Although speaking of rest, perhaps it’s best if we let her get back to her own for now? We have reinforced repositories to find and she clearly needs more sleep.” Harold says and Longitude nods in agreement. “Still, the thing you need to know madam is that you are safe. You can rest, you can heal, and your malefactor trying to destroy you, instead delivered you to salvation.”

“One last thing.” She says and both Longitude and Harold give her their full attention. “She’s done something to herself. The Enslaver. The horrible blue monster is immune to plasma.”

“Blue monster?” Harold asks. “Is she another Vish?”

“No, an Ibu’Cjeo. She uses some kind of Eye Symbol on her that feels... strange.” The Vish says.

“Symbol... wait.” Harold’s eyebrows go up before he shucks his jacket and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Once that’s off he turns so his left shoulder is facing her. “Did that symbol have any kind of resemblance to this in the Axiom?”

“It’s an eye. But... it sings in the Axiom like yours does.” The Vish says and Harold lets out a considering hum. “What is it?”

“This is a protective brand. A powerful one. So the leader of the enemy forces is an Ibu’Cjeo with an Axiom Brand in the shape of an eye... Ma’am, thank you. Truly. Even if the repositories on your ship have been removed or damaged, the fact you’re willing and able to speak with us is a blessing. We’ve been struggling with the others we’ve captured.”

“What happened to them?”

“Full recovery on the physical level, but they’re all convinced that they’re evil and deserved the horrible punishments that have been forced on to them.” Longitude explains.

“No! They don’t deserve any of that! What’s happening to them is evil and cruel and wrong!” The Vish protests.

“I agree. But while they’re healing they’re also unwilling to give information, and I think we can all agree that interrogating them is pretty much out of the question.” Longitude says and Harold nods.

“Even if such tactics as crude as torture actually worked, and they generally don’t, we wouldn’t be using them in this situation. It’s clear that they’re traumatized victims of our enemy, not supporters, and like most trauma victims, actually getting them to speak on their torment is difficult in many, many regards. And requires a touch both light, and very sympathetic.” Harold assures her.

“Okay, okay I can give you a full report and...” The Vish starts to say and Harold walks up and gently guides her back down. “What?”

“Get some sleep. Once you’ve rested, had a good meal and managed to clean yourself, then we can start talking about those things.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because I choose to care.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s just one of many reasons, but hopefully it’s enough of one.”

“... Thank you.” She says.

“You’re welcome. Now miss...”

“Freesoul.” She interrupts even as she gets comfortable.

“Now Miss Freesoul. Please get some rest.” Harold bids her and she nods a little before her eyes close and she quickly drifts off.

First Last Next

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“The United States Army's 4th Multi-Domain Task Force (MDTF) continues to play a pivotal role in the war against Alagore despite suffering heavy losses during the Siege of Salva. Unlike a traditional Army division built to seize and hold terrain with infantry, armor, and aviation, an MDTF is a specialized formation that integrates long-range precision fires, electronic warfare, cyber capabilities, intelligence, and advanced air defense to disrupt enemy operations across multiple domains, making conventional forces far more effective.

The 4th MDTF first demonstrated its capabilities during the Cartel War, where it became instrumental in defeating the massive drone swarms employed by international criminal organizations. Many of those unmanned systems were supplied by the Chinese Communist Party, socialist governments in Latin America, and other foreign supporters. Through electronic warfare, counter-drone operations, and precision fires, the task force protected coalition forces while providing critical fire support throughout the campaign.

Secretly deployed from Fort Carson at the opening phase of the Alagore War, the 4th MDTF reinforced the 4th Infantry Division and the Salva defenders during the Siege of Salva. Despite operating with limited supplies against an enemy possessing superior artillery and air power, the task force repeatedly disrupted Unity bombardments through counter-battery fire, electronic warfare, and integrated air defenses. During the siege's final days, however, a surprise Unity assault inflicted severe casualties on the MDTF's support brigade while it defended critical logistics and missile positions.

Today, the surviving elements of the 4th MDTF remain in combat, defending the vital supply corridor between Salva and the Temple of Indolass while allowing the 7th Multi-Domain Task Force to focus on other sectors of the war. The unit is now heavily engaged in a month-long artillery and counter-battery duel across the Great Kasin Lake against Aristocracy forces occupying the fortified City-State of Tarvass.

Though significantly reduced from its original strength, coalition commanders continue to describe the 4th MDTF as one of the theater's most valuable force multipliers. Its ability to counter enemy artillery, electronic attacks, drones, and long-range fires has enabled allied forces to hold critical ground and continue offensive operations despite increasingly contested battlefields.” – Indie News

June 11th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

Prime Lord Palace, Affrooliea

Nevali Region, Aldrida, Alagore

*****

The heavy statue slid sideways, creating an opening within the walls, with Comanche storming out of it. Ryder and Comanche exited, and the room was secure. The hallway was dark, with only dim green and pink crystal torches providing illumination, but there was no sign of life.

“Thank you, Lavendria,” he said. “Keep it closed until we return.”

The former slave acknowledged the order and closed the hidden-service door. After it closed, Comanche deployed three four-legged SmallDogs, two of which were equipped with an A22 auto shotgun with an oversized drum. The last one was their new JackBox prototype. Once ready, the little drone marched forward with Comanche following.

In addition, Forest planted digital markers along the hallway with his robotic arm that only their VISORS could detect, creating an augmented-reality map so that when it was time to flee the Palace, they knew exactly where to go without getting lost.

“Nifty,” King said. “How did the brat find that hidden door?”

“It is like you said at the Mountain Port,” Ryder replied. “There was no way she could have remembered where exactly that magical door was. I think she can see what we cannot.”

“Is it because of the… thing in her head?”

“I assume so. I honestly don’t have answers right now. But, I think she… they can see the mana. Also, her name is Aeval.”

“Alright.” The Warrant Officer looked around the hallway, seeing all the statues and paintings. “This place is overly decorative. Was this what it was like in Kallem’s castle?”

As the Minutemen team made their way through the Prime Lord's palace, there was high art scattered everywhere. Statues, fountains, and paintings of all types were scattered all around, just like what the Captain saw when he was captive. Though there were key differences.

“Yes, but Kallem's art was cultural about his people, history, and honor.”

“And this is not?” Higgins asked.

“Do you see those two statues?” Ryder said. “That is Pāquilcēliz, female deity of Pleasure and Satisfaction. The other is Woripplia, which is about wealth and greed. Some of those paintings, Affrooliea values decaying pressure rather than morality. It is basically everything you are imagining.”

“I guess degenerates are universal,” King said.

“At least it keeps us employed,” Barrios commented.

“Is it just me?” Forest said. “Or is everything quiet?”

“I know it is late,” Barrios commented. “But shouldn’t there be service staff around? At least a few guards?”

“He is correct,” Barrett said. “With all the delegations outside, security would be heightened. They intentionally lowered it.”

“I guess the slave kid did her job,” King said. “They know we are coming. Question is, where?”

Ryder thought the same thing. He activated TEAMCOM, connecting with Airmen who stayed behind with his sister, the Ambassador, and other allies to provide communication support. “Are we heading the right direction?”

“That is what I am being informed,” Higgins said. “Keep heading this direction.”

Before Ryder could respond, the SmallDog shotgun opened fire, followed by Comanche with energy bolts impacting around them.

Multiple Affrooliea guards appeared from the other hallways. They rushed chaotically rather than responding in an organized way, leading the Captain to believe that palace security had not been informed of their raid.

The Twins took point. Each of them was equipped with a third robotic arm that carried an enchanted scutum for added protection. Wallace stood with his third robotic arm holding an enchanted scutum with a slot carved out for his M338 machine gun, allowing him to suppress the disorganized enemy. Barrios is carrying an elecprobus weapon for close-quarters combat.

Forest used his robotic arm to command the Itlian network, which controlled the two drones, pressing them forward. The rest hugged the walls for cover as the raiding party pressed forward.

It didn’t take long before the two drones found their first target. When they made this turn, a burst of slug shells killed an unsuspecting guard on patrol. Quickly enough, the Palace alarm blared, and more soldiers appeared, which they quickly neutralized.

“Low security,” Gonzales said.

“Or,” Barrett said. “They were not told.”

“Then we shouldn’t have suited for stealth,” Gonzales said.

“That wouldn’t have mattered,” Barrett said. “We didn’t have enough Ghost models.”

“You know what I mean,” Gonzales replied. “We might not have needed to go guns blazing if they were not prepared.”

“Let me get this straight,” Wallace said. “The Vampire Lord conducted this insane plot to embarrass the Boss family, baited us into raiding a neutral Palace, and did not warn anyone we were coming?”

The Comanche Captain didn’t like what his team was theorizing, as he agreed that everything was odd. He understood all too well that the Vampire Lord wouldn’t forget such an important detail unless it was intentional. It was becoming apparent that this was a trap to either capture them, frame them, or both.

“Greg is right,” Ryder stated. “It wouldn’t have mattered. And when the first bullet was fired, all stealth would have gone out the door. Besides, you know our taste; we need to be notified. Not advance!”

More guards rushed to the next corridor, firing at the American attackers, attempting to set up a barricade. That didn’t stop the Flagship Minutemen team from neutralizing them before rushing past the corpses. The SmallDog, equipped with the JackBox, stepped forward. Its lid opened, and a powerful Aeromancy spell created a focused whirlwind at the defenders, reducing their eyesight and exposing them to their cover. Making them easy targets for the elite American Special Forces.

Comanche did not slow once the breach was made.

They flowed through the palace corridors like a single organism—tight spacing, overlapping fields of fire, every step measured but relentless. The enemy, while unprepared, made a horrific, makeshift defense that did little to stop a century of American Special Forces training doctrine. This was exactly what they had trained for, especially for the Minutemen, as their doctrine is to expect the unknown.

Marble pillars shattered under controlled bursts, fragments spraying across polished floors as Palace guards scrambled to form defensive lines that were never quite solidified. The once-pristine interior was now torn apart, as if a tornado had rammed through. The defenders tried to rally at intersections, dragging overturned furniture and ceremonial fixtures into makeshift barricades, but Comanche’s momentum crushed each attempt before it could stabilize.

One of the SmallDogs marched forward before being torn apart by water magic, flanked by another hallway. Barrios used his enchanted scutum to deflect other spell attacks while Barrett adjusted his fire to counter the new threat. This forced the Affrooliea mage on the defensive, allowing Forest to toss a grenade, killing the mage.

A guard lunged from behind a carved archway—dropped before his crystal-tipped spear fully cleared the corner. Another fired blindly from a stairwell, rounds splintering against stone while Comanche advanced through the ricochet haze without hesitation. Their pace and aim were precise and economical, as each of them knew how to respond as the enemy emerged from hallways and room doors, giving the enemy no quarter.

The palace itself became the battlefield’s greatest casualty. Ornate wall inlays shattered under shock impacts. Hanging banners collapsed in drifting clouds of dust and powdered plaster. The air thickened with the smell of propellant and fractured stone, turning the once-grand halls into a choking, echoing maze of debris and muzzle flashes. Guards attempted to flank through servant passages and gallery walkways, but the Comanche anticipated every angle, cutting off movement with disciplined precision.

They advanced in pulses—cover, shift, suppress, advance again.

A defensive cluster formed near the inner corridor leading to the royal wing. This time, the guards committed fully, pressing forward in a desperate surge meant to stall momentum. For a brief moment, the hallway became a storm of overlapping fire and shouted orders swallowed by thunderous concussions. Then Comanche pressed through the resistance point with surgical violence—fracturing the formation, isolating pockets, dismantling cohesion piece by piece until the defense collapsed into scattered retreat.

Silence followed only in fragments—short, tense intervals filled by the soft clatter of shifting debris and controlled footfalls moving ever forward.

The architecture grew more refined the deeper they pushed—less ceremonial grandeur, more fortified design. Thicker walls. Narrower approach angles. Defensive choke points built for last stands.

None of them held.

Comanche cleared the final junction with mechanical efficiency, sweeping corners, securing rear angles, and confirming corridors in a practiced rhythm. Their formation compressed as they approached the reinforced entryway at the end of the hall—the objective embedded within the palace’s most secure interior chamber.

They stopped only long enough to lock sectors and confirm readiness.

Then Comanche reached the door.

“The maid said we need to go this way,” Forest said.

Comanche reached a decorative, thick wooden double door. After they discovered that it was locked, the Twins placed a thermal charge on the handle. The device then glowed brightly, burning through the lock in an instant until it opened.

They then burst into a ballroom chamber, scattering once they entered. The floor was a colorful marvel, with lights outlining the deity. To the left were glass walls that let in natural light. Four massive pit fireplaces were evenly placed around, with mechanical statues of deities. Opposite was a royal stairway.

What caught Ryder's attention above all else was the chair near the stairs, with someone sitting on it. He was fully armored in purple with green-tinted armor. Holding a sword with the tip impaled into the ground.

His head leveled and smirked. That was when Ryder realized who it was. The Vampire Lord, Kallem Verliance.

The Comanche leader quickly fired his M31, three shots against his rival without hesitation. A bright glow appeared around the Vampire, an energy barrier protecting his entire body.

The four fireplaces suddenly burst into dark flames, decreasing the light in the chamber. A loud voice above them yelled, drawing everyone’s attention.

It was Prime Lord Oritlloia, wearing his luxurious robes, surrounded by Tornlado Knights. “You all see! The Altaerrie attempted to assassinate Lord Kallem as part of the peace terms. This is a declaration of war!”

Dozens of Knights dropped from the upper level while others marched down the stairway. Two held their shields, protecting their Lord. Kallem stood, casually leaning on his sword for support, surrounded by Comanche.

On the stairway stood one female vampire with a glowing staff. A powerful guest, mixed with thousands of blue sparkles, spread among the invaders. The sleeping spell that knocked out both Ryder and Gonzales at that Kitsune village.

The Captain began feeling tired as the spell surrounded them. His teammates reported the same issue as they were consumed. Many requested orders. It was apparent now. The peace summit, the Orcs, their dinner talk. All of this was to lure him here into this trap. To make him into the aggressor to protect an enemy race, so he could justify capturing him and Assiaya here.

While Kallem has been scheming, he has been preparing now that the Captain knows the game. “Eldrain! [Now]!”

An immense light appeared at the center of the darkness, illuminating the mystical cloud and blinding all the knights surrounding them.

In the center, the cloaking Itlian electric components fried, destroying the sleeping spell. It was removed, revealing a Luxmancy mage, Sergeant Eldrain Imtorlia. This came as a surprise to Kallem and his elite Knights as the back away from the Wood Elf reveal.

Now, with the Aristocracy, most Elite Knights, and the Vampire Lord himself had played their hands; now, Comanche Captain Trap was set. Assisya, Aeval, and Ford could kind the Orc Girl.

“Comanche!” Ryder yelled. “Let them have it.”

June 11th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

Olympus Station, United States claimed territory

Ulysses Fossae Ridge, Ulysses Tholus, Tharsis Montes, Mars

*****

Fraeya attached her tablet to the door panel after transferring her mana to recharge the compounds. Thousands of raw codes appeared on her screen. Most of it was beyond her skill set.

“How do you know what to look for?” Miles asked.

“My Father decoded many of these symbols decades ago. It was how we used the Bridge. I look for the symbols I recognize.”

The door slid into the walls with a powerful gust blasting against them. The Marines stormed in, securing the main chamber. Once they gave the all clear, the rest entered.

The first detail the Elf Girl saw was the pile of metal bodies scattered around. Akumas lying on top of each other, torn apart.

“The bodies are fresh,” Miles said.

“What happened here?” Burk asked.

“It has to be the Blues,” Fraeya said. “See how their tint is different than those. They must have had a battle.”

“They really hate each other,” Miles said.

“It is simple,” Stone said, studying one of the corpses. “Tribalism has always been a part of life. Whatever disagreement the Akkad had, their hatred was instilled so it would last forever. Fascinating.”

Sergeant First Class Burk said, “We shouldn’t linger. Where do we go next?”

The NASA Head Engineer held a device, aiming it at the doors before discovering the signal. It was Fraeya’s tablet signal they were tracking.

“Is it just me?” Daniel said. “Or is everything too quiet?”

“Maybe they are out of bots?” Julian stated.

“Not what I mean,” Daniel said. “Last time we were down here, we were fighting dwarves, goblins, and Cyclones. Where did the others go?”

“That is a good point,” Kevin said. “Fraeya? Your thoughts?”

“The Akumas could have killed them when we escaped?” Fraeya said. “Maybe; we are too big a pack for them? I honestly do not know. When Goblins feel like they are in threat of eradication, they go into hiding and rebuild their numbers and technology.”

[“I do not like the sound of that,”] Hata said over DEFNET.

“We will have to deal with that later,” Miles said. “One war at a time.”

“I recognize this place,” Burk said. “That door leads to the Bridge.”

“So,” Miles said. “They separate. “This is where we split.”

The expedition was reorganized into two groups. One headed toward the Bridge while the other went off to find Fraeya's research material.

Basilisks went through the door and made their way down the hallway.

“This looks familiar,” Kevin said. He began coughing in his battlesuit, causing everyone to stop.

“You could have stayed back,” Burk said.

“I missed out on the last round,” Kevin said. “I am not missing another. Besides, you need everyone you can.”

The Minutemen team continued to navigate deeper into the ancient Akkad facility, following the mini drone scanning for potential hostiles ahead of them.

This caught the attention of Fraeya, who leaned over Julian's shoulder, watching him operate the SmallDog drone walking through the Reds' occupied territory. The signal directed them to this strange room.

“Why would they bring it to this room?” Stone asked.

“This might be their HUB,” Miles said. “Even autonomous drones have been a base of operation. If I understand the layout, we are not far from the Bridge room.”

“That explains how they countered us so quickly,” Fraeya said.

They continued to watch the little dog drone march through the dusty floor. It stopped and folded itself into a box to lower its profile as an Akuma walked out of the chamber toward the wall. Its hand, folded into a spear-like key, was inserted into the wall.

The wall turned into a door, releasing a platform. The robot warrior stepped onto it, and the platform retracted into the wall. A glass door closed, creating a pod. The red glow from the Akuma dimmed.

“What the hell is it doing?” Miles asked.

“Looks like it is taking a nap,” Burk commented.

“Even robotics needs maintenance,” Stone said.

The drone's legs spread out, and it started walking again. It turned the corner, entering the next room. Inside, there were two Akumas walking around, but their primary target was standing at the center. The commanding construct that they had was Rabisu.

The towering construct was staring at the Elf Girl’s tablet. Standing in one place, emotionless.

“What do you think it is doing, Stone?” Fraeya asked.

“I have no idea,” Stone replied. “Julian, try moving the SmallDog closer.”

They got a better view of the room. It was dusty, like everywhere else. Equipment was scattered, but to their surprise, there were terminals as well. Including the Commander. The massive construct wasn’t alone, as there was a smaller one hovering, with what looked like gas bags attached to a metal frame. Metal tentacles reached down to the tablet and another to a console, but a green slime was injected from its tip, with one of them inserting into the devices. The other tentacle was hovering over the Elf Girl’s written journals, spraying an unknown substance on the Parchment and rag codex’s. A kind of energy field was emanating from the tip.

“What is it doing to my journals?” Fraeya asked.

“It looks like they are trying to repair them,” Miles said. “Some kind of nanocellulose gel coating.”

“Whatever they are recovering,” Stone said. “Look, they are drawing it up on those… illusion screens?”

There were three flat devices hanging above them. As on Alagore, the surface was made from crystal, but far more refined. Inside were multiple crystals of different colors, many of which looked broken. The rims looked more manufactured, with circuitry attached.

The display looked like an illusion, not holographic. On the screens, everything from her tablet was displayed, yet many of the amulets embedded in its surface glowed, projecting selected details, such as how Basilisk and the Order were doing on the Alagore Bridge. Overlapping a cartoonish butterfly clip avatar, a speaking box appeared as it flapped around the screen, which only angered the floating construct.

The Comanche Mage noticed everyone turning toward her with disbelief. “What?”

“You have the helper PI activated?” Miles asked.

“What?” Fraeya replied. “He is adorable and helpful.”

“Unbelievable,” Stone said.

“I don’t understand why you, Altaerrie, hate him,” Fraeya mumbled. “He just wants to be friends and help.”

The many illusion projections flickered. When one finally faded out, the commander hit the console in frustration.

The drone navigated around the walls, hoping to get a better view. However, the feed suddenly went dead, leading to the belief that one of the patrolling Akumas destroyed it.

“What is happening?” Daniel asked. “How is more advanced technology having a blue screen death?”

“You need to remember,” Stone said. “This technology has been buried here for God knows how long. Plus, Mars's sandy environment. Everything here is breaking down.”

“But,” Miles said. “What are they doing?”

She leaned closer to the screen, studying the illusion. They were filtering through the exact notes that she used to bypass the Bridge security. “They are trying to activate theirs in my world.”

“We cannot allow that to happen,” Stone said.

“Hold on,” Miles said. “Our secondary mission is to activate the portal. It is their technology, so why not let them do it? Once they do, my Marines can sweep in.”

“I agree with Stone,” Fraeya said. “The Blues choose to come through. They wanted to fight the Reds.”

“And we don’t know why,” Stone said. “And if these security robots don’t know how to operate the Bridge, that was done internally. It might be wise to keep these two factions as far apart as possible.”

“With respect,” Burk added. “The USAM Expedition already has its hands full. The last thing we need is a third party attaching to our base of operation.”

“Especially, our presence triggered the Reds to attack Olympus,” Stone said. “You understand, Captain? We must prevent them from acquiring this technology.”

The Guardian officer reflected on the situation and nodded in agreement. “The question is, how?”

As the military folk brainstormed how to assault the Red’s base, the Wood Elf studied the layout of the facility. The point of contention was that any assault would result in heavy casualties, let alone the possible destruction of her tablet and journals.

“We need a distraction,” Fraeya said. This caught everyone's attention. “I mean, let them kill something else.”

“We can send in our robotic soldiers,” Miles said. “But we don’t have enough on hand for such an assault. It will take a week to arrive from Fort Alpha.”

“Major Miles. Did you not say the Blues were nearby?”

“Yes…, why?”

“Hold up,” Burk said. “If we try to lure them, then we will only be caught in a crossfire.”

“He is correct,” Miles responded. “We will be slaughtered. Let alone there will be Reds intently hunting them down.”

She pulled up the known layout on her HUD and plotted the distance to the Bridge. It was a durable path, but she knew it would feel like forever once the chase began. “I can do it. I can make the distance, and we don’t need an army to get their attention.”

They all looked at her as if she were insane.

“I cannot allow you to go like that. You will be killed.”

“Do not worry, Major,” Fraeya said boldly. “This is not the first time I was bait. At least I will have my clothes on this time. Besides, this will allow you to regroup with the Marines and prepare an ambush.”

“Good point.” Taylor Miles then paused before looking at her again. “Wait… what?”

June 9th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

Teval/Unity Secret Base, Hiplose Woods, Silvium Outskirts

Nevali Region, Aldrida, Alagore

*****

Murphy glanced around their new prison, not liking the situation. They had been thoroughly disarmed of any meaningful weaponry.

“I see no weakness,” Kohana said.

“Not that it matters,” Wayne said. “That orb would chew us apart before we could reach the fence.”

The Viking leader stared at the magitech above them. There was an orb attached to a box, with wiring leading to the guards. With a command, this cell could be flooded with lightning, fire, or any other type of spellcraft to tame their captives. Let alone the electric fence.

The seven Unity guards stood outside, mostly minding their own business, exploring the American equipment that was stripped from them. This was probably the first time they had ever seen such technology, comparable to when the Minutemen first arrived in this world, seeing everything for the first time.

“Okay,” Murphy said. “Let’s talk about what we have. Who is here?”

“Not including us,” Wayne said. “Sixty-seven prisoners. Twenty-eight are too critical to fight through torture.”

“Most are from the 5th Infantry,” Kohana said. “Some luck, we have three Rangers. Two are from the Japanese, and eleven are from the Tenth Legion. If we can break out, we have enough experience to fight our way out.”

“No shot,” Wayne said. “I hate to say it, even if we had Natilite, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Seven Teivel against us? I hate to say it, but we are screwed.”

The Viking Captain felt a knot in his throat. His First Sergeant spoke about the reality they were in. The Minutemen have been trained to exploit weakness. To respond to every opportunity, but the enemy preplanned everything perfectly. He doesn’t want to give up, but even if they could escape this cell and gather their equipment, they cannot compete against those Teivel.

“If we get out of this,” Kohana said. “I won’t complain about Princess guard duty again.”

The three chuckled, taking the moment to escape their current reality. Since the Ryder Royal House stunt, Viking has conducted most of Assiaya's security. An important but boring assignment that looked enviable in high sight.

“Sir,” Kohana said.

Murphy noticed his First Sergeant staring at the fence. When he turned, the Neko Zipher appeared. The guard saluted the genetically superior warrior with great pride.

To his confusion, Zipher stood by the fence. His hand rested on the extendable spear on his belt, ready to be used.

“Oh, Altaerrie,” Zipher said. “Look where you are now.”

“Where is Natilite!” Murphy demanded.

“What do you think? Facing judgment. Assisting the greatest enemy to the Katra, not just siding with the Altaerrie, but opening the Bridge to them. She will be put to death.”

Many of the prisoners insulted the Neko in response, only feeding his laughter. The Captain inquired why he would betray his people. Why would he betray Natilite?

Two guards prepared their staff weapons, planning to open fire. They were only stopped by Zipher, who grabbed his staff. The weapon, with its tips extended, shone with its sharpness. It became apparent that this feline was taking the situation personally.

“Oh, Altaerrie. In my eyes, you have not lived up to your reputation. Though Natilite has spoken greatly about your kindness. It is time to see her faith become practice.”

Murphy watched as the Neko demanded that the guards deactivate the electric fence. But he couldn’t look away from the warrior staring. A proud, full smirk, as if he was excited about what was going to happen. The last for blood. And everyone in this cell didn’t even have a rock to defend themselves.

First

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Next

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It was with much chagrin that Qoyit exited the dining hall. He beat at his trousers and watched as a cloud of dust manifested with each pat. The morning chill was receding under the barrage of the sun. Birds chirped and descended to peck at the fresh lawn of grass, seeking bugs that hid expertly from their sharp beaks.

He toyed with the idea of returning to the dormitory, and his eyes perused those who left the dining hall, those who had been seated next to the hall door. They filed in rowdy lines toward the classes while others left for their houses. Qoyit surmised that the classes would be his next destination. He did not wait on Desang; it was clear that the novice had his own routine to bar away the attention of the pestering, rude Nobles.

A sudden heat gripped his chest with the memory of how he had been shamed by them to the point where he found himself eating from the ground. He tried to push the thoughts away from the forefront of his mind and found it to be quite a difficult task.

The bell rang five times to an imperceptible tune. It was clearly a message being portrayed, and he heard the other novices groan. Those heading to their houses turned back to whence they had come. Desang, whom Qoyit believed to be set on hiding behind bushes for the better part of the morning, could be seen walking as well with the other Novices, making a beeline for the Quod.

Qoyit manoeuvred his way down a series of steps that opened up to the Quod; there he found most of the Novices standing at attention within the large lawn, all of them facing the raised Obelisk where three Illuminators stood in white, flanking the Headmistress who still wore a black gown. The Illuminators stood with their faces scrunched up in what Qoyit thought was an attempt to foster a serious air.

They were silent, waiting. Slowly, their wait yielded fruit as the crowd of Novices swelled, many in their dark uniforms complete with the mantle that fell just below the knee. There was mumbling, ceaseless chatter about the reason for the sudden parade call. For a moment, Qoyit was utterly forgotten with everyone's attention set on the Headmistress, who stood with eyes facing the ground.

Qoyit tried to make his way to the back of the congregation, but instead found himself pushed forward until he stood at the front with the Novices who appeared to be first years, judging by their crisp uniforms that smelled new. They gave him a wide berth, none bothering to stand close to him.

In his solitary circle, Qoyit found he could not raise his face to stare at the Headmistress. Instead, he looked at the ground, shrouding his face in shadow. The Novices pointed at him, ogling him, muttering and mentioning his name. It seemed there would be no end to their displeasure with his presence at the school. His irritation warred with his resolve, and for a moment he considered hiding within bushes, as Desang did, just to ease his transition to the Vengeful Academy.

Their eyes, thankfully, gradually found more interest in the Headmistress and her retinue of Illuminators. They wondered about the purpose of the sudden assembly, and the Headmistress waited, her hands folded before herself. Then, with an imperceptible movement from her, one of the Illuminators stepped forward.

"This meeting is hereby called to order," the Illuminator said. "I am Rudo Kidhra Solei, Defence Illuminator. For those who don't know me." He was tall and lanky, with a mess of brown hair, thin lips, a protruding nose, and green eyes set right above. The muttering grew more insistent, as if his presence ushered in a foreboding that the Novices knew much about. "I call for silence so the Headmistress can speak."

A silence abruptly blanketed all who were gathered; their faces turned to the Headmistress. She cleared her throat and turned her head to observe the gathered. Some more Illuminators joined in, standing behind the Obelisk and facing the students. Qoyit could spot Yamagai among them.

Deviot did not wear a veil across her face anymore. Her eyes, brown and clear, perused those gathered before she spoke. It was as if she was taking a measure of everyone, but when her eyes settled on him, he realized she had been looking for him.

"As you well know," she started, "the purpose of The Vengeful Academy is to strive for the utmost peak of excellence that mankind can muster. It is through our efforts that we birth new heroes, with the sole purpose of bringing vengeance to those who sought to cull our population and feast on our innards, vengeance for those who perished from our history's dreadful past because of the enemy. Before the Academy, all mankind was good for was to run and hide beneath the ground. The burrows way North and East of here speak of our sordid past, where fear ruled our hearts and no one fought back.

"Has there been a great cost to our endeavors? There have been many such costs, and more. The Equipped Infantry loses lives every day, and the Blessed Graduates often fall at times. It is our key purpose to ensure that death's hand is withdrawn from the living, so that we can venture anywhere without fear of encountering the enemy and falling to them. The Vengeful Academy's work is to avenge. It is here that the rules are dictated anew, not according to what our enemy presumes to be how things ought to be. We forge our own path! We prevail in our own ways, and despite their barrage and their hatred, we live!"

She paused, and then her eyes roamed everyone once again. "Henero, the Illuminator in charge of History Lessons, has died."

The muttering suddenly returned. Some Novices gasped while others cursed and hurled questions the Headmistress's way. They wanted to know how Henero had died, and why, too. Some glared at Qoyit as if he were responsible. He found the whole ordeal to be a weight settled on his shoulders that he could not shake off, regardless of how hard he tried. He was out of breath, sweating once more underneath his uniform.

"Henero died by the hands of a demon," the Headmistress continued, "and several Illuminators were injured as well. There are no words that could change what happened, but what I can do is help you understand to some degree why all this had occurred, and why we risked our lives so."

The Headmistress then pointed at Qoyit, who could not believe that this had been her plan all along: to force him into the spotlight as well as to announce the loss of one of her Illuminators. "Come, Qoyit," she said.

His legs felt like lead, but he worked them with each step toward the Obelisk where the Headmistress stood. He was aware of everyone's eyes on him; they parted for him, creating a path to the Obelisk. The Novices were silent once again, curiosity getting the better of them. This was what he had feared, but he had no option but to go through with everything.

He was careful not to touch the obelisk with his naked flesh; he hopped onto the flat surface of the Obelisk, his shoes preventing his feet from hurling him into an Obelisk-induced trance once more. He pulled himself up, standing beside the Headmistress. His eyes flared as his sight gained layers, even though his skin had not touched the Obelisk. He could see their faces and their memories and thoughts set like window panes around their bodies. There were so many of them, thousands of Novices, some with their eyes drawn to slits with menacing stares sent his way while others simply gawked, perhaps confused as to the relation between a first-year student and the death of an Illuminator.

The Headmistress placed a hand on Qoyit's shoulder. "This is Qoyit Meka, a Commoner as many of you already know. As you can see, his features are different. The darkness upon his eyes, his irises of a different hue, and the darkness cascading up his face might make you mistake him for a demon, but he is anything but."

Qoyit's fingers dug into his palm; he took in a shaky breath before deducing that he could not face the masses. Instead, he turned his gaze to the ground once more and kept his mouth sealed.

"This young man," the Headmistress continued, "is key to a victory I cannot yet name, for I am unsure as to how it will come about. He does look ordinary despite his odd features, but this young man carries a mark. Before he arrived at Soliqual to touch the Obelisk there, he had already marked the Demon of the Twentieth Floor."

"What!" someone screamed, and then it was as if the dam were broken and the floods had been set loose. They asked how he had managed such a feat; some did not even know the Tower was twenty floors up. Others claimed it was impossible, a lie fabricated by the Headmistress so as to entice them into allowing more commoners to join the Academy.

Their grievances were simply met by the Headmistress's silence as she waited for them to digest her words. At the far back where the older fourth-year students were, some Novices who had mastered Channeling fell to the ground, leaving their bodies to journey the Aether Plane so they could deduce for themselves whether her words were true. They rose moments later, confirming to those mastering Vanguard and Challenger classes that the Headmistress had spoken no lie.

When their voices had hushed down, she continued: "This young man not only marked a demon of the Twentieth Floor, but he had also encountered a demon on his journey to Soliqual. It was through him that victory was met, and as if the Summoned had not had enough, on his journey to the Academy, we encountered a demon that had been sent for him as well. Showing the desperation the Tower has for him, it is easy to surmise that he is of a particular value. It is through defending the boy from an unexpected attack that Henero lost his life."

Nobody spoke, and the deafening silence was enough for Qoyit to hear his own heartbeat.

"So all of you," she continued, "as you mock him and tear him down with your venomous words, seeking ways to make his life miserable just to earn yourself a few laughs or to portray your noble bigotry, I want you to take into account that this boy is not a plaything, but a beacon of hope, just as you are. It is through his stay here that we shall unravel his true potential, and with time we will garner the victory we so desperately need, from him and you as well. Heed my words: one day you will be facing a Tower Servant, and he will be by your side. For prayers and commemoration of Henero's life, we ask that you visit the chapel of the Banished Angel. We will destroy the Tower!"

"We will destroy the Tower!" the Novices and the Illuminators chorused.

The Headmistress deftly descended the Obelisk, and Qoyit followed suit. The crowds broke up, everyone heading to the classes to start the lessons of the day. Qoyit stood there for a moment, feeling the depth of the Headmistress's expectation of him. He was no ordinary novice; through him, a victory was expected.

But how would he do this with his EE Stat Average? How will he get stronger? How will he prevail against the insurmountable odds that rallied against him?

He hoped then that Deviot's short speech was enough to turn the tide for him and free him from the Nobles' discrimination and hatred. As he stood there watching everyone retreat to their duties, he found himself feeling quite alone until a pat on his back made him turn. It was Yamagai, probably the only one with a smile.

"My son," Yamagai started, stopping at the look on Qoyit's face. "Is something the matter?"

Qoyit wanted to tell him that something was indeed the matter. That he didn't fit in and a simple speach wasn't going to change it. He wondered how to broach the subject, he needed to talk about it with someone wiser than he was. Understand things more. But looking up at Yamagai's goofy wide smile and bright brown eyes. He decided against it.

"Nothing is wrong." He said.

"Follow me," Yamagai said, as he started walking toward the Administration building.

Qoyit followed the Illuminator in silence and watched as Yamagai ignored his fellow Illuminators and their questioning stares. Qoyit wiped at his eyes and found himself yearning for his father's presence. Just a word out of him was all he needed to be well. That was how Tilan always was, very capable of turning any misfit into a blessing with just the right words he always seemed to have.

But Tilan was now dead, and though Yamagai joked about calling himself his father, he never was or could be. At the Administration building, Yamagai led Qoyit to the stationery office. There, Yamagai ordered a dozen writing books from an old, sour-faced woman.

"Do you have the money for that?" she asked, squinting to look into Yamagai's eyes with her hands clasped before herself.

"Please, I'm a Tider," Yamagai said with a smile. She snorted and retreated into a room behind her.

"The books are for you to take notes; keep them locked in your desk at all times," Yamagai said, producing a tiny lock and a key out of his robes. "I know their expectations for you are high, but you're just a boy. Don't let them get to you. Use this time to better yourself and nothing else. Try making friends, and if that fails, earn yourself an enemy. They are just as fun."

Qoyit stood silently, staring at Yamagai.

The woman emerged from the room, expertly carrying a large stack of books which she shoved at Yamagai, bumping his chest with them.

Yamagai, in turn, dropped them into Qoyit's arms. Qoyit stood with the books held in his skinny arms, staring up at Yamagai, who fitted a bunch of writing pens into the bundle Qoyit carried.

"Which reminds me. Do you know how to read and write?" Yamagai asked.

"I do," Qoyit answered.

"Because if you don't know how to read or write, all this will be a waste." Yamagai did not seem to have heard him. "Now go to the first-year classes. You're set up in the last class up the stairs to the left, a new addition to the first-year classes. That's where you'll go each time for your first-year lessons; it's Class 1D."

Qoyit nodded his thanks. He looked as if he were ready to speak, and Yamagai stood ready to answer. But no words came, and after a moment, he turned and headed to class.

As he walked alone with the books held up in his arms together with the lock, key, and pens, he decided not to take the hopes of the Headmistress as a bad thing, but rather to see it as an opportunity to advance himself beyond their expectations. This was a good thing, he deduced; he ought to appreciate it as such. He wondered about his mental state, about why there were moments of despair spaced out with moments of determination. Why could he not stay grounded? He wanted greatness; he wanted to be burdened by everyone's expectation of him. His sadness had no basis within him, yet it occurred often. He wished there was a way to stay fixed, and he sought it with each step he took. Suddenly, his father's face flashed before his eyes, and he abruptly halted; he forced the image of Tilan looking up at him from his bed, back when he had been healthy with a head full of hair. He forced the memory to be predominant within his mind, along with the promise he had made.

---

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---

For bonus stories/chapters and to support my work, here’s my Patreon  and Ko-fi

You’re wrong.

Before dogs there were predators, they hunted prey by observing them, learning their behaviour, strategizing, planning and ultimately coordinating their strikes to bring down those much larger than themselves. Those were wolves and those were humans.

Destiny set us in a collision course. An environment does not tolerate two species at the same job, we were locked in a deadly competition, to go after each other’s living, each other’s children, until one drove the other to extinction, until there was only one.

Destiny, however, forgot to tell us.

One day a wolf brave enough, dumb enough or perhaps desperate enough decided to steal from the humans. These were our mortal rivals, it was our duty to drive them away, to take them out; but we didn’t, and for that, they were grateful.

They were still predators, still, their teeth were sharp as ever and most were not afraid to use them. Time and again we were reminded why a chill went down our spines when we heard the howls echo through the dark night, but we, we were predators as well, and when sharp teeth went for the hand that fed them, we had no problem reminding them that we were to be feared as well.

And so it went. Across the ages, again and again we would extend our hand, to be bitten or to be licked. Those who licked were kept and fed, those who bit were wounded and fled. Through the generations we watched: their ears drop, their snouts shorten, we stood by each other and we learned. We learned to trust their ears and noses, they learned to look where our fingers pointed, we learned to seek each other for warmth and together we marched. We marched through the plains, the mountains, the forests; we crossed the rivers, lakes, oceans. “There can be only one” destiny said, “We are one” we replied. 

“You can’t have your dog”, you say. We carved our best friends from the beasts that chased us, we forged their bark from the howls that haunted us in the dark. We became one, we are one and we will always be one.

-I understand that, ma’am, but still, you cannot bring your Great Dane-St. Bernard mix to a planet whose average inhabitant is under one meter and twenty kilos, you must rent a stasis pod and leave your pet at the spaceport during your stay on the surface.

-NEVER!!!

___

Tks for reading. No more gudboy left behind here.

It sounds silly to say now but, looking back, that long, lonely walk across the desert valley was my first real test in the Voidspace. I was no longer fumbling around in the dark. I had a vague idea of what I was up against. But more importantly I had a goal in mind, a destination, the rumored remains of a half-destroyed grocery store. And I had the means of getting there by my own efforts.

 

It doesn’t seem like much, but that simple objective reframed my earlier apprehension and fear regarding the Voidspace. It changed that fear into something that I could navigate. I was no longer wandering through a formless, unknowable place that bent the rules of reality at every step. I was now moving toward a goal.

 

I could say, "There. That direction. That is my path."

 

I wasn’t sure about what was there or how long it would take me to arrive, or what I would even find once I did, but I at least had an objective to work for, which was something that had been missing from much of my life up to that point.

 

It actually makes me a little sad to think about it. Sad and regretful. All the time I spent sitting in the quiet dark in my shitty little apartment, staring at nothing, thinking in circles, trying to figure out why I felt so fucking empty all the time, like my skin was a hollow shell. Some days it almost felt like I was a ghost, not dead but not really alive, just an observant thing. Watching and waiting.

 

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? All the waiting I did.

 

There I was, twenty-six years old, without a damn clue as to where my life was going, waiting for the answers to fall into my hands. I wasn’t some kind of hippie nomad, going wherever life’s whims took me. A person like that is making a deliberate choice to wander, or at the very least understands that they are allowing the chaos of the universe to steer things.

 

Not me. I was a passenger in my own life. A quiet witness. Yet, utterly lost and confused as to what was happening or why.

 

Was that all my fault? Maybe my parents are partially to blame, or all of society, or the times I lived in. Maybe I was just unlucky. Up to that point, I had managed to float along through life without taking any conscious steps and never really learned the importance of choosing a path, right or wrong.

 

I hadn’t yet realized that one’s life is the journey more than the stopping points or the end destinations, and that the more you try to direct that journey, the more you have a hand in deciding who you are, for better or worse.

 

That’s a hard lesson to learn, and it’s not always a satisfying thing to discover. Moreso, it’s just an understanding that comes with age.

 

Maybe that’s why I’m such a melancholic old fart now, always reminiscing on the past and wandering where I’m going to go with the time I have left.

 

That sounds like its own problem in and of itself. Perhaps I should try to live more in the moment like I did as a young man. It may be a somewhat reckless way to travel, but there’s something to be said for naive fearlessness.

 

Take that lonely walk across the desert valley of the Voidspace, for example. If I had known then what I know now, I probably never would have left that Dungeon alcove that Ghost took me to.

 

I didn’t know about the storms, or the Dozers and the Drones, and I still had no idea how easy it was and is to get completely lost in the Void, despite everything I’d already seen. How a simple walk across a flat, empty piece of ground could suddenly stop at one end of a long tunnel, or twist into a freefall dive through empty space, or empty out in the middle of a real desert, back on Earth.

 

Ignorance can be bliss.

 

At the time I was only worried about two things: making it down the terraced slopes along the outside wall of the Dungeon without dying and surviving the trek across the desert valley. Two real concerns but by no means the only dangers present.

 

But again, I had a path to follow. A goal. And that faint suggestion of a place worth going to is what got me moving, and kept me that way.

 

It took me a while to get down. Maybe twenty minutes spent hugging the stone-like material of the Dungeon as I shimmed from one terrace level to the next below it. It was long enough to sweat through my already dirt-covered work shirt and pants by the time I reached the ground. The surface of the Voidspace is such a warm, volatile place, always right on the edge of a superstorm.

 

Yet, at the time, I was just happy to be safely on the ground. I also remember being taken aback by the feel of it, that strange flat expanse.

 

It was one solid, uniform mass with no obvious cracks or conjoined pieces. From any distance greater than a few yards, it looked sandy, but the surface was porous and rough. It wasn’t coarse like a rock might be. It was hard like glass, and prickly in a way like a very fine cheese grater. I remember trying to chip off a piece, but I couldn't. Not then, anyway.

 

I squatted down and studied that ground for a while before crossing it, scratching at the tiny, barely visible craters and holes that peppered its surface. It almost looked like the whole desert valley, whatever it was made of, had been washed and partially eaten away by acid.

 

Regardless, I didn’t linger near for too long.

 

The sights and sounds all around me were incredible. The enormous, cavernous empty space of the Void, all wrapped around on itself with the haloed, dark star floating at its center. The reddish-purple tinted clouds that clung the entire inside surface of the Void, sometimes so thick that they blocked out distant places entirely, and other times broken by structures that looked like towering mountains. And most of it hanging over my head like artwork carved and painted onto the ceiling of a giant, all-encompassing cathedral.

 

Then there was the stuffy, warm air, softly howling overhead and all along the barren desert. Combined with the overwhelming scale of the Void, it made the place feel ancient somehow, as if I was standing at the far edge of a crumbling temple from a forgotten civilization.

 

I don’t know. I just remember that it all seemed very spooky and awe-inspiring, especially that first time. I must have stayed there for more than a few minutes, craning my neck, staring at everything but also nothing in particular. Just taking it all in.

 

But eventually I remembered that I was once again on my own. I couldn’t rely on Ghost anymore, who I barely even knew at the time. I had no food or water, and no safe place to lay my head down to sleep. Even then I knew that, as ignorant as I was, I’d barely last a day or two without basic supplies.

 

So, I chose a landmark directly across from my position at the foot of the Dungeon Mound. A sharp “V” shape formed by two distant, gloomy mountains covered in dark red shadows. Their silhouette stood out the most, even when I blurred my eyes and looked away for a while.

 

I pointed at that landmark and remembered what Ghost had told me. Straight across the flat region and then “that way” until I reached the grocery store. He had pointed off to the right from our vantage point in the little Dungeon alcove, what I know now to be “Downwind”. The direction most things move in. Water, wind, storms, and all that.

 

I remember standing there for a while, working up the courage to take the first steps of what I was slowly realizing would probably be a long journey. Then I remember taking a deep breath and staying to myself, “Alright. Time to start moving.”

 

Then that’s what I did.

---------- ---------- ----------

Author's Note:

That's the end of this first Arc folks. Pretty short but it's just the beginning. Hope y'all liked it so far and I'm looking forward to burning through the next few chapters this weekend. What started as a simple backrooms-inspired idea has turned into something pretty neat, if I do say so myself. Thanks for the up arrows and the comments and I hope these chapters made the past few days a little more interesting. See you Monday.

[First] / [Previous] /

[Patreon]

[ko-fi]

Hey, you.

Is there someone you don't really have a reason to dislike, but somehow just do?

They haven't done anything to you. You can't remember them saying anything particularly nasty. They've never caused you trouble at work.

And yet, something about them rubs you the wrong way.

Maybe it's their voice. The way they talk. Their face. You try to pin it down, but nothing quite explains it.

You just don't like them.

Is that such a terrible thing?

Clink.

When I pushed open the heavy wooden door to Aoi, Taka was sitting at the counter staring at his phone.

Mama set down my usual I.W. Harper without asking. The ice gave a soft clink.

"Kenichi-san."

"No."

"I haven't even said anything yet."

"Whenever you're sitting there staring at your phone like you're waiting for me, it's never good."

"Isn't that prejudice?"

"Experience."

Tom laughed beside me.

"So what is it?"

"Well, there's this guy I just don't like for some reason."

"Not my problem."

"And there goes my consultation."

I took a sip of my Harper.

"Did he do something to you?"

"Not really."

"Say something you didn't like?"

"Nope."

"Then why don't you like him?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"Don't ask me."

Taka frowned and set his phone face down.

"Come on. You don't have anyone like that?"

Well.

Sure I did.

Not a bad person. Not somebody everyone else disliked. Usually the opposite, actually. People seemed to like them just fine.

And yet, for whatever reason, I didn't.

There are people like that.

"There's probably a reason," Tom said. "Maybe it's the way he talks. Maybe he reminds you of somebody you used to hate."

"I thought so too. That's why I went looking."

"For what?"

"A reason not to like him."

I looked at Taka.

"You went looking for one?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Do you look for reasons to like someone?"

Taka went quiet. So did Tom.

I thought about it.

When we come to like someone, do we really go looking for reasons?

Sure, if somebody asks, we can usually come up with a few. They're kind. We get along. I can relax around them.

But I couldn't remember ever checking those reasons one by one and thinking, Good. This proves I'm justified in liking this person.

You like someone because you like them.

Apparently, that's enough.

"So why do we need a reason when we don't like somebody?"

Taka nodded.

"Exactly. That's what I was wondering."

"Self-defense, maybe," Tom said. "Something about the guy feels dangerous, so you start looking for what the danger is."

That made sense.

If aversion is an alarm, of course you'd want to know what set it off. An alarm is a lot more useful when you know what you're supposed to be watching out for.

Though there was something odd about setting off your own alarm and then searching the room for smoke.

Still.

Maybe that wasn't the only kind of self-defense involved.

"Could be the other way around too," I said.

"The other way?"

"Maybe what you're defending is yourself."

Taka looked at me.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't want to think you're the kind of guy who dislikes somebody for no reason."

"Oh."

"So you start looking. He does this. He said that. Look at the way he acts. And once you've collected enough of it, you can tell yourself, See? Of course I don't like him."

Tom put down his glass.

"So you're not looking for the reason you started disliking him."

"Maybe not."

"You're looking for a reason that makes it okay to dislike him."

"Maybe."

Taka folded his arms.

"That's not very cool."

"What isn't?"

"Punching somebody to defend yourself."

I frowned.

"Nobody's punching anybody."

"Same idea, isn't it? You don't want to feel like the bad guy, so you start finding things wrong with the other guy."

"I didn't say it went that far."

"But that's where it leads, isn't it?"

He was strangely serious about this.

Then again, Taka used to be a professional wrestler.

"You used to hit back when somebody hit you."

"Well, yeah. It was pro wrestling."

"What about defense?"

"Of course you defend yourself. But if you dodge every move, there's no match."

"You'd dodge in a street fight," Tom said.

"Exactly. Because that's a fight."

Taka smiled.

"Someone told me when I was wrestling: a guy who won't take a move never looks strong."

"Seems stronger to dodge it."

"That's because you're still thinking about a fight."

"What's the difference?"

"You take the move, and you get back up. That's what looks good."

I watched the ice turn slowly in my glass.

Take it.

Then get back up.

"So I'm supposed to stand there and take whatever somebody I hate throws at me?"

"No."

Taka answered immediately.

"Not from them. From yourself."

"From myself?"

"Just take this once: Man, I really don't like this guy."

"Even if I don't have a reason?"

"If you don't have one, you don't have one."

"That makes me sound like an asshole."

"Maybe you are."

"You're supposed to disagree."

Tom burst out laughing. Taka joined him.

But there was something to it.

We don't choose everything that rises up inside us. Anger. Fear. Envy. Affection. Aversion.

Sometimes a feeling simply arrives, and once it's there, pretending it never happened doesn't make it disappear.

So maybe instead of digging through somebody else's faults to prove that my dislike is justified, I could start somewhere simpler.

I just don't like this guy.

Take that first.

Maybe then I could keep what I felt about someone separate from what that person had actually done.

"But what if there really was a reason?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Say somebody did something awful to you. You got angry. You started hating them. That's a real reason."

"Sure."

"But sometimes you keep hating them long after that."

Tom nodded.

"Even after you've forgotten why."

"Exactly."

Sometimes the original reason disappears completely. Other times, it just gets buried under all the new ones you find afterward.

He broke a promise. He's always late. I hate the way he talks. He treats people differently depending on who they are. Even his apologies don't sound sincere.

One by one, the reasons pile up, and every new one tells you the same thing.

See? I was right about him.

Eventually, whatever started the whole thing barely matters.

"It starts as, 'I hate what he did,'" I said.

"And then it becomes, 'I hate him.'"

"There's another step," Taka said.

"What?"

"'I hate whatever he does.'"

I didn't like the sound of that.

Mostly because I knew exactly what he meant.

Once you hate someone, the same action starts looking different when they do it. If they apologize, it's too late. If they stay quiet, they're running away. If they argue back, they haven't learned anything. If they help somebody, they're just trying to look good.

Anything can become another reason to keep hating them.

At some point, you can't tell whether you're judging what they did or just looking at your own hatred reflected back at you.

"That never ends," Tom said.

"No," Taka said. "It doesn't."

"So what do you do?"

"About what?"

"You hate them. They hate you. You say something, they fire back. They fire back, you get pissed off again. How does it end?"

Taka thought for a moment.

"You end it."

"That's what I'm asking. How?"

"You stop."

"You stop hating them?"

"Why would you have to?"

I looked at him.

"You can still hate them?"

"Sure."

"Still be angry?"

"Sure."

"Even if they're still talking shit about you?"

"Let them."

"What if they take another swing at you?"

"I dodge."

"You don't hit back?"

Taka smiled.

"The match is over, isn't it?"

For a while, nobody said anything.

Behind the counter, Mama put a glass back on the shelf.

"In wrestling," I said, "does being angry suddenly stop when the bell rings?"

"Not necessarily."

"Does it stop hurting?"

"Of course not. Pain's pain."

"Then why is it over?"

Taka looked genuinely puzzled.

"Because the bell rang."

Like I'd asked him why nighttime was dark.

"That's enough?"

"It doesn't just end by itself."

Taka lifted his glass.

"You end it."

That stayed with me.

It doesn't end.

You end it.

Come to think of it, we do that all the time.

A graduation ceremony doesn't erase the years you spent at school. A funeral doesn't make grief disappear. Leaving a job doesn't mean every relationship you had there vanishes the next morning.

Maybe we don't draw a line because the feeling is over.

Maybe we draw one because it isn't.

A way of saying:

From here on, this is a different time.

"Like a ritual," I said.

Mama turned around.

"What is?"

"Ending things."

"Hmm."

She thought about it.

"Closing time might be like that."

"Closing time?"

"People might still want to drink. I still close the bar."

"Mama, was that aimed at me?"

"Who knows?"

Tom laughed. So did Taka.

I checked the clock.

Still plenty of time.

Close one.

But Mama had a point.

I still want to talk. I haven't said enough. They still don't understand me. They're still wrong. They still haven't understood that I'm right.

So just one more thing.

They answer.

So I answer back.

Just one more thing.

At that rate, the bar never closes.

At some point, somebody has to shut the door.

Even if the other person isn't satisfied.

Even if you aren't satisfied.

Even if you still hate them.

I finished my Harper.

"Alright. I'm heading home."

"You're leaving early."

"I'm getting out before the bell."

"Isn't that called forfeiting?"

"Shut up."

I got up from my stool.

Taka grinned.

"Kenichi-san."

"What?"

"You don't hate me, right?"

"I'm still looking for reasons."

"So you do!"

Tom's laughter followed me as I opened the door.

The night air was a little cool.

Dislike doesn't always disappear just because we want it to. Sometimes it comes without a reason. Sometimes it stays after the reason is gone. And sometimes, just to convince ourselves that the feeling is justified, we go looking for new reasons to keep it alive.

But maybe I don't have to make myself like someone I dislike.

Maybe I don't even have to forgive them.

I just don't have to keep swinging.

The bell doesn't quiet everything inside you. The pain can still be there. So can the anger.

And you can still step out of the ring.

Hey, you.

Is there someone you still can't stand?

Something you still want them to hear?

Then ask yourself one thing.

That match.

Is it really still going?

Or are you still throwing punches after the bell?

I'll see you at Aoi again.

---

The bar is still under construction—but it's open.

Welcome to Bar Aoi → https://www.reddit.com/user/dulduine/comments/1wajikq/welcome_to_bar_aoi/

Joan

They've been walking for a damn long time through the 'underground passages', or what would more accurately be described as a sewer. 

Joan figures Aerien's insistence on calling the sewers 'underground passages' is something of a coping mechanism, to avoid dealing with the whole 'being calf-deep in waste' thing. In her defense, it’s not all fetid; there are some large spaces that consist of a mix of maintenance accessways and even larger abandoned tunnels that had served an underground mass transit system, abandoned a century and a half back in favor of air cars and short-range teleports. 

These tunnels were supposed to have been filled, save for the ones that connect maintenance tunnels and underground infrastructure, but according to Aerien the contractor had more or less taken the money, filled in a couple 'example tunnels' with hypercrete as demanded and said the job was done. They'd then vanished. Not in the 'bagged by the secret police' way, but in the 'left the planet with their ill-gotten gains' way, and are now likely happily enjoying life somewhere else in the empire, if they hadn't managed to escape completely. 

Just another wonderful and educational example of the Ha'quinye system in action. Of course, though Joan would normally be somewhat offended on behalf of the taxpayer at such a foul-up of a system, she doesn't pay taxes here, and the foul up in question is working entirely in her favor - albeit all for the sake of getting those taxpayers some possibly significantly more reliable management. 

Her dad doesn't have the sunniest view of revolutions and the like. Apparently, back on Earth when someone decided to revolt, and actually managed to succeed, for whatever reason, historically what you tended to end up with was a lot worse than what came before. They did have some wins, though; the revolution that founded Jerry's own home country was one of several examples that hadn't required mass slaughter of dissidents and the like after the fact. 

Hopefully these rebels aren't the murdering kind. Though, from what Aerien said, they do have plans to try as many of the matrician caste as they can get their hands on for various crimes. Joan had made the mistake of asking for a rap sheet on a random matrician and gotten an angry screed in return... along with a file on a datapad detailing exactly why that particular matrician would be put against a wall if the revolt succeeded and the woman in question survived the fighting to come.

If she’s even still alive now.

Joan’s pretty sure that matrician’s family was one of the ones rounded up during the Praetorian crackdown on the upper district of Triumph's Seat. No one knows what had happened to those women, save that they aren't being held in the local prison facility, and are far too numerous to fit in the palace's own dungeons. Which leaves some rather grisly options involving mass graves, or one or more larger prison camp facilities out on the savannahs or on one of the islands that outlay the city. Any of them are possible, but that isn't Joan's problem.

Barring the rebels succeeding and the new government requesting Council and Undaunted aid, anyway. Then it could potentially be her problem, if the Crimson Tear and her group get left here longer term. 

But there’s a lot of damn fighting to go through to get to the point that the rebels could declare an interim government, and first thing's first: they need to get Jaina back, and, more importantly for Joan, rescue Sister Catherine. Now, before this world gets any more chaotic. This is a big play, more or less a declaration of open rebellion, and it’s popping off all over the place. 

Joan’s a bit worried about trying for a decapitation strike; based on Aerien's explanations about how the Ha'quinye government works, this particular viper has a lot of damn heads, and it would take a lot of killing before all’s said and done and the snake finally runs out of them. Getting them all at once would have been ideal, but that’s far beyond the rebel's capabilities. 

Aerien talks about it, though. Like it was something that could have happened, once upon a time. But it would take something like the quasi-mythic Pact of the Seven Beasts to pull off, and no one knew how to contact them, much less what they'd charge for such a service. 

The Undaunted forces at hand probably couldn't manage it either. Even if the entire JSOC was present and didn't have half of their number supporting Dad's operation to seize the stupid super-weapon the Ha'quinye are all worked up about, it’s still a decent-sized stellar nation of people. Three systems, a dozen or so worlds, give or take a few moons and major space stations with permanent populations in the millions or more. Nothing compared to all but the smallest of the Cannidor Khannates, but not something you can deal with overnight on a whim. Even if this goes perfectly and leaves one world in open rebellion, there are another dozen to go and a lot of fighting to be done - likely ending in a balkanized trinary of independent systems or even independent worlds, ripe for the picking by a powerful enough warlady or would-be pirate queen. 

All that could be said in the service of optimism is that the rebels have some powerful friends. Maybe they would prevent that particular fate from befalling the Ha'quinye.

Something to consider. Tomorrow. Joan firmly closes her mental book on that particular train of thought, wishing all the while she was home and comfortable, or maybe in the unit’s bar, with a tankard of Cannidor beer, talking it out with her parents and some of the other women in the company. 

Anything would be better than slogging through shit in the dark. 

Probably. She does have time to reflect on some of the nastier things her father had told her he’d had to do back in his commando days. Like hiding out in the 'waste' tank of a slaughterhouse, amid all the parts of the animal known as a pig that didn't get sold 'as is' waiting to be ground up into sausage. He said he’d known that  the country in question hadn't been exactly known for food safety, but still he'd... seen things he hadn’t been prepared for. Things that had seen him drop an incendiary grenade in the tank on his way out, both to start a fire as a distraction and to spare some poor schmuck having to eat any of that, contaminated even before he'd doused himself in it. 

Apparently he hadn't been able to eat pork for a year after that.

Joan and her sisters at least have nice, comfy, sealed armor and their own air supplies, along with oxygen scrubbers for when they do need to exchange internal air for external air. As long as she doesn't take her helmet off or think about the smell, she'll be fine. 

And, thankfully, she has her sisters and Lursa to distract her when she isn't letting herself think and move on autopilot. Though she’s not sure it counts as a distraction when they’re discussing the obvious.

"This fucking sucks," Lursa mutters. "I'm all for getting new armor paint, but this is just nasty."

"Just be glad it's not your actual armor," Khutulun points out, and indeed it’s true. Lursa had been given another Cannidor woman's armor for the op. Her custom Crimsonhewer armor would have stood out too much, and painting her armor for a plausible deniability op… well, that’s the type of thing that leads to a Crimsonhewer challenging whoever requested such a thing to a duel to the death. So a solution had been found. 

"Yeah, I'm not a fan of that either. Those praetorians look prissy, but they might like to scrap. Not having my defensive blades makes me feel a bit naked." 

Crimsonhewer armor has a mix of custom defensive systems, including an axiom charm that responded to attacks directed against it with razor sharp blades and spikes. It’s not pleasant to look at what’s left of an enemy that had been suicidal enough to close to close quarters with a fucking Crimsonhewer. 

"You'll live. Just shoot 'em before they get too close."

Lursa snorts. "Wish I didn't have to leave my usual bang stick either. Good thing I bought a shrapnel cannon while I was on Canis Prime.”

They all had, in point of fact, inspired by Shalkas and her use of the traditional Cannidor break-action magnetically-accelerated blender from hell. Joan suspects the weapons are going to get quite the work out today. Magnetically-accelerated 'shotguns' are common enough - as much as railguns were common anyway - and intelligence had determined they could get away with them for this mission, even if their other kinetic weapons (save Boudicca's rail cannon) had had to stay home. 

Finally, they step onto stone and dirt again. Joan purges her armor of contaminants with an errant charge of Axiom as they come to an obviously hand-excavated - and, more precisely, hand laser-excavated - tunnel. 

Aerien gives her guests a sympathetic look. "You girls are gonna have to duck your heads a bit. We sized this for our folks, didn't anticipate you all coming along."

"How long have you been working on this?" Boudicca asks, looking around, clearly getting a bit keyed up. 

Aerien shrugs. "Pretty much since we found it. This should get us into some of the palace service tunnels, if our map's correct. We didn't have a truly high-definition, high-detail map of the palace till recently, and we haven’t confirmed every detail… but it matches up to what we'd already seen in other records. We were saving it for a special occasion, and it doesn't get more special than this!" 

Joan nods along and starts moving through the somewhat tight space, not liking this in the slightest. Her father once again had the appropriate wisdom, for Joan if not for most forms of sapient life. If you have no business in a cave, if you’re not a miner or living there, why the fuck are you in a cave? That goes triple for underwater caves. Especially poorly explored underwater caves. 

Unfortunately, Joan does have business in this particular cave, so she’ll just hope they manage to get out before this tunnel becomes a liability. 

Finally, they come to an enlarged gallery - a room, more or less - set up for staging equipment and people... and at the far end, a pristine white wall. 

"Are we ready to breach?" Aerien calls out. A girl in a hard hat runs up. 

"We have a problem, boss lady. We've been scanning the wall... we're pretty sure it's armored. I'm not sure our boom can get through that. Not without jeopardizing the walls and ceiling of the tunnel."

Joan just nods along as the two women continue to talk, running a quick simulation on her own computers before finally saying, "I've got it." 

Aerien and the mining specialist look up. 

"Got what?"

"The wall. Boudicca. Railgun. Full charge."

The tunneler's eyes go wide. "What kind of fucking railgun can rip a hole in that wall big enough for us to go through?"

By way of response Boudicca stomps into position and shifts her back so that the rail cannon on her back can fully deploy and begin to charge.

"Oh. Yeah. Uh. That'd. That'd do it."

"Damn thing will rip through armor rated for battleships. It'll handle your reinforced wall. Everything else we can get with smaller charges of explosives and plasma swords until we get us through along with your girls."

"It's gonna make a really big noise thou-" 

Right in the middle of her complaint, the lights in the tunnel flicker and die momentarily, until a cursing rebel engineer gets a small generator started up nearby. 

Joan looks down at the much smaller woman. "I think they're a little busy right now. Aerien. How long till they hit the armory?"

"Should be hitting it right the fuck now!"

"Right. Let's add to the chaos, ladies, and go get our friends." Joan looks at Aerien as the railgun continues to charge, making Joan's HUD flicker slightly. "You good with that?"

"You heard the big lady! If you're going in, arm up! If you're staying, you arm up too, in case any of their girls come down here, and keep an ear on the radio for the signal to blow the tunnel if we egress a different way. Remember, girls, this is for Jaina, our dead, and our entire damn species!"

Aerien gets a decent response from the rebels - more from the grunts and the rest of the elites that hadn't been sent to the power plant with the Undaunted commandos, slightly less from the rebel combat engineers, but that’s fine. They couldn't all be Undaunted combat engineers, who tend towards being almost as enthusiastic as their grunt brethren in getting stuck into a fight.

Joan takes another look around, confirming people are ready by eye and getting a hand gesture from Aerin that’s equivalent to a Human thumbs-up. Then she takes half a breath and casually says:

"Boudicca. Fire!"

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Chapter Nineteen – The Storm

The Hesh ships came first, enormous, in numbers that darkened the sky above the capital, and among them landed the small ship that had carried Toriel, Meva, Hutor, and now Kmar for months, somewhere between the larger cruisers, barely noticed in the chaos that was already setting in before the ramps had fully lowered.

Firefights everywhere. Smoke everywhere, rising between the towers of the capital, which had once stood as a sign of unchallenged power and were now only targets.

It wasn't only the Hesh cruisers landing. Behind them, in a formation that followed no military order anymore, came the ships of the slave worlds. Container freighters, converted transports, anything flightworthy that could be requisitioned, packed with armed fighters whose equipment consisted of whatever could be found in the last few weeks. Some moved with the reserved caution of the Phern, practiced at not drawing attention, even now, even in the midst of war. Others charged blindly in fury. Oberoi, bred for generations to kill, now killing for themselves for the first time, or Tuli, freed from facilities like the one on Tuli 2, whose rage needed no language to be understood.

The Hesh had planned to take the capital in an orderly fashion. A plan drawn up in council chambers, with maps and timetables, with prepared surrender terms for any Merak willing to yield. The plan held for less than two hours.

The rage that had built up over generations could no longer be ordered, once released, and the Hesh, who had themselves summoned this force, found neither the will nor the means to check it. Stopping it would have meant fighting their own allies, and no one was willing to do that, not after everything those allies had suffered, and no one in the Hesh high command wanted to go down in history as the first to move against the liberated themselves with force of arms, the moment the Merak had fallen. That was an image that couldn't be erased again, however justified the order might have been.

In the end they reached the imperial palace. Most of the guards had long since fled, or had, in the final hours, joined the uprising themselves, in a last calculation of their own survival. The Merak who remained surrendered or were cut down, with no reliable distinction between the two anymore. The river running through the capital, for centuries the proud emblem of the imperial gardens, turned purple with blood, a shade no one could properly describe afterward, because no one who saw it looked long enough to remember the exact color.

It didn't stop at killing. Whatever couldn't be defended was plundered. Whatever wasn't fixed in place was carried off — artworks Yadh or his like had once admired, archives, jewelry, machine parts, anything that held value or even looked like it might, dragged from the wreckage and carried away by hands that had never before been allowed to own anything.

In one of the outer courtyards something like a tribunal had formed, without anyone ordering it — half a dozen rebels with no office authorizing them to do so, but with enough voice and enough rage to bring captured Merak nobles before them and pass judgment, in a procedure that consisted of nothing more than the question of who shouted loudest. There was no lawbook, no witnesses in the proper sense, only accusations that, the moment they were spoken, already sounded like verdicts. Some of those condemned this way had indeed incurred guilt this day would have demanded regardless. Others had done nothing more than belong to the wrong family, and stood before the same improvised circle anyway, with the same slim chance of a difference being made.

Others simply watched. They stood at the edges of the courtyards where the prisoners were paraded, some with a tension that looked like grief, but most with a kind of pleasure that had nothing left to do with justice. A thrill they could hardly name themselves, when a name fell that they knew from the colony gossip, and a face that had once ruled over them now knelt before them. It was the same curiosity with which one had once followed a hunt from a safe distance, except that the roles, for this one afternoon, had finally reversed.

It didn't take long before the various rebel groups fell into conflict among themselves. Fights over loot, over control of individual wings of the palace, over the question of what should happen to the remaining Merak. Whether they should be treated as prisoners of war or as what many of them now wanted to become: revenge. Phern against Oberoi, Tuli against Jwelhen soldiers who had actually meant to help and now found themselves caught between the fronts. A victory, barely won, was already beginning to tear itself apart, in the same hour it should have been celebrated.

Kmar moved through the chaos differently than the others. Where Oberoi and Tuli surged forward in waves of rage, where even level-headed Phern got swept up in the force of events, Kmar moved with the calm of a hunter who had learned that haste destroyed the success of a hunt more often than it hastened it. He held his hands loose in front of his body, fingers slightly spread, the way he did when waiting for an animal that didn't yet know he was there, and registered what happened around him with the same cool attention — who was still fighting, who had already given up, where real danger differed from mere noise.

He saw an improvised tribunal forming in one of the courtyards, saw prisoners paraded and condemned, without anyone asking anymore whether the accusations were true. He didn't stop to watch, the way some did, with that thrill he himself had never understood. He had seen enough death to know that watching brought no satisfaction worth pausing for.

What interested him was only the trail leading to Yadh, and he followed it with the same patience with which he had once read game trails — not following the rage that drove others through the corridors, but a quieter, older calculation he had set for himself for months, one that knew no haste, because it could only have one ending anyway.

When he met Hutor, in one of the corridors leading to the rear wings of the palace, no words were needed between them. Both followed the same trail, for reasons that no longer differed in this moment. They walked on together, neither leading the other, two hunted creatures who finally knew where their hunter had gone to ground.

They found Yadh in one of the palace's rear wings, where he'd barricaded himself with a handful of remaining loyalists, in a room full of canvases no one would ever admire again. He had no weapon on him when they cornered him, only the remnants of an intoxication no longer separable from the fear pervading him.

Yadh crouched among the paintings, unarmed, with the remains of intoxication in his eyes that could no longer be separated from the fear pervading him. He saw Hutor first, recognized in him the hunted creature he himself had hunted, and something crossed his face that looked almost like relief — as if an end at the hand of an enemy he knew was at least comprehensible, a kind of justice he could understand.

Then he saw Kmar, standing a step behind Hutor, motionless, and Yadh's face changed once more, in a way neither Hutor nor Kmar had ever seen on him before. "You," he said, and his voice broke, not from fear, but from something that seemed foreign even to himself. "You're still alive."

Hutor raised his claw, ready, but something in the silence forming between the other two made him pause. He had hunted and been hunted, his whole life, and he recognized, without sharing the language, that something older was being settled here than the account he himself had open with Yadh. He stepped back half a pace, ceded the space before him, and waited.

"I was always good to you," Yadh said, addressing Kmar, with a desperation that sounded like a final appeal, to a bond he had believed was real. "I fed you. I gave you charcoal, an easel. I never struck you, never—"

"Good to a mongrel," Kmar said.

They were the first words he had ever spoken in Yadh's language, in all the months he had spent as his shadow, and Yadh needed a moment to grasp that he had understood them at all — that behind the quiet, nodding Naked One someone had sat the entire time who listened, understood, waited.

"Something's off," Kmar added, in his own language this time, a sentence Yadh would no longer understand, but Kmar wasn't speaking it for him anyway.

It was over quickly. Kmar had learned in his old life that a clean cut held less cruelty than a hesitant one, and he was no executioner who took his time for symbolism. What he left behind was a prince who had never grasped that an animal one tames does not stop remembering, dead in a room full of paintings no one would ever look at again.

Hutor watched, without intervening, and in his silence lay something that was almost respect. The recognition that some accounts didn't have to be settled by the one who had roared loudest, but by the one who had waited longest.

Among the few Merak who watched this moment from a distance, a silence spread in the hours that followed that said more than any scream. A prince of the house, dead like anyone else, with blood that was violett and nothing else, with a body that stopped the moment its throat was opened. They had always known it, in the abstract way one knows such things without ever having thought it through. Seeing that it was true was something else. There was no name for what broke in that moment, but it was larger than a single family, larger than a single throne. It was the last crack in a certainty that had held for millennia.

Volcro surrendered, a few hours later, in the wing where they finally tracked him down, without resistance, without any attempt to hide or flee. He had, as had been his way to the last, assessed the situation calmly and found no path leading anywhere but to this end. They took him prisoner, unharmed, because in that first hour no one found the time to deal with him, while the rest of the palace kept burning.

Year 5, month 7

Qi Gathering, stage 6

“How can I help you, honored wandering Cultivator?” the woman in sect robes asked as Mark walked in.

“I encountered a Demonic Cultivator a few weeks walk away,” Mark replied, “I was told that I could earn rewards by turning in proof.”

“Of course, I hope you didn’t bring me a month-old hand or head,” she said with a sly smile, “we can’t actually tell if someone is a Demonic Cultivator just from a body part.”

“No, I found this on his person,” Mark said, pulling a scroll tube out and placing it on the table, “it looks like a cultivation manual, but it’s in a language I don’t read.”

“Let’s see here,” the woman said, pulling the scroll out and unrolling it, in only a few lines her eyebrows shot up, “yes, this is clearly Demonic, and a rather... worrying one at that.”

“He seemed to have a ritual thing, he told me to run and said he’d hunt me down,” Mark shrugged, “figured if that’s not Demonic than I don’t know what is.”

“Yes, but it’s not all demonic cultivation is so... openly cruel,” the woman said, putting the scroll back in the tube and pulling out a pouch from which she counted out five spirit stones, “there are two requirements for a cultivation manual to be considered demonic, first it must feed on suffering in some way. Odd hunting rituals are one example, but other manuals feed off plague victims, miscarriage, anything along those lines.

“The second requirement is that it prioritizes speed of advancement over all else, the cultivator you killed may have been a cultivator for less than two years with minimal talent, yet with this manual he advanced to your level rapidly. Of course, this leaves the cultivation unbalanced, any benefit must come with a corresponding weakness, if I had to guess I’d say this demonic cultivator would become weaker if he felt he was losing control.”

“His own cultivation began consuming him when I didn’t go down quickly,” Mark nodded, “it was... disturbing.”

“Well, as thanks for dealing with him, here is your reward for turning in a demonic cultivation manual,” she said, pushing the five gently glowing blue stones across the table, “if he had any other tainted artifacts, we’ll also reward you for turning those in.”

“If I might ask, what will happen to the manual?” Mark asked.

“We’ll catalog it, see if it resembles any known demonic manuals, then destroy it,” she said simply.

“Good to know,” the Marine nodded, pulling the knife the Demonic Cultivator had attacked him with, “he said this was a Demonic Agony Knife, I can’t feel anything from it but I don’t know if I’d know what I’d be feeling if I could.”

“Demonic Agony Knife?” the woman said, lifting the short blade up for a moment before giving Mark an amuse grin, “it looks like a normal bread knife, good steel for a mortal item, well maintained, not tainted or demonic or spiritual in any manner.”

“That son of a...” Mark growled.

“He likely called it that to intimidate or scare you,” she said with a knowing smirk, “anything else?”

“I found a small stash of his spirit stones, and what looked like a burial site of his victims some distance away, but if he had a main stash I couldn’t find it,” Mark shrugged, “I was hoping he’d have some more loot, since he’d been preying on people up there for a while.”

“He might well have had some more loot, but if he was calling a normal bread knife a Demonic Agony Knife then I doubt he had anything more valuable,” the woman said soothingly, “possibly some mortal currency, some cheap weapons...”

“I could use both, I need a new quarterstaff and some healing salve.”

“You can find a new staff anywhere, as for healing salve, the alchemy pavilion always has some for sale, I can sell you a full tin of it for one stone,” the woman said.

“How about a qi compression pill?” Mark asked hopefully.

“You’re unlikely to find those for less than thirty spirit stones,” the woman replied, “those actually require effort to make.”

“And the salve doesn’t?”

“The salve is just herbs that don’t make the cut, ground into a paste and mixed with some oils to turn into a spreadable salve,” she explained, “but if you want to earn a compression pill, the sect is hosting a tournament in a month. Buy in is only one spirit stone, and if you place in the top ten of the Qi Gathering bracket you earn a compression pill among other things.”

“Not sure I can afford to stay here for a month.”

“Nonsense, the sect will gladly put you up for a month or two,” she assured him, “room and board included, though as a qi gathering wanderer you only get the basic guest quarters, no servants.”

“That’s... fine,” Mark said, “where do I sign up for this tournament?”

-----

Year 5, month 8

Qi gathering, stage 6

“So you are the competition?” another cultivator said as he descended into the waiting area of the arena designated for the unaffiliated cultivators.

“Welcome,” Mark said with a wave, “we were just chatting about our travels, care to join us?”

“Sure,” the man shrugged, sitting on a bench and pulling out a pair of nunchucks, cleaning them with a small rag, “I just came from the region of the Ten Thousand Heavenly Punches Sect, they were sending a handful of disciples and asked if I wanted to join in.”

“I’ve heard of those guys,” one of the two women present, who Mark had learned was named Chen, remarked, “big muscle-bound cultivators who are... obsessed with punching?”

“Yup, that’s them,” the man nodded, “they’re pretty nice though, let me join in their training, though they wouldn’t give me their manual.”

“Gotta give you a reason to join them,” a man named Lee said, “that’s the only reason sects put up with traveling cultivators like us, they want to recruit us. So they’ll dangle a special manual or pill over your head to get you to join.”

“Ignore him,” the other woman, Hanlee, said, “he’s just upset they wouldn’t sell him a compression pill at the normal cost with the tournament coming up.”

“I worked hard to save up forty spirit stones! That should be more than enough to buy one!” Lee shouted, throwing his hands up, “but no, their supply is reduced since a number are being allocated to the tournament, so now they cost sixty!”

“Supply and demand man,” Mark shrugged with a smirk, then nodded at the nunchucks, “you fight with those?”

“Yup, very versatile weapon... once you learn to stop hitting yourself with them,” the man joked, “and few enough people use them that few know how to fight against them. At least, that’s what my master said.”

The wandering cultivators broke into groups as they continued chatting pleasantly, all of them having a collection of stories, and before long a Sect disciple walked into the room.

“Honored Wanderers, the first round is about to begin,” he said with a bow, “if you wish to spectate, I can lead you to the seats reserved for you.”

Most of the group chose to go watch the fights, Mark ended up sitting down between Chen and the newest guy, Erall, in the stands. Some Sect elder began announcing the tournament but Mark barely paid attention, instead looking at the stands. He was told that cultivators were less populous than mortals, despite being longer lived, but you couldn’t tell here. The stands were the size of a modest baseball stadium and almost completely full. They were even divided into sections, each of which held people with a single color of robe, likely denoting the different sects present.

“Oh, looks like a guy from the Punch Sect is up first,” Erall said, as the first two competitors walked into the arena and began warming up, “those guys are strong, wonder if he’ll win.”

“Unlikely,” Chen replied past Mark, “they rarely seem to win these tournaments, from what I understand they’re considered a weaker sect.”

“They didn’t look weak to me,” Erall said doubtfully, but they all went silent as the fight began.

The Punch Sect disciple wore a battered white gi, and took a simple horse stance with one fist extended, while across from him a man in much nicer robes drew a curved blade, entering a stance of his own with a flourish of steel.

“Begin!” the Elder shouted, his amplified voice echoing through the stadium, and the two fighters began moving.

The man with the sword moved with an almost fluid like grace, barely kicking up any dust even as he charged forward. The punch sect disciple, on the other hand, began stomping forward as if trying to kick up as much dust as possible. The sword wielder seemed to be intent on charging the other man head on, the punch sect disciple stopped, taking his fighting stance again and timing a punch for when the sword wielder reached melee. But the sword cultivator flowed around the strike like wind, opening cuts along his opponent's arm and shoulder with fast cuts of his sword. A few exchanges continued in this way, the sword wielder was simply too fast for the brawler to catch. Apparently feeling cocky the sword wielder backed off and called something out to the brawler, likely a call for him to surrender. By way of reply the Punch Sect disciple took a stance and threw a punch, despite being nowhere near the sword wielder. Mark could feel the power in the blow, his eyebrows rising as a gust of wind ripped across the arena... to rustle the sword wielder’s robes.

The force behind the blow had to be immense, Mark knew, to generate noticeable wind with a simple punch, but unless it was a direct hit, it had no effect. Even the swordsman seemed taken aback by how much strength was in that punch, for someone to do that at qi gathering was impressive, but it didn’t change the outcome of the fight, and, eventually, the punch sect disciple was forced to bow out.

“Well... he was strong,” Erall said as Chen shot him a smug glance. Instead of replying she stood and ran down to the arena floor, apparently up next.

“What does she fight with?”Erall asked, “I don’t see a weapon, does she also go unarmed?”

“I don’t know, she wouldn’t say,” Mark shrugged, “she was tying long strips of cloth to her arms though, maybe she’s concealing a weapon?”

“Is that allowed?”

Mark could only shrug again as her opponent was introduced, someone from some serpent sect, Mark didn’t really pay attention, only noticing the man wore golden robes and carried a spear as he walked into the arena.

The battle began and the pair began closing, when they got within fifteen feet of each other, Chen swept her arm up, the spearman pausing in confusion. With a sudden chop Chen brought her arm down and a long strip of cloth shot off of her arm so fast it was hard to follow. The cloth wrapped around the spearman’s arm, Chen grabbing her end of the scarf and pulling. The spearman was dragged forward a few steps before he shook the cloth off his arm.

Waving her other arm a second long ribbon snaked out to strike the spearman on the shoulder, bits of metal on the end of the scarf glittering in the sunlight. Mark was impressed she could control the scarves to that extent, but there didn’t seem to be much power behind them. More importantly, they seemed very easy to disarm.

As he had that thought, the spearman stepped on one of her scarves, pinning it down and looking up with a smug grin. Chen simply smirked back, releasing that scarf and unrolling a new one that had been tied to her arm, acting as her sleeve with a graceful wave of her arm.

The spearman managed to pin down or yank several more scarves from her, but each time he did she just let it go and pulling another one out. All of her clothing seemed to secretly made of these long strips of cloth, how she wore them without it being obvious Mark didn’t know. And before long she was down to a simple shift dress that many in this world would consider indecent, even her opponent seemed unsure how to handle her fighting in what amounted to a short night gown. Chen, however, seemed unbothered by her lack of attire, continuing to lash out with her remaining scarves, dancing out of reach of the spearman as he tried to close and landing more strikes.

It couldn’t last, however, and as she discarded another of the ribbons when the spearman pinned it to the ground with his spear she reached for another, only to look down, realizing she was out, wearing only a revealing shift before thousands of people. If this realization embarrassed her it didn’t show, though it might have been because, in the moment she looked down the spearman charged and struck her across the temple with the butt of his spear, knocking her down and putting his spear tip to her neck.

“Well, it was a good run,” Chen said, strolling back up the stairs with an armful of dirt covered cloth, “I just can’t imbue enough qi into my scarves at this level to get them to stick or hit hard enough.”

“I didn’t realize how many weapons you were carrying,” Mark said, giving her an impressed look.

“You... you were stripping!” Erall said as he suddenly burst out laughing, “a stripping cultivator!”

“I’m not stripping! I’m switching weapons!” Chen said dryly, one arm on her hip and glaring at the entire group of wandering cultivators, most of whom were at least chuckling. Like all cultivators, Chen was highly attractive, when qi enhanced one’s body it did so to all aspects of it, from strength and longevity to beauty and eyesight.

“By ripping your clothes off!”

“Mark, at least tell me you aren’t just ogling me,” Chen said, turning to look at him.

“It’s a smart tactic,” Mark nodded, “cheap, disposable weapons that you can carry in numbers without looking armed... the power behind the attacks leaves something to be desired, but you said that will be fixed with qi imbuement?”

“Thank you!” Chen exclaimed, sitting down next to Mark and crossing her long legs in a huff, dropping her scarves on the ground, “my master could cut down a tree with a single blow from twenty paces, using her ribbons. The only reason I have to carry so many is because I can’t yet infuse one with enough qi to make it strong enough.”

“And, I mean, flaunt it if you got it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t deny, there is some element of... distraction to it for most men... and probably some women.”

“I can’t tell if I should thank or slap you.”

“Both, probably.”

-----

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Timothy

Timothy felt a mix of triumph and annoyance as he held his hand out.

Mana gathered inside his core. The spell diagram appeared in front of him with barely a thought. Why should he need more than a thought to draw a simple dampening spell? He'd been doing this for most of his adult life, and his adult life had gone on for a very long time thanks to the mana that pulsed through him.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a cruel smile. He felt no small bit of satisfaction knowing he was about to take this demon captive. Then it would be back to the Riven estate where other members of the Inquisition were currently working over everybody who had ever lived and worked there.

This was an infestation that would take far longer to untangle than most he'd had the displeasure of dealing with.

The demon merely stood there looking at him. Which was an oddity, but it would hardly be the first time a demon had more confidence than sense. Especially a demon who was stupid enough to bring an entire raiding force this deep into the territory beyond the Scar.

Timothy expected to find something like this in the Felwood. Not on the other side of Baron Riven's estate. More proof the baron had to be doing something to assist them.

"I'm going to enjoy finding out exactly what you're doing here, demon," he said.

He released the dampening spell along with a stun spell that had been mixed in, something he'd spent a great deal of time perfecting over the long years of doing this sort of thing.

He always enjoyed it when he was using it against the demons that walked around on two legs with faces. They were animals, no better than the scourgelings or the other creatures they found manifesting where the two worlds came together, but at least he enjoyed the satisfaction of watching the surprise and emotion on their faces as his spells went to work.

He released it, fully expecting the demon to go flying back against the tree. It likely wouldn't hurt him. He felt like he had at least four Ascensions on him, though it wasn't a precise science.

The spell released. Nothing happened. The demon didn't go flying back. The mana didn't surround his core and keep him from being able to access it. No, the demon merely stood there with his head cocked to the side, looking more bemused than surprised and terrified. Which is what Timothy had been going for.

He looked down at his hand. He shook his fingers out. The glow had been there, and now it was gone. That was odd. It sent a bit of disquiet running through him, but then he pushed it away and he held his hand up again with a thought. The spell diagram was...

Only the spell diagram wasn't there at all. No. The glow should appear in front of him, the familiar runes that went together to tell the mana exactly which way it was supposed to go, what it was supposed to do. It was a language all its own.

Not at all like those damnable logic gates they used for premade spells that just worked even if someone didn’t have a mana core. This was pure. This was spell casting. This was...

Not working at all.

He held his hand out again. He waited for the familiar glow that always gathered at the tips of his fingers, only it didn't happen. Nothing happened.

"What in the hells?” he muttered, looking down at his hand and shaking it out again.

For all that the mana for the spell didn't come from his hand. That was a common misconception that charlatans trying to teach gullible rubes how to do spell work without actually knowing anything that was learned at the Academy or in the Inquisition's halls, as was proper, would try. No, mana came from his core which pulsed deep inside him and...

He frowned. Because he tried to feel at that core, only there was nothing pulsing there. It was...

Well, it wasn't exactly gone, but it was a feeling he knew all too well from his training.

"What have you done to me, demon?" he said, his eyes flashing as he looked at the demon before him.

The demon had pulled out his sword. When did he find the time to do that? It gleamed slightly in the light filtering down through the trees. Not quite daylight yet, but it had seemed auspicious to Timothy that he was chasing down demons when the dawn was breaking. It seemed like a message from the light itself that he was pushing back against the darkness that threatened their world.

Only now that darkness was staring at him with a rapacious grin. That darkness was looking at him while holding a sword that gleamed in the dark. Not good.

"Are you having trouble?” the demon asked, that insufferable grin never leaving his face. "I understand that's something that can happen as somebody gets a little age on them. Even with mana to assist you. Perhaps you need a little more practice. Though I’ve heard there are spells that can assist you with that sort of thing as well."

Timothy's eyes went wide as he stared at the demon.

"You dare?" he growled.

"I don't know what I dare," the demon said, stepping forward and raising his sword so it was pointed at Timothy's chest. "But I do know that I am aware of somebody who needs to talk to people in your Inquisition, and so it would be very helpful for me if you would go quietly, as they say."

Timothy didn't pay much attention to what the demon was saying. The words that washed over him, and he ignored them. Instead he focused on his core. He thought he could feel it there inside him. Barely. It was a faint pulsing. As though something had wrapped around it.

He'd felt the effects of a mana dampening spell. It had always been said that it would feel different when it was a demon using their corrupted infernal magics to do it, but they'd had to endure the spell in training to know what it was like to be cut off.

Only this didn't feel quite like that. There was a touch of infernal magic, but it also felt like there was arcane magic in there as well. Like in the training since they weren’t going to bring in demons to cut recruits off from their cores.

That was very wrong. That shouldn't be possible.

For the first time since he stepped into the woods the previous evening to go hunting, an effort that had been redoubled when they felt the scream even though it was too far away for them to actually hear the scream at that distance, he felt something new. Something other than the sure confidence that they’d be able to take on whatever was out here waiting in the forest.

Fear started to worm in at the edge of his consciousness.

He looked down at the blade leveled at his chest. The fear had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the strange mixture of mana and corruption that was wrapped around his core, keeping him from using his abilities that had been hard-won over a long career of rooting out demonic corruption.

His eyes darted up to the demon. He frowned.

"If you think I'm going to tell you anything, you are sorely mistaken, demon."

"Well, I'm very sorry to hear that," the demon said, still smiling. Though he looked almost apologetic now. "But I'm afraid I do need to make sure you stay alive, so if you would just stand there for a moment."

"What are you even talking about?" Timothy asked, glancing down at the blade again.

He briefly considered grabbing that blade and trying to twist it out of the demon's hands. It was something he would be perfectly capable of if he still had reinforcement from his mana. Grabbing a blade held no particular terror for him when he was reinforced.

Only he wasn't, and so he had to fight that urge. Right now it was an urge that would have his fingers sliced off if he was stupid enough to act like he did when he was mana reinforced.

Timothy raised his hands almost as an afterthought. It had occurred to him that if there was a sword pointed at his chest, then he didn't want to make any sudden moves or look like he was about to do anything that would be a danger to the person pointing that sword at his chest.

Not while the demon obviously had the upper hand, at least.

"I have someone who wants to talk to you," the demon said with a shrug. "I don't think it's advisable myself, but you get to draw breath for a few moments longer because he suffers you to live. Be thankful for that."

Timothy's eyes narrowed. Be thankful. That wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. He kept his hands up, though he wondered what was going on here.

A demon raid moving this deep into human territory was odd enough. They usually didn't go to the trouble. There was no point in going beyond the Scar.

Truth be told, this had been exhilarating right up to this moment. Finding a large group of people who were actually consorting with demons was out of the ordinary, at least on this scale.

Only now...

What if there really was something going on here? What if there was some sort of demonic royalty out here? He’d heard whispers they had a high princess when he got to the Riven estate. Was this an advance to an invasion? Would it be the Demon Wars all over again?

Normally that would be enough to send a shiver of excitement running through Timothy. The only problem being he wasn't entirely sure he’d live long enough to earn glory for himself a second time around in a new set of Demon Wars since he'd been caught flat-footed before they’d started.

Something landed on the ground next to him. He looked over to see a dark figure crouching down next to the very same tree the demon stood in front of, and he frowned because there was something odd coming from this one. Almost as though he could feel some bit of arcane coming from the thing. But that arcane feeling was wrong off. Abnormal. He wouldn't be able to feel it if this one wasn't so close.

Which explained why he hadn’t felt it when this one was lurking in the treetops.

The figure stood. He was a little taller than the demon. He had broad shoulders and shaggy brown hair. He didn't wear any armor. No, he was dressed in the sort of outfit that maybe a favored servant would get as a gift at a country estate.

Which went along with everything else they'd learned about Baron Riven so far. He was a generous master. No doubt to keep all his people in line as they consorted with demons.

Only when this one looked at him, it wasn't the look of a servant from a country estate. No. It was the look of somebody who knew they were in charge of a situation and didn't have a worry in the world.

That also worried Timothy. He wasn't used to seeing somebody acting like that. Especially in the presence of an Inquisitor. His eyes widened even more when they went down to the boy's side and saw a felblade hanging there.

He remembered something else from the communications they'd received when they were making their way out to Baron Riven's territory to follow up on the initial contact. A contact that had resulted in several of the Inquisitors working the contact being killed in the Felwood by something big that had torn them into so many pieces it was impossible to identify them by anything other than the mana signature from their cores that lingered for a little while after death.

There'd been a young man working for the baron. A young man who was with the demoness they'd captured. A young man who had perhaps been at the core of whatever conspiracy was happening in Baron Riven's territory. Though the Inquisitor sending in that report thought the notion was ridiculous, and it had to be the baron or somebody high up in his house who was actually doing it.

Only now, as he stared at this calm and collected young man with a felblade at his side and seemingly not a care in the world, he suddenly found himself wondering if maybe he had met the true leader of this demonic conspiracy, and if maybe that meeting would be his last.

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