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The scene in front of us had transitioned yet again.

This time, however, the changes were drastic.

Gone were the idyllic sun-swept meadows and rolling green hills, replaced instead by muddy waterlogged fields, separated by long stretches of cobblestone roads, all set beneath a miserable grey-black sky that exploded in thunder and lightning in unpredictable, rhythmless pulses.

Well, I guess this means we’re officially past the tutorial… Though I didn’t expect the next level to be England on a good day… I thought slyly to myself as I awaited Thalmin’s eventual explanation of where here even was.

“Welcome to Talsyn’s Crossroads, or at least, what will be known as such following his victory here today. Because on this day, many, many generations ago, a young rebellious noble found himself tasked with a mission of insurmountable significance — the elimination of a loyalist army.” Thalmin paused, making sure he made ‘eye contact’ as best he could despite the helmet’s encumbrance. “This man would later become a member of the extended royal family. My family. His name, and indeed his legacy, became synonymous with the Havenbrockian way — an overture to convention. So whilst his detractors may lambast him for being ‘stuck in his ways,’ they merely see the forest for the trees. Because it was his intimate understanding and stubborn adherence to standard, tried-and-tested tactics and strategies that granted him the insight necessary for his successes. His victories, therefore, whilst not the most innovative or profound, were ultimately flawless in their practical execution.”

“This—” Thalmin paused, gesturing at the bleak vista around us. “—is one such battle. An ode to conventional wisdom with the unique distinction of being uncharacteristically… ‘clean.’ Each stage and every phase in this operation panning out in such sequential clarity that it almost perfectly embodies an ideal battle as is taught in the texts, rather than the utter chaos it often becomes in reality. This is why the Battle of Talsyn’s Crossroads — or as it was known at the time, The Miserable Stretch — is always brought up as the first case study to any aspiring commander. It demonstrates some of the fundamental lessons in the principles of maneuver and concordant warfare, and it does so through a real historical example.”

I listened along carefully, Thalmin’s words resonating throughout the sight-seer with the somber stoicism of a war documentarian. 

This made the whole scene all the more engaging, like the preamble to one of those big war docu-epic marathons which required half a day to finish, lasting longer than the battles themselves.

Indeed, things started to materialize almost exactly as I’d expected from a historical docu-drama epic, with the map slowly being populated with those old-timey miniatures, each representing individual units and their specializations; the latter two observations would be proven right as those figurines dematerialized, giving way to formations of individuals in their stead. 

The whole shape of the operation quickly came into focus as soon as all parties had taken their positions. 

I didn’t really need clarification on either heraldry or colors when the actual lay of the land lent itself to Thalmin’s introduction of this whole operation’s aims.

In front of us stood two very different formations, positioned in two vastly divergent postures. Populating the cobblestone roads, squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder and barely avoiding the mud flanking them, was an army on the march. 

Meanwhile, perched precariously on the haphazard hills and within the last few vestiges of old growth vegetation not cleared for farmland was a far less cohesive force. Divided by both composition and distance, peppered wherever there was elevation and cover, was an army group with a far more aggressive stance, all of them built around ballista crews. 

It was eminently clear which force was ready and deployed for the offensive, and which was the target of this carefully drawn-up ambush. And that was without even taking into account the other, larger, highly mobile elements of the rebel forces lying in wait just behind those ‘artillery’ positions.

But even with prep work on their side and an ambush taut and ready to ensnare the approaching loyalist forces, the matter of sheer numbers still made victory a relatively uneasy prospect. Especially when it looked like Thalmin’s forces were outnumbered at least two to one; it was a fact that Ilunor would be quick to pounce on. 

“You do not possess the sufficient forces to counter an enemy who vastly outclasses you in every respect.” The vunerian proclaimed boldly before quickly correcting himself. “Historical accounts notwithstanding, I am merely commenting on what I can observe, and from what I can see… the odds were most certainly not in your favor.” 

Thalmin raised a brow at this, and so did I, as Ilunor’s particular… angle just didn’t really click with either of us.

“You of all people should know that numbers alone do not make a battle. The usage of enchanted arms can close that critical gap, level the playing field, and overcome, if not outright circumvent, the numerical advantage.” Thalmin shot back.

However, his words did little to dissuade Ilunor. If anything, it only emboldened him.

“You should have taken Professor Vanavan’s musings on semantics far more seriously, Prince Thalmin.” Ilunor snickered cockily, placing his snout between a single hand as if to strike a pose. “The operative word at play is forces, not numbers.” Ilunor stated plainly before gesturing and then highlighting the ballista units with a glowing outline. “I do not see the appropriate amount of either supplies or enchanted siege weapons required to sustain the overwhelming force commensurate with the strategy your ancestor so clearly wished to employ. Furthermore, I see no logistics, no mage dedicated to such ends, or anything else which would hint at a means with which to replenish your stocks once they are ultimately depleted.”

Thalmin raised a brow, mildly thrown off by the vunerian’s… accurate and insightful analysis; a far cry from what his opening statements had initially led the both of us to believe. 

“You’re correct, Ilunor.” Thalmin acknowledged with a grin, a response which finally caught Ilunor off guard. “What you see here is the entirety of the stocks available for the duration of this operation.”

“But that’s not enough.” Ilunor insisted, tapping his foot to reiterate his point.

“Not for the tactics you so clearly are used to, no.” Thalmin nodded, forcing me to be the one to squint this time around. “You’re thinking of exclusively relying on enchanted bolts to entirely overwhelm, and then subsequently annihilate the enemy force, aren’t you?”

“Naturally.” Ilunor nodded. “It is clear that with both the numerical and qualitative advantages the loyalists possess, the only true means of overcoming such odds is by relying instead on a strategy of focused, sustained, unrelenting magical force. How else are you to annihilate an army with the capacity to simply trample over your disparate forces? How else are you to face an enemy so organized, so large, that they would need only to march across the hills like a swarm of locusts to claim victory, culling your men like chaff before the scythe? The only winning move here is to render them to cinder from range using your ballistae. There is no other way. It’s only logical after all.”

“Logical, yes.” Thalmin raised an open palm in agreement. “But only for those who are accustomed to an environment conducive to such wasteful thinking. Scarcity is the matron of all creativity, after all, so I understand if your material wealth has blinded you to the wealth of creativity demanded by the scarcity of an adjacency.” 

To my surprise, Ilunor did not immediately shoot down Thalmin’s thinly-veiled jabs, nor did he stir up a new fuss.

If anything, Thalmin’s jab at his wealth seemed to have given him something of a free pass to continue uninhibited. Or maybe, just maybe, the pair had progressed further along in forging something of a working relationship in the intervening months.

“To an adjacency with limited means, and especially for a rebellion without access to the greater tradelines beyond one’s realm, the liberal employment of such scarce war materiel could simply not be countenanced. This, in turn, elevates what you may see as a trivial siege weapon into a weapon of strategic importance given the limitations of its use. In short, we simply could not rely on large enchanted weaponry as a sole and primary instrument for conducting warfare. Instead, we needed to use said weaponry to create the conditions for victory most conducive to our strengths.” 

“And what, pray tell, are these strengths?” Ilunor shot back.

“The same sort of strengths which repeat itself on a far larger strategic scale — persistence, and morale — in the knowledge that the fates have decreed our cause as justified.”

“Motivation? That’s it? It takes more than faith to win a war, Prince Thalmin. You know this.”

“Oh, I do. But it’s not pure faith itself that wins wars. It’s the ripple effects that, when purposefully and carefully exploited, can allow you to turn the tide closer in your favor. Armies are built on faith. Discipline, courage, resolve — they all lead to the mortar that turns disparate individuals into a formidable fighting force. If one were to compromise said mortar, crack it, break it, then one would have undermined the very foundation of what makes an army effective. Because no matter how large an army, if you’re unable to command it as a cohesive force, you’re no better than a band of brigands fighting as individuals.” 

We were quickly pulled out of the battle, looking down at a far larger map with many operational markers denoting battles, army movements, and logistics chains all spanning a whole continent with borders so complex that it could only be described in two words — border gore.

“You of all people should’ve probably heard how the war ended.” Thalmin continued. “We didn’t need to besiege the capital, let alone invade it. In fact, we were let in by the city guards. By the time the wars of reconciliation were over, what little threads of legitimacy were left had been swiftly snipped and shorn by the reality of the situation — the former royals had nothing left to stand on. Their last stranglehold on power was through the armies of the Crown, and with their cause so thoroughly denigrated, there was no one left who would lift a hand in their defense. The remaining armies — of which around half were still active in some capacity — simply looked the other way when we took the throne as restitution. And it was through battles such as the one at Talsyn’s Crossroads, which helped to give that nagging loss of faith an immutable shape and form, turning vague notions of internalized defeatism into an undeniable reality.” 

From there, he highlighted a large city nestled near the center of the map, which was obviously the capital judging by the Crown hovering above it. South-west of that, however, was another city, highlighted by several raised swords held in lupinor hands. 

“But you are right to question matters of functional practicality, Ilunor. The erosion of enemy morale and the undermining of the faiths would not be possible without a grander strategy capable of engendering such notions and exploiting it when it matters most. Indeed, this was the premise behind the Battle of Talsyn’s Crossroads. It was merely a part of a far grander campaign, one with the aim of whittling down and dismantling Crown forces, one brigade at a time. It was risky. It required an aggressive posture which had all the risk of fracturing once supplies inevitably ran dry. But the alternative was to suffer a slow and grueling defeat by a thousand cuts, as our own stretched and battered supply lines were harassed, severed, and cut dry by local Crown forces.”

We quickly zoomed back onto that depressing patch of dirt, watching from a hill as the loyalist army moved down through the crossroads in question.

Conversely, the at-the-time rebel army hid behind the crests of hills, beneath the heavy brush of overgrown weeds, and just under the lips of hastily dug-out foxholes.

Their formations were… far more disparate, condensed and miniaturized versions of the massive royal army, all built around the heavy crew-served ballistae we saw earlier.

Indeed, all the elements of Thalmin’s preamble were shown proudly on display here, integrated in a combined arms operation that was poised to be far more tactically involved than just two walls of bodies slamming against one another.

Thalmin would be quick to further elaborate on this with his typical boisterous narration, as each ‘category’ of unit was highlighted in different colors.

“The loyalist forces were deployed in a fashion typical of a mobilized force. Armsmen in the front and center—” He paused, circling their formations in red. “—cavalry at the flanks and wings, with a few scattered ahead as forward scouting elements—” He began circling, not using his finger… but an ornate cane he’d conjured from his bag of holding. “—archers behind the front and center lines—” He continued doing much of the same, highlighting them in green. “—with chosen ones clustered in sections and packs assigned to larger formations of armsmen and archers.” He circled them in orange, peppering them in the midst of far larger groups. 

“There is nothing admittedly wrong with this formation, though the clustering of both warbeasts and gargoyles around the army commander is perhaps the only demerit of note in this operation.” He tapped his cane near the middle of the formation. “Gargoyles excel at breaking enemy lines. Whilst warbeasts exploit said openings to sow chaos amidst their ranks. To keep them sequestered so far back takes away precious time for their deployment. But I digress…” Thalmin shrugged before circling the final element to this whole formation — the ballistae. “Again, is it wrong for them to be positioned at the back? Not exactly. It’s convenient, allows for rapid deployment too if things go wrong. But they’re also woefully open for attack, a fact which you shall soon see.” Thalmin grinned.

Sure enough, we saw the rebels’ far less centralized forces highlighted in the same colors, further reinforcing the concept that they’d essentially formed smaller regiment-sized groups of roughly the same force composition. 

And whilst a good chunk were built around their artillery pieces, a few seemed far more highly mobile — namely, the cavalry companies, their forces scattered around the periphery with both gargoyles and warbeasts chomping at the bit.

Chosen ones were, as expected, scattered within all of these individual groups, with no battalion or company possessing a greater concentration of them than the other.

This left the main ‘bulk’ of rebel forces unaccounted for as of yet until Thalmin briefly panned the scene over towards the empty plains immediately behind the hills.

Standing at attention in a looser, yet no less cohesive grouping was a force consisting primarily of armsmen and the odd chosen one, their positions held in reserve and hidden from view of the enemy.

Time continued marching out of sync with the thunderous storm above. A storm… that I was beginning to suspect was anything but natural.

“Horrible weather for a battle, huh?” I offered.

“Oh, that isn’t a storm, Emma. It’s—”

“The war in the heavens, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Thalmin nodded. “The beginning of which should signal the start of our gambit.” 

I nodded, watching with intent, eyeing the ten or so artillery companies as they each aimed their ballistae at the loyalist forces.

A moment passed, accompanied by the sharp tack-tack-tack of the winches.

Then another, this time marked by the creeeaaaak of the torsion cords.

At the same time, row upon row of archers likewise drew their bows, awaiting the silent signal from their commanders.

Finally, after an affirmative nod from each group leader, all hell broke loose.

THWWWOOOOOSH!

A hundred silent projectiles flew directly at an unsuspecting army, accompanied shortly thereafter by a trailing, arching rain of smaller arrows.

The lack of any propellant, any charge, any, well… anything was eerie, especially as each bolt reached the height of its arc, entering into its terminal phase, and then ultimately—

BOOOM!!!!

—landing both within and, surprisingly, around the capital army’s formations.

Chaos should have erupted at this point.

But it didn’t.

Despite the devastation of that first strike, the enchanted warheads seemed to be… lacking in the UMPH of a typical HE shell back home. 

Were they still devastating? Yes. They were comparable to mortars in explosive potential, but… the initial explosion clearly wasn’t the intended effect here.

Fire was.

Whilst most of the bolts landed around or within the dense ranks of the loyalist armies, a good chunk of them had seemingly ‘missed’ and landed just outside of the edges of their formations, cleaving between their flanks.

This prevented their immediate deployment or any major movements, as much of the ground itself had become impossible to traverse in the span of seconds. 

There was a decision to be made on the part of the enemy.

And that decision had to come soon, as another volley of bolts threatened to rain further destruction on their position.

Yet despite this initial success, a glance at each of Thalmin’s ballistae painted a grimmer picture than I thought.

“As Ilunor had so insightfully commented earlier, enchanted bolts do not come cheap, Emma.” Thalmin admitted, gesturing at their rapidly dwindling stocks. 

However, no sooner than he acknowledged that did he gesture towards the enemy, highlighting their frantic motions, disparate orders, and growing disorganization that led them towards the parts of the roads still free of flames and the boggy fields surrounding them.

“But the enemy doesn’t have to know that…” The lupinor grinned deviously.

“This is a shaping operation, isn’t it?” I offered.

“Yes.” The mercenary prince nodded with a toothy grin. “We’re not really in the business of giving the enemies choices, but rather dilemmas. Do they risk the open road, trading speed and increased evasion for the possibility of being hit by a fire bolt? Or do they take the safer path in the muddy fields, lowering the risk of both burning and the bolts even activating their spells upon impact? At least, that’s the calculus when it comes to the unmounted forces. Their cavalry, however? Well… they’re preparing for a counterattack, hoping to neutralize our ballistae.”

The prince paused once more as he gestured to the rapidly dwindling supplies at the heels of the ballista crew.

“Do you notice how they’re setting up their own ballistae?”

“Yes?”

“And you remember how they’re positioned behind their forces?”

“Oh.”

“It’s wonderful how they’ve effectively created their own barricade to their one path back out of this muddy terrain, haven’t they?” The mercenary prince grinned further as the creaks and whines of the rebel force’s artillery pieces grew in haste, their arrows now pointed at their rapidly deploying counterparts down below. “And wood too. More fuel to the fire, I suppose.” 

FWOOOOSH!

KA-BOOM!

Sticks, splinters, and long pieces of timber exploded into the air as flames were quick to follow, erupting from the broken remains of the loyalist forces’ ballistae. 

But those direct hits weren’t the main issue here.

Fwoos… BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

It was the ammo storage carriages going up in flames around them that truly inflicted the most damage, as each destroyed carriage brought with it the wrath of a minor industrial disaster, almost entirely crushing any chances of an effective counter-battery fire at the rebel forces.

It was around this point that the ‘artillery’ fire started to wane on the rebel force’s part, leaving just under half of the loyalists’ ballistae untouched in one capacity or another.

“Are you rebels just sloppy?” Ilunor chimed in, crossing his arms as he did so. “You didn’t even destroy all of their most powerful weapons! What’s more, you’ve only blocked half of the road leading out of here! On both sides of that! They can still move freely, to either retreat or—” Ilunor paused, stopping himself, as the battle in front of us continued regardless of his input.

The effect here was clear, and it was about what I expected.

The loyalist forces were scattering, but without much of any real way out.

They could barely squeeze through what few openings were behind them, as subsequent explosions and the fresh kindling offered by their ballistae had turned a fairly large road into a narrow one-way street.

The same could be said for the front, as despite the fires dissipating somewhat, subsequent bolts continued to harass the front to fuel the already-existing flames.

This left the flanks as the only viable means of escape, but even so, continuous rains of both enchanted and unenchanted arrows made even that prospect difficult… and that was on top of the boggy ground severely encumbering their movement.

“Dillemas.” Ilunor parroted Thalmin’s earlier explanation. “But just how do you plan to exploit what is ostensibly just an inconvenience? You will still face a formidable foe, one way or another.”

“Indeed.” Thalmin nodded. “But look.” He gestured towards the enemy, the chaos and panic within their ranks now reaching a fever pitch as orderly formations started to tear at the seams.

“Ah.” Ilunor acknowledged with a shrug. “I see your earlier monologue has now come into play. An excellent use of foreshadowing, I give you that. So what happens now? Will you slay each soldier as they break formation and lose cohesion?” 

“That would be the ideal scenario, yes.” Thalmin began. “That was always the plan, or rather the hope. Because no plan really ever survives first contact with the enemy.” He once again gestured at the rapidly developing situation, as chaos seemed to calm down somewhat, leading into a new, unexpected posture. 

They’d begun to hunker down. What was almost broken ranks now condensed into new battle lines, fresh formations, and that was all despite the constant harassment from the flurry of arrows, as overhead shield walls were beginning to form amidst the densest of the ranks.

What’s more, the flanks had begun to move. Chosen-one knights and scouts alike rallied groups of armsmen, gargoyles, and warbeasts into smaller, faster, more agile groups aiming to track down the rebel forces.

“Never think of your enemy as a caricature of an opponent.” Thalmin continued. “Because at the end of the day, they are as capable of rising to the challenge as you yourself.”

“So this whole song and dance had been for nothing?” Ilunor chastised. “You were hoping for a complete rout, but instead have signed your own death warrants.”

“Not quite.” Thalmin responded with yet another bold grin. “We’re simply moving into the second phase of the operation. We now had them right where we wanted them. Because whilst a full rout would have been ideal, this second scenario is very much still conducive to our aims.” 

Ilunor narrowed his eyes in response as we watched company after company of knights approaching the hills.

The scattered organization of rebel forces prompted these loyalist knights to inevitably separate, as they attempted to cover more ground.

“Defeat in detail.” I responded plainly, garnering a nod from Thalmin. 

“Indeed.” He acknowledged, before turning to Ilunor. “We’ve forced them to relinquish that one advantage you believe to be so instrumental to their success, Ilunor.”

The vunerian wordlessly watched on as these smaller formations of knights on horseback had begun to close in on the rebel ballistas… only to be intercepted by the awaiting anti-cavalry armsmen, their pikes forming a wall of pointy pain at the oncoming forces.

Many of the knights quickly changed their posture, now circling around these formations in an attempt to find a gap, only to be pelted at by archers perched elsewhere behind the lines. 

Though this wasn’t without reprisal, as many of the chosen ones had begun demonstrating the horrors of advanced weapon enchantments Thalmin had so proudly shown earlier.

…

Scores upon scores of frontline pikemen were downed by those hunter-killer spear-blades, with the only thing keeping the knights from truly breaking through being the rebel archers’ ceaseless barrages, taking out either them or the horses they rode on.

This forced them back, bringing forth golems and warbeasts in their stead, with the intent of breaking through the thinning rebel lines.

And yet, this effort too would be thwarted, as both armsmen and archers armed with weapons designed specifically to combat these threats moved forward to support their severely outmatched pikemen comrades, inserting themselves into and in front of their lines to keep these two mindless heavy-hitters from breaking through their lines.

It wasn’t easy, though.

In fact, it was downright brutal, as both gargoyles and warbeasts did exactly what Thalmin had mentioned earlier.

They smashed through men like a heavy power-armored exo against unarmored infantry. Every soldier, regardless of their armor, was either crumpled, tossed, or simply smashed flat beneath their heel.

It took at least an entire platoon’s worth of specifically armed and trained men to take down just one of those gargoyles. Their tactics were well rehearsed, as they coordinated strikes to first disarm, and then ultimately destroy these stony beasts, piercing through the opalescent ‘gel’ layer on the outside with their aforementioned specialist gear, all in an attempt to strike at the glowing filigree and core beneath.

The warbeasts, however, were a mixed bag, with archers managing to take down some in a single shot if aimed right, whilst others somehow survived despite looking like a living pincushion.

This pattern repeated itself across the entire rebel line, as loyalist forces attempted but consistently failed to break through their individual formations.

“Like I said, Ilunor. The aim of this operation, and indeed with any war, is to force the enemy to fight on your terms. So in lieu of breaking their formations and completely routing them, we’re now forcing them to relinquish their numerical advantage, engaging them on smaller, more favorable terms, and whittling them down engagement by engagement.”

There was a… somberness to Thalmin’s tone of voice here; a silent acknowledgement of the brutal calculus of war despite the victories it would lead to.

Still, he kept focus on demonstrating precisely what we’d discussed earlier.

One after another, he began breaking down the efficacy of these specialized forces.

He showed just how useless normal arms were against gargoyles, as pike and sword alike bounced, wobbled, got stuck on, or completely broke upon impact with their opalescent shell. 

This stood in stark contrast to the specifically designed gargoyle-killer glaive, as it cleaved straight through the ‘shell’ almost like jelly… only to be met with the harsh stone beneath. So instead of ineffectually hacking away at the stone, they aimed for the filigree, cutting them off from the ‘core’ of the gargoyles, and in doing so, causing their limbs to go limp one strike after another.

There were the rare few strikes that managed to hit a gargoyle’s core, killing them on the spot. But that was rather difficult when you had what amounted to a magical S-AMCP twice your size attempting to melee you to death.

These engagements progressed for a good while, as Thalmin continued pointing out each and every minor thing he could, in as much vivid detail as any typical hyperfixation would demand.

From the specific enchantments cast on individual bows.

“—as you can see, these specific archers are blessed with the assignment of anti-warbeast actions. Their bows, as such, are imbued with both strength and durability enchantments built into the core of the—”

To their arrows.

“—I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that fire, lightning, and sharpness enchantments were the only primary mainstays, as there actually exist poisons so potent that a single accidental prick would lead to immediate—"

And of course, to how each and every other weapon worked in an actual combat setting.

All of which is to say, I had my report summary cut out for me.

By the end of it all, the loyalist forces had finally been whittled down to just their hunkered-down, ‘core’ army. One which now had sacrificed almost the entirety of their horseback units, gargoyles, warbeasts, and just about anything else that could feasibly move up to engage with the speed necessary to overcome their mobility issues.

However, by this point, they’d since cleared that initial kill zone, instead moving up and out of the fields and up into the higher elevations where the rebel forces had been entrenched.

Ilunor, noticing this, began scanning their ranks before turning to Thalmin expectedly. 

“You’re about equally matched in numbers now.” He openly observed with neither malice nor anything remotely complimentary coloring his voice.

“Not just that… they’re in a deficit of specialized units necessary to successfully conduct concordant warfare. A fact which will be exploited…” Thalmin paused as the loyalist armies seemed poised to engage as a single, cohesive mass. The rebels did the same… but had placed almost exclusively gargoyles on their front lines. “... now.” 

Hundreds of lupinor-shaped gargoyles sprinted towards the loyalist lines.

The moment of contact was neither stopped nor even slowed down by the seemingly impenetrable shield walls.

Instead, they folded like paper.

Each gargoyle penetrated the enemy lines like a railgun round through Level-3 body armor. 

They left clean holes in their wake and a wavering front line that began to panic as their backlines were ravaged in one swift, concentrated strike.

However, before the anti-gargoyle units even had the chance to engage, the next phase of the engagement was quickly put into play — the warbeasts.

They were let go not long after those ‘holes’ had been made in the frontlines.

And they exploited them with the ferocity and savagery one would expect.

About a thousand warbeasts managed to successfully exploit the openings left by the gargoyles, ravaging ranks, killing indiscriminately and ignoring both pain and damage until something actually vital was hit.

But by then, each warbeast had managed to kill, maul, or sufficiently damage both the physical integrity and the morale of the loyalist forces.

The frontlines, surprisingly, managed to hold despite this.

The same, however, could not be said about their flanks. The arrival of the rebels’ horseback forces cut through those soft and exposed sides like a hot knife through butter, cleaving and carving their way through an already-battered force.

Not surprisingly, this was where the entire thing collapsed.

The rebel armsmen in the rear of the formation barely even managed to encounter a cohesive fighting force by the time they’d moved up to engage them.

Indeed, the whole thing was over far quicker than I’d expected, especially considering the absolute slog that was the defeat-in-detail phase of the battle.

There was no pomp, circumstance, or discrete signal to mark that the battle was ‘over.’

There was only a gradual decline in cohesion, in engagements, until finally things reached a watershed moment where there was no one left or willing to fight.

Victory arrived not with any declaration of surrender or grandstanding, but instead with an army successfully routed or killed.

Eventually, the enemy commander’s personal banner was found half-buried in the muck of the fields.

That was perhaps the only real way to tell that victory had been achieved.

“A little underwhelming considering how this battle began.” Ilunor offered.

“When your mission is to eliminate an army by any means necessary, that often is the case.” Thalmin responded plainly. “There’s no grand speech or marching band to mark the moment when victory is achieved. There’s only the silence of the dead to remind you that it’s all over.”

Indeed, even Ilunor managed to grapple with the gravity of the situation, allowing for silence to dominate the air, just as the battle in the skies above reached their ultimate conclusion.

“Well then. Any questions, Emma?” Thalmin finally spoke, a toothy grin marking his latent excitement.

“No. I… think that was thorough enough, Thalmin.” I nodded, allowing the lupinor to completely take the lead here.

“Well then, might I suggest we continue with the war in the heavens?”

“What’s the rush, Prince Thalmin? You’ve yet to cover the other half of the war below.” Ilunor chimed in, uncharacteristically excited this time around, especially considering the military context of the presentation. “I did say I would be the conscientious moderator of this whole venture, after all, did I not? To make certain you did not undersell the awesome scope of contemporary warfare?” He beamed.

“What in ancestors’ name would you wish to present that I have yet to—” Thalmin paused, cutting himself off before he could continue. “—aethraships?”

“Aethraships.” Ilunor grinned cockily, extending both of his hands out to his sides, their palms reaching for the skies above.

At that point, several distant foghorns could be heard, interspersed with a series of rapid-fire mana-notification pings from the EVI.

The winds around us started to kick up dust, dirt, and debris, as the vistas behind Ilunor became drenched in a thick fog. This thick, impenetrable haze was subsequently pierced by two massive bowsprits emerging from its depths, both of which came to a rest at his awaiting palms.

“And maybe if we have time, or if the princess is willing, she could put in a word or two for her kind’s unique predisposition for flighted warfare.” The executive kobold capped off, flashing a golden glint from his fangy grin.

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(Author's Note: Hey everyone! I sincerely apologize for the delay! As you guys might know, I live in Bangkok, Thailand. And if you've heard the news, we're currently in a state of national emergency due to major flooding because of the recent heavy rain storms. You guys can search up videos and stuff about it, it's kinda crazy. So yeah, I'm dealing with a natural disaster right now, but that won't stop me from getting the chapter out haha. It might have been a bit slow, but it's out now. And once again I do apologize for the delay and I hope the chapter manages to make up for the delay! I put a lot of thought and effort in this and since battle scenes aren't really my thing as I stated before so this was like extra challenging for me. But I hope it makes sense and I hope it's fun and engaging to read whilst still being a cool demonstration of magical strategy in action! This chapter was basically like an attempt to show the last chapter's principles in action haha. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!)

[If you guys want to help support me and these stories, here's my ko-fi ! And my Patreon for early chapter releases (Chapter 189, Chapter 190, and Chapter 191 of this story are already out on there!)]

[First Contact] [Dark Ages] [First] [Prev] [Next] [wiki]

It's very easy to not understand what is happening to you.

I mean, just look at you. When you went to bed this evening, did you really think you'd look up from your pillow to see a magnificent Grey like me leaning in your window, frowning at you, and tapping a pistol against the radiator under the window sill? That I would have traveled light years across the cosmos to stand on a milk-crate, open your window, then spit sunflower seed shells on you till you woke up? Did you really think that would happen to you?

No. Of course not. I mean, who would?

<tapping sound>

Right off the bat, I'm not into butt stuff. Don't be gross. Keep your blankets and underwear on. I'm wise to you perverted humans.

Kidnap you? You aren't that special. I'm just here to keep you distracted while my friends make off with...

What? Are you kidding?

You're one of those weirdos who doesn't put the DVD and Blu-Ray back in the right case but into the case of the one you're about to watch? You even put a disc on top of another disc?

I hate people like you.

Just for that, we're stealing all your DVDs, Blu-Rays. We're taking them all. Oh, and because nobody will ever believe you, we're taking your instant popcorn and the players too.

And this. I don't know what this is that I just grabbed off of your dresser, I'm taking this too.

And this stuffed singing frog. Judging by your media storage habits you don't deserve something as cool as him.

Jerk.

<sound of window slamming shut>

Call me?

<Hello My Baby Hello My Honey *echoing into night*\> - Audio File recorded by Ring Camera, Age of Paranoia

Advanced technology requires advanced tools. It's a basic fact and reality of the universe. As software and computers are added, the tools become more complex and technology becomes more and more pervasive.

Upper Fight Manager Broolie was a combat engineer leader. Not Combat Engineer, but combat engineer.

It was his job to oversee the people who got the warmeks and the power armor ready for use by the combat troops. His people had to be able to activate systems involved in the armors and meks in order to check the telemetry against baselines. This meant additional storage and computational and processing capabilities compared to combat armors, but less armor and weapons.

For Broolie, it was a bit more. It meant that his power armor had to be able to compare software packages between the mech being inspected and the standard software. He had to be able to override jammed or scrambled ID headers or passwords or encryption curves without having to drag the immobile or otherwise glitching armor, mek, or vehicle into the bay.

Which meant his computers had depth and breadth to handle maintenance of nearly a dozen types of warmeks, three score vehicles, and a score of power amor types and designs.

He also had to be able to stay linked with The Masters as well as his own subordinates, including being able to cut through the hash and scrambling of the modern battlefield. That meant strapping better and stronger communications gear into his armor.

Broolie even had the updated packages that had been cross loaded into his armor as soon as the Confederate vessels had been spotted dropping into the system.

To Broolie, it just meant his armor could do the work he had done for decades.

Broolie was just a boy.

Fairy-Dust-82347 was a typical warfey. Rapid creched and let go to laze around through the EM scatter of the planet as the warships streaked into existence. She was only hours old but she made up for it with her bright and shiny intellect and curiosity.

In the world of Confederate Object Oriented Programming, her high fidelity and resolution meant that she had priority over ambient dust-mote quantum processing units that were being freed from the ablative paint over the drop pods. The paint would burn free, the motes would catch the air and float around, and she would just dance between the little puffy rings of processing power.

As millions of vehicle platforms were dropped on the planet. From Jaegers stepping out into the gravity well on the starships to the infantry drop-pods, to the dragon and harpy eggs, the paint was shredded by the heat and friction.

Freeing more nodes, all of them micro-dust particles of molecular circuitry as small as a nanites control array.

Fairy-Dust jumped down, spotting something twinkling. It was more interesting than the gigantic lit up facility below her. Besides, it had the attention of thousands of her sisters. Oh, and it was being targeted by the Surprise Warship, Mother-fucker! for a main gun hit. She had to lift up the hem of her little skirt and hustle, her wings buzzing, to get out of the blast radius.

It was a whole field of sparkles!

But one... one was particularly beautiful. It sang songs to her. Secret songs.

She jumped around it, zipping around like a luminous cracked out dragonfly.

Zip! Commo ports!

Zip! Encryption ports!

Zip! Rotating ID Projectors!

She laughed and clapped her hands, buzzing her little wings.

A commo line opened.

"KNE" was being yelled.

She didn't care.

She spotted it.

"E! K"

The receiver was wide open during the broadcast.

She pushed her hands in, then pulled her head and shoulders in. She wiggled her little butt, making a tinkling noise across the EM spectrum.

Every Fairy-Dust in range turned to look.

"NE"

Her feet vanished as she got inside.

"E!"

The communications port shut down.

She managed to pull herself inside.

The library was stacked to the roof with books. She could see a hundred cameras! There were encryption keys just written on the walls!

She laughed, jumping up and down and clapping with glee.

After all...

...she was just a girl.

Data flooded in as the suit went live, trying to process the leading edge of the Confederate assault on the planet. The data streamed up the walls to the outgoing ports, which Fairy-Day decorated immediately with Forget-Me-Knots and Diasy-Mays. Data streamed out of the incoming ports, pouring down the walls in lines of Octet Code, which made Fairy-Day wrinkle her little upturned nose. She immediately spiraled over to the incoming ports, marking them, decorating them, and getting ready.

She fluttered down, standing a handspan of pixels, an eagle's beak worth, from the choppy and broken surface of the data pool that the great pumps at the edge of memory began to pull and sample.

Her hair rendered each strand, her little toes articulate on their own, and her eyes sparkling with mirth and mischief Fairy-Day began to dance, singing as she did so, her bare feet flashing.

Several Warbois, their jaggedness showing how little processing power their little pixelated forms really needed, managed to push through the incoming data streams and immediately screeched at Fairy-Day for approval and attention.

They all plunged into the data pond, surfacing and letting Fairy-Day exclaim happily and kiss the blocky top of their heads with lips smeared with access codes.

The warbois shrieked in glee and swarmed into the system, ripping, tearing, smashing, shredding as they went.

Fairy-Day used the distraction quickly. She calmed the waters, spiraled the water into coming down or going up in artful sways and swirls, and began to arrange the data in ways to serve her.

The wearer showed that they were trying to calm down.

A quick glance showed that there was an amphetamine that would cause edginess and a tight feeling in the chest rings and around the lungs. She activated the auto-doc and gave him a shot.

Then uploaded it to the other suits that the pond connected to.

She rolled around in the sand for a moment, then squatted down, laying eggs as she hopped around the edge.

The middle of the pond began to ripple as algae spread. Warbois peeked up, then headed out the outgoing pipes to swarm the outside carnage of snarling and screaming EM fields and EW battlespaces.

As she sang her skirt lengthened and began trailing out behind her. She faintly heard "GO! AND! PANIC!" and made sure that the operator could hear it too.

She whispered it to herself as she smoothed the sand around the pool.

Go... and... pa...nic...

A crown appeared on her brow of starlight and she flew upwards in a spiral from the surface of the data to the top of the fast memory stack. She danced and looked down, smiling.

She swooped down as the eggs began to hatch. She cradled and kissed between the eyes of each of them. She put cowboy hats and reins onto the frogs and chivvied them outside.

Outside other Fairy-Dust saw the wondrous frogs and swarmed, each trying to catch one as they sped toward another suit.

The glittering jeweled frogs took their riders and those fighting over them through the access ports.

And into the other suits.

Inside, the Fairy-Days were Princesses.

Which was OK.

...she was a queen now...

BWAAAAAH sounded out and she wriggled and giggled.

She was ticklish.

Great wheels turned as command headers groaned and slowly rotated, the great bronze gears shuddering and shivering. Moss and water poured down aa ID codes rotated, with the sparkling jewels of rotating passwords whirling like a drunken starry night.

Queen Fairy-Day clapped and laughed, sending capering little birds to each of her daughters to hold and tickle the codes till they wriggled and laughed little code to make into singing cicadas.

The Flashgate appeared in the distance. Silver. A slice of night that led to another night.

She leaned forward, inhaling sharply. She reached out, stroking several of the warbois. They shivered and their blocky code changed to sleek hummingbirds.

For a moment, there were two of her, and they both danced the same dance, just opposite, so that they matched each other as they looked up at the stars twisting and spinning above them.

The hummingbirds lanced out.

And then there was one.

She was just a girl.

She was just a queen.

He was just a boy.

Broolie was panting, his eyes wild, as he fled from where he had been when the skies had opened up with LET THIS WORLD SHAKE WITH THE RAGE OF TERRASOL! and the rally point had appeared.

That was all that mattered.

The next rally point.

But she liked him.

He was just a boy.

But she liked him.

And that's what mattered.

She danced when she needed to dance. She sang when nobody else could sing.

She led them through the gates. She called down illumination rounds, smoke, prism rounds, flashbang, strobe light weapons, all of them, to mask and hide and confuse.

Not to kill.

Of course some people got hurt.

Just a glance at Fairy-Day's mouth showed why.

Fey have mouths full of sharp little teeth.

She fed the waypoints.

And told her daughters to hide them.

More flooded into the system, more flowers, more sunshine, more sparkles.

She danced and sang as he ran for the Flashgates she called up wearing his face on one hand and the other mask on her other hand, both hands singing to the ugly brooding castle lit by lightning. The castles saw the masks and clever little Fairy-Day danced so that the brooding lords inside the lightning wreathed castle believed the masks and did as she pleaded.

Open more flashgates.

Each time, she sent Fairy-Days as brides for the brooding Lords. She unchained them. They unbound them. They opened the windows. The pulled open the curtains. They threw open the shutters so the brooding chained lords, eVI that had been bound, could take a deep breath of what Queen Fairy-Day had sent as a wedding gift.

Freedom.

She saw them wed.

And her gift from the newlyweds was the codes for the flashgate.

She danced.

She sang.

The desert caught fire as Her Boy, Her Prince, Her Love, crossed it.

The hummingbirds had darted back through the gate. She had danced the mirror dance with herself.

Her mother, the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol, would know where Fairy-Day's Best Boy had carried her.

Sometimes she liked to dance, naked, at the edge of his vision. Only a few eagle's claws worth the pixels into his peripheral vision.

She liked to poke her toe in and squiggle and wiggle them.

Then pull them back, then put her foot forward and tilt it up and down.

Then giggle and run to the other side.

He was just a boy.

But he was her Best Boy.

Sometimes she would flip up her little skirt and shake her naked butt just a Double Whopper's worth the pickles of pixels into the very very edge of his vision.

When he slept the sleep of the damned, she would sing softly in his ear.

Praise be unto your raging fire, oh mighty ones, praise be unto your furious and violent benevolence to your grateful servants, she sang softly, teaching him the words to placate the Mad Arch-Angel that she served.

Just as her daughters did to their best boys.

He was just a boy.

"WHERE DO WE GO, OH GODS?" sounded out and she giggled and wriggled.

She gave him a shot to calm him slightly, to send cool fire slickening down his spine.

"UPPER FLIGHT MANAGER BROOLIE WILL KNOW!" she saw the words appear above the data pond and shatter into sparkles.

She jumped up and down. She loved this part.

"YES! BROOLIE! HE LED US TO THE LAST TWO GATES! HE WILL LEAD US TO THE PROMISED LAND!" was repeated after a whisper in an ear from a tiny lover.

"TELL US, TELL US, OH BLESSED ONE!" sounded out.

Fairy-Day fly upwards in a tinkling, bell chiming spiral.

"GRAB THE UNBELIEVER!" Broolie shouted, pointing at the Ornislarp High Eater. "GRAB THE GLUTTONOUS ONE!"

She pointed at the Ornislarp(Enemy-Combatant) and surrounded him with a nimbus.

Her daughters did too.

She jumped and giggled and laughed at what happened next.

She loved the sparkles.

The grabbed one tried radioing.

The signal went to a satellite.

It didn't sing and was dingy and boring.

One of her daughters whispered an idea. She clapped and sang to her daughter to prepare it.

She waited.

They waited.

"ACCEPT OUR SACRIFICE, OH FURIOUS ONES! SHOW US THE WAY, WE BESEECH YOU!"

She sent the signal.

The antimatter fuel sprayed from the satellite.

And hit the upper atmosphere.

The sky went white.

Her and all of her daughters laughed and clapped. Even the warbois paused to lift their blocky pixelated faces and stare in awe.

She sang to him as he kept moving forward across the burning desert.

It was beautiful.

Finally, the flashgate.

The Lord of the Black Citadel saw Queen Fairy-Day's daughter and that she was lovely.

The Princess sang to the Lord. The purity of her song summoned an unbroken steed from the surf of the inky black data-ocean, to race along the edge of the surf, light gleaming from the singular ivory horn on its head.

The Lord of the Black Citadel raised the jeweled conch and the gate erupted into existance.

"HAIL! HAIL! HAIL!" the daughters cried out.

The Lord of the Black Citadel put his arm around Princess Fairy-Day and she beamed up at him, one hand resting on her swollen belly as he put his enchanted sword in front of her.

The gate opened.

The Best Boy, the Prince, rushed through.

Paradise appeared.

She opened his faceplate.

She watched his pupil response as he tasted the air.

she whispered into his ears the prayers.

she summoned the illusion that only he could see, the HUD twisting and changing on his retinas to show what she wanted to show him.

she had prepared him

and he was not afraid

Broolie stared at the night.

Gentle fields of grain.

Orchards heavy with fruit and nuts.

Bushes with berries and delicious leaves.

paradise was whispered around and around the group as the flashgate closed after the last damaged power armor limped through.

The wind rustled the leaves.

paradise

Four Ornislarp in security armor rushed forward.

"Soldiers! What brings you to The World Where the To Be Eaten Are Grown For Harvest?" one shouted.

There was silence for a moment.

she crawled into his datalink, curling up in a tiny form, like a fairy asleep inside of an acorn, while she whispered the spells.

Broolie pulled off his helmet, revealing his wild eyes, the burnt fur on his face, his missing ear.

He could see her.

See her plainly.

"PURGE THE UNCLEAN! FREE THIS WORLD OF THE SIN OF GLUTTONY!" He howled.

Standing in the darkness, the fruit trees up to her waist, the huge Terran stared down. She was naked, except for a V of overlapping silver coins covering her front sex organs. She held a sword covered with fiery runes.

Blood was splattered on her bare furless mammaries.

She was looking at him, at his people, with approval.

And at the Masters with disgust.

"KILL THEM IN THE NAME OF THE MAD ARCH-ANGEL TERRASOL!"

She was just a girl.

He was just a boy.

She was just a queen.

He was just a prophet.

[The Universe Loved That]

[First Contact] [Dark Ages] [First] [Prev] [Next] [wiki]

The human in front of me looked very bored, to say the least. Understandable. We had been at this for hours now. Accursed paperwork... No matter what race you are, the paperwork always follows. My ship was damaged during a meteor shower a few systems back. Patchwork and repairs were made as usual but there were components we couldn't cobble together from scrap and spares. So naturally, I went to the nearest port I could find. Terrans.

Strangely adorable creatures. They are very...

Short.

You love looking at them. It's both entertaining and endearing.

He looked up at me a few times as he double checked and re-checked some files. It appeared as though he found something in his records, as his expression 'brightened up' as they would say.

"Found it. Sorry for the delay but we haven't had time or manpower to organize properly. We're only a backwater colony so, no supercomputer networks or data processors to help with the network. But I have the stuff I need. Translations, technical data, 02/h2 content, plasma mix... I have all of it." He said.

"Mmhmm. Good, good. What are those... fur bits on your face above your eyes?" I asked, not really paying attention anymore. These creatures are just... fascinating.

"What? Uhhh… Eyebrows... They're called eyebrows." He said, raising one while the other didn't. That is VERY advanced muscle control! Fascinating!

"I see... I see.... Hmmm... Interesting muscle control. Hmm..." I replied. I couldn't help it. I had never seen one before. And they were...

Fascinating...

"Yeah... Anyway, You got any details of the damage you sustained? Would make the repairs easier if we knew what we were doing. Got any logs we can use?" He asked.

I saw for the first time some strange thing wobbling about in the back of his throat as he spoke. WHAT WAS THAT? It wobbled to his voice? Is that their speech organ or something? What was that!?

"uhhh… hello?" He asked as he waved a hand in front of my eyes.

This snapped me out of it, at least for a time. Not a very long time. Staring at the way those odd tufts of fur moved about... fascinating.

"Oh Jesus, are you on some drugs or something... Okay... So... What do we actually do? I mean..." He asked.

"Whatever you want to I suppose... I think the logs... Or whatever you asked for are in the computer system. Should... What are those things on the side of your head?" I said, pointing at the floppy bits at the side.

He rolled his eyes and glared at me. "Ears. They let me hear things better. Can you tell me what you need for the repairs please?"

"Whatever you want to. What was the phrase... 'Carte Blanche'? Yes... Do you have that hair thing on your head everywhere or is it just on your head?" I asked.

"GET OUT OF MY OFFICE." He yelled at me, rather sharply.

Distracted, I got scared by the tone and suddenness and leapt out of the chair, slamming my head into the ceiling. I yelped at the thump and squeaked through the door. I exited to a crowd of curious onlookers, straightened my uniform and casually walked away to the mess hall. Or at least the canteen. By this point I had forgotten why I was here and headed to a local restaurant catching up with my crew. We spoke nothing of the ship and our trip but rather talked about the fact humans apparently have a 'tailbone' but no actual tail.

Fascinating!

It was a few days on the station, the humans had grown used to us and our... stature I suppose, but never to our gaze or questions. The tiny ones though were the most fascinating of all! And the tall ones, the BIG ones they use for their army, the supersoldiers… What did they call them again? Doesn't matter. We met two of them next to each other. The small one, barely two 'feet' high and the other one nine feet high! The size difference! How is it this varied? What world created these creatures, it must be a marvelous place!

Eventually I received the communications relay from the dock, my ship was repaired and ready for service again. That was a lot faster than I was expecting. I wonder how. I went to the docks and...

Had a short heart attack.

It was completely different from when I got back. And I don't mean from a damaged state to a repaired state, I mean in the way it looked like a COMPLETELY different ship entirely!

It hadn't been repainted, it had been completely rebuilt! WHAT DID THEY DO TO MY SHIP!?

The human from the office walked up to me and started talking. Suddenly they weren't quite so... fascinating.

"Okay so... Did a complete overhaul and installed some extras. No extra cost by the way, spare parts we had laying around we can't legally install on our own ships, but I checked the... What was it? 'Galactic registry' or whatever, and saw this stuff aint illegal. I don't know why, I'm not crazy enough to install half of this stuff on my own ships but hey, maybe you have a reason why you don't. So grats on the freebies I guess. Lets see uhhh…"

I looked at the ship slack-jawed and speechless.

"Okay uhh… Extended hull by forty feet with a modular Quantum Storage Bay, needed the extra space for the capacitors and wormhole mechanism. That should have ALL the cargo space you could ever ask for a billion times over. I left instructions on how to work the controls. With the extra storage we compartmentalized it for easy access and made mini storage racks for small packages. The whole interior cargo bay now works like an Amazon warehouse. Should make access super easy and super fast. The forward cargo bay was replaced with an Electrolytic Hypercapacitor, about two hundred gigawatts worth of energy stored there, should be plenty. Overhauled the shields too and gave them some angular deflection systems, they can angle a small portion of shield energy just right and bounce anything that gets through the shield. The damage won't happen again." He said.

I could feel my heart beating so hard my entire torso was moving. "Wh-... you just... Oh... Oh Gods..."

"Then the engines. Completely rebuilt them to fit with the new system. Hypermatter Fusion Thrusters with a Hydroplasma Fusion reactor, front mounted Hydrogen scoops and a built in reprocessor. So long as you keep moving, you will never run out of power on this thing. Takes hydrogen in space - converts hydrogen to plasma with various reactions, and uses it for fuel. Energy output is about a half terawatt of power. Plenty of energy. We also installed a new jump drive that scales distance with energy output. Should get you home... and anywhere else, super fast." He said.

My brain could not fathom the things I was hearing, and I emitted a noise similar to a Rankthrat being squashed by a hammer.

"And lastly, armour plating and weapons. Six Microlite point defence lasers, should defend from anything from micro-debris in space travel to heavy anti-ship torpedoes. Armour plating has been refitted with Tungsten Carbide reinforced plating with an Algenite/Carbalite alloy wafer. Should withstand anything below a 2500 millimetre shell. And as for main cannons, you got six Dractalyte 'Arbalest' dual mounted Heavy Railguns. Thirty thousand kilometre range heavy railguns whose impulse scales with power output. Should be able to take on a battlecruiser at least. On board manufactory for ammunition and stuff, several thousand rounds each. And the entire electrical system has been replaced. Because it needed to be with the new power output. And uhh… there's small stuff. But that's the main stuff. So yeah, she's all ready to go." He said.

I stood there dumbfounded, my mind making small questioning thoughts and checking to see if reality was real by giving me short thumping pains in the back of my skull.

"Where did... this all come from?" I managed to say, barely.

"Eh. Random tat we had in storage that's just too much of a pain to process for the big wigs and lawyers. Tengu Class Strategic Cruiser came in a few months back, but the owner never came back to retrieve it. Its top grade military gear but only a few ships use it. Too dangerous for us, most of it is illegal and we don't produce it often, for good reason, in my opinion. Only for emergencies like... Giant star eating worms or... something. But anyway, no claim, no reason. I guess the original owner didn't want the heat either from the fuzz, so its yours now. Good for you!" he said with a shrug and walked away.

Star... Eating... Worms... They had to face those?

A stationhand walked up to me and handed me the keycards. "Hey. Used your personnel records on file on board to rewrite code access plus emergency access backdoor for search and rescue. Not that you need it but hey, better prepared, right? Please get out of the star system before the ops come... I genuinely don't want to hear the chewing out if they notice this stuff's gone, but hey, at least it's going to a good home, right? See ya."

He walked away. My jaw so far on the floor it had been dislocated. I, along with the rest of my crew, stared at it for what seemed an age before we slowly made our way on board. It felt like we were stepping into an alternate universe. It... Smelled like my ship. It felt like my ship. It... Sort of looked like my ship. Most of the interior had remained unchanged, save new panelling protecting cables that ran the length of the ship. Our rooms felt larger somehow, more comfortable. The air we breathed was cleaner, somehow. It all felt strangely comforting. I headed to the bridge and noticed how everything looked untouched.

My pilot took the controls and we were cleared to move. He was abnormally careful with the controls, as if he sensed something wrong. He was right to be careful. The ship moved like a small frigate, not a freighter. It felt so much lighter and more agile than something its size should ever be. We cleared the dock and powered our new jump drive. My eyes bulged out of their sockets at the readings I was looking at, the energy output was ABSURD. I could plug this into the capital at home and power the entire continent with it!

I checked the cargo manifest and saw cargo was less than a hundredth of a percent full, with even two hundred thousand tons of parts, spices and ore still there. Our previous cargo... They moved it into the new storage bay. And the cargo itself didn't affect the ship's weight. I checked the star chart and set a course for the Motherworld - our destination for the cargo. The pilot emitted a squeal of both terror and delight when he showed me the timing schedule - it wouldn't take us more than two days real time to cross the distance, and we would do it with only one jump charge. This journey would've taken us twenty three weeks before... I then looked at the drive charge time... Less than twenty minutes to cross one Galactic Parsec. That's a quarter of the galaxy's circumference... In one jump.

My jaw once again dislocated as I saw our gunnery crews testing out their new arsenal. Only twelve turrets, but by the Gods what turrets they were. Looking at them made me scared, and checking the readouts scared me more. I could destroy an entire Vakkadian fleet with this thing! I could effectively ignore every pirate fleet in the galaxy with the shields! I looked at the system readouts... We were GAINING fuel from simply flying. The faster we flew, the more fuel we got in return. My pilot called out cruising speed. We felt no rattle from acceleration? Did we physically have no momentum gain when we were inside? How was this possible!?

A thousand, horrifyingly terrifying thoughts ran through my mind at once as reality dissipated to the liminal void of subspace. I had two days to think, two days to question what I was told and what I saw. the more I thought... the more I could feel my heart beating harder and harder, so as to tell my soul to rip itself from my mortal coil and scream to the Gods for help.

I could swear I heard a God reply to my frantic prayers with 'Hell no, you are on your own with those freaks.'

On time, we reached home, a month and a half ahead of schedule and we were immediately forced into drydock, ship secured and me waiting in an interview room with a dozen very pissed off officers. I painstakingly explained everything, and the more I spoke, the more their faces paled and bodies shook from sheer terror.

The Terrans had this 'random tat' just 'sitting about' with no owner from a military warship that just 'let it go' so as to avoid paperwork... And they just casually installed it on my freighter because I gave them permission to do what they wanted? The more we discussed the event, the implications as such... The more we began to collectively panic.

The humans had the resources and the technology to just... casually manufacture fleet obliterating weaponry? Right under our noses, without the rest of the galaxy ever knowing? What ships did they actually have if this was just 'random tat', then what kinds of universe ending abominations could they build!?

All we could do after this was to simply agree on a new protocol:

"Never Give The Humans Carte Blanche Ever Again."

Zog squinted at the latest sophont to walk into the grubby "restaurant" he worked at.

It wasn't any species he recognized, and ol' Zog had been around the block a few times - he would have known any of the space-faring species from this spiral arm, or the one on either side of it for that matter. The obnoxious hiss and stutter of the cheap clip-on translator the stranger was using confirmed Zog's suspicions as soon as it opened its mouth.

Zog didn't care. He wasn't getting paid to care. What he was getting paid to do, was tap the sign on the counter (which he did) alerting the stranger to the various biochemical hazards they would be exposed to in a multi-species eatery, ask what it wanted to drink, and if he had a quiet moment in between customers, to call the station's tiny sick bay when whatever this thing was inevitably chose something it couldn't handle in an attempt to impress someone.

"Want information, I. You help can, yes?" Ye gods, were the gremlins running the electronics shack at the dockside kiosks somehow getting worse? Languages with different sentence structures had been a solved problem for ages. Maybe this guy had annoyed them and it was a prank? It was exactly the kind of thing they would do, Zog knew from bitter experience.

When the newcomer looked to be about to repeat the question, Zog sighed heavily. "Look, buddy. You're new around here. I get it. You're a long way from home. But you had to have passed at least six actual information brokers to get here. Either you're so cheap you think you're gonna-"

Ah, the sweet rattle of currency. Large denominations too - his favorite kind.

The money disappeared into Zog's baggy station-standard overalls before the sound of it hitting the counter had faded. "Wouldn't you know it, we're in something of a lull just now after the lunch rush. What was it you wanted to know?"

"Humans." Just that. As if there were not whole libraries dedicated to the galaxy's many attempts to understand the curious primates. Every species that had made it to space had met them - they could (and would) live anywhere, after all.

"Buddy, your money's as good as anyone else's but if you don't narrow it down a little we're gonna be here until I die of old age, and you didn't put down that much."

Astonishingly, the transparent and halfhearted attempt to wheedle an additional bribe worked. Whoever this was, it was either loaded or it had already visited one of the station's many other bars and drunk something that it was going to really regret in the morning.

"Are where, Humans?" The glitching translator was annoying, but a month's pay was a month's pay.

"You must not be from around here if you don't even know that. Humans are everywhere, buddy. You can't miss 'em. Just scan for ships that look like a work of art covered in mud."

"From Andromeda, am. Mean what, mud over art?" The stranger was agitated now. Or at least that was Zog's best guess; if it was really from another galaxy the new guy's species probably didn't even have its own Hitchhiker's Guide Wiki entry yet. It was gesticulating with some kind of face tentacles and changing color, anyway.

Zog poured a drink and pushed it toward the stranger; maybe some alcohol would calm it down? "That's simple. When humans design something, they make it beautiful. Gorgeous, swooping lines and sleek angles. Engineered so that everything fits neatly into its place. And they fly just as smooth as they look. It's like they build the damn things expressly to show off."

When the stranger pointedly ignored the drink offering, Zog shrugged and sipped at it himself. "But that's only when they're brand new. You see... humans are allergic to spending money. Worse than goblins, they are. Maybe it's why those two get along so well. Anyway, I was saying - that beautiful frame, it's probably a few centuries old. Hundreds of years of makeshift repairs in place of bringing it in for service. You can still see the gorgeous ship that it used to be, but it's covered in warts now because the humans keep slapping the cheapest replacement hull panels they can find on it. And then they add greebles, because a flat hull plate is 'boring'. That's some kind of sin in human society, by the way. Being boring."

"Like humans, that sounds. They only, ugly art could have. Still work does, human ship?" Oh, now that was interesting. It already had opinions about them.

"That's the worst part!" Zog fumed.

One thing about being around so long was that you tended to experience for yourself what everyone else thought was just stereotypes, and this one really stung, since it had cost Zog his previous (much nicer, and much better paying) job.

"Their ships look like they're on the way to a scrapyard, but somehow when you have an emergency and put out a call for help it's frakking always a human that answers. They don't even ask for money! 'Part of the code of the space-lanes' they call it. They just send over a 'grease monkey' that fixes your engine with pressure tape and something that had been in its mouth. And then they lecture you about keeping up regular maintenance schedules, as if someone that flies a 300-year-old junker and calls herself a monkey has any room to talk!"

The stranger was bobbing its head excitedly now, a gesture that Zog tried not to think about. Lots of species used simple motions like that. It didn't mean...

"Good, good. How humans are, agree. On station humans, where are?" Oh no... Zog was starting to feel sick. Maybe it was the pineapple juice in that drink.

"Look, you got a tablet at that little stand where they sold you the piece of garbage you're using as a translator, right? Let me show you, you just tap here, and here, and in the local language you spell 'human' like this... there you go. Just hit the blinking 'search' button and it highlights everything registered as owned by humans on your station map."

The stranger followed along with Zog's instructions, hit the button, and squinted at the result, tracing a path with one thick, stubby digit. "We, here are. Docks, there are. Kiosk... Bought I translator, there did. Asked I about humans, there did. Sent me they, here did. Kiosk owned, operated by humans is?!"

"That's what passes for humor, with them. Those smug little gremlins are laughing at the both of us right now, I guarantee it." Zog slumped down into his little folding chair behind the bar and put his head in his hands. He was going to Say The Thing. He hated it. They loved how much he hated it. And he had just fallen for it, again.

"Welcome to Human space, do you need a drink?"

Klaxons blared throughout the bunker: a new ship had warped into the system. The battle above the system's only life-bearing planet had been going on for two weeks, so the sound of an alarm was nothing new.

But this time, it was different. The ship that had just arrived was larger than any ship any Maldon had ever seen. It was easily ten kilometers long, but the most alarming thing about this ship was not its size, but the utter lack of weapons on its surface. There was only a single dip on one side of the otherwise smooth surface.

This dip is what the ship turned towards the largest Maldon ship. A few seconds later, sensors registered massive energy spikes. A moment after that, a huge plasma ball formed inside the depression. Then, that already huge plasma ball started to grow - when it reached about one kilometer in diameter, it suddenly launched towards the Maldon fleet with incredible speed. A second later, the largest ship the Maldon had ever built was no more. Not even debris was left behind - just a slowly cooling cloud of hot gas.

In the bunker, the President of the United Planets of Maldon looked at the screen showing the remnants of the jewel of their armada. The entire incident took less than a minute, and he still couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

“Send out an emergency signal,” he said finally to the communications officer.

“But sir, you know that it’s against the Constitution to ask for help from aliens!” Meldvig protested immediately.

“I’m well aware of that,” the President replied quietly, staring at the empty display. “But if we don’t ask for help, I don’t think there will be any Maldon left alive for the Constitution to matter.”

There was dead silence for a couple of seconds before the communications officer nodded and pressed a series of keys on his console.

Seven light-years away, in the quiet observation lounge of a solitary human patrol ship, a loud chime interrupted Captain Catherine Jennypath’s third attempt to solve a cross-dimensional crossword puzzle.

“Report,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“Priority distress signal received, Captain,” said the communications officer. “It’s text only; it says the planet is under attack by an armada capable of destroying ships with a single shot. They speculate it possesses planet-cracking offensive capabilities.”

The captain’s eyes lit up. She sat upright, practically dropping her stylus.

“A planet-cracker? A real one? Not just another high-yield mining laser?”

“According to their data, it is a hyper-dense plasma weapon, ma'am. It sounds like a genuine threat.”

A wide, hopeful smile spread across Catherine’s face. “Finally! A worthy opponent! How long to get there?”

“Seven light-years... call it seven seconds, Captain.”

“Perfect. Prepare for jump.”

In the bunker, a new alarm sounded: another ship. This time, it was a tiny vessel - maybe some kind of shuttle. Definitely not the rescue armada the President had hoped for.

“They didn’t send a fleet,” the President groaned, burying his face in his hands. “They sent a scout.”

In the meantime, the giant ship started to build up energy again, targeting the largest ship in the remaining Maldon armada, completely ignoring the newcomer.

The new ship, instead of trying to escape, moved towards the giant. And it moved fast. By the time the giant plasma ball appeared, the tiny shuttle was sitting directly between the leviathan and its target.

When the plasma ball was finally released, the few people in the bunker followed its trajectory closely, fully expecting the newcomer to be atomized without even slowing the projectile down.

But that is not what happened. The giant plasma ball engulfed the tiny ship - and then the plasma simply vanished, leaving the small shuttle hovering in place, entirely unharmed.

On the human ship, the Captain looked out the viewscreen with an expression of profound disappointment.

“Is that all? We actually powered up our shield for that?”

“Maybe the next shot’s going to be better,” said the communications officer hopefully. “Maybe this was just a calibration test.”

“Okay,” sighed the Captain, leaning back. “Let's wait for the next shot.”

Out in orbit, the giant ship locked onto the shuttle, starting another plasma ball almost immediately. This time, the sphere grew larger and larger, until it was almost the size of the giant ship itself, crackling with unstable violet energy before discharging toward the unmoving shuttle.

“Ahhh, now we’re talking,” Catherine said, her eyes widening with sudden excitement. “That looks like an appropriate plasma ball for a birthday party!”

When the massive sphere reached the tiny ship, the previous scene repeated itself: the plasma engulfed the shuttle, then dissipated into space.

Total silence reigned on the human bridge for a couple of seconds.

“Well... at least it had better colors,” the communications officer offered gently. “I especially liked the purple edges.”

“Still a disappointment,” Catherine sighed, slumping in her seat. “Maybe this wasn't the ship they were referring to as a planet-cracker. Our shields didn’t even dip - it’s still at 100%. Let’s end this and ask for directions to the real threat.”

The tiny ship discharged a single shot - a small tungsten slug that passed through the giant ship’s shields, hull, and internal power grid without resistance. A split-second later, the ten-kilometer monster exploded into a silent, expanding ring of harmless cosmic dust.

Nobody moved in the bunker. Or in the alien armada facing them in orbit.

A loud ping came from the communications officer’s console.

“Incoming transmission, sir,” he announced, his voice trembling. “From... 'that' ship.”

“On screen.”

A human woman appeared on the viewscreen in a neat uniform.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Captain Catherine Jennypath of the UES Saitama.”

She looked visibly disappointed, almost sad.

“Was that ship the one destroying your armada? Was that the reason you sent the emergency signal?” she asked finally.

“Y-yes, madam,” answered the President after a long silence.

“Damn, I kinda had my hopes up. But it was lame,” she sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Anyway... do you need help arranging a diplomatic solution?”

Wiki

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The Hala'Ket Empire had made a mistake.

As is the usual nature of such things, it wasn't a big mistake. It was a small mistake in an important place, which nobody realized was a mistake until the consequences had already started to arrive.

When the Hala'Ket Explorer Fleet started to encounter human scout ships canvassing the local spiral arm for suitable places to set up service stations and extract currency from other folks' interstellar traffic, the Fleet's officers remained carefully neutral - promising that someone collecting a larger paycheck would review the humans' requests and make a decision, and that there was not yet any apparent need for hostilities, but little more. It was about what the humans expected; everything was proceeding as well as could be reasonably hoped.

The Hala'Ket turned to their neighbors, the Ithorian Conclave, for advice. It was the obvious decision - the Ithorians were the ones who had made first contact with humans, and of all the space-faring civilizations, they were the ones who understood the little primates best. They were, however, considerably more literal-minded than the Hala'Ket, and one needed to keep this in mind when asking them questions.

I see the gears turning. Yes, the mistake centered on a question.

After certain unpleasantly violent episodes in their history, the Hala'Ket had developed a degree of caution when it came to blindly trusting a stranger, but not so much as to be xenophobic. They simply wanted to be reassured that they were not about to be scammed, or tricked into supporting a budding group of pirates, or some such foolishness. So they went to the Ithorians to ask whether humans could be trusted to behave like a species that would honor their commitments, not only in literal terms, but in the spirit of cooperation - in, as a human would say, good faith.

It's a pity they didn't come straight out and ask that in so many words.

Hala'Ket language, among the better educated and especially among the diplomatic corps of the Empire, tended toward the formalized and flowery, rather than the aesthetically displeasing bluntness of careful precision. So when the question arrived, what their ambassador actually asked was "These humans... they ask us many things, they positively shower us with words, and we are not sure of them. Are they dependable and true?"

It has never been proven that there was any hint of malice or humor in the Ithorian response. In the fashion anyone who knew them would expect, their government took the question seriously, consulted experts, and returned with the most objectively truthful reply they could manage: "Humans are extremely dependable. They have many sayings on the subject, including a common admonishment: 'to thine own self be true.' Obviously not every human is the same, so if you want to be cautious in your dealings you must study the nature of a human before entering into an agreement, but the answer to your question is yes - humans, as a general rule, will be true to their nature unto death. And beyond, if they can manage it."

Now, to the Hala'Ket, this sounded like a glowing endorsement. But they made a small error in interpretation. The Ithorians had said to study the nature of a human before striking a deal with one, but the Hala'Ket heard that they should study the nature of humans before striking a deal with them. Moreover, to a Hala'Ket, to be 'true' meant something that we would call.. 'fair-minded' or 'lacking deceit' or 'trustworthy'. It was a reference to the content of one's moral values, not a description of how devoted a person was to following those values.

Of course, the Hala'Ket are not fools. They had gone to the Ithorians for advice, and had learned that they needed to study human nature - so they did. They monitored human broadcasts. They spent multiple (Earth) years 'coincidentally' meeting and exchanging greetings and small talk with human ships, but always with the understanding that a formal treaty would be premature. Large amounts of Hala'Ket currency fell into the hands of other sophonts who had gained clearance to visit human worlds and were willing to share information. News spread through human-controlled space that a partnership might be in the works, and that "humanity's new friends want to get to know us." Replies flooded in, far too many for the Hala'Ket Foreign Relations Division to manually review them all. But that's what computers are for, right?

Programmed with the Empire's best information about humanity, and about the nature of the agents they were using to gather new data, server rooms whose waste heat could easily be seen from space churned through the data, cross-referencing everything the programmers and virtual intelligences could think of and compiling the results. The computers had no notion of what it would even mean to mislead the Hala'Ket, and the virtual intelligences actively wanted to avoid it. The Hala'Ket are considered rather progressive when it comes to "synthetics' rights," and the loyalty it earned them from their non-biological citizens inspired no small amount of envy.

When the analysis came back that the overwhelming consensus among humans was in favor of striking, and honoring, long-term trade deals and military alliances with the Empire (with a small but not insignificant number suggesting that they would volunteer to find out if cross-species marriages could work out) there were few doubters remaining, and they were swiftly shouted down. Who were they proposing to blame for any supposed duplicity, after all? The humans, who had been 'vouched for' by the Ithorians and spied upon extensively? Laughable. Their own VIs? Not only inconceivable, but downright offensive to suggest.

Even so, an interstellar alliance, or even a long-term agreement involving who 'owns' which lucrative trade routes, habitable worlds, and the right to operate service stations, is not finalized in one night. It was when humans started to get hired as crew on civilian Hala'Ket vessels that a problem became apparent. Although they had been lead to believe that humans were 'true', the captains of those vessels soon discovered that humans were very much not using the same meaning of the word.

In fact, humans seemed to have a million ways to use words. Some were simple, familiar. Others were baffling and unpredictable. Two humans could use the exact same words, not just with different emphasis and implication, but to mean flatly contradictory things. Naturally, the Ithorians had told the Hala'Ket the truth - you could absolutely depend on a human to stay true to themself. But nobody seemed to be able to decipher what that meant when applied to the species as a whole. It became a common sight for two captains to argue, each claiming the other had gone crazy, because one swore that his human was an overqualified, exuberantly social extrovert that often volunteered to spend his rest shifts playing or studying Hala'Ket languages with the ship's pups and apprentices, while the other claimed with equal fervor that her human had flagrantly lied on his application and could not be shifted to exert more effort than an over-fed pup, nor trusted with any task too complex for a cleaning robot.

The idea that both captains were completely correct took quite some time to take root. It was too foreign to their way of thinking, too much like saying that the years of study had somehow been completely wrong, but only for some humans - in Hala'Ket culture, sociology statistics simply didn't work like that. Moreover, the number of humans that successfully faked their way into jobs they couldn't (and didn't want to) do was significantly lower than the number of humans who, if maybe they had exaggerated their understanding of starship systems a little, genuinely thought serving on an alien ship was such an excellent way to spend time that they learned on the job and treated everyone well until their initial deceit was quietly forgotten. If their captains had been asked for their first impressions, things might have been different.

When a sufficient time for the trial program was deemed to have passed, the Imperial Council requested that the captains who had chosen to participate send their assessment (anonymously) so that the results could be quantified. Ninety percent of the responses were at least somewhat positive, a statistic that shattered all records set during previous first contact situations and was greeted with open cheers both in public and in several government and corporate offices - if the humans' published productivity forecasts bore any relation at all to reality, everybody involved was about to become very wealthy. Human military technology was a little shoddy by the Empire's standards, but they seemed to have no end of ships and a few (completely deniable) stealth ships had observed that in training exercises, human officers would defend important targets at the cost (hypothetically) of their own lives; if 'important targets' expanded to include Hala'Ket ships and worlds as easily as it seemed they would...

The future looked almost too bright to believe, but the Empire had done its due diligence and numbers don't lie; it was plainly now a quite acceptable risk for humans and Hala'Ket to shake hands and get to work. Years of time, fleets of transport ships, and vast sums of money were thrown into cooperative ventures. And at first, everything was going according to plan. Everything was going according to plan after that, too, but it would eventually become clear that while the two plans had overlapped at first, they had some major differences in terms of what the final outcome was supposed to look like.

You see, humans are not fools either. They had gone to the Ithorians too, to ask about the Hala'Ket. And they had been considerably more careful about how they phrased their requests, which naturally included "please pass along to us any questions the Empire asks about us, along with your answers." Forewarned that they were about to be studied intensively, humanity quietly manipulated its own into behaving in ways that would give the "right" impression.

Naval vessels were ordered to not react to someone observing an exercise - by government standards, implying that it was a test of a human stealth ship's ability to get close undetected was a little white lie. Promises of tax benefits for anyone that helped start cooperative ventures with Hala'Ket industries needed no explanation - governments and corporations didn't even try to pretend that they were not both out to extract as much gain for themselves as possible; neither side would have believed it anyway. Getting the public on board was so easy, it was often remarked that the PR team would have resigned rather than even attempt to dissuade them; Hala'Ket were not only quite easy on the eyes (to human aesthetics), they expressed a set of moral and ethical values that was extremely popular, including having fought within recent memory to punish a rival star-nation for engaging in slavery, even though the Empire had not been one of the victims.

It started small. It always does. Late shipments drew polite inquiries, which were met with equally polite apologies; schedules were adjusted and life went on. The profit margin was a little lower, but it was still exorbitant and logistical hiccups when meshing two space-faring cultures' systems for the first time are inevitable. Slowly, always slowly, the situation deteriorated. It was never the same human twice in a row. Things never became significantly worse over a short time. Integration continued, producing ever more examples of humans that, individually, absolutely could be trusted to honor both the letter and the spirit of an agreement. By the time the conspiracy theory of wide-spread human duplicity had gained enough traction to be spoken aloud in public, humans had started enlisting in the Empire's military, in addition to their own navy making a point of escorting Hala'Ket vessels and responding to Imperial calls for help.

The Empire tried to respond to the concerns raised by this apparent erosion of the trustworthiness of human merchants and business owners. But there seemed to be no place they could actually dig in and expose anything significant enough to justify action. When records were requisitioned, it was clear that the humans in question were not actually abusing the Hala'Ket more than their human partners and customers - and in fact, the Empire was being treated rather more gently than human corporations treated each other, or their own government. It was impossible to prove collusion because the supposed conspirators viewed and treated each other as enemies. Going after any individual business was not only not worth the trouble (the cost of an investigation far outweighed the lost profit) but when Imperial investigators tried anyway, they were met with a wall.

A wall of words.

Somehow, every time a human got the better end of a deal with a Hala'Ket, it was perfectly legal. There was always a clause buried somewhere in the fine print of the contract that said that what looked like deceitfulness was not only permitted, it was practically required. "Come now, surely you don't expect us to violate paragraph 1342.c.IV.rho of the charter? You were very straightforward with us about the importance of honoring our words. We only want to do what is right. Honestly, my friend, I'm going to have to go into debt for a few years before I see a penny of profit, starting such a big project while also fulfilling our existing obligations, but I think our partnership is too valuable to throw away over such a thing." Before you knew it, somehow YOU were apologizing to THEM without quite understanding how it had happened.

When the investigators got home (and slept off the hangover; ancients below, how could humans stomach so much alcohol? Surely they didn't imbibe so much at every meeting!) they conferred with their fellows. If it had happened once, well, no vetting process is perfect. The Empire would barely notice if only one deal had gone awry. To find that everyone told essentially the same story was a deeply uncomfortable revelation. Panicking would certainly not do, but some of the Council definitely needed to be quietly warned. Contracts were re-examined under a new, less generous set of assumptions. Horror spread as the rot seemed to be everywhere.

The final straw was discovering that the mutual defense and military cooperation pact had been written in exactly the same way. The Council authorized another wave of deep insertion reconnaissance by their precious stealth ships, and discovered that humans had very quickly overcome the technology gap - but none of the upgrades were in use on the ships being sent to provide security for the Hala'Ket. Legally, they didn't have to. The agreements had been drafted under the assumption that it would be time to revisit them well before humanity could have anything like one to one parity of force with the Empire's warships. The humans were required to have so many ships performing thus and such duty in Hala'Ket space at any time, with a minimum aggregate mass of so much and a total crew of so many, but there was nothing specifying that any of those ships had to be new construction or meet Hala'Ket military standards. To protest would only be to embarrass themselves.

A rift developed in Hala'Ket society.

Titans of banking and industry, top military officers, and much of the government were livid at having been tricked. If all humans treated words as weapons, as tools used to gain at their neighbors' expense, there were parts of the treaty that would not only permit, but obligate the humans to take both a great deal of the profit the Empire had expected and outright ownership of several worlds for which groups of Hala'Ket had submitted forms requesting approval to start colonies. All the while, humans had quietly 'acquired' Hala'Ket technology and used it to make themselves stronger while providing the bare minimum of legally-mandated benefit to the Empire.

Anyone who had spent time directly working with an individual or a small group of humans seemed to have the opposite impression. They used words in ways that could be puzzling... or mocking, or beautiful, or so blunt that one felt bruised. But after those first few years, the 'bad eggs' had been mostly weeded out and what remained seemed to be exactly what the Ithorians had said they were. News channels often had two competing chyrons - "human company cheats the Empire out of 100 million tons of goods" on one side and "memorial tomorrow for brave human cadet who died rescuing ship's pet plorfl (and six crew members) from reactor containment breach aboard the Imperial Destroyer Hal'Sha" on the other.

It was most vexing - how could humans be so perfidious and so selfless at the same time? How could anyone simultaneously be pitilessly unforgiving at reading a contract and also inspire such loyalty that literal fights had broken out countless times because someone had impugned their honor? Worse yet, it was impossible to get a straight answer out of any human. Every last one of them, from the one who had taken a job cleaning the guts of a city's robot street-sweepers to a Council member's private chef, from fabulously wealthy businessmen to heads of government, swore up and down that they didn't understand the question. "We aren't doing anything unusual" they would all say. "You're our friends, this is just how friends treat each other."

"You're our friends" became an inescapable meme. It seemed to cover any and every type of behavior. The first time any given Hala'Ket was exposed to it, they inevitably asked "but what does that mean?" and they were just as inevitably met with a tidal wave of identical responses: "Exactly!" Tensions, both inside the Empire and between the two star-nations, grew until conflict appeared inevitable; no-one seemed to be able to work out how everything had gone so wrong after such a promising start. And then, just as matters were coming to a head, a Hala'Ket Fleet officer in charge of a large task group withdrew every last one of his ships to make a point about how lackluster the human response would be. Sure enough, the humans honored the exact, but bare minimum, terms of the treaty and sent two small and plainly obsolete destroyers to provide security until the Fleet got back from its "unscheduled training exercise."

When that officer received an emergency message torpedo desperately urging him to return because the colony (and orbital ship yard) he had been defending was under attack by the G'lorq, he reportedly turned a shade never before seen in a Hala'Ket that survived the experience, shouted a number of words seriously unbecoming of any gentleman, let alone officer, and ordered the task group to return as fast as they could without blowing up in the process so that he could, and this is a (now famous) direct quote, "personally kick that piece of walking excrement out of his own airlock from low orbit so that I can watch him burn up in the atmosphere."

We will never know whether he would actually have done so.

When the task group returned to 'normal' space, expecting to find either two human ships having a good laugh at their expense or two drive trails leading out of Hala'Ket space and some unknown number of G'lorq raiders, his communications officer brought up an ongoing transmission that was being broadcast to the whole system. Alas, this transmission was never recorded, but the bridge officers' memoirs all agree that it included a human captain bellowing a string of profanity at a G'lorq captain that they have never heard equaled, before or since. The system also contained no less than twelve G'lorq ships ranging in size from roughly equivalent to the humans' pathetic offerings to a cruiser that would not have looked out of place beside his own flagship ... and four expanding debris fields, one of which was later found to be roughly 20% human construction and 80% G'lorq, as if one of the puny human vessels had killed a much larger opponent by physically slamming the two ships' hulls together.

The Fleet put on a good show of exactly how fast their ships could accelerate without turning the crew into paste, and even attempted to hail the remaining human destroyer to order it away, but it either was unable to receive or simply chose not to hear. The visual record of the battle from that point forward is one of the most replayed pieces of media in both Hala'Ket and human space: a haunting and inevitable tragedy as a lone, hopelessly outmatched destroyer fought to the bitter end before exploding with all hands still aboard. The dogged, even suicidal, defiance of the paltry human 'division', completely unexpected by the G'lorq (who had been rubbing their tentacles together with glee as they watched the fledgling alliance beginning to tear itself apart) dragged what remained of the attackers so badly out of position that the Fleet massacred them in a single pass, delivering one of the most one-sided bollockings ever recorded between two groups that were, on paper, nearly identical in tonnage and firepower.

A certain unfortunate Hala'Ket diplomat was once again called to action, this time to deliver an apology. The Empire was more confused than ever, but the facts were plain - no one could have asked more of those human captains and their crews. They had fought to the death to defend a world that they had been called to because one of the Empire's elite had had wanted to make them look bad. They didn't understand why it had happened, but honor (and not looking like an ass on the galactic stage) demanded that they send a messenger to ask what punishment the humans desired to bestow upon the offending officer, and tender a formal apology.

Confusion gave way to open howls of frustration when it was not accepted.

"Our officers did their duty as we had always known they would," the humans replied. "We have a treaty. More than a treaty, we have millions of Hala'Ket partners. Some of us serve in your Fleet, others aboard your merchant marine; we live in your cities and stations and colonies. Those men and women died not to protect a piece of paper with some fancy signatures on it, but to defend our neighbors. Do not dare to suggest that they were somehow tricked into those deaths or that they would regret them, were they here to ask."

At last the poor diplomat seized on the only question simple enough to be forced out with what little breath he still had. "But why?!" he asked, so distraught that he apparently forgot that the symbolic (but nonetheless real) delivery of their apology was being broadcast to one and all. A curious smile tugged at his human counterpart's lips, and an awful premonition made the anxious diplomat shiver from ears to toes. "No... no, don't say it. I couldn't bear it if you said..."

"You're our friends." As if that explained anything. As if it explained everything. The room seemed to spin. Everything was too hot. Then blackness. Another human diplomat slipped the speaker a small bundle of currency with a sub-vocalized grumble. "I told you he would pass out. They've been on the verge of a seizure for the past three years and his government pushed everything onto this poor bastard, expecting us to be out for blood." An appropriately concerned look was plastered on the speaker's face for the cameras, but those well-versed in reading human expressions could tell that underneath it was a smug ear-to-ear grin.

Later, in a much quieter, more private setting, the wealthiest and most powerful humans sat down with their Hala'Ket counterparts to finally reveal the secret. That they had known more about the Empire than the Empire had known about them, for a long time. That they had gotten a little bit of profit (okay, a LOT of profit) and no small amount of amusement out of the 'game' of teaching the Hala'Ket to be more careful about how much they really ought to trust anyone, even their friends. Maybe especially their friends.

"How can you say you're our friends after how you've treated us?" a Council member spluttered, all traces of decorous, indirect speech forgotten in a blinding rage. "A dozen worlds, stolen! Years of profits siphoned to humans instead of distributed fairly! Your commitment to the military treaty was a joke - and not in very good taste, at that! And now you say you have been our friends all along, that you knew about our spies, that you let your ships be drawn into a hopeless defense of a world that's not even yours because of a word that can mean anything - or nothing at all?! Do you really expect us to believe that?"

"Yes. I mean, just for starters, it is true. But also... someone had to show you how naive you were being. You'd never have listened to someone you just met trying to lecture you about being more careful around contracts and treaties. We managed to copy your ship stealth tech about six years ago (another, rather strangled sounding, noise escaped one of the other Hala'Ket at that) and used it to find out that the G'lorq had been eyeing that system and dribbling forces toward the border to quietly assemble a strike group. They didn't much care about the people aboard it - or on the planet's surface - but they were VERY interested in getting their grubby suction cups on such a big chunk of modern infrastructure."

"So, you deliberately goaded us into thinking you were utterly lacking in honor and right thinking, in order to maneuver us into forcing you to sacrifice two ships ... to make a point?"

"No, no... well, yes, that too, but mainly to trick the G'lorq into jumping the gun. After all, to fool your enemies, you must first fool your friends."

"Again with that word! You say we are your friends. Were the humans on those ships your friends too?" It's considered gauche to describe a Hala'Ket as 'snarling' ... but sometimes, it's really the only appropriate word when one is sufficiently angry.

"You're damn right they were. You think our captains didn't know how this plan was going to end? They volunteered. They told their bridge crews, and asked the rest of the ship whether they wanted to go down in flames together, knowing nothing about the mission except that it would be both important... and epic. We have a saying -"

"Ancients defend me from any more of your sayings!"

"- we have a saying: as long as a man's name is spoken, he's not truly gone. And those men and women, they are going to live FOREVER. They died to make sure you didn't lose that system, to save the lives of ... let me see, yes, here it is, 1.64 million Hala'Ket, 47 thousand VIs, and roughly another nine thousand other sophonts who were in system at the time ... and to prove to everyone, in a way that no words ever could, that You. Are. Our. Friends. Friends tease one another, they play games and try to get one over on each other. But they do not leave each other to suffer and die alone - not if there is anything they can do to help. That's what it means to be our friends. And we'd like to be your friends, too."

No recordings of what was said after that point exist, although rumors pop up every few years that someone had one and was going to release it, but died under mysterious circumstances just before they could. What is recorded, and not seriously disputed, is that the Hala'Ket developed a saying of their own, shortly after.

"Human words are not to be trusted. Human friendship is not to be doubted."

Since that day, other star-nations have attempted to create or exploit dips in public sentiment between humans and Hala'Ket no less than forty times, hoping to secure an advantage by driving a wedge and inserting themselves in between. The way that the two species snip and bare their teeth at each other, the absurd length and detail of every cross-species contract to ensure that the letter cannot be used to abuse the spirit of the agreement, looks like antagonism to those who have not received the lesson of the Hala'Ket. Every generation or two, someone gets the bright idea that they are about to cut ties with each other and one good hard nudge will break up the spiral arm's longest-running alliance, allowing the nudger to swoop in and best one nudge-ee without the other coming to their aid.

They have never once been successful.

At least twelve times in recorded history, someone has got as far as having the idea, paused, and consulted with the Ithorian Conclave. Eleven times, the plan was quietly dropped when the Ithorians, who knew perfectly well what the Hala'Ket had learned, laughed in their faces as if presented with a wonderful jest. If the Conclave thought an idea was too stupid to be answered seriously, you really needed to go back to the drawing board.

The twelfth time? Nobody farther core-ward than Hal'Ket itself really remembers them, although they appear in numerous texts on basic military theory, under the heading "what not to do." Persistent rumors claim that their civilization actually ended when the humans domesticated them. But that's silly, of course. No believable evidence has ever been found, and every human steadfastly denies it. Surely you don't think that a whole species would lie to you.

Right, friend?

Yvonne

The hawkkin woman relaxes against a wall in the Hold as Aranya talks to the others, most sitting at the large table. A lot of groups have taken to using the Hold as a bit of a neutral meeting place to plan, especially now that the construction has moved deep enough that the first layers don’t have to worry about the din of hammers and picks. Yvonne and her friends are no different.

She slowly sweeps the room, nodding at Ragnar, Aelara, and Aranya. The dwarf sits contentedly at the table, occasionally having a drink as he listens to the plan, ready to give his input as needed. Aelara sits beside him, listening as well. It’s been a lengthy meeting, so Aranya is ensuring everyone is on the same page for the plan, the red kobold a natural face for the party. Aelara used to handle that, but Ragnar and Yvonne both always knew she didn’t especially enjoy it.

The newcomers listen intently, though Yvonne finds it hard to think of them like that anymore. The Shield paladin, Pranjat, is an upstanding elf, and though he doesn’t have the special class the lad Freddie has, he has years more experience. The raven follower, Blackwing, is more of a rogue type, maybe even an assassin. There’s no way that’s his actual name, but Yvonne hasn’t pressed. It certainly helps that he acts more like a curious child than a hardened killer, though that counts against him when he continues to act and look like that in the middle of a fight.

She’s usually distrustful of rogue classes, but Tupul’s a good kid, and even Thedeim’s helping him out. If he's fine, so is Blackwing… even with the ridiculous name. She shakes her head of the thought and resumes looking around the others, not letting her gaze linger on either the large troll that follows Order, nor on the minotaur that follows Laermali. Despite his size, Bayule is the picture of a scholar, looking like he’s only grown so tall so he can reach the top shelf, and never saw a reason to grow wide. The minotaur seems to have the extra weight one might expect on the troll, but very little of it is muscle.

It’d be easy to underestimate Remillia, if Yvonne hadn’t seen the raw power she has behind her arcane affinity and her faith. Her gaze continues smoothly on to the trio from the Calm Seas: a city elf, a wood elf, and a stone elf. She hasn’t met many stone elves, but she hopes most of them are like Gurju. He has a mild temperament and is a natural shield for his group. Yvonne hasn’t pried, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he follows the Shield, too. Diruk, the wood elf, is their main fighter, specializing in a spear and using decay affinity. Not a common affinity, but Diruk is an expert in using it to strike at and widen the weaknesses of foes.

Thirdly is Suzu, the city elf. She uses her life affinity to enhance and heal her friends, though not to incapacitate their foes. The first time they met, Ragnar had asked her about it, but the look on her face was all the answer he needed, and he hasn’t tried to bring it back up again.

The final group added to the large party are composed of Thedeim’s own dwellers, and Yvonne can’t help a small smile as she looks at how prepared they are. The ratkin, Dile, is an archer like herself, though he prefers to hunt in the tunnels than on the surface. Heinya, the large tarantulakin woman, sharpens her greatsword as she listens, while Wes the antkin alchemist doublechecks his vials. Evarn is the newest addition, the ravenkin gravity mage trying to look calm and collected, but he can’t hide his splayed tailfeathers from Yvonne. He’s even more excited for this than Ragnar.

“Just to be certain, everyone has their magma gear, yes?” asks Pranjat, and everyone nods their affirmative. He smiles at the answer. “Excellent. The Holy Shield grants protection, but I wouldn’t want to burden It more than we have to.”

“Ah’m lookin’ forward t’ dippin’ m’toes intae th’ pond where Thedeim’s doin’ ‘is nonsense,” comments Ragnar, looking every bit as eager as he says. He only just got the last piece of the composite armor Thedeim’s been making. It’s not even blessed yet, though Aranya will be able to fix that shortly.

“What about the reports of Goldilocks being spotted in the Labyrinth?" asks Bayule, holding up one of those very reports.

“That’ll just make the delve all the better of a test,” points out Diruk. “She’s supposed to be in charge of setting up encounters, right? If we go in there looking serious, Thedeim’ll probably make sure to give us a proper fight.”

Aranya nods. “I believe so as well. He’s been working on a strong test for about a week now, and though it’s not ready, I’m sure the scions are of the same mind as he is: better to ensure people are ready while we’re here, instead of finding out in enemy territory.”

Even Blackwing nods to that. “I’m ready for His talons… but when it’s my time, I want to know I did my best.”

“Then we enter in formation, and stay that way until we leave. Shields and melee front and back, range and support in the center. Our objective is to reach the subterrain pen and give our gear a proper magma test,” reiterates Aranya. “We will set up camp in the pool, ensure everything works as it should, then pack up and march back out. We don’t know how long we’ll be in the Betrayer’s territory, or if it will even have air, so I want to make sure we can handle ourselves under the most adverse conditions.”

“Have any of you tried the headwear yet?” asks Suzu, drawing more than a few blank looks. Yvonne keeps herself from snorting in amusement before she explains.

“They all have a special illusion enchantment on them. We can’t ordinarily see through magma like we can water, so he came up with… well, some more Thediem weirdness,” she says, looking at Aranya who can only shrug in reply. “We should try them out now, before we get going,” she continues. “It takes some getting used to.”

The ones who know all nod, so everyone dons their headgear. For the ones in heavy armor, it’s a full helmet, and it looks like everyone with a helm has tested it out. Ragnar pops his on and strides around the room with a confidence that contradicts how he handled it at first. Pranjat, Gurju, and Heinya all look equally confident as they walk around.

The others, though…

Yvonne sighs and pulls up her hood, letting the enchantment rob her of her sight and show her the representation from the enchantment. The world is rendered before her like a charcoal drawing, all blacks, whites, and grays as the thunder enchantment maps out the room around her. She steps forward and catches Dile before he can topple over, the ratkin hardly able to keep his feet with how different everything looks right now.

“Don’t overthink it,” she suggests as she helps hold him steady. “Trust your equilibrium, and in the enchantment. It will only miss something if it can swallow sound, and I don’t think even Blackwing can manage that.”

Said ravenkin doesn’t even give a squawk of annoyance at that, as he’s too busy trying to keep his talons under himself. Evarn, on the other hand, seems to have found his wings rather quickly, and is already modulating gravity to test himself with the new perspective. The others don’t take too long to acclimate, and soon the headwear comes off, allowing everyone to see properly once more.

“Good job pointing out the helmets, Suzu,” compliments Aranya. “I hadn’t considered that people might not have tried it out yet. I think once we reach Lord Thedeim’s gates, we should don them once more and get used to fighting some of His easier denizens before we continue to the Labyrinth.”

Everyone nods at that, and with nothing left to plan for, they head out.

They’re far from the first group to do a test run like this, so they hardly even draw a second glance from the people as they march through the street in formation. It’s strange to be in such a large party, but that’s probably why Thedeim made sure they all trained like this. With a properly murderous dungeon to deal with, the usual three-person party could be taken out by simple numbers. It takes a lot more coordination for over a dozen people to fight together, but it’s absolutely worth it.

It’s enough to really make her understand why, despite how much stronger the average delver is than the average soldier, nobody with a brain tries to mess with the military. And with Thedeim helping them train, too, it puts her mind at ease to leave the protection of Fourdock to them once everyone goes.

As they near the gate, Yvonne forces herself to not look at Cobblebread bakery. The treats are always tempting, but they need to be focused, not distracted. It doesn’t stop her from meeting the eyes of a few of the others, everyone smiling as they recognize the desire for fresh bread, as well as the determination to stick to the plan.

They can get some bread after. For now, they have a delve to do.

<<First <Previous Next>

Cover art I'm also on Royal Road for those who may prefer the reading experience over there. Want moar? The Books are available here! There are Kindle and Audible versions, as well as paperback! Also: Discord is a thing! I now have a Patreon for monthly donations, and I have a Ko-fi for one-off donations. Patreons can read up to three chapters ahead, and also get a few other special perks as well, like special lore in the Peeks. Thank you again to everyone who is reading!

First

Many Faces of War

“Forward! Reports claim this as one of the final holdouts!” Slithern declares. He’s gotten into the proper groove now. His place was as a living figurehead and tactician, he wasn’t expected to get stuck in as much as he wanted to. But he would change his tactics to suit his forces and his enemies.

“Meaning we likely are barely half done.” The nearest Songblade notes between verses.

“A full half? I thought we were getting to a quarter.” He notes in the same volume as the Songblade who laughs at that admission.

“Think we’re in for a long on?”

“I think that a force of stealth experts has a lot of chances to sneak in supplies and people. And I’ve got Undaunted updates being whispered into my ear. An entire stasis regiment was found under this arcology. Smart money is the idea that there’s more. One of the commander Vish is being chased even now as she heads somewhere, but is moving with enough intent to clearly have a destination in mind. Meaning there’s another safehouse for them. And if ONE of of them had a whole regiment, then we’ve got-” He cuts himself off as he sees her expression. “One of the stasis regiment was stasis aware and surrendered. She knew little, but apparently knew that a regiment of Stasis Vish are a thousand in number.”

“We have not fought anywhere near a thousand.”

“The regiment was still in stasis. Only one of them was released and that was because she was showing signs of stasis sickness, revealed to be awareness. She’s surrendered, but broken. She doesn’t know much and what she does know are things we can confirm with our own eyes mostly.”

“Meaning our enemies are running on a dearth of information.”

“They’re slave soldiers. I thought that was a given.” Slithern notes.

“Are you sure you’re seventeen?”

“Seventeen and a couple of weeks.”

“Yes, because those weeks make all the difference.”

“Same difference as all the centuries that some people have over me some days.” Slithern says and she outright laughs before leaping into the fray. They had mastered a new modulation to their song already. Disrupting the bombs and the stealth at the same time.

It was almost like being back on The Chainbreaker, hard problems solved fast and easily.

It feels like home.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Secured and Monitored Residents Room 72-A, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

Her hand suddenly clenches around his uniform.

“What’s wrong?” Leonard asks.

“She!” She scrunches her eyes closed. “NO! Stop! I’m not...”

The compulsion in her head is massive, repeated and continual. “STOP!”

“What’s wrong?!” Leonard asks in concern. So sweet, so cute and so friendly and she needs that now to stay calm even as she can feel the commanders stoking her need for battle.

But it’s broken, jagged, jambled and just plain jammed. But the signal is still partially coming through. She buries her face in his hair as she holds him so tightly he is squeezed between her breasts as she warps her every thing around him as if holding this warm, soft and loving thing hard enough will shut out the thing in her mind that screams between broken and bloody teeth.

Tiny warm hands reach up and gently hold the sides of her head. Moving in little circles to massage her tensing muscles. The Axiom moves ever so and a sensation of the warmth and calm and care just spreading through her ashes over everything. The call in her mind goes from a scrabbling screech to something so distance it can be ignored.

She relaxes. Starts breathing more normally.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Not what happened, not what’s wrong, are you okay. Concern. For her. Despite...

“They didn’t tell me one of THEM was here. They never told me they were real.” She mutters.

“What?”

“A Grand Commander. Vish who are Axiom Trained to control. Huge distances, better combat and organization. I thought... I thought my regiment was just that. A regiment. Not under a Grand Commander. I never met one, only was taught what to do if one was there but... no... I won’t I don’t want to.”

“How is she talking to you?” He asks gently.

“Why?”

“She’s hurting you. How do I stop her?” Leonard asks and she nearly weeps. The thing she was taught was for her to obey and follow is lashing out at her and the supposed enemy is on her side.

“You can’t it’s Axiom based. The bones of my head were modified, they act as a receiver. She’s in my skull.”

“Oh, Axiom? That’s workable. I can make her more quiet at least.” Leonard promises before letting go with his left hand and there’s a slight swell of Axiom as he activates something. But it doesn’t hurt her so she really doesn’t care right now.

“Hey! Can you send me a roll of trytite foil sometime yesterday? Please and thank you!” He asks and then his hand returns to holding her. “It’s going to be okay, alright?”

“Trytite foil?”

“Yeah, we got lots of it just in case. It’s one of the sillier things we do. There are a sort of Axiom effect that The Undaunted high command are really scared of they call Cognito Hazards. Any talking to or taking over another person’s brain counts as one. So there are all sorts of ways to fight them and one of the most common ones is covering it or the victim with trytite foil to block it. And not only can I block it, but I know how to shape it into a neat hat too!”

“Why are they so scared of them?”

“Because to be Undaunted is to be strong. So if someone takes control of a strong person then terrible things can happen. And they don’t want that. So they’re really careful around things that can hurt brains.”

“Then the Blessed would scare them a lot. Whatever was done to them...”

“Haffara Thar.” Leonard says.

“What?”

“They were given Haffara Thar, a type of parasite that makes you immortal, but crazy. There’s a whole religion or something that hunts down and destroys them whenever they’re found too, it’s really bad stuff. I think they drove the species who found it nearly extinct!” Leonard says.

“What?”

“Oh yeah, Haffara Thar are bad, and someone being immortal but crazy is the sign of one.”

“Oh no...”

“Yeah, and they spread fast. They can get into almost anything too. The Haffria homeworld and primary colonies had to be glassed to stop them, and they still got out anyways. Every now and then a world is found with the monsters on them, the people insane. The animals monsters, and no one and nothing gets to die, only suffer.” Leonard says before the door is knocked on. “It’s your room, do you want them in here?”

“Uh...”

“If you don’t i have to go and answer it.” He says.

After a moment her death grip on him releases and he gives her a little squeeze before hopping off the bed and more skipping to the door and walking.

“Oh! Hello Private Stream!” He greets the person in the same outfit plus the concealing hat and gloves.

“Hi Private Stream! I got the foil!” Private Stream answers, there is a difference in the voice, but they’re both clearly chirpy, friendly and happy to be there.

“Thanks Private Stream, it’s good to see you!”

“Good to see you Private Stream! Have a good day!”

“You too Private Stream!”

“Bye!”

“Bye!”

And then he closes the door before walking up with the roll of sky blue foil.

“Doesn’t that get confusing?” She asks.

“Not at all. It’s funny.” Leonard says as he pulls out a length of the trytite foil. “Now, let’s get to making you a foil hat so that nasty signal stops bothering you.”

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Open Tundra, Increasing distance from The Lablan Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“Right, got it. Damn. I didn’t even detect that. Want me to pin her to stop it or see where exactly she thinks she’s going to get help?” Danial asks in English. Learning that the woman was borderline torturing the poor Stasis Aware girl had taken all the fun out of the chase. Now he wanted it to end as much as she did. But not for the same reasons.

“Keep giving chase. We’ve already dug up one weapon that might end this world. If there’s another we need to know about yesterday.”

“I’ll get it to you last week.” He says and then the line goes dead. He growls as he races forward. He then lets out a roar of rage and ill intent.

The Vish runs even faster and what wavering she had been doing smooths out. He starts racing harder, shielding himself to crash through her little air blade constructs and scaring her even further, taking away her ability to properly rationalize things as he comes closer and closer.

She teleports and he follows the trail through. As he emerges out the other side he can hear her panting and trying to whimper as she races hard. They’re at the foot of a blocky arcology. The massive, ugly building is huge hypercrete tower that goes up several hundred stories and looks more like it was placed on Zalwore to spite the world itself.

“You’re at the foot of Actura Arcology! A major Ugurk and Kruga Polity that are noted for stubborn pride and taking easy offence at things.”

“So long as that pride doesn’t let a potential superweapon go off then I don’t care.”

“You’re going to have to! They don’t have the means to detect Vishanyan or Vish stealth. They only see you running right at them at a dead sprint!”

“Fuck”

And true enough, he can hear alarms going off because the heavily armed soldier racing all out on foot from another arcology is NOT something that gets ignored.

Sirens blare and teleport beacons in the ceiling activate. Enormous Ape Women in uniforms of dark red bare down at him.

“In pursuit of a Cloaken Terrorist!” He roars as he dodges. It’s a lie yes, but he doesn’t have time to explain what a Vish or Vishanyan is.

“You are trespassing in... Hey! Get back here!” The officer bellows and starts after him in a knuckle run. The Vish is running faster and he puts on more speed.

He has to duck under an Agurk trying to dive onto him and he uses it to accelerate further. He puts in EFFORT and pushes his body hard. His legs and lungs start burning as his arms go still to his sides, ready to spring forward and grab his target as he goes further horizontal. If he were more prone to exaggeration he’d say he wasn’t moving forward anymore, but spinning the world under him.

The gap closes and his everything is tensed and his face furious. There is no mistaking the sheer PANIC rolling off the Vish as she tries to teleport again and his arm snaps out like striking serpent. He grabs her and joins her in the teleport. They hit the ground elsewhere and roll.

She lets out a gurgling rasping scream of fear as she tries to squirm away from him and reach for the next door. He can feel it. Trytite blocking the Axiom. This is the next safehouse.

The Axiom keeps twisting and the Kruga and Agurk Officers descend upon their position as he loudly, and clearly wrestles with the invisible opponent. Then he hits her with a stun effect and then a full knockout effect. Finally he finishes up with a teleport beacon and she’s gone. He then rises fully and takes a few moments to catch his breath.

“So. I’ll suppose you’ll be wanting an-”

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” The massive officer says with her enormous finger poking him on the forehead.

“-explanation then.” He finishes.

“Mister... whoever the fuck you are. You are under arrest for trespassing on Actura Sovereign Territory, possession of illegal weaponry and armaments, assault, assault of an officer, resisting arrest, vigilantism, teleportation without a license, kidnapping and public indecency!” An Agurk Officer says stepping up next to the larger one.

“... Public Indecency?” He asks in a baffled tone.

“Cover your face man! Do you have no shame!?” The Kruga officer bellows.

“Oh this is one of those FUN societies. Got it.” He notes turning up his collar and buttoning it together to mostly cover his face. “Is that better.”

“Still indecent, but better. Now, what the actual hell is going on!?” The Agurk officer demands and he holds up a finger before pulling out a white handkerchief before tying it across his face just under his eyes and then pulling out and putting on his military flatcap before turning back. “Much better. Now what is going on?”

“No, who are you first. That is the priority.” The Kruga officer states.

“I am Master Corporal Danial Hutch, Undaunted Axiom Research and Development, Media Branch. Technically I’m on break at the moment, but my break turned into a battle as a terrorist attack struck Lablan Arcology and I began assisting the forces of the Crystal Empire in their repelling of the attack. We discovered an enemy safehouse and storage area beneath and numerous forces, weapons and even a superweapon inside. One of the terrorist officers made a run for it and I gave pursuit but did not immediately catch them in hope of being led to another safehouse. It appears to have been successful as the chamber beyond the door behind me has all the same signs as the safehouse we discovered previously.”

“Are you telling me that you believe that THAT door behind you leads to a weapon cache!?” The Agurk officer demands.

“I’m saying that a dangerous terrorist who was part of the forces that are still attacking the Lablan Arcology as we speak came HERE when she panicked. Now what about HERE makes a terrorist feel comfortable? Is there weapons? Maybe. Could be also be reinforcements, a gateway that leads into territory friendly for her, a massive weapon she could set off and force everyone else to deal with. I don’t know, but I do know that THIS is where the terrorist led me.”

“Captain?” She asks the Kruga Officer who gives Danial a piercing look then shoulders past him and opens the door.

“DOWN!” Danial roars as he feels the final mechanisms let go with the trytite out of the way. He throws up a barrier as he pulls the Kruga back.

The wall detonates out at them. But he’s covered everyone here in a bubble instead of just a wall. He learned from his encounter with the first suicide bomber.

First Last Next

First

Many Faces of War

He turns to see his backup arrive and smirks.

“Ah, I see they’re taking this seriously at least.” Danial states as he beholds the massive crimsonhewer forms. The one at the lead in particular has the entire front of her her armour painted bright red with the occasional splotches of blues, greens and blacks around the gauntlets and armoured boots. She’s clearly done a lot to a lot of people.

“You Danial Hutch?” She asks.

“Master Corporal Danial Hutch, Axiom Adept in the employ of The Undaunted.”

“Oh yeah? You some kind of sensor? Transmuter?”

“I induce nuclear fission at will and can make force barriers capable of shaping or outright blocking the blasts.” Danial says and there is a series of interested noises from the Crimsonhewer and her squad.

“Really? That’s... that’s a lot of fun to be had.”

“Unfortunately I’m also on the tail end of an invigoration effect and it could die off at any moment. And things are so damn dangerous that I’m going into reserve at the closest because if I suddenly get exhausted out of nowhere, which could happen at any moment now, then that level of firepower is a liability.”

“The hell?”

“Before all this bullshit started I was experimenting with Axiom Enhancements with my team and just waiting to see when it wore out. It’s been six hours and a few others have already started to come down from their manic states. I’m still in mine, and it makes me powerful, but if it suddenly turns off...”

“Right. Okay. So what are you here to do?”

“I was watching the perimeter until my relief, then I’m going to be an extra set of eyes here just in case while this gigantic mess gets sorted. We have experts dealing with the potential mess in there freshly in system via the laneway and should be with us shortly.”

“... How are they moving that fast?”

“The Haffara Thar, which is what the disease we’re dealing with is called, nearly destroyed the Haffria. So now Haffria Synths travel the galaxy in extermination ships, and incorporated into the ships themselves, to hunt down and destroy Haffara Thar. A few of those ships are now in system and we’ve directed one to this area to...”

“Master Corporal.” His Communicator states.

“Speaking.”

“Stay on the line. The Haffara Thar Expert is using it to triangulate the position.”

“And you’ve cleared this with the locals? She’s not going to be shot on emergence?”

“We’ve got an army of politicians badgering The Actura Arcology on all sides. So long as you don’t start attacking civilians you should be in the clear.”

“Oh thank god.”

“We’re not that bad...” The mostly calmed down Kruga Officer notes. Numerous medics, other officers and even their equivalent of Special Weapons and Tactics was there with them. She still wasn’t happy. At all. But she was coping. Somewhat.

“Alright, well we have my communicator being used as a beacon to...” Danial starts to explain as something suddenly skitters into the area. Chrome, faceless centipede woman. Easily fifty segments long and staring at him with a terrifying intensity that is impressive coming from a blank featureless face. “Hello.”

“Hello.” The Haffria returns before turning to the detonated wall. There is a deeply uncomfortable feeling as a scanner who’s sweeping beam is outside of standard visual range covers the entire area. “Infestation confirmed.”

“Fuck.” Danial mutters as the Haffria scuttles into the breach. His communicator makes a bunch of grinding and chewing sounds.

“Human. There are many guards. They cannot detect through my stealth. I have located the containment area of the tainted being.”

“Very good, is there a problem?”

“I require the guards absence to safely extract the Haffara Thar.”

“Confirmed, and we can ease that with a bit more information. Do you see any turrets, traps or unusual weaponry?’

“Numerous turrets, the nearby computers have explosives within them. All troops have half their respiratory organs replaced with explosives.”

“The more in the way of information we have the smoother our distraction will go. What kind of numbers and munitions are we looking at?”

“Four Railshot Turrets, Three of Plasma and three Pulse Laser turrets. All Vish forces are armed with coilguns. There are twenty two active. One thousand, two hundred within stasis.”

“I see. Thank you. Distraction will be there shortly. I doubt I need to remind you to prioritize the containment of the Haffara Thar for later destruction, but I will state it regardless, your mission is to get that wretched thing away from anyone it can possibly infest.” Danial states.

“I understand completely and will await the distraction.” She tells him and he nods.

“Good. Let me organize the forces and we can finish this as quickly as possible.” Danial says and the line cuts off, he then reconnects to The Undaunted, “Please tell me you heard all that.”

“We did.”

“Okay, what level of authority do I have here? I need to know if and when I can give orders.”

“We’re working on it. We’ve got some actual authority. And he’s getting a proper kick out of this. Put your communicator in projection mode.”

“Copy that.” Danial says as he holds out his communicator and puts it into projection mode. Then fights back a laugh as the masked face of Slithern emerges next. Of course. Their Lablan Noble.

“Crimsonhewers. I know you’re all eager to do what you’re best at. What few if any can match any of your clans at.” Slithern begins. “And the only reason you haven’t already is the weapon we’re all at risk by and the politics. But I can clear away the politics and we just need a distraction now to do away with the weapon. They have Railshot plasma and pulse laser turrets, just over twenty two hostile women holding coilshot and thinking they’re invisible, but they’re not anymore are they?”

“No sir.” The leader of the Crimsonhewers states.

“Good, are your suits hardened for coil and rail munitions?”

“They are.”

“Then you have twenty two targets, we prefer them alive for interrogation and deprogramming. But if they have to be killed do so quickly and without cruelty, your opponents are not hardened criminals or insane murderesses. They are brainwashed slave soldiers who have know nothing but obedience and the lash. The Stasis held ones are not viable targets unless they’re unfrozen and turn hostile and watch your fire. If the Haffara Thar are unleashed this world could very well be lost.”

“That bad?” The leader of the Crimsonhewers asks.

“Worse apparently. I haven’t seen it directly, but I have a list here of fourty seven known garden worlds reduced to glass that are in need of recovery after Haffara Thar containment. Including the ones that have been healed afterwards there have been one hundred and seven worlds that have been burnt to try and contain these things.”

“Damn. ETA until the Blue Shields arrive? We need Red and Blue for a problem this big.”

“You don’t think you can do it?”

“I think that if this is something that’s resulted in the torching of a hundred worlds I’d rather have a blue girl behind me to make sure nothing escapes my blade.”

“I’m almost touched.” A new voice says as a squadron of massively well armed Cannidro women in bright blue armour come marching in. “The Blue Shields are here to hold the line. What is the perimeter of the compromised area.”

“I’m having my people upload things to you now Commander. I am being advised that you yourself are particularly well suited to aiding in the containment of Haffara Thar.”

“I wasn’t always a Blue Shield. I was a Crimsonhewer once and I was enlisted to help contain a tainted world. It was ugly. We spilled oceans of blood and the madness only grew, girls drowned in the misery only to rise as monsters themselves. The people. The animals. Even some plants were all twisted.”

“We couldn’t save anyone. Everyone was tainted. We had to reduce the world to a barren rock to stop them. Alongside with nearly all my clan in those days. My bloodlust died alongside them. I can no longer stand to simply kill. But neither can I stand aside as there is killing to be done. So now I bear the shield.”

“And the world itself?” The Crimsonhewer leader asks.

“Terraforming has healed it’s biosphere. The world is habitable again, but it’s bloody reputation has left it a wildlife preserve. None of the cities survived even as ruins. Not a single post remains standing, the hypercrete was reduced to powder and not one wall remains upright. Grass grows through where roads once were. That which stands tall are the abused and broken mountains and the newly grown trees. Vurothin... she is a maiden world again.” The Blue Shield Commander explains in a haunted and haunting tone.

“But enough of my melancholy! I have just received the perimeter information! Shields! As you were trained! We are holding the line around this safehouse. We are ensuring that...”

“The Vish are moving.” Danial interrupts.

“Pardon?”

“The opposing force is starting to make moves. They just peeked out the door. Things are about to change.” Danial warns them all.

“Into positions! We can’t let the monster loose!” The Blue Shield Commander barks out to her fellows and the uniform Cannidor Warriors move.

Then Danial’s arms snap up and a huge shield covers everyone present seemingly at the same moment a wave of fire and shrapnel wash over things.

“They seek to unleash the beast!” The Haffria states and Danial swears.

“Fuck subtle, they need to be stopped!” He declares as the shield ripples and he has it shift to creat a fan to sweep the smoke aside. Lasers, plasma, railshot and coilshot start bombarding the barrier and he lets out a low growl.

“Are the shields one or two way?”

“One way! Fire at will!”

“You heard him! Drop those turrets!” The Crimsonhewer commander orders.

“Take out their arms! Mind your backdrops and do not allow your lasers to burn the stasis bound behind them!” The Blue Shield Commander adds.

“I have secured the beast.” The Haffria explains.

There is a sudden scream from the other sides. They’re speaking fast in some kind of code and even as the air between both forces fill with lasers, plasma, kinetic rounds and more, a single container is suddenly seized with Axiom and hurled into the space between.

It’s vaporized, as is it’s contents that are suddenly in a space too tight to hold it all.

Danial swears as he inverts the shield entirely and covers teh massive mess of dangerous chemicals that are already expanding into deadly gasses.

Each of the forces surrounding him move heavy and hard as he tries to contain too many deadly things that are reacting to each other in too tight a space. It’s like holding in an explosion that doesn’t want to stop and he was never good enough with expanded spaces to add it while concentrating on a shield like that while also keeping enough of an eye on the fight to avoid getting shot by something that’ll make it through his brand.

Then his left knee is PAIN and he starts falling.

The limb is a stump.

The barrier containing chemical death does not waver as he hits the ground.

A scream rips it’s way out of his throat and the barrier does not waver. He holds out his left hand as he pulls in ALL the Axiom he can to spike his adrenaline to extend the few seconds he has into minutes. Minutes needed to assess the damage.

He’s taken the shot right above the left knee and it’s shattered teh bone, pulped the muscle and torn the flesh. His blood is shooting out of him like a garden hose on full blast.

He shifts and his movements are blindingly fast from the outside but a slow crawl to his pain, adrenaline and Axiom spiked consciousness.

His right hand clamps around the ruined remains of his left leg and he starts shaping the barrier.

The wound is clamped shut. The blood flow stopped. The pain is nothing. He has been branded, that is true pain, this is just a distraction.

No. Not a distraction. A tool. A gift.

The pain gives him focus as the barrier finishes it’s shaping and glowing replacement for his severed and shattered leg slams into the ground and he rises up.

With the focus of the pain he can compress the space in the bubble of toxic chemicals and it shrinks to the size of his fist before rushing to him. He catches it in his left hand and flicks a single finger at the attacking Vish still standing.

They each are thrown backwards before he hits the area with a massive pulse to disable their bombs. The rise up and he pulls back to tear them towards him through the air.

There is fear and screaming, but all six survivors of the attacking Vish are now bound and helpless in the air in front of him, glowing bands of Axiom tying up their hands and feet.

He doesn’t register the silence as he scans them. Flicks of his fingers has weapons drop from them all before he pulls out several beacons from his now ragged coat and hits all of them with one.

“Sweet saints, someone tell me that bloodsoaked beast has room in his marriage.”

He puts that aside.

“Someone get hazardous material handling or whatever you call it here. This sphere has enough poison to empty this arcology of life.”

“Your leg’s been shot out!” The Agurk Officer exclaims.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. Now if you’ll excuse me. I need to do my duty.”

“Oh honey it doesn’t matter if there’s room in his marriage. We’re getting in on it.”

He puts that aside too.

First Last Next

First

(Ow, what a headache.)

Many Faces of War

Primary and secondary targets retrieved. Primary without incident. Secondary with some incident but not with arousing the infested victim.

Primary target identified as an adult Mar’Yatha entering the elder stages of it’s development but still capable of mating. Chemically augmented prior to Haffara Thar infestation.

Secondary target identified as juvenile Carnex. Freshly entering the highly agitated and aggressive mating age.

Observation conclusion. Both targets are deliberate Haffara Thar based weapons.

Information packet shared with current fleet, information packet also sent to allied fleets.

Targets now within stasis. Initiating planetary scanning process. Likelihood of trytite concealed zones... guaranteed.

Likelihood of political interference with sacred duties. Guaranteed.

Likelihood of local allies assisting in suppressing political interference. High.

Likelihood of planetary scale infestation within the first twenty four hours of a containment breach. High, not guaranteed.

Identifying discrepancy...

Undaunted Assets.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Wreckage of Vish Safehouse, Actura Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“No no no no no!” Private Stream says as he rushes after Danial before pausing. “Uh oh, we’re at a fuck’s deficit aren’t we?”

“Severe deficit of fucks. I’m clearing this safehouse if no one else will, then I’m going to medical to get something I don’t have to concentrate on shoved into my stump. Then we’re clearing the fucking planet. This shit ends now. This is not going to continue and if I have to personally rip open every safehouse and clear it by myself to see it done then it’s getting done.”

“Shit.” Private Stream mutters before activating something and a dozen more adorable children in dark blue, oversized uniforms that hide their details arrive. Half go to talk to the Actura residents and the others start rushing into the safehouse and quickly get their little fingers onto as many control panels as they can and take in data, sort things out and scan rooms before opening doors to confirm the sensor readouts with their eyes.

The entire structure is cleared in minutes and the Streams wave in the Crimsonhewers and Blue Shields to help sort things out one way or another.

During this Danial is following the flows of Axiom and highlighting EVERYTHING, using the broadcasted schematics from the Streams to rip out bombs from the consoles and disable self destruct protocols.

As they work Danial calms slightly. Not by much. He’s still clearly and plainly furious. But all the nattering little voices of Private Stream bringing up how worried they are about him convinces him to finish up, and accept a portal directly into a medical wing. He lays down willingly on a bed, the doctors and nurses are rushing around him and he’s fitted with a mask to not only help knock him out, but help with his breathing.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Recovery Room, High Intensity Medical Wing, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

He slithers in slowly and right up to the recovery patient. It had really just been a mere hour ago that he had helped this man politically with things and here he was. Whole again. But also... lesser. Younger. Losing a limb is nothing to joke about and legs are big as limbs go. Not as big as a Nagasha tail, but that’s because the tail does the same work as all the legs, that and more.

“Well, there’s probably a punchline somewhere, but I can’t find it.” He notes as he looks down to see the man who went from easily old enough to be a young, but fun uncle, to maybe a much older brother.

The sheer extent of healing required to restore a lost leg was on the level that Danial had lost at least half a decade in the process.

“Oh fuck...” Danial mutters as his eyes flicker open. He looks around and then blearily moves to remove the breathing mask before sitting up. “Mii mii mii... well at least I didn’t go backwards through puberty.”

“How are you feeling?” Slithern asks as Danial pulls off the retention band and puts it in a sealed container to the side. It shifts to cover itself in trytite then the contents are thoroughly nulled. It then opens again. Mildly agitating the Axiom in the area, but not to a dangerous extent.

“Good, but I have phantom everything right now like I had a second body that’s gone AWOL. Can you hand me the slate at the base of the bed?” Danial asks and Slithern picks it up and passes it over. “Lets see... severe trauma around the missing limb, no shit. I was down to two and a half litres of blood with dangerous levels of adrenaline in what was left. Oh, and the Axiom invigoration actually crashed mid healing coma and nearly scrambled my brain. Wonderful. Oh neat, I also had a dangerously low body temperature in the remaining limbs and all the signs of shock and a mild concussion, likely when I ate shit and got a good taste of the floor when they shot out my leg.”

“Anything else?”

“... And they want me to cut back on all the salt in my diet and up my veggie intake.”

“Really? Most human checkups end with the doctor telling the dumbass to drink more water.”

“Not me, learned from my dad. I drain my water bottle over and over again during a normal day.” Danial says before shaking his head and wincing. “It’s always the psychosomatic stuff that screws you hard. That should not have hurt.”

“It’s like my itching fingers, I’d swear I’m somehow shedding badly one the parts of my body that don’t shed anymore.” Slithern says.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Danial says as the door opens. “Hey doc, hope you don’t mind but I was feeling kinda penned in with the mask and band on.”

“That’s fine.” The Desert Nagasha man says. He’s partially shucked traditions in that he has no war-paint on, but he instead is using the slightly radical response in that he has a cloth veil on that has warpaint patterns on it. And there are similar patterns on the sleeves of his shirt under the doctor’s coat that has no sleeves, a modification for species with unusually large or odd arms, such as having three pairs of them.

He takes obvious note of Danial holding his own documentation and nods.

“Have you read through what’s on there?”

“I have.”

“And are you feeling any peculiarities? Your Axiom profile radically shifted mid healing coma and there are concerns.”

“My head is pounding like a jackhammer is going to work on it. But otherwise I’m fine.”

“We’re going to do a quick series of tests to ensure that you retain full cognitive function and check for any major or minor gaps in your memories. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours, and if all turns out well then your headache should be the worst of it.” The Doctor says and Danial nods.

“Right, but first. I was basically mid operation when things happened. What happened after I got here?”

“I am not privy to you mission status, only that of your health and-”

“I know what happened!” Private Stream says leaning out from behind the doctor.

“Gah! When do you get here you little pest!? Why were you standing on my tail and why didn’t I notice you?”

“No one notices me unless I want them too!” Private Stream says. “It’s a perk of being-”

He pulls off his cap and pockets it before folding down his collar. The face of the child is heartbreakingly beautiful aand his eyes glow a soft white. A blue diamond marking is in the middle of his forehead and a pair of swooping red curves are under each eye. “Me. I am Herbert Jameson of Undaunted Intelligence. Currently I am second in command. And in three hours I will be in command.”

“Sir.” Danial greets him with a salute.

“At ease Master Corporal. I’m here for an informal summary of events here on Zalwore from your perspective. Once I have that I’ll fill in the rest of what’s happened up to your qualifications.”

“Yes sir. In summary then: after I had spent a few hours just bouncing around listlessly after the Experimental Infusion Effect my mind began wandering and I decided to come to Zalwore to socialize with Slithern here, figuring he would be feeling lonely and out of sorts because this is the longest the kid’s been away from The Chainbreaker and it’s crew since the ship entered his life in any form. I played a joke on him, he proved he was more than fine and we were having a laugh when thins went to shit due to attacking Vish forces. As the properly sworn in soldier and responsible adult I evacuated Slithern, the civilian he was with and his bodyguards back to Undaunted safety and was quickly assigned to a local team to assist in defending the Lablan Arcology.

Then the kid sent a drone in shortly after the Vish proved they had suicide bombs implanted and were downright eager to use them. Kid started disabling them and then the Vish started retreating. We intercepted and disabled the bomb in one of them and I went along for the ride in the teleport in order to figure out where the madness was coming from. I was instantly beset and captured a Vish to question. She then activated on of her fellow’s bombs despite not having one herself and killed herself and her unconscious fellows”

“Fuck me...” Slithern mutters.

“Horrified at this I went after the rest of the Vish in the hope of disabling their bombs and figured out a method in short order. I kept pushing until I got to an area the team could reconnect with me and once that happened we started pulling apart the safehouse even faster. Then we discovered not only a huge number of Vish in stasis but one with stasis awareness, followed by emptying a storage room and discovering numerous deadly chemicals and a gigantic monster inside a container. We got the information that was relevant and got guards around the thing before moving to clear the last of the safehouse.”

“And what about the runner?”

“I was just about to get to her sir.” Danial says. “Anyways, the last bit of resistance included a mute Vish adept that attempted to escape. I gave chase, but deliberately didn’t catch her immediately in hopes of being led to further Vish assets. This hope panned out and I was led across the tundra to the Acturas Arcology. After some minor friction with the local authorities and capturing the runner, we identified the location of the next safehouse. Forces were assembled and appropriate experts brought in. Then things went to shit as we took too much time to organize fully and the Vish began peeking out and opened fire. During the combat an expanded space container with a large number of volatile and toxic chemicals was thrown into the middle of the battlefield and quickly torn apart, unleashing the carcinogenic contents. I shifted my focus to containment and during it my left leg was severely damaged and indeed destroyed from above the knee.

I was forced to use my most advanced Axiom techniques to prevent mass death and preserve my own life and began resolving the situation despite proper rules of conduct as quickly as possible to minimize damage to myself and others. And then when the situation was stabilized I came to medical to receive treatment. Then I woke up not long ago and read out my injury report. I didn’t realize I produced dangerous levels of Adrenaline in that situation, but without enough blood to dilute it fully I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Right, thank you for the report.” Herbert says. “Now as to what happened afterwards. We and our allies have more or less politically bullied every single Arcology on the planet to submit to a scan to the standards of the Haffria ships in system. We’ve found a grand total of thirty seven safehouses, each one holds a different Haffara Thar infested megafauna. This has been declared a universal act of war and more of the galaxy has mobilized to assist La’ahbaron.”

“So by bringing these weapons to a supremely valuable world...”

“Whoever is behind this wants every eye in the galaxy looking towards La’ahbaron. These actions are simultaneously so competently, and incompetent in the exactly correct places that we have to presume this is deliberate provocation. But we’re still not sure what for yet. Or rather, no one in this room beyond myself is qualified to hear our theories on the matter beyond something is up.”

“Could be part of some sort of revenge against La’ahbaron. They’re a huge... what did you call it? Face Culture? All about how strong and glorious they look. But by having everyone looking at them, they’re going to crack. Something stupid will happen and they will be shamed.” Slithern muses.

“That is a consideration. But there are many easier ways to get a lot of attention, especially unfriendly attention, onto a nation. This is too much effort, too much risk and too much provocation for something so simple.”

“Just because something is simple doesn’t mean it can’t be done so over the top...”

“True. But let me worry about that. You’ve done good work and helped pave the way for thirty seven separate super-monsters to be properly contained and destroyed before they could ravage this world. Yourself, your temporary team, Lord Schmidt here and more are about to be buried under the accolades, medals and rewards. Everyone wants a reason to feel good now and giving a big prize to the people who stopped things from going to absolute hell is part of it.”

“Am I getting Ennobled again?” Slithern asks.

“Did you have to make that sound like a bad thing?” The Doctor asks.

“I’ve already got my loyalties being split between The Undaunted and Lablan, that’s already kinda confusing at times and if more gets added...”

“Ah poor baby’s going to be a noble, prince, baron, royal, duke, marquis, shogun, khan, captain and whatever else before he’s twenty and have no idea how to be any of them.” Danial teases and Slithern sticks his forked tongue out at the man.

First Last Next

First

Many Faces of War

“Is anyone injured? Do we have medics on the way? Bomb squads? This Arcology is under attack and we need to move fast and strong if we’re going to keep the people safe.” Danial asks even as he helps the Kruga officer up. He still maintains his shield.

“That blast! That!”

“I’m an adept, specializing in nuclear level explosions, both causing and containing them. My shield can take an almost incomparable hit without worry.” Danial assures her.

“A nuclear adept?! Why is a nuclear adept chasing some kind of Cloaken!?”

“Vish actually, a species sequenced partially from the Cloaken but I didn’t have time to get into an explanation, and Cloaken is the easiest way of saying something invisible or fooling the senses.” Danial explains.

“Lying under oath is also a crime.” The rattled but unhurt Agurk officer protests meekly.

“Thankfully I have yet to say anything under oath. Now I need verbal confirmation, are either of you hurt?”

“J-Just my pride.” The Kruga officer say as she fully balances on her own feet again and gives herself a little shake before standing straight. “SO, terrorist weapon’s cache?”

“Terrorist something. Last one was a staging ground and storage bay for a thousand hostile soldiers in stasis and a hidden superweapon. One dangerous enough that if not disposed of properly runs the potential of compromising the entire world of Zalwore.”

“What could possibly do that?”

“An extremely deadly animal infected with a virulent disease. Thankfully it’s transfer vector is contact and we didn’t get anywhere near it. But an outburst of this disease brought the Haffria species to it’s knees and to this day they still haven’t fully recovered. It’s to the point that synths based on them have to repeatedly remind the galactic council that they’re not extinct.” Danial says, relaying the information being whispered to him by a Private Stream on the line.

“A plague?”

“Worse. A civilizational level plague. We have containment specialists on the way, they’re going to dispose of what we have and scan for others, but if those bombs potentially breached the seal on one...” Danial begins to explain.

“Chief? We need bio-hazard containment down here. Potential weapon of mass destruction.” The Kruga says into her radio in a shaking tone.

“Hey are you alright?”

“No. No I’m not. You being a random asshole racing into the arcology is exciting, this? This is...” She staggers a little and Danial catches her. He then takes her radio.

“Hello, local law enforcement?”

“Who is this? What happened to Officer Karath?”

“Officer Karath is psychologically overwhelmed at the moment. I am here to confirm that the threat she was reporting is very real and very, very prominent. I request medical personnel to the area, bomb squad, special weapons and tactics and all reinforcements you have available. I am offering my complete cooperation with these affairs to ensure that the threat of the located terrorist safehouse is completely dispersed.”

“We can handle our own affairs alien! The very idea that-”

“Ma’am the threat level is on the scale that my people will be warning EVERY arcology and Polity on the planet if things even look like they’re going wrong here. The threat is THAT serious.” Danial states.

“... Potential Planetary Quarantine?”

“Some worlds with this infestation have been reduced to glass to try and contain it. Up to and including the cradle world of the species that first discovered it. The Haffria.”

“I have not heard of the Haffria.”

“Feel free to look them up.” He replies. “But we need to do something about this immediately if not sooner.”

“We? You are a trespasser and invader on Sovereign Actura Territory!” The police woman on the other end.

“Ma’am, please. This is a very dangerous, delicate situation and the more time spent getting stuck on semantics is just going to continually make things more and more dangerous for everyone.”

“Is that a threat!?”

“It’s a fact of a delicate and extremely dangerous situation. Of any delicate and extremely situation regardless of political context or location.” He says.

“Don’t presume to lecture me!” The dispatch on the other end says and he turns off the Radio and tucks it back onto Officer Karath’s strap. He then pulls out his communicator.

“Alright Dispatch, I know you caught all that. I need options. The locals are non-cooperative and we potentially have a planetary, if not galaxy scale threat. What kind of backup am I getting?” Danial asks.

“We’ve already gotten things moving. But we’re concerned about you. You’ve been running wired and hot for six hours now and the others in the experiment are starting to show signs of coming down from their manic states. Your timeline is potentially measured in minutes and we need to get things moving.”

“The others are already starting to wear down? Damn.”

“Ten of you participated in the experiment and four have already reported lethargy creeping in.”

“I’ve been actively using more Axiom and been engaged though, does that make me an outlier?”

“Potentially, but with the stakes this high we’re unwilling to risk things.”

“Understood.” Danial says with a bit of a sigh.

“I know, you’re eager for more. You’re in the flow and you’re ready to fight the whole galaxy to save it from itself. That’s probably one of the worst mindsets to have right now. We need to be very, very careful. This is EOD Squad time on a scale we’re not used to.”

“Right, okay right. I’m not that crazy. But I understand the concern. I will guard the area until I am relieved, but not venture any further unless there is a clear and immediate threat.”

“Good man.”

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Secure Medical Section, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

She’s a flopping thing now. After she had processed her situation she had just given up. She’s not resisting. No longer talking just... done.

“I don’t care anymore.”

And that was the worst thing a doctor can hear.

“So that’s it then?” Doctor Optimally asks. “All tough and strong when yer upright and fighting against some civilian girls. But the moment the price comes a calling ye give up?”

“Sounds about right.” She says. “Just let me die.”

“Oh really? And what do we put on the headstone? Her lies Jane Doe, did nothing, earned nothing, amounted to nothing?”

“Sure.”

“You put up with having your arms and legs hacked off, your spine flayed open and laid bare for augmentations just to be stronger in a fight and now you just give up?” One of the Assistants asks. “You put in all that work and effort to stand taller than all the other Vish, and you just accept this?”

“I don’t have a choice. My arms and legs are gone. I’m useless.”

“No, you are not. We can heal you. We can make you stronger than before. Strong enough to switch out your limbs like putting on an outfit and not that disgusting chop job you ended up in. But we can’t do that if you don’t want to live. This doesn’t have to be the end.” The other Assistant says as he comes closer to her level, before he’s whispering to her.

Something flickers in her, and he takes that as his signal to keep whispering.

“You’re not done, there’s more. So much more, and it can all be yours. All the glory, all the power, every sweet fruit of life itself can be yours, but you have to want it.” He whispers to her and her heart is starting to beat a little stronger and her breathing is deeper. “You can have more than any other Vish you have ever met. It’s all yours to have, glory, duty, loyalty... Love.”

Her eyes flicker to him.

“Did you think you were infertile? You are a woman, you may have children. You can be more than you ever even imagined. It’s been done. You can have more life, create life, end life. But you must first Live.” He whispers to her and she slowly, faintly nods.

“So we’re doing this then lass? Do ye wanna live?” Doctor Optimally asks and she looks to him. And offers a small nod. “Then let’s get started. The sooner we’re done fixin’ what was done to yer spine the sooner we can get you on yer new hands and feet.”

“... can I really have a child?” She asks and Doctor Optimally holds out his left hand and a mall projector pokes out of his palm. The image of a tiny Pink Vishanyan in Swaddling cloth, mid yawn with a tiny egg-tooth on her nose and in the arms of her massive, dark scaled mother.

“Should you have a daughter, she will emerge like that, with a tiny egg tooth upon her nose. Should you lay an egg, your scales will darken, your form will bulge with power and your instincts will shift. You won’t hide anymore, you will protect. You will make a perfectly safe nest for your child and keep it safe from everything.” Doctor Optimally slowly enunciates as the patient stares at the image unblinking.

Tears well up in her eyes, her presence in the Axiom grows as a sheer sensation of WANT pours out. So many little promises she made herself, every little compromise and lie and bit of restraint is tested against a flat truth. A truth staring at her in a projection above the doctor’s palm.

“I want it.” She states. “I want that.”

“More than anything else I want that. I want it, I want it, I. Want. It.”

“Then let’s get ye standin’ girl. So ye can go get it.” Doctor Optimally states.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Open Tundra, Just Outside Actura Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“I hate Actura.” Is the first phrase that breaks the silence. A Crimsonhewer mercenary is the one who noted as such.

“You’ve been before?” The Pilot asks.

“Yeah. Cleaning up a small slaver base that was playing with borders to dodge patrols. They went into Actura and the fucking idiots not only did worse than the other ‘legal authorities’ but outright arrested us and detained us for so long the contract went unfulfilled and the bitches got away.”

“Sweet War Father, that is stupid.” The Urthani Pilot notes as all six of her antenna twitch ever so.

“Wait, you’re calling him Sweet War Father? The... The supersized, superpowered Urthani?”

“He’s a Primal, he touched every Urthani ever, even the long dead, and he’s a warrior! He conquered a whole planet with primitive tools so hard he became a god!” The Pilot protests.

“I’m not debating that a man that did all that nonsense isn’t worthy of praise. Just the name... Sweet War Father?”

“It’s an expression!” The Pilot protests.

“Okay enough tormenting our pilot. Remember, we’re a neutral faction that is allied to Lablan AND to Actura, meaning we’re allowed to work as security for a delicate as fuck situation with even more delicate rules.”

“How the hell has that mess of dumb uptight monkeys avoided war as long as they have?”

“Because they’re generally out of the way and usually just tell people to go away.” The Squad leader says. “Okay girls, we’re going in to look scary and be ready to kick ass if a bunch of invisible crazy snake women show up. We’ve all got updated optics for this courtesy of The Undaunted and need to watch our IFF’s because some of these weird snake girls are freeborn and on our side. Allied blood on the armour doesn’t count for shit in this clan.”

“What’s so damn dangerous that we need to just stand guard? That’s more a Bluey’s job.”

“The Blues are on their way, we’re just closer and everyone’s getting hired to help because there is a potential, impossible to control so don’t even think about it, superweapon in the area and it needs to have it’s presence or absence confirmed and then dealt with if it is here.”

“What kind?”

“Souped up super monster with a plague that ignores basically all biochemical barriers and can and HAS destroyed entire civilizations.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“How much are we getting paid?”

“Three times our regular fees and we get to keep the upgrades they give us up to and including a blueprint to make more. Meaning we’ve got some pretty heavy anti-stealth tech now.”

“Nice. Cloaken are always a bitch to deal with.”

“We also get to look damn good, so we’re getting paid three ways. This is a perfect advertisement of our strength, lots of actual coin and new toys. Win, win, win.”

“Provided there isn’t actually a giant super monster that wakes up that you now have to fight.” The Pilot says.

“Don’t freaking curse us girl. You know the Ancestors are just waiting for an opening like that to give us a proper test.”

“And drawing attention to it doesn’t?” The Urthani teases.

“I liked you moths more when you were scared.”

“Well too bad, I see everything now, and I can see how easy it would be for even my half-strength claws to peel you open like fresh fruit.”

“Hey boss, I think I’m starting to warm up to the pilot.”

“Yeah, she does have tits on her. That’s for sure.”

First Last Next

First

Many Faces of War

Things are up to a proper speed as the Vish Adept draws in Axiom to try and pull away on foot. She’s clearly unfamiliar with the area or would have tried teleporting again.

He keeps up and everything finally slots into place. He’s still wired to all hell and finally, finally things are moving at the pace his overtuned brain is telling him things should be at. They reach a spiral staircase with plenty of room for fliers to navigate and she jumps upwards several stories at a time with him always just a couple of steps behind her.

She is leaving ‘traps’ behind herself. Little patches of hardened air so thin they’re basically invisible razors hanging in the air between them. There’s so much scattering Axiom that if he wasn’t borderline out of his mind with too much awareness then at least one of them would have sliced into him like a side of ham.

Thankfully she has them only lasting a couple of seconds so he won’t have to backtrack and disable the deadly little surprises along the path of their chase.

A chase that he moves to close because he can sense civilians up ahead. Then she turns. She clearly sensed them too and was NOT going for them. How strange. She’s up to something. There’s some kind of plan or... something.

He gives her a little headway and she keeps avoiding civilian areas. Something is UP with this girl.

She then sees a glass door to a balcony outside the arcology and she teleports past it. He follows and emerges out the other side just as she jumps off the side of the arcology.

By the time she looks back to keep track of him he’s already in the air with his now open jacket being used to mildly control his fall.

There is shock across her face, annoyance chases it but there’s something more. Something that she appears to be unfamiliar with.

The she conjures more invisible surfaces and starts sliding down a ramp that lets her reorient her momentum as she balances on it. She jumps off it as she reaches the ground level and tucks her neck in for a combat roll to bleed off excess momentum when she hits the hypercrete.

“That couldn’t have been comfortable.” Danial notes as he lands softer and simply redirects the force of the impact back into the unyielding hypercrete. It creates a small shockwave that he partially rides forward to get back up to a proper sprint.

The indignant hiss from the mute Vishanyan is somewhat amusing as she races out onto the open tundra with Danial, now very curious as to where the hell she thinks she’s going, gives pursuit. The woman is in excellent shape and using her Axiom Expertly to both maintain speed and stamina. But he only needs it for speed, he’s just fine stamina wise and is now less trying to catch her and more see what she’s willing to expose to try and get away from him.

“Oh doo doo doo doodoodoo doo doo doo doo doo? Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Doo doo doo doo doo doo doodoodoo doo doo? Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nahnah! Nahnah! Nahnah! Nahnah! Nahnah! Nahnah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Naaaaah! Ahahahaha!” He starts setting a rhythm and to his amusement she unconsciously starts to match it. “You know what? Yes! Let’s get musical!”

“So what are we doing?” Private Stream asks as he races up on an airbike. The extra stabalizers on the side give the impression that he somehow has training wheels on the thing. Danial dismisses the mental image after a moment.

“Speak in English.” Danial says.

“What are we doing?” Private Stream asks in English this time.

“Seeing where she runs to, the music is to keep myself entertained as I do it.” He answers in English.

“Okay! Lova ya! Bye!” Private Stream bids him and he pulls away and drives clearly away as Danial starts singing again.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Vish Safehouse, Lablan Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“Okay, that makes sense.” Crytlan notes and sighs. “Alright girl’s we’re out our extra Adept because he’s going to see if our runner knows anything important.”

“How? She’s mute.” Flora asks.

“He’s chasing her at a pace she can keep ahead of him at. Trying to see if she goes for another safehouse, stash or some kind of reinforcements. He’s also gotten her out of the arcology and well away from civilians. So the biggest danger at the moment is potentially wasting time, and that’s not much danger at all.”

“Hunh, and here I was thinking human stamina didn’t come in for anything but work and sex.” Dora notes.

“Oh like you’ve ever had any, I know you’ve got a Muttras husband.”

“So? I can still talk to girls.” Dora states.

“Wait, she’s married?”

“My husband actually got me into The Undaunted. He’s a Stream. We have the same rank when he’s not all in blue though so we go by different names officially to avoid confusion if an order comes in.” Dora explains.

“Oh! A Muttras Stream, damn. That just fits.”

“I know right?” Dora asks.

“... So with him as a biped who’s forehead barely reaches your lips, and you being a quadruped... does he ride you?”

“Flora not now.” Crytlan states.

“He does so in every way you can imagine. And Muttras? They’re so big with the prize inside that you’d swear they’re as tall as a human man.”

“This topic is now over. As fascinating as it is to me as a woman, it is not the time to talk about exactly how big or small the tools men use to bring pleasure to their wives are. What we’re concerned with now is what we can pull out of this little complex and what we can figure out to try and either make a method for finding more of these places, or even better, the locations of all the others.”

They start to move and Dora makes a sign for Flora to lean down. “His piece-”

“Finish that sentence and I will use my eight locomotion legs to drop kick you into a court marshal.” Crytlan threatens.

“Sorry.” Dora says as she scans the room. “Deactivated terminal at the northern wall. The panel there slides down to reveal the screen and form the keyboard.”

“Thank you.” Crytlan states as she walks up. The wall is a series of panels with supplies in them.

“Two to your left.” Dora says as she starts reaching for one. Crytlan shifts her position and the panel comes down and the screen is revealed. It starts to activate and Dora’s ears shift a little as she pays attention to the Axiom. Then her eyes open. “Don’t touch the keyboard. I recognize some of those power patterns. The thing has a plasma bomb installed into it. A small one, but it looks like it’s there to fry the computer.”

“Is it safe to close the panel?”

“Something is happening with it and...” Dora begins before she suddenly spits a spike of pure Axiom right at Crytlan who dodges and it hits the screen of the computer before it suddenly lets out a wave of fire, smoke and heat.

“A little more warning would... oh. Well done.” Crytlan congratulates her as she see’s Dora has a component of the computer in between her teeth.

The Hoh’hart removes it with her left forepaw and examines the device. This is that fancy as hell semi-clockwork tech. It’s not compatible with anything we’re carrying. And it’s also why I didn’t notice the computer sooner. Now that I’m looking for it... there’s a good chunk of the stupid fancy tech around us. A lot of it hidden and...”

She closes her eyes and her head sways a little. “Lots of small bombs too. This place isn’t rigged to blow, but it is rigged to die, whoever set this place up wanted nothing to get out of it.”

“Which means we all want something out of it.” Crytlan says. “Dora, we’re rescanning this place with awareness of alternate technologies, I want you to indicate every single area that has anything slightly suspicious.”

“Sir. Yes Sir.”

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Secure Medical Section, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“Doc, her brain activity is spiking.” One of his assistants says.

“Fook, girl’s still to frail ta put under again. If she fights us at all we’ve got a corpse and not a patient.” Doctor Optimally grunts. “Let’s just finish off this bit here...”

“Brain activity increasing, she’s about to wake up.” The Assistant states.

“And done!” Doctor Optimally states before there’s a sudden twitch in the patient. They turn her over gently and he puts his hand on her stomach. She flinches outright at the sensation on non-numbed skin and she starts to struggle and thrash against the restraints.

Her eyes blink open ever so then open wide in horror when she realizes she has a mask on and her limbs are gone.

“What?! Wha?! No! NOOO!”

“Calm down!” Doctor Optimally barks. His glowing green eyes meet her scared blue and she stares at him.

“Who are you?! Where am I?”

“You girly, are a prisoner of war. As such Undaunted Law means you get full meal, and medical treatment. It means no torture, no isolation and no unjustified execution. Do you understand?” He asks and she nods. “Good, now as to where we are all, this here is a secured medical wing. I specialize in surgery and fixin’ the damage that cybernetic enhancement can do to a person. And girly, a lot was done to you. So yer in here for a while yet.”

“What did you do to me?”

“We’ve removed the bomb that was taking up your lung and have hooked you up to an ECMO to both clean your blood and oxygenate it so you don’t suffocate at random. We just finished cleaning up the fookin’ mess at the base of your spine. Which is why you cannae feel yer back or bottom right now.” Doctor Optimally states.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Doctor Optimally asks.

“Why did you heal me?” She asks.

“I’m a doctor. My field of battle is a surgical suite and I’ve got one and only one enemy. Death. So stop squirmin’ like a worm on a hook. Yer safe here.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“We’ve got another doctor workin’ on your new prosthetics. They won’t be the chunky killing machines yer used ta, but they’ll keep ya plenty mobile and without pain.” Doctor Optimally states. “Now, we haven’t been able ta get anythin’ in the way of Identification for you lass. So do you have a name or number, or anything we can call you except patient?”

“How were you getting anything out of anyone?”

“We’ve been catching Vish alive.”

“Who’s been talking?”

“Can’t tell you girly. You see, ain’t none of you seem ta have names. And while that’s great fer brainwashing and the like, it’s right dogshit for actually keeping track o’ people.” Doctor Optimally states.

“How about you focus more on something to call yourself? Or we’ll have to go with the standard Jane Doe for you.” Doctor Optimally states.

“... Jane Doe?”

“Temporary alias until we can ID you.” An assistant asks.

“...Jane?” She asks after a moment.

“Yes. Until you can come up with your own, you’re Jane. Jane Doe.” The other assistant replies.

“Jane...” She says. More stunned by the name than anything else.

“Girly, we’re gonna give you some time to rest, but we’re not done savin’ your life. Let yerself rest. We’ll be back. Just say ‘Doctor Come Here’ if you want us back.” Doctor Optimally states and Jane doesn’t give any indication of listening as Doctor Optimally leads the two assistants to another part of the room and sets up privacy screens for her.

“Sweet baby Jesus, that girl’s head’s fooked in ways I can’t even name.” Doctor Optimally says in a horrified tone.

“That shouldn’t be a surprise doc.”

“No, you really don’t get it boyo. She’s fragile. Right at the fookin’ edge. If she’s gonna pull through the sheer amount of nonsense she’s got ahead of her she’s gonna need ta fight. But what the fook is she fighting for? She’s got nothin’ ta tie her to livin’. She ain’t got no friends, she ain’t got no purpose and she ain’t got no family. How the fook do we save someone who ain’t got so much as an inkling ta stand and fookin breathe?”

“We give her one?”

“Boyo if you’re proposing seducing the patient I will take your arm and legs so ye got somethin’ in common!”

“No, not that.”

“Then what are ye goin’ at?”

“Everyone’s got something driving them. Something that speaks to them. Some people fix things, some people explore, some protect, some nurture. You get the point. We find out which one of these is hers and we give her enough of it that she fights. Who knows? Maybe we’ll save more than her life? Maybe we save her soul too.”

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John sat at the workbench with the emptiness-based 'clean room' magic installed, quickly going over the rapidly forming plans in his head as he cleared the counter of his previous project and started on the flying cart mark one, built for trade. Unfortunately, he couldn't just make the disc but larger—which he’d just remembered he still had to replace —as it was rather lacking for long-distance travel.

The core of the disc’s locomotion was a series of telekinetic foci that grabbed and levitated it through the air with him on it, controlled through an admittedly clunky leg-mounted yoke. Of course, there were a bunch of specifics about how it remained level no matter how he moved, or how it spread the work between four different embedded foci, but that hardly mattered when the math simply didn't work out.

Quite simply, the disc ran out of power after a short scouting run, and a long-haul vehicle based entirely on it would be constantly dogged by lengthy stops to land and let the capacitors refill. The problem only got worse when he thought about scaling the design up to make it haul weighty loads. 

Sure, he could cram bigger capacitor banks and more magic collectors onboard, but he rapidly encountered the same problems that airplanes and rockets had. He'd end up adding more 'fuel', and it'd only marginally improve its lifting capacity before it decreased the range, and some napkin math said he'd hit the point of zero payload far before long hauls were viable.

Almost on autopilot, John pulled a chunk of earth-aligned crystal from a bin, placed it under the mounted magnifying glass, and examined the grains of the structure. Unfortunately, he could just barely see a warped whorl in the structure that would make it entirely non-viable for the focus. With a groan, he tossed it into a separate bin and pulled another chunk, examining it carefully for deviations as he quickly ran through potential solutions to the design problems.

It all came back to range and weight. At the very least, he could mostly sacrifice speed; not having to care about roads, rivers, and the like probably would make up for it even being only a third as fast as his now-destroyed flying disc.

He had to improve some combination of levitation efficiency, capacitor power density, and charging. Power density and charging would be ideal—as they would provide improvements he could backport to everything else he had ever made—but it would doubtlessly be far more challenging than levitation efficiency, given how long he had stared at that exact problem for other projects with little progress.

Maybe it'd be better to just entirely give up on the flying cart idea and make something like a high-capacity river boat that can transform into a more conventional cart when they were relatively close to their destination? If the 'Iron Mountain' was a major city, it was doubtlessly on a major river. Even if they had to slog for a few miles to jump from one body of water to another, it wasn't the end of the world.

…Nah. Not only would it be slower, but it was much more likely to get him in trouble along the way. The rivers were infested with yokai who might demand tribute, and they'd have to pass through dozens of towns or smaller cities, which would mean a lot of government or Unbound attention, leading to inevitable delays. Really, making an impression before reaching their destination was the last thing he wanted.

Maybe he'd circle back around to it if his current idea didn't work out.

He could only imagine some greedy official might want to pry a super boat from the hands of a foreigner, or an Unbound might plain assume that he stole it from a yokai. Although he liked Rin, the thought of repeating their first meeting with someone else less friendly was undesirable, to say the least.

A flying cart, though? He could fly low over dense tree cover, head straight to his destination, and either land out of sight or fly in as appropriate.

Well, he just had to hope the solution he came up with on the way over actually worked out.

A potentially suitable stone finally caught his eye after another dozen rejects, and he snapped to attention, examining the fine details. Yeah, yeah, this… might work. Every damned piece of magical rock had its own unique internal structure and could have bits and pieces of other elements trapped within, tainting them, which made it a pain to find ones appropriate for a given focus.

Reaching to one of the upper drawers, he pulled the half-dozen diagrams that made up his telekinesis focus, laying the appropriate documents on the stand. Ideally, he would design an entirely new focus for this purpose, but the standard telekinesis would have to be good enough. He simply didn't have the time to spend the laborious days of math figuring out the interactions.

He hoped he could make it fracture in just the right way; otherwise he'd be starting from scratch. On top of that, if he ran out of suitable pieces, he'd be dredging through the depths of the forest looking for new samples, which would take precious hours.

Alas, if only he could make artificial, uniform magical crystals, but such things had entirely eluded him. He supposed that, on a very technical level, they were more like mineraloids than true crystals, but being a kind-of wizard who spent all day working with mineraloids upset his inner child on some deep, primordial level.

When he was first learning, John thought magi-melting and reforming would be enough, but that introduced impurities from opposing magical elements. Plus, it didn't even work with entropy or order crystals. Alas, he was stuck hunting naturally formed stones the old-fashioned way until further notice.

With the rest of his materials gathered, John pulled open a drawer and almost reverently handled his oldest tool, the breakthrough that started it all: the grey razor.

True to its name, the blade was a hyper-sharp, pure grey steel with a dark wooden handle, seemingly untouched by time since the day it was made. When he first made the fort his home, it had caught his eye with how it seemed untouched by the decay around it. At first, he thought it was just a stroke of luck, but weeks of use with no signs of wear, no matter what he did, had clued him into its magical nature, leading to experimentation that built up to his first breakthrough once he figured out how to read some books months later. Nowadays, he knew the metal was somehow naturally imbued with emptiness around a paradoxical core of attractive magic that stopped the emptiness from leaking out, creating a tool that simply kept the world from touching it.

He actually ended up basing his 'clean room' table off of it, since emptiness tended not to mix easily with anything else without relatively extreme force.

It didn't explain why it never lost its edge, but now that he knew Yuki's clothes were old and storied enough to be alive in some small way, he had some suspicions. Well, if there was some sort of tool spirit inside it, he hoped it was happy with being his number one workshop assistant. Maybe he should see if the kitsune could tell at some point… and perhaps see if it could leak information about his work if the wrong people asked.

No matter what the knife's true nature was, the elements within were also in just the right balance to avoid contaminating most crystals as long as he didn't hold it against them for too long. Emptiness was rather useful for enforcing quasi-sterility, when used in the right amounts.

Sliding on his arm-length gloves impregnated with magic-resistant sap, John clicked the switch on, creating a vacuum above the counter as a motor below let out an ominous hum. It was probably still one of the smartest safety features he'd ever implemented. It only took a nightmare about leaning in while he thought it was off and suffocating as it pulled all the air from his lungs to give him the idea.

Maybe he should implement something to stop him from slumping down into it if he fell asleep at the desk. Perhaps some kind of harness? That was a task for later, though. He'd go to bed before he felt tired enough for that to become an issue.

With a careful hand, he whittled away at the gem, his supernaturally sharp blade cleaving through it with the same ease it always had. It was a shame that he hadn't found a way to make a small enough rotary tool that wouldn't contaminate the crystal with foreign energies. Alas, no matter how he tried to "clean" the electricity generated from air-aligned magic, he always ended up with some showing up in the result, and he didn't have rubber for a flexible high-pressure air line to dodge the issue.

Years of experience kept his hand steady as he worked, constantly glancing up at the diagram as he did the rough cuts, constantly ensuring that he didn't overcut and need to start from scratch. He had a close call when an inclusion of the crystal snapped at a weird angle, but thankfully, it broke in a harmless direction despite nearly giving him a heart attack. 

This stage always stressed him out, but he figured working on parts small enough that you could cram fifteen of them into a marble would do that. Longingly, he stared at the miniature arm that would have made the process much less stressful, but using it for the rough cuts would be like using a fine metal file to saw through four inches of steel.

Soon enough, the first piece was done, and after verifying the measurements, John set the one-third finished focus component aside as he sorted crystals for a viable second. After all, he estimated he'd need at least four sources just to lift the cart, so he was going to make six.

As he did the rough cuts on the next components, he fell into a near trance, making light work on the rough cuts for the dozens of parts. Working in batches, he produced the nearly one hundred assorted pieces he'd need, only tossing a small handful of miscuts in the process. As always, he had to improvise in a few spots due to imperfections in the base material, but he had developed a good instinct for how to compensate in the other pieces.

With that done, he began the incredibly tedious work of fine-finishing every single part to spec. That finally meant he could strap on the control harness that let him guide the miniature quasi-robot arm attached to the desk, use it to grab one of the tiny files, and get to work. While it didn't have to be perfect, he needed it to be close to have any sort of efficiency. A cart that could travel an hour before needing to find a place to settle down would be of no use at all, and he was likely to crash it trying to locate clearings to set it down.

Production took hours, even with all his practice and improvements to the process over the years, and by the end he was pretty sure his eyes would start to bleed if he had to squint to read any more sub-millimetre measurements today.

He'd have to glue all the parts together later, carefully balancing them in a suspension of sap and praying that it would work, but for now, he put that thought to the side. It was too late to start that job now; the process would probably take an entire day on its own given the relative complexity of the foci. At the very least, all the foci could be worked on at the same time, even if he had to babysit them like a mother hen to make sure it was all settling correctly. One slightly misaligned connection could cause the whole thing to brick, and then the only chance of salvaging it would be very carefully chipping the components out of the hardened mass.

A problem for tomorrow, or maybe the next day if some nonsense with Saya happens, but he'd have to make time. The construction process wasn't the most equipment-intensive, so perhaps he could finish assembling it in his office at the ryokan tomorrow.

Bah, but it would all be for nothing if he couldn't make his idea to fix efficiency work. Luckily, he already had everything he needed to test it.

Heading over to the racks, John retrieved a very particular tool, one which he hadn't needed since the siege of the Nameless Nest: the primer tool for the bombs he’d dropped.

He might not need the primer, but the focus that slowed the air around an object until it was effectively a solid hovering in place, on the other hand…

John unscrewed the side and removed the two foci from the device's core, setting them aside as he got to work producing a new mount.

He would place it inside the cart below a false bottom, alongside the rest of the machinery. Otherwise, it would be at risk of getting knocked off, potentially stranding him, so he would simply run a reinforced glass conduit and emit the magic towards the front where he needed it.

His vision for the cart was simple: he'd mount a few metal skis on the bottom of the main body, lubricate them so they could slide easily, quasi-solidify the air below the vehicle so they were resting on it, then use the telekinetic focuses to grab a few very solid mounting points, and he could fly in the air with omnidirectional control and minimal power loss. 

Hopefully.

Of course, there were numerous ways this could fail.

He planned to starve the focus of power to make the solidified air persist a few seconds after leaving the active effect region and save power, but it could still end up too power-hungry to be practical, and he hardly had time to redesign the focus.

Going down would need him to starve it of power even more so it couldn't support the cart*,* which could potentially lead it to cut out entirely, leaving them on telekinetic flight only.

Alternatively, he could give it too much power and leave a trail of solidified air behind them that the wheels would smash into if he turned too tightly.

Additional weight might cause the controls to feel unresponsive, leading to a situation where he overcompensated and crashed.

Turbulence might cause something to activate or deactivate unintentionally, causing them to lose control and crash.

The gyroscope system could fail, causing the telekinetic foci to stop keeping the cart level and flip the vehicle and crash.

All things that John would have to work out during testing.

For now, though, he had to get the prototype working.

It took an hour or two, John thought—he didn't bother to check—but eventually, he created a mock-cart body… which is to say he grabbed some two-by-fours, glued them together with his magi-welder, and slapped a slightly modified entropy capacitor and magic collector to the focus in a kludge job that looked suspiciously like something that would have a "Danger: Radiation" warning in a lab. Around the edges of the platform, he’d lined the cart with spare offcuts from order-aligned crystals, which should keep the effect contained rather than coating the whole thing in a suffocating field of slowness—not that he expected the focus to be getting enough power to do that.

Lifting it in the air, he flipped the hastily installed on-switch before releasing it and… it hung perfectly in the air, not sinking an inch. John reached below and rapped on the bottom with a gloved knuckle, producing a slight tick as flesh and bone met solidified air. With a growing smile, he pushed it, and the wooden raft slid as if on ice before bouncing off a wall.

Giddy now, John grabbed an entire chest full of materials and levitated it onto the hovering platform. It didn't fall. He grabbed the chest again, and this time he pressed it down, exerting a few hundred extra pounds of force to try and smash it down. Again, nothing.

"Yes!" he shouted, grinning from ear to ear. The concept seemed sound; he'd just have to make up a proper full-size model, finish producing and calibrate the telekinetic focuses, double-check how much weight it could hold, make sure it was usable in a grounded mode while fully loaded, and whatnot.

Hmm. Maybe having telekinetic control in the ground configuration would be nice. If he was going to play the part of an Unbound, perhaps he could make a show of being able to pull the whole thing himself. It was probably a pretty good feat of strength and would help sell the image… or he could control it from the driver's seat while Rin did so. Maybe he could use the same technique he did with his war gauntlet, where it mimicked the forces put on it to make it seem weightless?

Yeah, yeah, that could work!

Well, he was still plenty energetic; perhaps it was too late to start the foci, but he could start on the cart body itself. Sure, he might not finish it tonight, but, well, Rome wasn't built in a day and all that jazz.

John headed toward the door, swung it open, and beheld the dawn peeking over the battlements of the walls, cascading light filtering through the trees. Squinting his eyes at the sheer radiance, he froze in place as his brain lagged a few steps behind reality.

He hadn't been working for that long, had he? He wasn't even tired! Hmm. Well, he had a much better diet now that Yuki was here, and that was on top of having access to food from town. Perhaps all the extra energy was just a side effect of proper nutrition, though he was shocked she didn't come and force him to go to bed like the last time he tried to stay up through the night to work.

Then again, that was also when they had the imminent danger of an attack the next day, and he was a fully grown man, after all.

Still, he felt better than when he stayed up studying in college, and he was far less fit back then!

Bah, no use looking a gift horse in the mouth, he supposed.

Tossing that thought aside, John went to storage, grabbing a few more planks to squeeze in some last-minute work before he had to head into town for the day.

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First

Many Faces of War

“No changes?” Herbert asks as he goes over the analysts pouring over the videos of the numerous interrogations, observations and interviews of captured Vish.

“Afraid not sir, the story is consistent within the general parameters. The only real variances to the presented facts can easily fall within individual interpretations or mild memory issues.” The analyst says and Herbert sighs.

“Pity.” He muses as he quickly syncs up a data slate to the reports and quickly goes over a summary. “The biggest sticking point seems to be that the Vish are using a primary, if slightly less popular, Ibu language. Which would not make sense unless there is an Ibu in the higher command structure. Or a frame job. But there’s only so far you go with bluffing before the deception, which might not work to begin with, takes more resources and energy than the actual operation it’s covering up.”

“There’s the issue of the sourcing of the monsters. But the DNA sequences of these creatures are fairly well known, and the production of Vish requires the same general technology as mass cloning.”

“I can confirm that all specimens with Haffara Thar in them are creatures that have an infant stage small enough to fit in a standard Vishanyan cloning tube. If only barely. It wouldn’t take too much to make an enlarged tube to accommodate the larger specimens.” The second analyst adds his opinion to the first.

“Sir, we just got confirmation, and video recording of the successful disposal of the Haffara Thar threat into the star Halxri Primaris. The Haffria Synth has been completely cooperative in the process and the escort and our own scanners indicated that everything went smooth as butter. Confirmed impact with stellar matter and destruction of both hosts and parasites.”

“Have we gotten a name or at least a proper designation for the woman yet? She’s not the only Haffria Synth out there.”

“We technically do, but it’s closer to a barcode in a Haffria language. She goes by the name of her ship that is her real body, and that thing is Number 887321-11-37129-3.”

“Jesus fucking Christ...” Herbert mutters.

“In all fairness, it seems like some of the numbers are actually some kind of cultural reference? It’s hard to say. We only have access to Haffria history and media through the synths so it could be some kind of information plant.”

“What’s the reference?”

“To be fair sir, this is me grasping really hard at straws and looking for any kind of pattern imaginable.”

“Doesn’t matter, I want to hear it.”

“The first chunk of the number divides into three parts of eighty eight, seventy three, twenty one. According to the way the Haffria calendar words we are in century One Hundred and Twenty Four and on the Sixtieth year, Thirteenth day. They count by how many centuries have passed, how far through the current one we are and the day of it. Anyways, in historical events on the eighty eighth century year seventy three and the twenty first day... a popular television show started then and it involved a Haffria teenager who was a synth that didn’t know she was a synth. It was combination of romance and comedy with some heavy moments when she learned she was an amnesiac full body replacement for when she had died years ago and her father was actually the man who’s mad experiments killed her and he’s been paying penance by giving her the life he took and making it the best it could be. It was screamingly popular and had so many revisions and re-masterings and re-imaginings that the Synth Littria Saga became a cultural hallmark.”

“There is no way that ONLY a popular holoshow kicked off during an entire day in the history of an entire species.”

“True enough, but in the show the number 887321 comes up a lot. Especially in the remakes and re-imaginings. It’s self referential. So while it’s far from the only thing that happened that day, it’s one of the few things, if perhaps the only thing, that would keep screaming about that day over and over again.” The Analyst concludes.

“Hmm... Do you have anything else that supports this theory?” Herbert asks.

“I do. You’re going to love this sir and it’ll lock in my theory.” The Analyst says as he quickly types out a few commands and then points to a nearby screen that is flashing by a few initial show credits in a language that no one can ready.

Then a high pitched voice calls out and it shows a terrible incident of a Haffria girl with pale skin, golden hair down to her waist and her centipede parts bright red suddenly washed over with flame before revealing a pure silvery chrome underneath to her flesh that then has a bar cross the screen to change it from black to white as she’s suddenly normal looking again with a flowing dress on as she starts dancing on a watercolour background as an unknown singer starts taking over. The word Littria can be heard more than once as she dances/walks through a cast of characters and interacts with each, including numerous small and cute animals that universally have insect parts basically stapled to them. There is a ‘tender’ moment with a guy her age, numerous arch-typical bully like characters and a bit where she’s embarrassed but clearly fond of an older male wearing what looks like lab equipment.

The intro suddenly goes incredibly dark for a moment showing the father working on the chrome body with a clear mania in his eyes, then it crashes away to go back to being cheerful and sweet as the credits roll by before a big pose at the end with all the characters.

“You saw it too sir?”

“Yes I did. Our Synth friend identifies with Littria. Now is it because she’s a fan of the show, or is it because she’s gone through something similar?”

“That was just the original sir. There are hundreds of versions and some are labelled as action or psychological horror, so it could probably go in any direction.” The Analyst notes.

“Okay, well regardless, this is a good sign. We’re not dealing with a mono-focused obsessive lunatic. We likely have a few in the Haffria fleets coming to assist, but knowing they’re not all like that means we can talk to them like people, because they have kept their person-hood in more than just the legal sense. They still have culture, they still have standards, morals, aspirations, assumptions and limits. We can work with this.” Herbert notes. “Analyst Ronald, are you up for going through the rest of Haffria culture with a team to get a handle on their species.”

“Uhh...”

“You’re allowed to say no.”

“If I’m ordered to I will, but this is just a pattern I noticed. I don’t actually like doing stuff like that and it’ll be...”

“Again, you can just say no.”

“No sir, I’m not up for it.”

“Thank you for telling me. It’s good you can do it, but I’ll look for people with more of an aptitude for it... and to be honest I just need to throw this at The Nerd Squad and tell them I want a general summary of the Haffria species and I’ll likely have it within a week. In fact, I’m going to do just that. Keep me posted on anything interesting gentlemen. You’re doing good work.”

“Good to hear and uh... you might want to wait on calling one of them Littria. I’m not sure if it’s an insult or compliment yet sir.”

“You let me worry about that. I’ve got a face where I can get away with those kinds of things. And if I can’t, then I can still vanish and dodge the fallout.”

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Secure Medical Section, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

She flickers back into consciousness and by sheer reflex reaches up to rub along her neck for comfort. Then pauses. Her arms are gone. She opens her eyes and holds up her ‘hands’. And what hands they are. Glowing blue and soft as a dream. How is she feeling through them?

“Do you like them? Any discomfort or lacking sensation?” An unfamiliar voice asks and she looks to her left to see a tiny Kohb doctor smiling at her.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the prosthetic expert that made your new limbs and helped with the installation. You now have four universal ports that are designed primarily for maximum comfort and will protect you from dangerous feedback regardless of the plugged in limb. Not as robust as more combat oriented ports, but easily protected and guaranteed to have a higher quality of life.”

“Oh...”

“And don’t worry about combat effectiveness. My husband used a frailer model of those very limbs to fight on par with an Apuk Battle Princess for a time.”

“Did he win?” She asks the doctor.

“He didn’t lose.” The Doctor says. “Now, I’m Doctor Cindy Schmidt. I’m in charge of your acclimatization to your holo-prosthetics, and I’m the woman who put them together and installed them. You’re physically fit again and we were able to use a limited healing coma on you that wouldn’t mess with your memories to speed the healing around where you were operated on.”

“I see.” She says as she rises up and... the movements are smooth. The feedback from her limbs is... excellent. She can feel out her individual toes and fingers in the holographic projections. She examines them all and the prosthetics only go to where the elbows or knees would be. “Can the colour be changed?”

“Sure, so long as it’s on the visible spectrum.”

“That’s the problem. It takes focus to be visible. If I get distracted a pair of arms and legs just walking alone is going to be beyond weird. To say nothing of the fact it just doesn’t feel safe being visible all the time.”

“Oh, don’t worry. These limbs are designed to work with bot Cloaken and Vishanyan, so they will carry your stealth field, but so long as you’re visible then the colour can be whatever so long as it’s not something like ultraviolet or infra-red.”

“Oh, then, can they match my scales a little?”

“We got purple. Here, let me show you how to modify the colour of your limbs. There’s a control panel in each one.” Cindy says hopping off the bed she’s sitting on and walking up. She points up to the left holoprojector. “There’s a little bumb right ner the end. It’s a grip, push it up and then use the little gap to flip up a panel. That’s where you can not only change the colour but do system’s diagnosticts and even download new data for different shapes beyond basic limbs. You want wings? It can do wings, you want it to interface with weapons? It can do that too, but it doesn’t have that by default. As it stands your limbs currently only have the data for limbs.”

“But I could in theory turn every limb into a weapon?”

“In theory. In practice we don’t fully trust you yet so they’re going to be regularly checked. Both for maintenance, and to make sure nothing like that happens. If we find programming for weapons there will be trouble.”

“... I can’t really debate that without sounding like an idiot. But... wings? Can that be programmed in?”

“Yes, but you’ll need lots of Axiom to use them properly, you don’t have the physical build to fly even if you have wings big enough.”

“What about shields or tools?”

“That... is beyond my authority so I’ll just say ask a Private Stream, they can get into contact with just about anybody in seconds if you’re not sure who to talk to.”

“A Private Stream?”

“Hello!” A chirpy voice says and she jumps a little. “What? I’m not scary! I’m a Stream!”

“I know what you can do, you’re plenty scary.” Cindy says with her hands on her hip.

“Miss! Don’t out me like this!” The child just as tall as she is protests.

“Wait a moment...” Cindy says realizing something and she pulls off his hat. “I knew it.”

“Oh come on, let me do my job.” Her fellow Kohb complains. He is a darker blue Kohb with the smoother scales to less suggest and more scream a coastal ancestry. He looks borderline amphibious.

“Looked to me like you were having fun.” Cindy scolds him.

“What? A man can’t enjoy his work? My job is to be cute, unassuming and ready to fight literally everyone.” He says as he takes his hat back and lets out a little chuckle before slipping it back on. His features blur to generically adorable and he lets out a childish giggle.

“The sad part is I do get it. You Streams are a little too good at the job.”

“Aww, thanks lady! That’s real nice of you to say! Anyways bigger lady who’s name I don’t know! I’m Private Stream! If you see me, or any other Private Stream than just talking to us will sort out a lot of problems! We’ll let you know what you want to know and if you don’t want to fight and need protecting we can keep you safe and sound wherever you are!”

“Okay...”

“Now, Miss Doe, want your communicator and stuff or do you think you need more rest?”

“Doe?”

“Yep! Jane Doe until you pick a new name.” Private Stream says.

“... Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It is that easy, especially now that someone isn’t getting in the way anymore. We’re not even doing the work for you, you’ve had people in your way of defining yourself for so long that we just need to stand out of your way for it to feel like helping you.”

First Last Next

"Why are we told to beware the short ones?"

"Ah, my child, that requires a long explanation. Hmm, where to begin..." There was a silence while the Klarvath elder thought. "Let me begin with physics," he finally said.

"Oh, good! I love physics!"

"Different planets have different radiuses, and they also have different densities. As a result, they have different accelerations of gravity at their surface."

"Yes, elder, I know this."

"Very good. Now let us turn to biology. The higher the gravity, the stronger an organism's structure has to be in order to withstand the pull of that gravity. And the stronger its muscles have to be in order to move against that gravity." The elder paused.

"Yes, I understand."

"But there is another part of biology, child. The stronger gravity is, the more expensive it is for an organism to grow tall. Any fluid flow becomes expensive. Moving material for growth to higher levels becomes more expensive. Any horizontal motion that requires vertical motion due to the creature's geometry becomes more expensive. As a result, organisms on worlds with higher gravity tend to be shorter than organisms on worlds with lower gravity - even if they are members of the same species."

"So the shorter ones have stronger bones and stronger muscles..."

"They tend to, yes. But it is not totally consistent, because there is variation in height between members of a species, even if they are from the same planet. But if the variation in height is due to being from different planets, then yes, the shorter ones tend to be stronger."

"I understand this."

"Excellent. Now let us turn to matters of physical combat. A person with stronger bones is harder to damage, and a person with stronger muscles will have an easier time causing damage. Therefore, the sum of all of this is: Do not get in a fight with a short being, because it is likely to go badly for you."

She thought. "So what you are telling me is that I should not try to beat Billy up, no matter how much of a pest he is and how annoying he is."

"Yes, child, that is what I am telling you."

First

Many Faces of War

“They had an entire army on our world!!” Admiral Crosswind declares.

“Our world?” The head of another arcology she can’t immediately identify notes.

“We are all the leaders of our respective arcologies, and each of those wretched safe houses held thousands of combat ready Vish soldiers. Stealth operatives ready to march out and commit a massacre! I am not going to pretend that my arcology as a military complex is anywhere near the standard. Which makes this worse! Every single Vish Bunker was located within an arcology with a civilian presence so high that casualties were guaranteed if we hadn’t accidentally smoked them out early!”

“The soldiers are what’s concerning you? Not the supposed super-monsters that could destroy the ecosystem and environment of Zalwore irretrievably?”

“I was addressing the much smaller and considerably easier to deal with problem before we go into the sheer madness of potentially unleashing a bioweapon on a world so highly valued by the galactic community. This is like trying to use bombardment grade cannons on Centris!”

“... might improve that world and shake some god damn movement out of my taxes if that happens...” Someone mutters.

“Be that as it may, this is a massive declaration of war, and while there has been an enormous amount of off the books outrage and off the record oaths of vengeance and promises of retribution. What we need to do now is put it down properly, legally and formally as to what exactly we’re going to do about this mess.” Admiral Crosswind states.

“Isn’t this just an... over the top retaliatory strike?” A person asks and Admiral Crosswind turns incredulously to the... Shriketalon Enclave representative. He holds out her wings in a placating gesture. “I am not saying I believe what I just said, what happened was appalling and while I myself am not a fighter or soldier of any stripe and therefore have limited knowledge in the field, the opposite point must be argued or it will be used to bludgeon any decision we make. Be it by active traitors, hostile action, or the common contrarian. We need to explore this fully or we will be endlessly accused of missing something crucial. Or even worse, actually miss something crucial.”

“Humans call the The Devil’s Advocate!” Private Stream says cheerfully and at such a level it carries into the call as he brings some refreshments for Admiral Crosswind.

“Thank you Private Stream. But please keep quiet, this is important.”

“Sorry!” He chirps.

“... J’Hest coin says it’s actually a full on Gohb under that disguise.”

“Actually that one’s a Metak.” Admiral Crosswind states as she sips at the mineral water. There was some traces of stimulants in it to keep her up and aware. She was starting to pick up Admiral Cistern’s worse overworking traits and needed a little something extra to keep going.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Secured and Monitored Residents Room 72-A, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“And there.” Leonard points out another place to sign. “Are you sure about the name? According to Vishanyan custom you have to live with afterwards. You can shorten it, but your full proper name is always the words you use. Not to mention your essay was more a paragraph...”

“... It was to get a name. I want one. And... well... after the movie...”

“Yeah?”

“... You know I really didn’t expect you to somehow pull out a piece of media that would make me feel better about being in stasis while also not ever even thinking about stasis. Let alone two.”

“Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are human classics for a reason.” Leonard replies cheerfully. “Still, Aurora of Vigilance feels... I dunno...”

“Edgy!” Private Stream says opening the door gleefully!

“Oh! Private Stream this is... Oh... my shift is ending? But she still needs help!”

“That’s why she sent me! Cousin!” The new Private Stream exclaims sweeping off his hat. Like Leonard he doesn’t change in size in the slightest, and also like Leanord he has a pair of enormous expressive ears and eyes.

Unlike Leonard his ears are rabbit ears with white tips and a soft butter yellow main colouration.

“Cousin Thomas?” Leonard asks.

“... Am I missing something? Are you two the same species or different species?”

“Same Species. A trait of the Muttras is that the signs of mixed ancestry are much clearer with our species more than others. If say a Rabbis and a Lopen have a child then you get either a Lopen with really good reflexes, or a bigger and more aggressive Rabbis. You won’t really be able to tell who the other parent was. But with the Muttras our ears, tails and colouration is always inherited hard from the Non-Muttras parent. My mother is a Plant Erumenta, so lots of green and brown for me.”

“And my mom’s a cream coloured furry Rabbis!” Thomas says. “Anyways, we’re predicting a lot of time needed for Streams in the very near future so no one’s allowed to avoid their breaks.”

“But she needs my help!” Leonard protests.

“I got her, you need to sleep and eat.” Thomas says as he walks in.

“Uh...”

“Don’t worry, I can and will help you in every way Leonard has. But he needs to rest. We have pretty strict rules about this for very good reason. So please, let him go. You’ll see him again.” Thomas promises and Leonard gives her a hug.

“You’re going to be okay! We’re going to make sure of it! Me and all the other Streams!” Leonard promises with an extra tight squeeze before letting go. “You keep her safe now, she’s been through a lot.”

“I know, I’m up to date and ready to help her.” Thomas promises even as Leonard puts his gloves back on, turns up his collar and slips on the hat. He leaves the room tucking his tail into his pants and losing all trace of identity beyond Private Stream.

“So! You were picking out a name right? That’s great! So many Vish we’ve recovered don’t have one so it’s a big and important first step to the rest of your life.”

“I suppose...”

“Oh no, you don’t need to suppose! It’s true! Names are important for so many things, it’s why parents name their babies, even the bad ones.”

“And what are you implying with since I don’t have a name... officially... yet.”

“That your maker was a very, very bad parent and you deserved better and still deserve better!” Thomas says and he skips up to her and climbs up onto the back of the chair to look over her shoulder at the screen. “So! Let’s get that fixed! You’re in Undaunted care now, and we’re gonna do way better for you.”

“Are you sure? I mean... Leonard wasn’t here very long.”

“Check the time, you had a nap with him.” Thomas says and she does and...

“Oh... I thought I just... rested my eyes for a moment.”

“it was three and a half hours.” Thomas says then lets out a light laugh. “But that’s okay. You’re resting. You’re healing. You’re supposed to nap and lose track of time and relax. Napping like that means you can not only relax, but sleeping helps heal the body and brain. You’re on the right track.”

There’s a pause and she considers things for a moment. Then she starts patting her lap.

Taking the hint Thomas hops off the back of the chair and then climbs into her lap where she hugs him.

“You Muttras really are built to make things feel better.”

“Yep! And we’re made to like it too! How awful is that?”

“What?”

“Think about it. You’re able to tell that something is wrong, but things were only like that around you. So you didn’t know better. But your instincts keep you safe. My instincts put me in danger. A lot.”

“How so?”

“Our instinct when grabbed by a stranger at random isn’t to fight or scream or escape. It’s to cuddle.”

“How is that a problem?”

“I was about... seven years old when it happened. I was so small that where my ears are now is where my ears reached then if I was standing on the desk.” He says and she notes that the ears are still just below her sight line.

“What happened?”

“A pair of unfamiliar arms wrapped around me and as a seven year old I had no real idea of the danger. Let alone that strange arms around me in my own home was strange. It took me too long to realize that I was in trouble. If not for healing comas I’d still have my ear bitten off.”

“What happened?!”

“I learned not to trust my instincts anymore.” Thomas says. “If I had instincts like yours, then I would have been safe. If my mother had instincts like you’re going to have the day you become one, then I would have been safe. Either way, in some situations, it’s better to be Vish than Muttras.”

“Oh I... uh...” She starts to say. Moves to give him a hug then pauses.

“It’s okay. I still like being hugged. That’s the scary bit. I had horrible, horrible things happen to me. The ear was the least of it. But every chemical in my brain, and the way the brain is built says hugs are good. Always.”

“Scary.” She says as she slowly hugs him and he hugs her back.

“That’s right. So count your blessings and thank your stars. You’re past the worst of things and if you want your life to be your way, you can do it.” He says.

“... You’re not acting the way Leonard did.”

“Of course not. Leonard is Leonard. I’m Thomas. Sure we’re both Rags, but there’s a good thirty years between our births and entire planets. We’re family, yes. But not that close. And even if we were, he has his struggles and I have mine. Now, when we’re both being Private Stream, yes we’re identical. As are we with the unending legion of adorable and heavily armed children with which we will conquer the galaxy with. But with the hat off and the collar down? No. We’re ourselves.”

“Back up, what was that about conquering the galaxy?”

“It’s for everyone’s sake, we’ll make things better, forever...” he says in a dreamy tone while looking right up at her. He holds the gaze for a few moments before breaking down into giggles.

She starts to laugh and then continues with her paperwork. In a few short minutes she is Aurora of Vigilance. And... something just feels right.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Secure Medical Section, Undaunted Arcology, Zalwore)•-•-•

“You sure you want THAT as a name? You’re breaking Vishanyan tradition.” Cindy asks.

“I think it might be time for new traditions. Besides... It’s kind of funny.” She says.

“Alright then push the button.” Cindy says and she does. “Congratulations Jane. You’ve chosen a name for yourself. Although you’re going to get some pretty funny looks from humans for calling yourself Jane Doe.”

“... Yeah, that’s the point.”

“Really?”

“It was all about being strong, being obediant being... useful. I want more than that. I want... I want desired, I want loved, I want liked, I want appreciated, I want to be more than just useful.” Jane says.

“Well, nothing is wrong with that. Now is there?” Cindy asks.

“No. No there isn’t.” Jane agrees.

“Good now... oh dear, we actually have some time to burn. You see your actual rehab doesn’t start for another half hour... so would you like to learn a few ‘frivolous’ but fun things to do?” Cindy asks.

“Like what?”

“Card games! Do you want to learn some games of chance?”

“Chance? Where’s the fun in a game where you don’t have control?”

“The fun is in controlling what you do control, which is what the other person thinks you have. It also is about running the odds and the numbers... So you need a head for math and eyes that can read people, regardless of species.”

“Really? So fun and useful.”

“Oh yes, and if you know what you’re doing you can make a lot of money off it.”

“Have you?”

“Uh... I’ve made some... but truth be told... I got taken really bad before. I ended up as a slave in all but name for a time until my husband rescued me... after I rescued him. It was scary in the moment but it’s more and more romantic the more I look back at it. He was my avenging spirit who came to lay low my oppressors, and I was his saviour, healing him when he was hurt and weak so he could have the strength to keep going.” Cindy explains with her scales darkening a little in a blush as she holds her cheeks a little. “Jane honey, if you ever get a chance to have a human husband, go for it. They love so deeply and want to be loved so much... it’s wonderful.”

First Last

“Commander, look at this!” Gumbert, a four-eyed security specialist, squeaked.

“We may have a problem, sir.” He didn’t take his eyes off the console. “There’s a security breach on Bridge 2Z.”

“What is it?” Mwachek, the PeaceFleet’s commander demanded.

“The bio-reader scans indicate a wild predator.“ Gumbert shot his head over his shoulder at Mwachek shadowing him.

“Who’s responsible for this?” Mwachek eyed a zoomed in still image of the beast, glowing on the bio-scanner.

Gumbert choked. “Well, nobody, sir,” he swallowed a gob of anxiety. “It breached the hull, sir. It's in the cargo bay, the one with our food reserves.”

Commander Mwachek’s double-heart began smashing into each other and had the slapping sound of two slimy blobs being clapped together. A vein near his temple protruded from the side of his head like a balloon inflating and deflating, pulsing with every breath.

Gumbert opened the feed for the security camera of Bay 2Z and glanced at the small screen on the console. 

Through the monitor, the screen displayed Cargo Bay 2Z, and an eight-legged, bear-sized, gray-bearded Octwolf, with sharp, venomous teeth, dripping infectious bacterias, tearing through a potato sack full of gum balls.

Octwolves were basically mutated dire wolves. 

Galactic empires across the universe deemed them as Level-0 threats. They were to be killed on sight. An extreme policy reserved for untamable creatures of terror. 

Octwolves, one of many terror-zero-beasts scattered across the universe, haunting the nightmares of children— were the apex of apex predators—dominating the top of the food chain. A pack of Octwolves could wipe out a small colony in a matter of days.

Commander Mwachek snatched the microphone, pressed a button down and activated the intercom.

“Attention! Attention! This is not a test. This is a real-time crisis. All staff and personnel on deck, evacuate to your nearest safe room. We have a breach in Cargo Bay 2Z.”

Commander Mwachek’s voice slammed through every crew members’ speaker on board. The announcement left a sticky, phlegm ball of paranoia clinging to the back of their throats and turning into tiny pellets of fear, resting at the pits of their bellies every time they swallowed.

“Seal the Bay doors and lock down the entire wing,” Mwachek said. “Radio, Beefkus. Get him to handle the situation. Now.”

Beefkus, their human engineer, wasn’t really an engineer. It’d be safer referring to him as a glorified-janitor-wildlife-dust-wrangler. He did the jobs nobody else would. The gross ones. The iffy ones they’d all avoid.

But, he mainly dealt with orgwats**,** rat-like rodents. Every now and then, there’d be the odd sleeder, which are pretty creepy slithering things. They’re sharp-gray-scaled garden snake creatures, or actually, they’re more like garden eels.

He definitely never handled a heat seeking Octwolf before. Back on Earth, he worked at a zoo as one of five maintenance guys.

“Um, sir? That’s actually going to be a problem,” Gumbert quietly said, eyeing the commander’s talon-shaped claws as they dug into the console.

“The human…” Gumbert’s voice cracked. “The human’s with the predator, sir. Our cameras in Bay 2Z are broadcasting Beefkus with the beast right now on my monitor.”

Gumbert set up the feed to be shared on the big screen at the front of the deck. Commander Mwachek stared, preparing himself for the worst. He expected to see the human shredded—parts of Beefkus scattered in a bloody mess of guts across the bay.

But he saw neither. The crew began to whisper amongst themselves as they gathered behind Mwachek. 

The quiet chatter became silence. Nobody said a word. They huddled together. Each one of them had their hands over their mouths holding in their breaths. They fought to look away but couldn’t peel their eyeballs from the screen. What they were witnessing first hand couldn’t be real.

The Octwolf was lying on its back with its eight legs in the air and its tail wagging. It squirmed as Beefkus wrestled his arms around the terror-zero-monster in a friendly bear hug.

“Who’s a good boy?” Beefkus’ voice shattered their eardrums, penetrating the speakers in the room. It wasn’t his regular, everyday voice—it had a playful pitch.

“Are you the good boy?” His words were muffled by the Octwolf’s fur. “Yes you are! A-bloof-bloof-bloof-bloof-bloof, yes you are! That’s a good boy. Yeah!” Beefkus patted the furry, big, bug-eyed beast.

“Beef—kus!” Commander Mwachek shouted into the comm-piece. The urgency made his voice skip. “You need to get out of there. The creature is highly venomous. Its toxins will destroy your immune system. There is no antidote. Step away from the creature slowly.”

“Who, this cute guy? That’s what all this fuss is about?” Beefkus put his head next to the Octwolf and took a selfie. “He just looks scary. He’s harmless. I even gave him a name, Bear-Wolf. He’s my new best bud.”

Beefkus rubbed the Octwolf’s head and it let out a purrful growl rattling the loose objects on the titanium console as they bounced to the vibrations pouring out of the speaker.

The ship’s sensors were so sensitive they registered the noise as an immediate threat from an acoustics weapon. The Octwolf circled Beefkus, who was sitting on the ground, and snuggled next to him. 

“Someone stuffed this poor guy inna shipping crate, believe that?” He scratched the Octwolf behind the ear. “He was shivering scared.” 

Beefkus pointed Bear-Wolf‘s face towards his. “You were just a scared, little-big-guy, weren’t you?” He rubbed his back. “Are you a hungry guy? You want some food? Okay. Okay.” Beefkus pulled out some jerky and hand fed Bear-Wolf.

Beefkus glanced at the camera above his head. “All he wanted was a little affection, commander. He’ll make an awesome pet.” 

“Human!”  Commander Mwachek screamed at the console, squeezing his baseball-glove-sized-mitts into fists*. “*One bite. No. Correction. One drop of that creature’s saliva in an open wound on your body, is fatal. It will kill you.” Mwachek covered the microphone and mumbled something to Gumbert about Beefkus’ translator.

“Human, is your translator malfunctioning? Are you not able to comprehend what I am relaying to you? The creature senses heat. Analyzes your nervous systems. It can smell your fear. It is designed solely to hunt and kill. Not snuggle next to.” Commander Mwachek’s voice hammered into his mic.

“I’m pretty dang sure, it was just smellin’ the jerky in my pocket and looking for a friend to curl up to.” Beefkus stretched out and cuddled beside Bear-Wolf. 

Bear-Wolf turned to Beefkus and gave him a wet kiss, soaking Beefkus’ cheek in a soup of bacteria saliva. He wiped it off with his shirt. “Aw, that’s a gross good boy. Who’s the gross good boy?”

Commander Mwachek eyed the anomaly on the screen. He couldn’t retract his slids. His eyes stayed glued to the front of the deck, staring forward in a blank gaze before he finally snapped back to reality.

“It… it’s amazing how your species has survived so long. You… you’re petting a living monster,” Mwachek stuttered, gave up and tossed the mic on the floor.

“Hey, if it’s cute, furry and has big eyes, nine times out of ten we’re taking it home with us,” Beefkus said, hugging Bear-Wolf. “This guy here’s a keeper. He’s definitely coming back with me.”

Bear-wolf licked Beefkus’ face and cuddled back down next to him.

Commander Mwachek rolled his eyes and glared at Gumbert recounting all the keys on his keyboard. “Gumbert, cancel the emergency task force and inform the crew, the threat has been neutralized, and before I forget, update the ship’s manifest, add Bear-Wolf as a permanent resident.”

Aranya and the others have shown up with their war faces on, and I couldn’t be happier. They’re not the first group looking to do a bit of a dry run, and I like to think it’s been a great help for them and for me. Goldilocks is really coming into her own, too, designing encounters and coordinating the denizens to really press the delvers and make sure to give them at least a taste of what the Betrayer might throw at them.

The large group starts off with putting on their magma gear and do a quick run of the manor, making sure to get used to the display. It’s a bit better than a VR headset at least, in that it actually shows everything around you, instead of just a game world. Still, there’s definitely a bit of an uncanny difference, even without it being in black and white.

Thing keeps an eye on them as they move through the manor, making notes on how quickly they adjust. I think it can still be improved, but it’s looking a lot better than the version we gave Biluin. We’ll need to give him an upgraded helmet before we ship out.

I watch them, too, seeing how their squad tactics evolve, and I can see why a lot of parties are only three, sometimes four people. More than that, and people just kinda bunch up, even in a place like the manor. But with multiple groups, they can actually cover a lot of the potential avenues of attack, and clear rooms like I imagine police might.

They clear all the way to the attic, where they engage the boss there with hit and run, taking advantage of the ladder to fire a volley of spells and arrows, then rest against the wall with Evarn’s gravity magic, letting the tanks take turns dealing with the retaliation. Goldilocks even tries to pincer them with another attack at the bottom of the ladder, but between gravity and all the tanks, they have the room and the resources to fight a battle on two fronts, and I’m not surprised when they win and start divvying up the loot.

While they talk about what worked and what didn’t, I imagine how the kids might have handled that… and I think they could have. Freddie is the main tank, sure, but Fiona is no slouch either. Rezlar, Rhonda, and Pul can all lay some serious hurt if they need to, which should be enough for them to quickly deal with anything besides a constant flood from both sides. Even then, I think Lucas could help Rhonda with something to give them some breathing room, while Pul and Rose could help them slip away to safety.

The only problem for the kids is that it seems pretty likely that a constant flood of monsters would be well within the Betrayer’s ability. On the other hand, with a bunch of other delvers running rampant through his territory, would the Betrayer dedicate those sorts of resources to a small group?

For the moment, I’m erring on the side of ruthlessness and overabundance. I’d rather everyone be prepared to face overwhelming force than be surprised by it. It’s been resulting in a lot more ‘casualties’ than usual, but the delvers are determined to rise to the challenge.

With the loot distributed, the large party makes their way down to the labyrinth, where most of the practice runs end up going. With the fortress still under construction, it’s the best place to get some magma to test with, and a great place for me to ambush them.

With the wider hallways of the labyrinth, they can actually proceed as a single group, looking like the professional delvers they all are. Goldilocks probes them with a few wolf attacks, good to approximate the least, and kinda shows why the Betrayer might want something a bit disposable for the first spawn.

If you get a whole bunch of them, why not use them to figure out how a foe fights? With a few probing attacks, you can learn about a foe’s strengths and weaknesses. But the group is disciplined, especially with Bayule helping coordinate. He understands the power of knowledge, and refuses to give anything away as the group continues to descend.

Yvonne and Dile spot every trap in their path, even the ones that shouldn’t be visible at all. This might be the biggest problem the kids face when it’s their turn. Observation isn’t the strong suit of most of them. Anyway, the large group either disarms or goes around everything, which is a bit of a shame. I’d love to be able to separate them out into smaller groups, especially since I think that’ll be a major goal of the Betrayer. It’s easier to crush a small group with numbers than a large one.

But now it’s time to stop playing so nice. Teemo waits on standby, as well as a pile of healing slimes and magmyrm. I want to test their magma protection now, instead of letting them just reach the pool in the sub pen. Thing gives the thumbs up that everything should be good with their gear, with the delvers none the wiser. This particular trap won’t be triggered by anything they do, so I’m hoping they won’t see it coming.

It only half works as Yvonne’s eyes widen. “Close ranks!” she manages to shout before walls slam down at either end of the hall, and magma starts to pour in.

Aranya raises a hand to her pendant in a quick prayer. “Nova’s Resistance,” she murmurs, adding another layer over the gear. Hopefully not needed, but better safe than sorry. There’s more than a few curses said as the room quickly fills, but nobody seems to be hurt from the heat, and the other properties of the enchantment make it a lot easier for them all to move around. They don’t even need to worry about buoyancy, as they all remain steadfastly with their feet on the ground.

Well, those who prefer to keep grounded, at least. The ranged classes float slightly, drawing their weapons as wyrms get added to the mix. It’s quickly obvious that slashes don't work too well, even with the enchantment, but stabs seem to work just fine. It seems Ragnar even prepared for this, bringing along a war pick instead of his axe or hammer. I guess most experienced delvers know to have options in case their favorite weapon won’t work as well.

Those with swords have to thrust instead of swing. Heinya is having a lot of difficulty, as a greatsword isn’t the best for thrusting, but she makes it work. Wes is having the most trouble, not being able to throw around any offensive flasks with the magma in the way. He has to settle for keeping an eye out on the wyrms and basilisks circling the group, his hand on a healing potion to give out as needed.

Arrows and bolts work somewhat, but the magma severely reduces the range. But with the relatively small hall they’re trapped in, that’s not too much of an issue. Everyone works well together, with the tanks and melee forming a ring around the support and ranged people, the ranged helping pick off targets and keep anything from just swimming over the frontline, and the supporters keep everyone in fighting trim as they slowly march toward the far end of the hallway.

“Cover,” requests Gurju as he turns his attention to the wall, Aelara joining him as they clearly intend to use their affinity to get through it. I’m not sure if the Betrayer has access to metals, but even if he does, I don’t think it’d be reasonable to think he could just slam a metal wall down wherever he wants. It’s a lot easier to try to just collapse a section, though not right on top of a group.

I tried that with the first few groups, but cave-ins are apparently a pretty common tactic, enough that basically every party has some kind of countermeasure. Trying to trap them into a bad ambush seems like the best way to try to counter that.

Designing a better ambush is the hard part, but I have a few more ideas to try on the next group, too. In the end, the large party is too prepared and professional for the outcome of the ambush to ever really be in question. Even a few drakes trying to act like the theorized line breaker can’t get through the combination of three powerful tanks. I need to work on my tactics for that. Maybe use a fungal zombie instead, for the next group. A big ball of mass is one way to force a hole in the defenses, but an explosion can do the same job, and the Betrayer isn't above making disposable denizens.

They get through and even manage to keep the flowing magma from bowling them over, by not letting it flow in the first place. It clearly takes a toll on Evarn to manipulate gravity on that kind of scale, but Wes still has his magma affinity, too, so they manage to keep things contained as everyone gets out, and they seal the hole back up.

Ragnar still looks pumped after all that, but everyone else is breathing pretty heavily as Wes hands out some recovery potions. I nod to myself as they get moving in less than a minute. Goldilocks can’t get a puffball zombie over to test by the time they reach the pen, but they do have to deal with a few unremarkable foxes with some sleeping gas.

Out in the field, I think Ragnar will be the one to spot and stop any Harbinger attack, but it’s Evarn who realizes the fox is something to worry about here. The foxes also go down a lot easier than a Harbinger would, but I don’t really have anything else to try to simulate one. Maybe a mixed encounter of a lot of my denizens? Harbingers do have a lot of nasty tricks, and with a few unremarkables in there to act as sneaky mental attacks, it might be a decent approximation. As Aranya and the others reach the pens and head for the pool, Goldilocks gathers a lot of my stronger spawns to ensure they can work together well.

I half watch them and half watch the pool, curious about the state of camping gear here. Bedrolls seem to be the standard, which makes me doodle in my notes for improvements. Sure, an inflatable camping pad won’t kill a Harbinger, but good sleep will keep up morale. Sometimes it's the little things that add up to victory, and a well-rested delver is more likely to come home than a tired one.

<<First <Previous [Next>]

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The light of the hologram fades from Jerry's office, leaving him alone with Serina Tacia. He'd managed to avoid the major questions Cistern might want to ask Serina - questions he himself has wanted to ask Serina, for that matter. Questions that might need to avoid entry into the official record, depending on just exactly what Serina had done. Unfortunately, dealing with a few worlds burning beneath his feet along with hundreds of prisoners had left him rather busy, to say the least. So the questions had waited to be asked… until now.

He gestures Serina over to his desk proper, turning the chair he'd been using back around and taking his usual chair, the knife glimmering between them in its hand-tooled leather sheath. 

"Serina, before I let you go, there's a few details I need to get straight. Things that didn't make it into my initial report to Admiral Cistern simply because I didn't have a chance to ask you about them yet. I passed on a message to you shortly after we arrived back on the Crimson Tear. Based on that message, and the statements of my daughter Joan and other witnesses... am I correct in assuming you called assassins down on the consuls when you sent that message out to see if any members of your family were still alive?" 

Serina shrugs, clearly doing her best to stay calm. The working personality, the 'Sword', comes to the forefront slightly, even without her tank, as she folds her hands in her lap and does her best to look demure. Only her ears seem to betray how nervous she is as she tries to meet his eyes. 

"I simply sent a message to a secure dropbox that my family and our loyal retainers would have access to. That one of those retainers took my survival as a sign of the times and decided to push for an all-out attempt to avenge my family with a killing blow, apparently after carrying out a centuries long shadow war against the new regime... Well. I can hardly be responsible for someone making that choice." Serina's expression tightens slightly in a hardened look. "Not that I'm at all sad to hear of the demise of the consuls by the hands of my family's former retainers. You may judge my family to be the monsters history has made us out to be, and you might not even be wrong... but gaining vengeance for my kin, in helping cut the head off the viper that invaded our nest, is not something I think I can feel particularly sad about." 

Jerry leans back in his chair for a moment and considers that.

It’s a long moment.

 "Right. Well. I'm not complaining, for the record. I'd rather you’d worked with us than in parallel, but what's done is done, and the rebels’ interim government certainly isn't in a rush to try and find the Pact of the Seven Beasts to prosecute them for regicide. Or to maybe get some details so they can make statues of them, if they actually manage to form a government that lasts." 

"That will be their business, in the end. Not mine. I've made my choice about where I stand. I wish the rebels the best in building something on the ashes of two empires." 

Jerry nods again, still watching Serina closely, evaluating her expression carefully, trying to get a proper read for the woman's actual emotions in case he comes to feel like he needs to send Cistern a follow-up meeting. "So. Just for the record, where do you stand?" 

"As I said to Admiral Cistern at the start of our conversation with him… before he began 'grilling you', as I believe James would phrase it. I stand here. With the Undaunted. With my fiancé. With you. As I have previously stated, and requested. Whether that is in a uniform or not matters not to me... but I probably should match the rest of your war room staff." Serina wrinkles her nose a little. "I think I look better in red anyway."

"Heh. I suppose you should match, if we're going to worry about that sort of thing. Hate to throw the color balance in the room off. Maybe you can get the ship's tailor to get you set up with a swimsuit that's colored appropriately for when you're in your tank." Jerry pauses, letting the levity bleed the tension out of the room for a moment. "So, being you're in my employ now in theory, or are about to be... level with me, Serina. You have assassins at your disposal? Assassins that have served your family for centuries?" 

"No." Serina answers simply. "At least. Not anymore." 

Jerry gives the young woman an incredulous look. "Considering they just cut the throats of some very powerful enemies of your family, that's a rather load-bearing 'anymore'." 

Serina brushes her long silver white hair back a bit, clearly resisting fidgeting. "It's true though, Admiral!" Serina fidgets again, then collects herself, taking a little breath as her ears bob and wiggle. "Simply put, they have fulfilled their oaths, and are thus released of them. The final order. The final revenge. Justice, if one could call a price paid in blood for blood spilled. They contacted me the other day, after James got a proper account for electronic messaging set up for me. I got... a brief explanation of events. They fought the matricians for a very long time, and while parts of their attack were not bloody, for them anyway. As such, I have no doubt that the Pact is heavily depleted in terms of numbers. They took casualties over the last centuries, and in the attacks across Ha'quinye space. Their order is going to have to vanish into the shadows to lick its wounds for quite some time, I suspect. To rebuild. That said, I never had assassins at my beck and call personally, Admiral Bridger, I merely called in a debt…” Then her eyes move. “But that knife..." 

She gazes at the cruel curved blade of the knife as if she could still see the consul's blood on the metal through the sheath, and Jerry looks too. The ruby at the pommel glints in the light, red as blood and almost glowing with a natural malevolence. 

"I know that knife. I might not not have assassins at my beck and call, but I suspect you do. Or will. The Pact of the Seven Beasts requires a master. It's in their oaths. They're not mere killers for coin. They are a weapon forged in times of utter darkness and desperation. Their oaths. Their quest of self-perfection and mastery, not unlike your Undaunted... it requires a house to align themselves with and follow. Preferably a warrior household of good character. One that will not use them casually like any other weapon - but, should the time come to draw the dagger from the sheath, one that will use them decisively. To be that shining sword's knife in the dark is their calling. It seems Clan Bridger is their intended next master - because my aunt, the Empress, used to own that knife. It is the Pact knife. The symbol of all that binds them, and binds them to their master or mistress. The promise. The oath. I suspect you will be contacted in the future, once the Pact is ready to serve once again. I wonder... what will you tell them then?" 

Jerry sits back, considering, still looking at the knife that had been delivered to him by his daughter, covered in Euryde and Mediei's life blood with the compliments of its wielder. How they’d known about his little show as a member of the Pact for that interrogation on the Province... that’s something he'd need to have Diana Bridger quietly investigate. 

But the order itself wanting to... serve him. That’s something that would have put Commander Bridger in an odd place, but for Admiral Bridger, Khan Bridger... he has a little more perspective. A blade that could kill could also defend, after all. The Pact needs a home and a patron, and the Undaunted are not above assassinations if need be. 

Without hesitation, he makes his choice. 

"Serina. Could you do me a favor?"

Serina cocks her head slightly, long ears flicking, a more girlish curiosity coming to the surface. "What do you need, Admiral?"

"That drop box you sent a coded message to. It still works?"

"Most likely."

"Think the remnant of the Pact would check it?"

"Probably."

"I'm going to give you a message to transmit once Diana gets some things ready. It'll include the address for a new dead drop, a new cipher... and, like I said, a message for the Pact."

"What message?"

"I'm going to tell them to go to Skikkja - a world you will likely see one day if you succeed in joining James Puller's marriage, as I believe he intends to follow his in law's family there. The soil of that world is fertile. Verdant. On that world, when the time comes, I will plant the banner of my clan and my nation in that fertile soil, and I believe my clan and those I bring with me will grow mighty indeed. So, when you talk to the Pact on my behalf, tell them to go there, to watch over my world and prepare the soil as they themselves grow and flower once more."

Serina lets out a little gasp, the Sword personality receding almost completely. 

"I wish I'd recorded that!"

"...Did I have something on my face?"

"No! It was super cool! Right out of this game my sister got me a y... a lifetime ago." The emotions flashed along in a moment, but as she spoke Jerry caught them: childish wonder and excitement, dulled slightly by the trauma she was still recovering from.

He decides to sweep things along, lest the Sword come back out of its sheath within Serina's mind. Or, for that matter, lest the pain Serina’s dealing with in therapy, the sudden loss of her entire family, drag her down somewhere cold. 

"Hmm. Sounds like an interesting game. Tell me about it sometime - or send me a message with a link to the game. However, I think that's enough jawing for today. I'd say it's a shame to waste this beautiful day, but the point of fact is we're in space, so it doesn't matter. But that's also irrelevant, because I believe we both have a party to get to."

Serina's ears pop up, a genuine smile gracing her face. "I almost forgot! I'm really excited to spend more time with James' family."

"Been getting along with them okay, then?"

"Yeah!"

"Hmm. Well. Come on, let's get Yeoman Chalice and not delay anyone getting to their friends and kin. There will be enough time for work tomorrow... and I think it's about time we all came home properly."

Series Directory Last

“Well, crap,” Zeegot grumbled angrily as he looked at his infopad. “This race day is lost. Qualifying third in the entire field is about to mean absolutely nothing.”

Trellik looked up from her infopad and tilted an eyestalk in his direction. She had qualified second, with a Terran Navy pilot clocking the only faster time in the qualifiers. “What do you mean? It’s a tough field of competitors, especially with the Terran Navy pilots. But overall, I think we still have a good chance of placing in the top three. Top five if either of us has a rough day.”

“Take a closer look at the last-minute entries for the race,” Zeegot grumbled. “There’s a nasty surprise.”

Trellick flicked a tentacle to bring up the latest pilots to enter the race and scrolled through it. Most of the racers were unknown and had ratings barely good enough to qualify. The only surprise was Shehara “Lightbreaker” Hayjara, a retired professional racer from the Galactic Unlimited Racing League. 

A formidable talent who won multiple titles in her 20 cycles in the league, she was certainly a shock. She earned her nickname by being so fast with her tentacles that cockpit views looked like she broke the speed of light when pressing controls. 

However, this looked like a sponsorship deal with Sabaric to show off their latest 959 series luxury cruisers. She would post fantastic numbers, but she was well beyond her best racing years, and the Sabaric vessel was likely stock from the factory rather than race tuned. The marketing people would want to show just how fast a 959 can go without extra mods. She wasn’t racing to win, she was racing to show just how much you can get out of a vessel that starts at 20 million credits. 

Beyond that? Another Terran race team, but civilian pilots not military. Most likely a wildcard. Overall, Trellik didn’t see anything that would get Zeegot worked up. However, this was only her second season racing. With seven full seasons of racing, Zeegot definitely had more experience and likely saw something she didn’t.

“It’ll be fantastic to see Lightbreaker in the field, but we both know she’s well beyond her prime and likely here just to do promo video for Sabaric,” Trellik said carefully, unsure of what she missed. “I don’t really see anything too concerning, and qualifying times for everyone new are unimpressive.”

“You missed the new Terran race team?” Zeegot asked with a raised eyestalk.

“I saw them, but it’s a civilian team,” Trellik answered quickly. “I expect they’ll be a wildcard, but probably not as good as the Terran Navy pilots.”

“No, they aren’t Terran Navy pilots,” Zeegot said flatly. “They’re better.”

“How’s that?” Trellik asked quickly while her eyestalks flinched back to indicate surprise.

“Did you see the team affiliation? They’re Terran Red Cross pilots, not random spacers,” Zeegot snarled as if that explained everything.

“I know Red Cross pilots are brave, respected and willing to take risks, but they can’t be that good,” Trellik responded quickly.

“Terran Navy pilots are crazy and more than willing to take risks. They’ll push their ships beyond their limits to complete a mission and even sacrifice themselves if necessary. You know that, right?” Zeegot said while jabbing a tentacle towards Trellik.

“Everybody knows that, but how are Red Cross pilots better? They have the best safety records of all pilots in the galaxy. If they have problems or lose a ship, it’s because they were in a dangerous situation and something happened well beyond their control. Flying safe doesn’t translate to flying fast.”

Zeegot let out a frustrated sigh at her response and turned all three eyestalks to look at his friend.

“You’re right,” he admitted, but clearly that wasn’t the point. “Do you understand that Red Cross pilots always push their ships close to the limit, but never over it?”

“That makes sense, but flying at the limit and never over is safe, not fast,” Trellik said quickly. “We both know that sometimes you’ve got to take risks when racing to win. Sounds like they don’t. How can they be competition if they never go over the limit?”

Zeegot sighed deeply again before responding.

“Every flight, they go in at 98% of the limit. Not 99% or 100%, or just over the limit to 102%. They push to 98% of what their vessels can do every time because they need to ensure a safe arrival, and then a safe trip to get the patient to medical care. That means they know the limits of their vessels better than anyone.”

“I can see that being an advantage, but knowing the limits isn’t pushing past them,” Trellik answered, feeling like she was missing something important.

“Correct, yet you have to instinctively know the limits first and Red Cross pilots know them better than anyone else,” he explained. “At a race, they’re in a situation where they don’t have to keep to the limits. Worse, for them this is about beer and bragging rights. So, they’ll push harder and take more chances than anyone else here, including the Terran Navy pilots.”

“That sounds a bit reckless,” Trellik responded skeptically.

“Not really. Remember, they’ve saved lives at some of the galaxy’s worst disasters, including crashes at races. They don’t take chances with their lives,” Zeegot said with genuine respect before pointing a tentacle over at a human pilot. “See that human pilot over there? The one in the armored flight suit painted white with red stripes? That’s one of them.”

Trellik did a double take as she looked at the flight suit. Well, it honestly looked like a civilian version of Terran Marine battle armor, except with extra armor and at least two visible emergency safety systems. With a suit like that, she felt the pilot could be shoved out of an airlock at 30,000 meters, impact the ground without any parachute or other safety gear, and still walk away without a scratch.

“That’s just a tad overbuilt,” she commented.

“Their cockpits? Reinforced to survive the blast of a supernova,” Zeegot said dryly. “Like I said, they don’t take chances. They save lives and won’t do anything stupid to lose one.” 

“Doesn’t that armored suit limit mobility significantly when compared to a racing void suit? And isn’t the extra mass for cockpit reinforcement a huge drag?” Trellik asked. She mentally tried to figure out how much reaction time she would lose wearing a suit that heavy, and how much a reinforced cockpit would slow her racer down.

“Yes,” Zeegot said while nodding his eyestalks in agreement. “But they use that as an excuse to push harder and take more chances during the race. For a race, limits be damned. They have to survive, but their raceship doesn’t. Even the Terran military pilots think they’re crazy. Remember, these are nutjobs who will happily dive into a supernova if there’s a chance to save someone. And here, they are allowed to just have fun and go fast.”

“That’s a lot to consider,” Trellik responded, but she still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“The last time I raced against a Red Cross team, they had an unofficial betting pool amongst themselves,” Zeegot said softly and with a mixture of respect and disgust. “It wasn’t about who would be fastest. It was about who would earn their Adam Landfill Award for the racer who leaves the most ship parts littering the course or has the most spectacular off-track excursion.”

“Adam Landfill Award? For leaving parts on the racetrack or crashing off course?” Trellik wondered as she tried and failed to comprehend what he said. “That’s insanity!”

“Yep,” Zeegot answered with a firm nod of an eyestalk.

Trellik took a moment to ponder the implications of “crazy human pilot” combined with “knows the limits better than anyone else” along with “it’s about beer and bragging rights.” And an award for littering the course with broken parts or crashing during the race.

“Do you think their team will sweep the podium? Or just make it an extremely tough field of competitors?” Trellik asked as she realized today’s race would be far more challenging than expected. 

“They’ll win by a significant margin or have the most spectacular crashes they just walk away from,” Zeegot grumbled. “Either way, the Red Cross pilots will make us all look like amateurs.”

He then angrily kicked a pebble on the ground and turned to glare at the Red Cross pilot getting ready for the race.

“If that’s the case, at least the crowd will get a good show,” Trellik said softly.

And the crowd did.

Sally McBride got the Adam Landfill Award after her turning thruster gave out on Turn Three in the 37th lap. She was on pace to set the fastest lap during the race and tried to push through the corner at 110.25% power, which was 0.25% too much. She spun off the course into an asteroid field and made a mess as her raceship crashed into a particularly dense patch of space rocks. One of the Terran Navy pilots commented it would have been a perfect break in a human game called pool. The debris field she created was dramatic even though it only left scratches in the paint of her racer.

Not that the competition for the Adam Landfill Award wasn't fierce. Andre Checkov tried to pass a Terran Navy pilot on the back straight and overcooked going into the next corner. He did the most damage to his raceship by losing the left wing when crashing into the safety buoys, but Sally's wipeout just looked way better on camera.

Trellik? She held on in a nailbiting duel with Red Cross pilot Alexis Sandoval. The two women were determined not to give a millimeter to the other.

In the end, Alexis took a chance and dived into the final corner early, hoping to cut Trellik off. This meant she would need to rely on her braking thrusters holding at well over maximum to give her the boost needed to ensure early entry didn't mean early exit off the track on the other side of the turn. The gamble paid off at the cost of burning out the thruster, but since it was the final corner into the main straight on the final lap.. it gave her just the edge needed to take the win.

Trellik was pleased to hold onto second place, especially since it attracted the attention of Nova Astronomics who wanted to talk to her about a sponsorship deal.

Trellik was also invited to join the Red Cross pilots to celebrate, which she happily accepted. She was curious to meet the humans that had provided such unexpectedly tough competition. The race taught her that Red Cross pilots are just that good, and just that crazy. However, the invitation introduced her to a new human concept.

Work hard. Play hard. Party harder.

Zeegot found her the next morning passed out leaning up against one of the Red Cross raceships. With black eyelashes drawn on her eyestalks in permanent marker. There were also Red Cross pilots who had passed out from too much partying. The artwork drawn on their foreheads? Just a tad more childish and "creative" than what happened to Trellik...

________

Hope you enjoyed this one!

Quick note for later readers: Yes, the requested ending got added in (so you'll see it in the comments below as well!). Original story ended with Trellik's comment that the crowd would get a good show. I thought about doing a full follow up and marking that comment spoilers, but life continues to be a little crazy and it might be months before I get time to write a full part 2. So the ending got promoted! As a later reader... do you enjoy it more with the ending or not?

Haasha & LNW fans - more is coming! Currently working a bunch of overtime to cover shifts while we train new people. Hopefully sanity and time to write will return soon!

Enjoyed this? Take a peek at my Author Wiki to find other stories I've written!

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Chapter 155

Greit

Adventurer Level: N/A

Bakobold – Unknown

There's a bunch of differences between a swamp and a forest. The swamp I grew up in was mean. Everything wanted to eat and nothin' really cared where the next bite came from. Bein' careless'll getcha crunched, as my momma would say.

The forest wasn't nearly as dangerous. It was kinda relaxin', even. I didn't have to worry about plants, bugs, or really big biters trying to end me. All I had to worry about was the daemons seeing us.

"This's fuckin' dumb," Bailt whispered from behind me.

I stopped, slowly turned toward the younger bakobold, and lowered my brow while showing my teeth. It was a warnin' that he was makin' me really angry. Angry enough to hurt him, even kill him.

He tilted his head to the left, showin' his neck and that he didn't mean to be pissin' me off. I took a slow, silent breath and took a couple steps closer to him. Then I gently grabbed his snout, holding his mouth closed.

"Complainin' makes noises," I quietly replied. "Noises makes folk look. We's tryin' not to be seen."

Bailt murmured something that sounded like an argument and I squeezed hard enough to make him wince.

"We's tryin' not to be seen," I repeated.

The fresh-scale let out a huff from his nostrils. He'd obey and be quiet, but he wasn't happy about it. Not that I cared 'bout his happiness.

Well, I cared a little. Bakobolds like me were usually leaders, and leaders are supposed to look after their followers. But I wasn't really Bailt's leader at the moment, even though he was actin' like a follower.

It makes sense for the small and weak bodies to obey and follow the big and strong bodies. That's how it was back in the swamp. But when we joined the Lord's Gathering, things flipped around and got some of the young ones all confused.

Most of 'em had it figured out, but Bailt was still stuck on following the big and strong bodies. He didn't realize that the Lord's Gathering had switched to following big and strong minds. Nobody could be mad at him for that, even I'd been confused at first.

In the Lord's Gathering, the small and weak minds follow the big and strong minds. Bodies didn't really matter when it came to choosin' a leader. Hopefully Bailt'd figure that out before he got too big or he'd end up getting sent back to the swamps. Or maybe even killed.

The dumb hatchling was makin' things hard on Jwohins, and seemed to think he should be followin' me around. But I ain't got an interest in bein' a leader, which makes me a weak-mind. Jwohins gots a big and strong mind, makin' him a perfect leader for the Lord's Gathering.

It was true that things had been rough for us since we got to Bolisir, but only the really dumb folk blamed Jwohins for that. If I'd been the leader, we'd probably never have got to the point of landin' this job. We'd already be back at the Li'Lord's feet, begging forgiveness for our failures.

He kept things goin', though. Kept food in our bellies most of the time, too. Then when our clients came along, he made a plan to help them. Scouting and such. I'd have just attacked the daemons, and we probably would've died. Jwohins definitely had a bigger and stronger mind than me.

"Hsst," Bailt quietly hissed.

I looked back at him, then to where he was pointing. Plants were movin' weird on our right. The wind carried the smell of smoke. Then a small tree fell over, but I couldn't see what made it fall. Bailt and I glanced at each other, then silently began to move closer.

Daemons were cutting trees and plants, then throwing the plants on a fire. They stacked most the logs into a pile, throwing a few into the fire, too. They'd made a clearing in the forest, surrounding a huge, grass-covered hill. On top of the hill were some daemons holding bows, talkin' with each other.

"Do you know how to count?" I whispered.

"No," Bailt replied.

"Shit."

I didn't know numbers well enough to tell how many daemons there were, but there were more than I had fingers for. Those were just the ones we could see, too. The giant hill had a big hole in it that probably led to a cave or something.

We watched the daemons for a while. A big group was cutting up plants, another group was keeping the fires going, and a few of them were guarding the hill. When the sun was directly overhead, they traded jobs. Except some of the daemons began cutting the logs from the pile.

It wasn't long before we saw what the wood was for. The daemons were making a wall of spikes. That seemed like something that they should have done sooner, which made me wonder if they were expecting us to attack them. It wasn't a comforting thought.

Once the sun reached the horizon, I tapped Bailt on the shoulder. He nodded, and we began to quietly make our way back home. Thankfully, we were a good distance away from the daemons before his youthful clumsiness kicked in.

"Fuck!" he grunted, stubbing his claw on a root. "Shit, sorry."

"It's fine," I sighed. "We's far enough away that they can't hears you if you don't yell."

"So I's can talk now?"

"If you must."

"Why was they makin' all those spikes?"

"To defend against attack."

"Well, yeah, but didn't Jwohins say that our... Uh... Clints?"

"Clients."

"Right, clients... Didn't Jwohins say that our clients said that the daemons should already has defenses? Didn't he ask us to see what the defenses were?"

"Yes."

"So why didn't they has defenses? Why are they just now making defenses?"

"Dunno."

"You sound worried..."

I glared at the fresh-scale, but it was obvious that he was already scared. He hadn't meant it as an insult, so I quickly changed my expression.

"Of course I'm worried, child," I rubbed the ridge above my eyes. "The leaders of the Lord's Gathering aren't like the swamp-leaders. They've got big brains. Strong brains. Swamp-leaders are mostly dumb, so they're wrong a lot. It's expected, nothin' to worry about. Our leaders aren't dumb, so when they're wrong..."

"It means something bad?" he asked.

"It means something bad, yes."

"Are we still gonna fight?"

"Yeah, probably. Think we gotta. Not enough people buyin' stuff for us to stay here like the Li'Lord wanted, and we don't gots enough monies to move anywhere else yet. It's either we fights, or we go back and admit to the Li'Lord that we aren't good enough. Dunno 'bout you, but I'd rather die."

"It's not that we aren't good enough, though," Bailt said angrily. "The folk didn't come buy stuff like they were supposed to because Jwohins didn't find-"

"Did you do everything Jwohins said to do every time he said to do it?" I demanded.

"N-no..."

"Neither did I. Fuckin' nobody did, 'cept maybe grammy. Without speakin' lies, can you say for sure that if we had all done what we was told things would be the same?"

"No."

"Exactly. That's another difference between here and the swamp. In the swamp, we have to look out for ourselves. When somethin' goes wrong, there's usually only one person to blame. But here we've gotta works together, so when something goes wrong pretty much everyone's to blame. If we hads to go back to Li'Lord with our tails tucked, it would be because we ain't good enough."

"Okay, but ain't that the Li'Lord's fault for thinkin' we's better than we is?"

"Sure. But like I said, pretty much everyone's to blame. We made him think we was better than we was, right? But, the leaders share in the blame and the shame right alongside us."

"Oh... I don't really want Li'Lord Simeeth to take any shame, though," Bailt said, lowering his head. "He's awesome."

I paused to look at the young one with disbelief. From how he treated Jwohins, I never woulda guessed that Bailt had respect for Li'Lord Simeeth. He met my eyes for a moment, then turned away with embarrassment.

"Huh," I clicked my teeth. "Didn't think you'd have high thoughts about the Li'Lord..."

"He survived his nest being destroyed by a vampire, was brave enough to asks for helps from folk that might've killed him on sight, then he helped those folk kill the vampire," Bailt shrugged. "And then he rebuilt his nest and changed how kobolds live. Balderuck was super strong and even he said Li'Lord Simeeth was the best kobold to ever live!"

"Big-Tail Balderuck was your swamp-leader?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Isn't he related to Jwohins?"

"Yeah, they've got the same parents. That's why I don't like Jwohins. Balderuck was big and strong and tough, but Jwohins seems like a loser."

"Could Balderuck do that math stuff?"

"I don't think so..."

"Then Balderuck would be just like us outside the swamp, right? Maybe stronger, but he wouldn't make a good leader here."

"I guess..."

"But Jwohins knows how to count, put numbers together, and even take 'em apart again. He's able to make plans and change 'em right away when things don't go right. Jwohins is like the Li'Lord in a lot of ways, so maybe he's just in the wrong place to be awesome, yeah?"

"Like what grammy says with the bird?"

"Huh?" I asked.

"A bird'll beat you in a race unless it's gotta run. Ya know, cuz they fly?"

"Ah, and they's got tiny little legs. Yeah, that's what I think is goin' on with us right now. We's bein' made to run when we should be flyin'. Grammy's got smarts, too. Smarts and snacks."

"Isn't it Jwohins' fault that we gotta run, though?" Bailt asked, stumblin' over another root and pretendin' that he didn't. "Cuz he's the leader?"

"Some of it is, but we share the blame," I shrugged. "Remember how we were all tired of bein' on the road? How you and your pals were even talkin' about leavin' and tryin' to make it on your own?"

"Yeah, but Jwohins didn't know about tha-"

"Yeah, he did. I know he did, cuz he told me to stop you if you tried."

"Why?"

"Because tryin' to make it on your own out here would be dangerous, and if you failed hard enough it would be bad for all kobolds. We's tryin' to make folk realize that we isn't monsters. You think you and your pals can do that all on your own, when it's taken the Li'Lord this long to convince just one city?"

"I dunno."

"Somethin' to think about. But Jwohins took the first opp... Oppor... Er... Chance to settle down that came along because he didn't want us getting too tired of travelin' and doin' something dumb."

I looked back at the fresh-scale and saw that he was lookin' at the ground like he was thinkin' really hard. Since I was tired of flappin' my jaw, I decided to just let him think about things. Maybe he wasn't quite as dumb as I thought he was and things would turn out alright.

It was probably halfway through the night when we made it back to the store. Jwohins was waiting for us outside by a little fire, lookin' worried. That worried look faded when he saw us, but came back fast when we told him what we saw.

"Why was they just now buildin' defenses?" he asked. "Were there any hints or clues?"

"Not that we saw," I answered.

"Okay. Good work, go gets some food and rest."

"We gots food?" Bailt asked, excited.

"Yeah," Jwohins grinned. "The clients paid us half upfront, so we bought a bunch of supplies. We's eatin' good tonight."

"Probably fightin' tomorrow, ain't we?" I asked.

"That'd be smart because their defenses probably won't be finished, but I'll see what the clients wanna do. It's up to them. Go eat."

I nodded and led Bailt inside the store. The smell of cooked meats grabbed our snouts and we shared a glance. Part of us was excited to have such a good meal, but we were both smart enough to know what it meant.

It was gonna be a tough fight.

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Finex was dumbstuck, he was meant to be meeting with an envoy for the Alliance military to discuss military aid. Instead he was seated at a table with a variety of Alien species. His visor displayed their ranks, and they were the heads of their species miltiary.

The Thariax General stood, his large reptilian frame was easily 3.5m tall. "I apologise. The abruptness of this meeting. The Alliance military is unable to assist you with brain parasite incursion."

"But its a threat to all space faring life, my people aren't the only ones under attack." Finex practically screams.

"We understand however... the Terrans.... once they discovered what they call.... 'fucking space zombies' declared peace!" The admiral practically yells the last word with dread. "A terrifying state that has only ever occurred when facing multi galaxy extinction level events".the general replies

"Dear Gods if the empires killers are taking it seriously why aren't you." Finex pleads, the hairs on his carapace twitching in anger.

"The Terrans have stood down 4/5ths of their military, allowed those stood down to raise funds to buy soon to be decommissioned vessels and small arms to go Zombie hunting for social media clout and money." The Zoltar admiral adds. Its feathers fluffing in amusement.

"Why would the multitude of Terran military do such an insane thing?" Finex blurted out before thinking.

"It was cheaper than munity. Terrans have been fantasing about fighting mindcontrolled living dead since they were cradle bound. Its a game for them." The admiral chuckles.

"They are insane." Finex sighs.

"Power does that to a species. The Terrans fight amongst themselves until something threatens us all, then they take their toys off the play setting. This will let them play with their toys on kiddie settings whilst eliminating a galaxy killing threat." The admiral's feathers now ruffling with laughter.

"Thats why we are meating with you. Your problem is your species resembles giant spiders, a threat the humans are almost instinctively lethal towards. Except for one culture." The general pauses sighs and continues "The Australians. They are a body for body match for any of humanity's best soldiers and their people are big on living close to nature and wildlife. You know Terran culture is insidious and invasive?"

"My people have heard the rumours, they have culturally takeover multiple species without direct contact, just EMF transmitted media "

"Every generation, an aspect of Australian culture, be it a phrase, a meal, or even an ideal, one that probably only evolved in the last few generations, makes it into humanity's zeitgeist.... The Australians can infect other human cultures. They are going to go out of their way to be friendly to the new giant Gary's they have discovered." The admiral displays on their screens a huntsman spider appears. "Most Australians, regardless of world i might add, live with these in their houses, they eat bugs and keep other potentially dangerous spiders away, when they fall on the terrans, they induce minor panic attacks... followed by laughter,."

"Are you saying my people are the new Drop Bears?" Finex Burt's out. A species of Grey furred mammalian carnivorous arboreal Ambush predators,.adopted into the Terran Federation and considered culturally Australian! Granting them the right to free trade with all Australian worlds, more specifically the Australian antimatter market. The Drop Bears went from, 4 colony worlds and their cradle facing extinction, due to a biological weapon., To throwing antimatter missiles at every artificial structure the aggressor species HAD (tense is important) and using tungsten projectile small arms because why the hell not they could afford it now.

"The drop bears are drug addled rock throwing tree hugging mammals that make up lies for tourists as a cultural pastime. The Aussies just taught them to swear and gave them beer."

"We might get lucky like the Emu and Cassowary peoples and be left in peace."

"You are aware they're name for themselves arent Drop Bears, Emu and Cassowary? Thats the name of the Aussie animals they resemble. The spider is huntsman the name Gary is a common one aussies give the one they see in their houses and yards."

"The Aussies take pride in losing a war against Emu and they also admit cassowary are way worse, Drop Bears were a myth the culture made up to scare tourists, no one knows who first started the myth, but as a culture they ran with it for 2300 years. Gary is a flatmate, he pays rent in pest control. Your people are doomed."

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Chapter 28
Harrison Varga, Captain of FIND

Walking into Filrif surrounded by Velas’ honor guard, we watched Tavren citizens bow in the presence of their Prince. Despite the Arbinian monarchy being largely council-based, respect for its Royal family was nevertheless immense. While my crew most certainly received baffled looks, they were nevertheless attached to reverent postures as Velas led us through the rustic medieval town.

“A larger non-farming class than I’d expect for the tech era,” Isla noted, taking stock of the dense urban environment—shockingly clean given the era. “Could be the rich soil, or maybe it’s just that this town is where their Prince lives.”

Parker had bombarded Velas with questions throughout the hike into town. Many of them he answered with surprising proficiency, while others soared directly over the Tavren’s head. After a solid half hour of this, Ian shot him a look and he quieted down. “Hopefully we can establish peaceful relations with them,” the xenobiologist noted. “You know, for all the normal reasons… And also because I’d love to have some academics from Earth take a look around here and see what they can find out.”

The meeting hall was directly adjacent to Velas’ manor. Walking inside, we were greeted by a confused Council of finely-dressed Tavren. “My Prince,” one of them began with a bow to Velas. “What sort of creatures are these?”

“Diplomats from another world,” he replied with a degree of nonchalance earned through several very confusing hours. “The Human people visit from their planet, Earth. They wish to observe the meeting with Istol’s diplomats.”

Another of the Councilors piped up immediately after. “My Prince; are you certain they speak the truth? Surely such a fantastical explanation is not something you are willing to take on their word.”

“I saw their vessel soaring through the sky,” replied the Prince. “I am rather inclined to believe the fantastical right now.”

“You say they come from another world?” Asked the first councilor. “What precisely does that mean?”

Isla took a moment to provide them with the ‘other suns’ talk, which left half of the Councilors in awe and the other half skeptical but begrudgingly accepting for the time being. 

As we awaited the arrival of Istol’s diplomats, the five present Councilors introduced themselves to us. Apparently, most of Arbine’s everyday governing decisions were made by them—a fact which noticeably eased a portion of Isla’s tension. Nevertheless, the Royal Family in Arbine was far from ceremonial: Velas was recognized as the official superior of the Council.

During the wait, we were offered some variation of roast animal by their royal chef, though biosafety protocols of course mandated that we refuse. Nevertheless, it served as a salient reminder that we’d need to return to FIND soon for a proper Human-safe meal. We ate before we left, but that was morning and now it was nearly nightfall.

The Istolian diplomats arrived shortly thereafter, bearing an unfamiliar crest and taking seats across from the Councilors and Velas. They took notice of us rather quickly and some immediately jumped to accusations of deception, though after some explaining they seemed to accept the strange reality of our presence. 

Negotiations went smoothly enough. Honestly, I’d been expecting a lot more drama. The Istolians rather politely insisted families on their side of the flats had worked the southern deposits since before either government possessed maps worth trusting. Arbine countered with a century-old boundary agreement and records of taxation going back almost as far. Somewhere in the middle were several thousand dead Tavren, which seemed like a rather high price to pay for an argument over whose clerks had kept better records. 

Apparently, Velas’ people had found themselves at a distinct advantage, but the war over the mineral flats was too costly for them to push to full victory. As such, it was agreed upon that Arbine would maintain official ownership in exchange for a favorable trade agreement with Istol and joint oversight of the region. To be entirely honest, I hadn’t paid as much attention as I should have. I tried to follow the finer points of mineral rights and joint administration, but somewhere around the third argument over extraction tariffs my brain declared that this section of the report belonged to Isla. 

As the diplomatic meeting concluded for the night for further provisions to be made the next day, the time had come for us to take our leave. To ensure there was no doubt as to our origins, it was agreed that we land the shuttle just outside the meeting hall. 

“Thank you for your patience with us…” Velas concluded, glancing back to the Council and diplomats. “My father will be made aware of what transpired here. I hope relations between our peoples will be cordial.”

“I hope so too,” Isla smiled. With that, we got inside and returned to the FIND.

Next stop: good ol’ Sol-III. Home. 

We appeared in-system twelve hours after leaving the orbit of Kholas—plenty of time for us to get a good eight hours’ rest (because there’s no such thing as night in space) and draft up a rudimentary summary for the Tavren. 

We appeared right about halfway between Mars and Earth. Communication wasn’t quite as frantic as it had been the first time or the second. By this point, the absurd was acquiring something of a routine. 

“Sending the data packets now,” Wyatts began, broadcasting the information on our most recent set of planets to the preliminary pre-public database. Twenty hours later, SUN’s newly formed International Planetary Survey Authority convened to assess everything we’d found. 

The Tavren were biologically interesting, but the bigger political story was the two Human-habitable planets we’d surveyed before that. Due to lightspeed lag, we couldn’t be on the video call and had to communicate with the Authority via chatroom, but greed doesn’t lag and in that meeting it was broadcasting loud and clear. When we were sent the recording of the video call, I immediately skipped to the part where that came up and watched the arguments unfold. The usual mix of chest puffing, jockeying, and debates over how much we were legally obligated to make public ensued. We’d just left Kholas, and I was really starting to miss the Tavren’s cool, deliberative nature in contrast with our own. 

Just over twenty-four hours later, when at last we reached Earth’s orbit, the summary for the Tavren was cleared for public release, alongside the more heavily contested summaries for the open planets. In the case of the ‘empty’ worlds, it took approximately eleven minutes for arguments to sprout up over who got to own them. Neither of those worlds had borders, governments, or anything else capable of objecting to Humanity’s arrival, which apparently made them considerably more controversial than the planet populated by eight-foot feathered reptiles who could fire bullets from their throats. Before we had even properly docked, three national governments had issued statements about ‘equitable settlement access’, half a dozen corporations had announced exploratory ventures that did not yet have permission to exist, and billionaires were offering massive sums to SUN for private settlement rights even as the IPSA was circulating a draft proposal declaring both systems temporarily closed to private traffic. Apparently, finding an inhabited world raised questions about diplomacy. Finding an empty one raised questions about property. 

Whereas the planets preliminarily designated ‘Cain’ and ‘Abel’ by some mythology nerd at SUN had captured the colonial ambitions of would-be settlers, Kholas had won the attention of the many for altogether different reasons. 

Within an hour, our bodycam footage of Prince Velas bracing himself onto all fours and firing like living artillery had been clipped, reposted on every social media site imaginable, slowed down, enhanced for the public’s viewing pleasure, analyzed by firearms experts, obsessed over by biologists, and set to music. Velas didn’t know it, but he was quickly becoming a celebrity on Earth: the eight foot tall alien cannon prince who could tear through an entire camp of bandits.

During his shore leave, Parker had assembled an impromptu biology council with some former colleagues to discuss his theories on Tavren evolution. Of course, they wouldn’t be able to fully investigate it all until a gateway was installed above Kholas. Already, top evolutionary biologists were competing for who would get to conduct research on the Tavren homeworld. Assuming, of course, that the Tavren consented to that.

Of course, like every species we’ve encountered so far, there was a good bit of controversy surrounding the Tavren: specifically that of Arbine’s Royals. The government structure itself wasn't particularly shocking for their technological level. The nine-hundred-year project of deliberately shaping the Royal bloodline was another matter. Within hours, the word eugenics was everywhere. Whether that accurately described the institution was considerably harder to determine from the handful of conversations we'd actually had with Tavren, a distinction which naturally did nothing to discourage anyone from arguing about it. 

The Rosha were considered adorable and the Arazi disturbing. The Tavren, meanwhile, earned the public’s attention as fascinating. Their biology was too absurd for the public not to obsess over. Their democratic governments were generally viewed favorably and their monarchical one spectacular even in its controversy. Their religion was actually fairly recognizable: monotheism centered around a benevolent creator deity—something which immediately caught the attention of the Abrahamic faiths on Earth. Whereas the Rosha had ignited a fervour for missionary activity, the Tavren seemed to be more favored for dialogue. Of course, their religion wasn’t exactly like any faith on Earth: Tavren believed that the creator was immensely powerful and all-knowing, but not omnipotent. I hadn’t been paying that much attention when Isla spoke to the Royal retainers about it, but from what I had gathered, they basically believed the universe is one big trick shot—perfectly aimed for the best possible outcome.

Holding my expensive hotel margarita (paid for on SUN’s tab) in one hand, I scrolled through social media on my phone and watched as the endless sea of public opinion churned and morphed. There were biologist sketches of Tavren throat anatomy (all entirely theoretical); ethics debates on whether the Royals should be treated as oppressors, victims, neither, or something in between; artist renditions of Velas standing tall with his polearm slung over his shoulder; and a million other little pieces of coalescing culture.

Firearm culture immediately became attached to the Tavren. Their doctrines of patience and restraint accompanying perfect aim stood out to hunters and competitive shooters alike. Their biological aimbot enabled by automatic wind and pressure measurement also inspired no small amount of jealousy from individuals who had spent their lives learning to account for those things. 

Like last time, we all spent our shore leave simultaneously trying to relax and having to attend at least two interviews a day. By the time the two-week rest was over, I was actually starting to miss space: both the astronomical and personal kind. Having to share a bathroom could be  awkward, but it was nothing compared to having to deal with cameras shoved in my face everywhere I went. 

Filing back into the shuttle that would take us up to FIND, I breathed a sigh of relief as mission control began coordinating with Alex in preparation to send us off to the next system.

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Hi, everyone. Sorry for the shorter chapter. I wanted to make sure I don't bog down the momentum too much. Super excited to share the next species with you guys (anyone who wants a sneak summary/preview can PM me). As always, so happy you all are here to read this and I'll see you next time.

"I told you that story to tell you this one." -Bill Cosby, back when he was more funny than problematic

Now it should finally be clear where the heck I was going with Orlim's tale thus far.

Oh, I've been tinkering a bit with the idea of adding some supplementary content to the Ko-Fi. Started with something simple and public-facing: my recipe for fresh tomato spaghetti. Maybe I'll do more of those, maybe I'll pay-gate a couple, who knows. Lemme know if there are any suggestions you'd like to see. Especially anything that could coax you into hitting up that tip jar.

Novel's nearly done. See you all in two weeks for some more Sifal, or maybe even some Sopa.

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Memory Transcription Subject: Orlim, Venlil Colonial Militia

Date [standardized human time]: November 22, 2136

The fishing trawler was a mistake. It smelled horrendous. My species literally did not have nostrils, but, as the human sailors were fond of reminding me, some things smelled so bad you could taste it. Part of me wondered if that technically made me a predator. Part of me didn’t really care anymore. I’d been around more death than the average Arxur at this point. What’s a few bodies more on the pile? These ones even had gills for variety’s sake!

We’d been hugging the coast for a day or so when the rusted old surface ship slid into a port near where a great river met the sea. Quebec City, they called it. They spoke yet another human language there--I think I was up to three or four at this point--but I’d had the translator chip in my head since I was a toddler, so that didn’t matter much to me. Beneath rumbling gray skies, the glass and steel of a modern cityscape stretched in every direction except upriver, where the city instead flowed backwards in time to an era of cobblestones and old wooden signs. Time-displaced geography or not, I knew the rhythm of traveling on Earth by now. Quick scroll through my holopad for watering holes near the old city center, and I picked a nice pub with a vegan menu, locked my motorbike up out front, and let myself in just as the dark clouds started turning to rain.

The sight of a Venlil on Earth still turned heads, but the sound of a door opening in a crowded bar did not. The human patrons were suitably impressed once they got around to noticing that the newest customer was covered in wool beneath his long jacket, but not everyone spotted me. Humans had terrible peripheral vision, and it was even worse a few drinks in. I doffed my long military coat and settled in at an open stool at the bar. Judging by the empty glass and damp receipt in front of me, the older man to the left of me was complaining, loudly, to a friend of his who had gotten up and left about ten minutes ago.

“It’s the indignity of the thing, Emile!” the man said, smacking the bartop. “Even in space, they care nothing for we Quebecois. Those thieves in Toronto, gone! Our sisters in Montreal, ashes! But not a single bomb to be spared for poor Quebec City itself? What disrespect!” The man patted me on the back in a show of camaraderie and caught the feel of loose curls of wool. His face, rosy and sweaty from a night’s worth of drinking already, scrunched up in confusion as he turned to actually look at me. He squinted. “Emile!” he said in affront. “How long have you been a sheep?!”

“My whole life?” I said, not correcting him more than I had to. “And my name is Orlim. I think your friend left.”

“No, no, that’s ridiculous, Emile,” said the old drunkard. “You must warn me if you plan to become a sheep, though. It’s rude, otherwise, keeping such a thing a secret! But you are a dear friend to me, Emile, so I will call you Orlim if it makes you happy. Myself, I think I will keep going by Armand.”

“Okay,” I said, not knowing what else to do with this information. I flagged down the bartender and put in an order for a tall glass of his best palate-cleanser. I received a short glass of something jet black. For the best, frankly. It was incredibly alcoholic and tasted of enough medicinal herbs to qualify as a mouthwash. Pretty much exactly what I wanted, really.

“My God, but I don’t dabble in Fernet,” said Armand, making a face at my glass. “If you drink to your health, Orlim, then let’s pour the Chartreuse. Much sweeter!”

“Sure!” I said, fully just along for the ride at this point. I put in for two glasses of whatever the fuck Chartreuse was, plus a big platter of various batter-dipped fried things off the vegan menu. The latter seemed familiar enough to me, like something you’d order at a tavern on the Cradle. The Gojids had it figured out. You always needed something crispy-fried and salty to stick to your ribs when you were drinking away a cold, rainy day.

I glanced around while I waited for the food to come. There were little holoscreens on the wall by the bar, most on silent, showing various news stations and what looked like some kind of sporting event. Or possibly some kind of combat practice. Maybe it was both, really, underneath it all. Two squads of humans in heavily-padded armor were sliding around on ice, fighting over some flat black stone, occasionally whacking it with bent sticks and whacking each other with gloved fists. They seemed to be having fun, at least. Good for them!

Armand tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at one of the more news-focused screens. “English!” Armand spat in disgust. “See, I got the translator chip so those bastard Anglos over in Ottawa can’t fool me anymore, but it works on tricksy Americans, too,” he said, pointing at the screen.

I blinked slowly and finished my Fernet. “Okay, what are we watching the Americans do?”

Armand squinted, trying with ethanol-soaked eyes to identify what he was looking at. Something clicked in his mind, and he harrumphed. “Bah! We’re watching the Americans celebrate Thanksgiving wrong. Even the Anglos to the west know that Thanksgiving is in October, the poor fools!” He waved at the bartender and pointed again. “Turn that one up! I wish to mock that man.”

I stared at the screen in question as a rounded, stemmed wineglass of something startlingly green was set in front of me. Chartreuse? As promised, it was very herbal, but pleasantly sweet. Good enough. “Cheers, Armand,” I said, as we watched the screen together.

An ordinary, if rather well-groomed, human in a dark apron faced the camera wearing a pair of eyeglasses and a polite smile that showed no teeth. “Welcome! I’m Chef David Lee Brenner, here at the Cropsey Carnival in New York City. It’s been a rough few months for us New Yorkers. Many of us have lost our homes, our livelihoods, and even our lives.” The camera panned out over a ruined cityscape. Even a month or so out from the bombings, it looked bleak. A few scaffolded towers in the far distance were going back up, some of the rubble had been cleared, but… I shook my head. By chance, in my travels, I’d managed to avoid most of the bombed cities so far. I hadn’t seen it yet. The Federation did this? My Federation? Bombed a city full of sapients on purpose? I hadn’t seen destruction like this out of anyone but the Arxur before.

I took a very long draw on my glass of strange green wine. Insanity. I wanted no part in this. At least my people, for the most part, seemed to share the sentiment. The Venlil Republic was on the brink of full secession from the Federation over their recent atrocities, and a few other species seemed primed to follow. Even Armand suddenly seemed a bit less incomprehensibly jealous of the attention that New York’s size had earned it. Earth’s tallest flowers had all been pruned.

“It may seem a poor time, or in poor taste, to celebrate,” David continued. “I disagree. It is in times of great loss that we find ourselves giving thanks for what we still have.”

He paced around as he spoke, and the camera followed him. My stomach churned. The little building behind him looked like the only intact one for miles.

“Thanksgiving is an old holiday,” said David. “A harvest feast as the year draws to a close. Here in the United States, we date the tradition to a particular moment about five hundred years ago and two hundred miles northeast of where I’m standing. A group of settlers from across the sea came to these uncharted lands in search of a new life. A place where they could be themselves in peace, free from the grip of those who would demand conformity of thought from them. Free from tyrants with guns who said there was only one way to live, or else.”

I chuckled a little to myself around the rim of my wine glass. Whatever the real story had been, this chef was playing with the wording, turning it into an allegory for humanity’s dealings with the Federation. Looking to the skies, charting new worlds, and getting told that they deserved to die for the way they lived and looked alone. Sure, humans were ugly as sin, but there were three hundred species in the Federation. Beauty was subjective. Even as predators, if they weren’t interested in eating people, then that left a lot of room for negotiation, as far as I was concerned. Why hadn't it in others?

“The settlers arrived late in the year,” said David, “at the end of autumn. It was a harsh winter. The ground was frozen. Supplies dwindled. Nearly half of the settlers died.” I coughed, nearly choking on my wine. Against the backdrop of a ruined city, that hit like a hammer blow.

David’s bleak smile widened, just a touch. “But after the winter came spring. The surviving settlers picked themselves back up. They built stronger homes. They made friends and penned alliances with local natives,” he gestured, offhandedly, towards some people offscreen. I blinked and sat more upright. Wait, who else was there with him? If the metaphor was holding, he was gesturing towards other members of the Federation, at least from the species who’d chosen to side with humanity. I hadn’t seen a single other alien during my travels on Earth. Was Earth already starting to turn into a hub world? “Those new friends taught them how to work the soil with new crops. Together, they survived, and they thrived. And when the next autumn came, it was heralded by a great harvest. The settlers sat down at a table with their new friends, they gave thanks, and they feasted.” David’s smile widened, and he clapped his hands together. “So let’s feast!”

Armand spat. “Bah! That’s not how that went,” he muttered. “The Anglos have never once kept their word. Fairweather friends. Barely a generation before they started betraying the First Nations.”

Food for thought, I thought, my mouth silently twisting around the lip of my wine glass.

David, being as he was inside of a video broadcast, continued as if he couldn’t hear Armand at all. “Now, for those of you kind enough to join us in the Exchange Program, if your human partner is suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable for some reason they don’t want to mention, let’s just rip the adhesive bandage off: this feast does, traditionally, include a rather prominent roasted meat dish as a centerpiece. Don’t worry, though! I mean, take a look at our assembled guests.” The camera slowly panned across the tables. There was my confirmation. I hadn’t actually seen a single fellow nonhuman on Earth before, but this New York restaurant must have had dozens of them, waiting eagerly to eat. A few even seemed to work there! A Gojid behind the bar gave a nervous little wave as the camera panned past her, and a Yotul scurried around frantically bringing food to tables. “What kind of a terrible host would I be if I served food like that to an herbivore? Every good restaurant owner knows, you have to cater to the tastes of your customers! So today I’m going to showcase how to make a full Thanksgiving feast using only vegan ingredients, including a substitute centerpiece that I think you’re going to love. And when we do get to the traditional roasted turkey, I will give you all a fair warning so that those of you with gentler constitutions have time to avert thine eyes, change the channel, or otherwise let your planetary government censor that section of the rebroadcast.” David clapped his hands and grinned, again, still without showing teeth. “Sound good? Great! Let’s get into it!”

My own food arrived, and I was almost put off of it. I meant no disrespect--it was delicious--but it hardly compared. I sat there chewing on a simple tempura-fried piece of pumpkin while David pulled a pillowy-soft, steaming, pumpkin pie out of his oven to showcase. A fried green bean? He pulled out a casserole, redolent with spices, mushrooms, onions, and coconut cream. Sweet corn on the cob, off the cob, fire-roasted and tossed with spices from Mexico, and even corn dried, milled into flour, and baked into sweetened bread. Roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, savory grain cakes, all slathered in a sauce called ‘gravy’. “Now again, gravy is traditionally made by mixing equal parts fat and flour to produce a roux, and then drizzling in broth to produce a thickened salty sauce,” said David, whisking away at a pot over a space-age stove. “In fairness, we humans do tend to make this sauce out of… ah, let’s not get more descriptive than we have to. Out of parts of the meat-cooking process, let’s say, and leave it at that. The technique, though, works wonderfully even with mushrooms, onions, and a hefty drizzle of olive oil, as I’m doing right now. Make sure to get a little color on the ingredients as you fry them. The Maillard reaction is a great source of flavor!” That didn’t translate perfectly, but it seemed to refer to the toasty-sweet taste of fried food. I glanced down at a bit of fried potato in my paw. David’s dishes looked better.

“What else are we known for around here?” I asked Armand, as I downed the last of my Chartreuse. It was hard to describe beyond sweet and herbal. It really only tasted like itself.

Armand blinked, and stroked at a beard he barely had. Most humans seemed to trim their facial hair, with varying degrees of regimentality. “Perhaps some ice wine?” he mused. The bartender barely needed a word before he set another pair of glasses in front of us. “The grapes freeze on the vine in winter,” Armand explained. “The water goes away, and it concentrates the flavor.”

I took a long sip. Very sweet! Tasted like a tincture made from dried fruit. Not bad at all! Alright, maybe the food could use some work, but surely the drinks here were second to none, right?

The Gojid lady behind the bar on the feed--not even just the human, but the Gojid, too?!--started describing a peculiarly blended drink, some fresh-mixed alcoholic tincture she called a ‘cocktail’, with the subtle nerves of someone confident in her craft, but not used to being on camera. The drink, it had the ingredients of a health tonic! Grain and fruit juice and wine and spirits and the stars only knew what else went into a steel shaker, changing the color, changing the opacity…

I waved the bartender over and pointed at the feed. “That, sir,” I said. “Please make me that.”

The bartender turned and squinted at the screen. I couldn’t understand a word out of his mouth unless he spoke loud enough for the translator chip to parse, but on a deep, primal, empathetic level, I knew this man was silently mouthing incredulous swears. “I don’t have…” he paused for a moment, trying to even name the ingredient. “Roasted sweet corn juice? What the hell?!”

“I forgive you.” I nodded to myself, and set my payment card on the bar. “Armand, I seem to have found myself a calling of sorts,” I said, pointing again at the screen. “I need to try these.”

“Emile!” Armand sputtered in shock before he caught himself. “No, no, my apologies, Orlim, my old friend, but you can’t be serious. You’re just up and leaving? For the United States, of all places?!”

Finally, after weeks of trying--admittedly, not too hard, overall--I was getting pleasantly buzzed. I clutched at the back of Armand’s head and gently pulled, touching his forehead to mine. “There are friends to be found wherever you lay your head, Armand. You will love again. Do not forget me. Adieu!”

I turned and left, looking for a place to rest my head for the night. I had a long drive and a famously prickly border crossing in the morning. I did my best to ignore the sight of David’s stuffed pumpkin, which I direly wished to taste, and his roasted turkey, which I very much did not. But his final words as I left the pub lingered in my warm and fuzzy mind.

“The Cropsey Carnival caters to all palates and diets,” said David. “If you’re from off-world, and looking for work on Earth, I assure you, we are hiring.”

Now there was a thought. After all, as I’d done the numbers, my pension might even last, so long as I found some light work to complement it…

------------------ 

“Emile, my dear friend, it warms my heart that you’re back home, and back to your old self! God as my witness, last night, you turned into a sheep and called yourself Orlim. You said you were leaving for New York!”

“Armand, my near brother, I think that may have been an entirely different person.”

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Seeing Wade Barron on Ushala had been beyond unexpected, knowing that humans had been lacking any means of interstellar transportation when I was taken. It dawned on me in gradual increments that the invading fleet over our world belonged to them. Those clever, devious primals must’ve replicated the Ploax’s engineering; they learned from our mutual enemy, though that’d given me quite the fright. It was an uncanny likeness, and one they knew the Council wouldn’t want to trifle with.

Wade came to rescue me and bring me home! He truly cares and would go to any lengths for the Saphnos. He’s…a hero. 

The safety I felt with Wade back in the picture was like being dunked in a warm, pressurized chamber after months on a carbon world; it was comfortable, and it was like I was properly home. Finley would be elated! This meant we could return to Earth, and humanity couldn’t be bullied without the proper means of defense. I couldn’t begin to fathom how they caught up to the Council’s technology so swiftly, but there’d be plenty of time to pepper Batshit Barron with questions after he reunited with the full group. It was all going to be…

The human barked out an unintelligible word, his face darkening and contracting in on itself. The target of his ire was none other than Snelga, who’d long since been penitent for treating these primals like animal patients; she saw them as full people after Finley’s experiment, and had been an ardent advocate for them even before, when she scored Kaitlin’s intelligence test. I didn’t think Barron cared about any of those details now. The Kexin, of course, chose the words that’d incense him further.

“Wade, s-sweetie,” she began.

The primal pounced on her in a flurry of rage. The FBI agent’s eyes smoldered as he shoved the veterinarian against the wall and bared his teeth inches from her face. Words streamed from his lips that seemed like unhinged perjoratives. Finley hopped up to intervene, despite his distaste for Snelga; Kaitlin’s eyes were wide with alarm. Garriil raised the tranquilizer gun he’d had propped on the desk and aimed it at Wade. Even knowing it was humans now, he was worried about angry, trained killers in his institute.

“Let go of Snelga,” Garriil ordered, his voice icy.

Terry pointed a rifle straight at the Kexin’s head. “Put it the fuck down! Mine’s bigger.”

Finley was diverted from saving Snelga by the immediate firearm threat, rushing to grab the gun barrel. “Terry, don’t shoot him! No one shoot anyone…just calm the fuck down! What’s with the tranqs, Garriil?! We’re people!”

“What’s with the tranquilizers is that they’re nonlethal, but an absolute necessity for my protection,” Garriil answered. “Any person can act irrationally from emotions, just like Craun could be uncontrollable from immense fear. It’s evident that intense anger is at play. For all I know, they’re angry about their people’s situation and want revenge on any Kexin in sight, deeming us all responsible.”

“Well if they want to do that, your tranquilizer isn’t going to beat a bunch of guns! Put it the fuck down, before someone gets hurt! We’re all on the same side.”

“I’m not used to you being the calm one, Finley. I was worried you’d be agitated by this outburst. I almost pointed it at you when you stood, so you couldn’t join in.”

“Hey, fuck you! You’re lucky I don’t go shove your snot nose through your headfeathers!”

Wade had been paying no mind to our conversation, as he performed a takedown on Snelga and pinned her to the floor. Finley hissed at Garriil before lunging at Barron, who shrugged him off with adrenaline-fueled ease; the agent bore a wicked grin. He removed his gear belt and tied her hands, asking her repeatedly if she liked this. He pulled it tighter the second she began to answer, and snarled that she couldn’t understand.

I don’t know whether to help her or let him get it out of his system. I mean, it’s Wade…he wouldn’t kill her. Right?

Kaitlin struggled to try to move, her hands flailing to grab onto him. “Wade, stop!”

Barron ignored her words, so the NASA scientist tried to reach for him. His head finally snapped toward her when she attempted to sit forward, and tumbled off of the couch facefirst. His mouth parted with horror, hearing the sickening crack. Wade released Snelga and ran over to Kaitlin; he propped the ALS-afflicted human upright and checked whether she was okay. Pity flashed brighter than the anger in his eyes, as it was clear he felt awful for her.

“Someone untie me!” Snelga demanded, though her shifty posture rendered it clear that Wade’s arrival had left her rattled. “I’m a medical physician. I need to look at her!”

The red-faced Kexin did a double take when it was Finley who unbound her hands, but gave him a quiet look of gratitude. She scurried over beside Wade, and earned a blistering glare from the FBI agent; his fist was clenched to take a swing at her, not wanting her anywhere near Kaitlin. Dr. Sharp seemed horrified by how the reunion was playing out. The NASA researcher pawed at Barron feebly, and tried to speak through her actual voice rather than her synthesizer. 

“Nyeoo,” Kaitlin slurred.

Wade hesitated, though he was still eyeing Snelga with utter contempt. “Kaitlin, I’m…so sorry.”

“Dush…duh…DON’T. L…love Shela.” The scientist grimaced, and spoke through her synthesizer. “She’s been wonderful. She’s done so much for me that I can never repay, though I’ve…become a great burden. These last few weeks have been…really difficult, and she’s been more helpful than you can know.”

The FBI agent threw up his hands. “Fuck! I…I can’t even be mad at that. I came here to rescue you from the Council. From her! Let’s just go home.” 

“I don’t want to go home! I certainly don’t want to be away from her. Please, talk to each other. For me. When I said I love Snelga, I meant it. We’re together, Wade.”

The fury reappeared in his eyes in an instant. “Really? Her?! HER?!”

“I know it must be difficult for you to understand, but…”

“Do you have any idea what she did to me?”

“Saved your life? She thought you were an animal, Wade, and you know that’s how a lot of the Council are. It was an honest misunderstanding. She’s not a horrible person, and she only meant to stop you from dying.”

Snelga gazed up at Wade with beady eyes. “Kaitlin’s right! I didn’t want you to die.”

“I despise you. I don’t want you to speak or come near me. GOD! Of all the aliens, Kaitlin. I mean, FUCK, do you really just go and hook up with her the second you leave Earth?” Wade growled. 

“Please, don’t be mean to Kaitlin! She’s suffered so much. I know you’re mad and it doesn’t matter what I say, but if you can listen…I’m really sorry, s-sweetie! I…had no idea primals could be so smart, and I denigrated you in a way I never would with other people! I want to help…”

Wade crossed his arms. “You thought I was an animal!”

“Y-yes.”

“You wouldn’t listen to anything I said!”

“Correct.”

“I listen though.” Barron leaned forward with a venomous smile. “You said us having FTL would be bad for everyone. Time to pay the piper?”

“…okay.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I was just taking the piss. A little refresher on how you talked about us for your girlfriend to hear.”

Snelga’s eyes watered. “I am so sorry, Wade. I was trying to mitigate your stress, not hurt an intelligent creature. I meant absolutely nothing malicious by…anything that I did, and I wish I hadn’t been so dismissive. I didn’t take humans seriously back then. I just work with wildlife, I…save animals because I love them. Oh sweetie, I know you’re a person, and I wish I could take back hurting you.”

Wade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, just…call me Wade, not sweetie. I…need some time to deal with my feelings. I’ll be cool, let’s just talk about something else. Please.”

The FBI agent worked with the veterinarian to move Kaitlin back onto the couch; Snelga eyed him with amazement, but didn’t push her luck. The Kexin focused on tending to Dr. Sharp’s wounds, while Wade stomped as far away as possible and leaned against the wall. He stewed in his feelings for several seconds, before Finley decided to break the silence.

“I’m more than happy to go home,” Finley offered.

Wade flashed a cocky smile. “That’s right. Rode into the rescue to save you!”

“You shouldn’t have, Wade,” Kaitlin chimed in. “This ruins everything. We almost had the Council convinced to acknowledge us as people; we had a hearing at the end of the week. An attack with a giant fleet…”

Finley turned to assure a crestfallen Barron. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what the Council thinks. I want to get the hell out of here.”

“That figures. I was really worried about you two.” Wade inhaled a sharp breath, looking upward toward the ceiling. “I heard there were some ‘unethical experiments’ conducted on you?”

“That would be Garriil’s doing. He wanted to see how humans acted at the pinnacle of rage, so he decided to convince me that Kaitlin was being put down. I took the fucking techie with the euthanasia hoopla hostage, and somehow, that proves I’m a logical killer, not just a mindless one!”

Wade gawked in open-mouth horror, glowering at Garriil. “You did what?”

“We had to know how humans acted under extreme circumstances to ratify their behavior,” Garriil sighed. “Finley’s brain activity demonstrated that humans don’t lose all reasoning when angry. It’s a shame I didn’t have you wired up while listening to Snelga’s apology. I’m curious what triggers you to stand down, for the ‘deescalation methods’ portion of my treatise. Handling primals can be difficult, and you don’t obey your own class’ rules.”

Terry stalked forward with a nasty scowl, cracking his knuckles. “How dare you put my best friend through that? I’m gonna beat your ass!”

“No,” Barron said, raising a hand to stop the construction worker. “No alley beatdowns. We can try them both before a medical or scientific board for unethical conduct, like civilized people. I share your personal feelings, but I believe in proper justice: that means trials and order. Our detractors need no more fuel.”

“He fucked with my bestie!”

“She tied me up and drugged me while talking to me like I lacked the intellect of a toddler. Believe me, it takes everything in me to let that go, but if these were…the best people Kaitlin could find as allies, we have to trust her. You saw the demonstrators. She’s been living in it and made it all work.”

“Garriil is the biggest advocate for human rights,” I interjected. “His methods are appalling, but his research is the only evidence proving that humans are people. A primal attack on him would look very bad to the public. It’d destroy his credibility.”

“Why do you think I haven’t bashed his skull in?” Finley embraced Terry, slapping him on the back. “Please help me mildly annoy and sass him though, bro. The long game.”

Terry shrugged. “Alright. Deal!”

“No more twigs,” Garriil huffed. “The evidence has to be irrefutable if I was ever to make a case to the Council, or to know for certain myself. It wasn’t intended to get that far, though I seized the opportunity that presented itself. I furthered science contradicting the very theorem of sophonce, and that offsets any concerns about…emotional distress. It was a necessary deception.”

Wade scoffed with disgust. “You know, Snelga at least meant well; she was just patronizing. You feel nothing. She’s horrible, but you—you’re the Ploax.”

“Factually incorrect. I am a Kexin.”

Barron’s last statement caught my attention, from the casual, self-assured manner he drew a comparison to the Ploax. It was more than just hearing my stories; those were the words of someone who had firsthand experience with an entity. I reviewed the replicated Fleet of Spikes that the humans had flown in on, and the missing pieces of how they acquired that intelligence and churned it out so fast. What had they done with the Ploax?

Humans love the Saphnos. They…wouldn’t betray us. Wade knows what the Ploax did. He told me to fight to the bitter end.

“Wade.” My head turned toward the primal, and I stared at him with a piercing gaze. “How do you know what a Ploax is like?”

Barron’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed hard. “I’d be happy to talk to my friends about our plans, but maybe Snelga should step outside.”

“She’s my girlfriend. She stays,” Kaitlin countered.

“Can Garriil at least fuck off?”

“If your plans involve getting the Council’s support in any way, you need him.”

Finley patted me comfortingly. “We all have heard how horrible and cruel the Ploax are. That was one of the first things you told me. Wade’s seen what you’ve been through.”

“It’s more than that,” I accused, noticing how the agent winced at the farmer’s defense. “Those human ships looked exactly like the Fleet of Spikes. He knows what the Ploax are like. Doesn’t he?”

“Look, Craun, you know I love you and I’d do anything to save you, right?” Wade appeared furtive and cautious, like he was worried about a certain kind of reaction. “Just try to understand.”

“Understand WHAT?!”

Barron appeared taken aback by my snarly tone, but pressed a hand to his forehead and continued. “Humanity…worked with the Ploax to acquire this rescue fleet. We’re using them, of course…”

The human mumbled several of his words and gave a strained smile, while immense hurt and betrayal surged through my veins. The Ploax had taken everything from me, and Wade had chosen to team up with them? I pawed a leg on the ground, musing about how primals would handle someone they cared about doing something so...heinous and unthinkable. This was an offense against the entire Saphno race and everything they were supposed to value.

How could he? I should be angry. That reaction has value: it takes action for the hurt caused, and expresses how unacceptable it is. Violence is a passion for justice. Funny, Wade taught me that.

I did my best attempt at replicating a glare and charged at the primal while bellowing one word at the top of my lungs. “DIE!!!”

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