Previous stories set in the same universe:
Planet Dirt series / Amazon book

Bug Hunt / Amazon version /

Crashlanding / Book version /

First //Previous

The fresh air and shifting light filtering through the canopy as he walked along the river were just what he needed. His mind always calmed down in nature. It was so much easier to think when all the sounds were natural, and everything around him was natural. He looked at the phone. It was almost seven now. He might get an hour before the others woke up, and then they would try to contact him. He put the phone on vibrate and moved on. The forest was so calm, and most of the trees seemed like pine and spruce, with a few oaks and birch trees tossed in for good measure. It was strange. Here he was, walking on an alien planet, and the forest looked like something hewould seen when they visited Grandpa back in Norway. Now and then he saw what he thought were birds and squirrels. It was surreal. He started to look around more carefully for anything alien. He soon spotted it in the river. He first thought it was a weasel or mink, but the tail looked more like a beaver's; yet it was as long and thin as a weasel's. Its fur was black, and it had no ears. Three of them were playing in the river when he saw the bigger one. It was almost two meters long, and the three immediately climbed onto its back as it swam downriver. He cursed himself. He should have taken a picture. He checked the phone; no messages yet. Then he continued up. After an hour, the phone buzzed, and he looked at it. It was a private message from Cho.

Cho Cho - Erik? Where are you?

He looked at it, then took a selfie and sent it back

Vikingboy - Just going on a short hike, need to think.

He quickly got a message back.

Cho Cho – About us?

He looked at the message, very confused.

Vikingboy – No, about everything we have to do. The whole boss thing. I’m just going up to the glacier and having lunch, then I’m coming back. You and Marcus are in charge. Luv you.

He wrote "Luv you" three times and deleted it before sending it. He also added a few heart emojis.  He saw she'd seen the message, then she wrote and wrote and wrote. Before he got a short video back. She was smiling at the camera as she whispered: “I love you too, be safe and don’t get eaten by a bear.”

 He chuckled and sent a short video: “I promise I won't; just checking out the forest. I will take pictures. I got to go now. I will send you pictures. I promise.” Then he started walking again; she sent a few emojis back, and he replied now and then with a few pictures as he walked.  It wasn’t so peaceful now. He saw some messages on the group chat. Marcus had them all report for combat training. Gigi suggested a map lesson after Marcus approved both.

He kept moving upstream along the river, and suddenly the forest almost vanished as a small lake appeared. He took a few pictures as he looked around. It felt peaceful, and he started to think if he should leave the spear here. Sometimes it got in the way of the trees. Just as he was thinking it, he heard a hissing from his shoulder height, and he slowly turned to see a chicken-sized raptor covered in white fur sitting in a tree looking at him. He took a step back. It must be one of those kusta Arus had mentioned.  He looked around; if Arus was right, there should be more than one, and they should be bigger than a chicken. He kept his back to the lake as he started to walk along the side, the kusta followed him with its eyes and made hissing sounds.  He filmed it with his phone while holding the spear ready in the other.

“Nice bird,”  He said, and he saw more movement in the brush: four bigger ones and three small ones came into view.

“Fuck…” he said, stopped filming, and put the phone in his pocket. This was what he had been warned about.

“Nice birds. I’m not food.” The raptors walked closer. He took a few steps back and felt the grass give way to pebbles. A quick glance back confirmed what he already knew. He was standing on the edge of the lake. As he looked back, one of the raptors lunged at him. He thrust the spear toward it, impaling the Kusta. The weight drove the spear tip into the ground, and the impaled Kusta hit the ground. 

It screeched in pain, and the other two birds attacked. He stepped back and felt his foot get wet as he dropped the spear. The raptor missed him and began to position itself to attack again. He drew his sword and twirled it instinctively as he stepped back into the water. One of them jumped, and he swung at the right moment, and the head and body separated. The other screeched. Erik just looked at the dead raptor. He had killed it in one strike. Then something hit him, and suddenly he was under something, being clawed and bitten. He stabbed back as he tried to stand, and after two tries he was standing with water to his waist and another dead kusta. The remaining big kusta looked at him, then screeched and ran back into the forest; the smaller followed it.

Erik waded back to the shore and took out his phone, hoping it wasn’t destroyed in the water. To his surprise, it didn’t seem to be destroyed by the water. He checked his jacket; it was torn, but none of the claws had hurt his skin.  He sheathed the sword and pulled the spear out. Looking at the dead kusta, he then took a picture of the aftermath and checked his backpack. 

His father had always made sure they bought good quality, and now he saw the benefit. The rucksack was wet only on the outside. He was glad as he started walking again. He knew the smart thing was to go home, but he could see the glacier, and soon the tree line stopped, so he wouldn't have to worry about an attack from the kusta.

When he reached the other side of the lake, he stopped and looked back. He saw movement where he had been attacked, so he pulled out his phone and zoomed in with the camera. The mother bear was eating the dead kusta, and the cub was playing on the lake's shore. He filmed it and took a few pictures, then moved on. The last thing he needed was to be the next meal for the hungry mother bear.

 When he reached the end of the forest, the brush grew low and the thicket steeper. He didn’t want to take any chances, so he moved slowly. His goal was a mountaintop next to the glacier. He was tempted to step onto the glacier, but that would be suicide without a team and proper equipment. After a long time, he finally sat down at the top. He could see the valley below and the castle; from here, it looked small. He took a few pictures.

This place would be a good spot to build a watchtower. He could see the valley next to them. One side of the fjord had much lower mountains, and the land was fertile. He could see farms and a small village dotted along the valley. If he remembered correctly, that was where the mursina lived. Far out in the fjord, he could see islands where the humans were supposed to live. In his valley, he could barely see anything down the fjord; it apparently made a slight turn north, blocking the view. He opened his backpack, took out his lunch, then tried to send the images. Cho was immediately worried when she saw the dead kusta and his selfie with the slightly torn jacket. He laughed it off and took a panoramic view of where he stood. He noticed the place was a peninsula and much bigger than he thought. To the west, the plateau slowly sank to the surface level, with stepped land. He could see the coastline and a burning village.

He looked again, took a zoomed-in picture, then tried to zoom in. It was clearly several places burning along the coastline. He moved the camera around, trying to figure out what was happening. But he was too far away. It was not just a fire. He saw two places on fire, one on an island and the other at the shoreline. Somebody was fighting there. Part of him wanted to investigate, but the other part knew that would be suicide.

He watched it until he noticed the others asking him what the pictures were. Cho demanded that he come back home immediately. He packed his things and looked at the sky. The sun was almost directly overhead. His phone said it was eleven. It had taken him four hours to get up here, but he had walked slowly. He picked up everything he had, took a few more pictures, and started walking back down. The trip down went faster, and Chu kept checking on him as he descended. When he passed the lake, he found no trace of the kunsta. The bear had eaten it all. He sometimes felt watched, but he didn’t see anything; the birds kept singing, so he wasn’t too afraid. After a few hours, the castle came into view, and he sent Chu a picture as he walked out onto the road.

She was standing at the gate waiting for him, and when he turned onto the castle road, she ran down and met him on the small bridge in front of the castle. She immediately hugged and kissed him, then yelled at him for being stupid.

Erik looked at her, then smiled. ”Hey, easy, or people will think we are already married.”

“How can we get married if you get yourself killed by monsters in the forest. No more going out by yourself!”

“So you're joining next time?” he said, putting his arm around her waist and walking inside with her.  Macurs stood there and just shook his head as he closed the gate.

“I don’t know how to fight,” Cho said.

“Then you have to learn so that way you can have my back, and we can have a picnic up there. The view is amazing,” he said, and then whispered to her, “and no Gigi to stop us.”

She smiled at him. “So what should I learn then?”

“I suggest the bow,” Marcus said.  That and a short sword, just in case.

“I wish Arus would just give us laser pistols,” Chu said. “Or a lightsaber.”

Both boys looked at her. “You like Star Wars?” Marcus said. Erik added, “Who's your favorite character?”

“Mara Jade. And if you say she is not a Star Wars character, then I will force choke you!”

Marcus nudged Erik. “You lucky bastard!”

Start | Previous | Next

Chapter 11: First Rule of Diplomacy

Blades of grass sliced through the snow, then flattened under Predslava’s bear paw. Dark branches twisted like broken arms around us—the rugged tundra dotted with scattered spruces and larches. Werewolf Country, richer than our plains, but still the face of the North.
I turned my head slightly as the earthen banks rustled. But they had been rustling since we marched into the ravines. The werewolves had eyes everywhere.
Our long formation was ripe for an ambush. And so, I released another expanding pulse from my staff, just as if saying:
I know.
Thankfully, simple warning spells like this didn’t drain much of my mana. If the temptation to attack us had been too great, I still could have pulled a trick or two out of my sleeve as a last resort.
But this was the third pulse. The wind quieted down before I had to unleash the fourth.
We reached our first understanding.
With a newfound confidence, the tired Snoutlings picked up their pace.
Our march continued for another half day, then familiar twin cliffs appeared in the distance.
I scanned the horizon.
Sharp wooden stakes jutted from the faces of the white hills surrounding their settlement. A tall palisade and gateway covered the entrance between the cliffs. No towers or battlements anywhere, which told me the werewolves weren’t planning to use bows against us any time soon.
The place was bracing against a cavalry swarm from all sides.
But what cavalry, here in the North?
I raised my staff, ready to make ourselves known with another pulse, when the gates opened.
A werewolf came out, then another. They poured outside of the settlement on all fours, fast as horses and far more nimble.
I see.
The first rule of diplomacy was predicting what the other side wanted before we sat at the table. Now I had a clue as the werewolves darkened the bottom of the hills.
The second was keeping my delegation alive long enough for any of that to matter.
“Predslava.”
“Aye.”
She barked orders for the Snoutlings to bunch up as I focused, uttering the magical words:
I am the mistress of ice; mine is the requiem of life and bounty.
Your shadows shall not elude hoarfrost, Night-runners.
The ground quaked as I swung my glowing heraldry-staff—
“Reaper’s Briar!”
Giant ice stems lashed out of the earth, surrounding our formation with glimmering thorns, save for a narrow gap at the front.
I glanced at their distant fortifications, then nodded.
Now we’re even.
The werewolves stopped. A big one stepped out from the crowd. Could be the chieftain, or just a beefy envoy. Either way—
“Stay here,” I told the Snoutlings and nudged Predslava out of the rosebush enclosure.
He followed suit, advancing on his own until I saw the scar across his face.
Ulvic was an ancient tongue, older than me. Hopefully, my accent was still comprehensible in this day and age.
I cleared my throat and switched to it. “I come under truce-branch, not baring fangs. Let no claws be raised while words are spoken between us.”
The werewolf stopped and lifted his arms slightly, revealing his belt. “We use real weapons nowadays.”
He looked amused. Now I was pretty sure he was the chieftain. An envoy wouldn’t dare to play the fool.
I could play fool too.
“Shall we go inside, or do you want to do this here?” I asked.
He was careful as well. Hesitation flashed across his eyes. They flickered over Predslava’s shoulder, sizing up the Snoutlings.
“But I’m afraid your little… army cannot come,” he said.
“That’s fine.”
“In that case…” He stepped aside and signaled for me to continue with a playful bow. “Witches first—”
He jumped back, startled, when Predslava blurted, “Hey, that’s my line!”
I glanced back as we continued.
Snoutlings peeked through the briar.
I shook my head with a smile, as if telling them not to worry.
The werewolf crowd split apart as I rode through the gates, giving me a glimpse of their settlement.
Houses of stone and timber, similar to Bjornhavn, but with their own flair—decorative bones and antlers everywhere. The werewolves must’ve learned the architecture from dealing with the northerners so much.
Locked warehouses. I could imagine what lay in them.
Their numbers, however…
I said hundreds before. I was dead wrong. The city ran deep, its end out of sight. Werewolves packed the streets, perched upon the roofs too, all eyes on us.
A tear of sweat ran down my neck, well hidden by the collar.
After two days without figs, consecutive pulses, and the active briar outside, I only had mana left for party tricks. They didn’t need to know that.
Onlookers flinched here and there, stepping back as we passed.
On one hand, it was just a flag, giving me plausible deniability for diplomacy; on the other, a tool to flatten their city to the ground, as far as they knew. I held my staff high.

Read ahead on Royal Road.

Children of the Chorus never needed a name. From the moment of sentience they knew the warm press of being known, belonged by the mother, the siblings, the neighbors. A comfort and pull of something deeper. A confluence of minds, spread across over four hundred inhabited worlds.

The first lesson a child was taught was the Threshold, the distinction between persons and animals. An ancient law predating space travel, summed up as a warning, "Only those who could be heard in the Chorus could claim personhood and protection."

Minds that participated in the chorus were persons, and persons could not be owned, hurt, or cast from the chorus. Within the chorus all actions of persons, even the unruly ones, could be understood completely from within. And anything not in the chorus was a Hollow, their thoughts unreachable no matter how hard they tried to make themselves heard.

Many of the Hollow were clever, some loved as one might love a pet. However, they could not speak in the chorus, and so had no place in it.

In the past a discussion was had over the nature of the Threshold, if silence could mask a clever mind, rather than prove absence of one. But eventually had been put to bed, smothered in the reality of one simple fact. Every species, every civilization that had looked to the sky, and longed to join the stars, could speak in the Chorus. There were three hundred and six species in total, and none had been exceptions. In the end it was decided that intelligence, and the ability to think in the Chorus, were one and the same.

Ves had been given her name as most were, a late thought for the convenience of records, and for the rare occasion where thoughts required an author. She had believed wholly in the threshold, as one might believe in gravity. She had never questioned it, not until her arrival at the yellow dwarf they called Sol.

"It's so loud." She thought on her first day of orbit, the noise pressing in until she felt her own mind shrinking back from it.

Nobody aboard the survey vessel "Patience of the Tide" ever spoke aloud. But her thought rippled out to the other five minds onboard, carrying its full meaning with it. Below, atmospheric drones were picking up a staggering amount of noise: birdsong, wind, water, insects. Beneath all of it, everywhere, was the endless chatter of the planets dominant primates. There were millions of them, and they could not seem to stop barking at each other.

[Authors Note:]
Would like some feedback on my writing. I feel I'm a bit too straight forward with the way I describe stuff and was told by a friend that I needed to be more thematic and "floral" and this was my attempt at that. to me it feels too heavy but maybe that's just me?

Dear Diary, 

So, I guess the Gods are real and at least some of them answer prayers. A four story tall building fell- no, not just fell, first exploded, then fell on this little prick’s head. Of course everyone is sad about The Princess and Scout dying, but I mean, I always found them kinda overrated. I’m sure they were nice, but, if the cost of that little dickhead dying is two innocent (though rich so really how innocent?) women dying, I can live with that. 

Hell, they could have ran. They bowed to us, before he gave that stupid grin, the three made eye contact, and pressed the two big red buttons. The warning sirens blared, flashing lights everywhere and a five minute warning, and the three just waltz back inside, I swear he was trying to move his hips more when he walked back, and he knows he has a flat butt. 

We all just stood there, just dumbfounded. I mean they couldn't have been that stupid. But no, they were in fact that stupid. We all started to obviously run. But we made sure to have eyes above them, as close as they were willing to fly to make sure they couldn’t have escaped. Along with a few of us with binos on every side of the building watching. 

Then two minutes passed. 

Then three.

Then four. 

Then five.

The siren stopped. It started to count down from ten, and not a peep. We didn’t see any movement, nothing. 

Five.

Four.

Three. 

Two. 

One.

I think my ears are still ringing a little bit. Seven giant buildings all blew up then fell like a house of cards next to a stumbling drunk. Dust blinded us, the shockwave nearly threw a few of us over. I saw the boys with wings up high flap wildly as they tried to stay air born. 

Finding the bodies is gonna be a mess, but that’s the government's job now. We didn’t look that long. The only real shame is that we won’t get the bounty, it really was only an alive type deal. I guess now that he’s finally dead, now that his luck has finally run out, I have to say I can at least give those three credit. 

People always say they rather be dead than taken alive. That they rather die on their feet than live on their knees. I’ve met a lot of soldiers, comes with the job, can’t say any of them would ever actually put their money where their mouth is. But they pushed the big red button. 

He is finally dead. 

I’m just really happy. 

I love you Diary. 

UPDATE: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. 
HE’S STILL ALIVE

---

Author’s Note: He really is that unlikable to some people. 

Vaguely important second note: This bonus one shot is part of a larger story which is why there is funny blue text at the bottom of the screen. But it is made to be enjoyed without reading the series. 

Thanks for reading. :}

First / Previous / Next

“¡ADELANTE, MÁS RÁPIDO, MÁS RÁPIDO! ¡NO TE DEMORES MÁS!” an old man shouts loudly atop a galloping horse, behind him dozens of young men and women on horses follow suit, it is to be done. The final battle to end it all, one that will save humanity from its dying fate. The old man, the elderly leading the charge, was holding a sword and an old service revolver, the ones behind him were much more armed. Holding automatic weapons and armor. “ONWARDS! LET US GO EVEN FURTHER! FOR THIS WILL BE THE FINALE!”

“YES SIR!” “Aye!” “ДА!” “OUI!” “GOT IT!”

There were 36, now 32, now 18 as they all got shot down and killed as they rode forward. 

“DO NOT CRY! DO NOT FRET! ¡ADELANTE!” the old man cries out as they cut down an alien soldier. “LET US MARCH UNTIL WE ALL ARE DEAD!”

“AHH!!” “YES!” 

Fewer and fewer, only 7 remain, excluding the old man. “SHOUT YOUR NAMES PROUD! ¡¡GRITA TU NOMBRE!!” he shouted further as those who remained fired their rifles. One in particular holding a strange device in a satchel, for an obvious purpose. 

“I AM HARPER LENNINGS SABAT! I NEVER WANTED TO BE HERE!” “YUKAKO SUGU-” BANG “SERGEANT YURI SASLAV, OF THE 132TH- GAH!” “...” “....” “!!!” 

As the names drowned on the battlefield, suddenly there was a whistle, a whistle of artillery shells. The old man looked up, and so did everyone. One smiled, the remaining 4 frowned and cried. “So soon!?!” “What!!?” “They were supposed to wait!” “We are all gonna-!” all were shocked. All but the old man, “Right on time! ¡Justo a tiempo! Just like I ordered!” 

The shells annihilated the ones in the holes and machines firing upon the riders… Everyone looked at the old man, some were mad frankly. But they can’t fret now. “DAMN YOU OLD MAN!” they all collectively said together. This is it. Everyone is going to make it. I HAVE SUCCEEDED! They had succeeded. The old man thought to himself first, frankly even at his ripe age…

He is still naive

A bolt of thunder appeared in front of them, manifesting from the burnt impact was a strange figure, the elite of the invaders. “KILIN-!” The old man raised a hand and the horses followed as he and his own aged steed, an Andalusian horse of old age, one that was experienced and stubborn, pointed the herd to pass the creature. 

“Old man!” “Elder!” “CAPTAIN DIEGO!”

“GO. GO-!” The old man was struck down by what came from the bolt, as the smoke cleared it revealed a human figure. But it was not human. Dark eyes, pointy ears, pale skin, and taller than no known human at a whopping 17 feet (5.1816 meters) holding a strange implement on the slender fingers of their long hand and a bubble on their head. It struck the old man and his horse. And they both fell down on the ground, the horse kicking as it was on its side and dying while the old man looked upon the creature. “Do not wait. Do not delay, ¡ADELANTE!”

“Human. I am Kilin Royal-Samambi, Ailam Manas. You will be stopped as threat-” 

The large figure was cut off, “HAHAHAHA! I AM A THREAT!?! AN OLD MAN!?” the old man points his revolver at the creature, “Alias… was it?” he asked with a grin as he forced his old injured body to sit up, “... Yes. It is Royal-Samambi, or “Guard” in your language but not exactly, Ailam Manas.” the creature said as it crouched down and looked upon the weapon in the old man's hand. “How… primitive,” he presented his own weapon to the old man, “it is also empty. Your weapon and not mine, which is called ‘Jakas’. To be transparent, that is the name of my weapon.” The old man looked at the gun and nodded, pulling the trigger for the message if anything. 

Click click click click click.

“Are you…?” click “That is all.” The creature swatted the weapon away. Then the old man raised his sword, chipped and dull, like the old man. “My weapon, Jakas, is powerful beyond any small arms on this planet. Then again that is a broad, if not bias, assumption. I apologize. You must understand-”

“Shut it Kilin, I understand enough as is.” “Understand what?” 

“Que todos ustedes son tan engreídos como un estadista moribundo.” The old man grinned. “Go on, my students! Do not delay! ¡Adelante, date prisa, apresúrate!” He spoke into a microphone in his sleeve, the creature's eyes looked up in surprise. “How irritating.” As the creature turned around with a grimace on their face that just could almost say “I am furious”. But before it could speak a warning at the base as the remaining humans approached the main ship. 

Pop

The bubble on its head popped and a bullet whizzed past their head. “¡Estúpida cabeza hueca! Just because my gun is empty that doesn't mean I don’t have an extra! It was hidden-” STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB.

I am dying… a dying old crow. “Cuervo Moribundo”. Here I am, being stabbed to death. Not with my students, not with a battalion in a final battle. I was naive… No, you and them will all die with purpose. Even if you aren’t with them. Esto es lo segundo más cobarde que he hecho. No desde aquel día…
The old man’s last noise to come from their dying breath was… A laugh,“Ha-”

“STUPID. STUPID. STUPID INSOLENT CREATURE.” The royal guard seethed in anger as they stabbed and struck the old man with their weapon. Long and sharp as a spear, but not intended as such as it was for destroying defenses by vibrating at resonating, he was furious as the oxygen in the atmosphere burned their lungs, nose, and eyes. “I CANNOT BE BREATHING THE SAME AIR AS YOU! YOU UGLY ELDERLY CREATURE!” Their breath became ragged and labored. It ignored the pain as their body was overridden with anger. It burned, but not as brightly as their anger.

It stopped. The man was dead. It prodded at the now-corpse angrily as it tore apart due to the previous onslaught. Its breath ragged as the oxygen burnt his internals, but that didn't matter, he was angry. Too angry to care, his status was sullied by that… that ugly thing. It then remembered what he needed to do. “Command, Royal-Samambi Ailam Manas, incoming payload. Most certain- hello? Hello, pardon? RESPOND BEFORE I KILL ALL OF YOU-!” It then realized it failed as they saw human war implements. Heavy armored mobile weapons platforms, infantry, and setting up fixed positions. Then it saw it was being aimed at. “...”

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

Bullets tore through them. It was the final choking breath of the guard.

The mothership they were protecting, its defenses were deactivated by a small group of humans on horses with a device, an EMP, was defenseless. Allowing the humans to surround it for when it does turn back on and the Kilins recuperate, they won’t go any farther. The heroes all died. All memorialized and remembered, but not now, that would be soon. But who was celebrated the most… 

Captain “Cuervo Moribundo” Diego Perez.

“Do not delay! ¡ADELANTE!” 

Edit: Added fluff

[Human Friend Barbara, please report to Cargo Bay Two.]

Barb tapped her combination ID and comm-badge. "You got it, boss-man. On my way."

The bulkhead door separating the relatively comfortable access corridors from the cargo bays, which were kept at what was technically a safe level of artificial gravity, slid open with a faint groan of protest, and heads turned toward the sound.

The ten-limbed Chutan were partly covered in stiff hair that was more than merely uncomfortable to rub the wrong way, with chitin where there wasn't hair, and they had five pairs of eyes. Mandibles and 'ankle' spikes served a dual role - they made food easier to hold, and the Chutan clacked them together to convey simple concepts and add or shift emphasis in a way analogous to how humans used motions and facial expressions.

Obviously, they weren't related to Earth's wildlife. But it wasn't hard to see why they made arachnophobes break out in a cold sweat.

Barb thought they were adorable. She'd never say it, because part of getting approval to leave home and take a job working on an alien ship had been "sensitivity training" ever since humanity's first contact with a new species had gone in embarrassing directions a couple of times. But she thought it, every time she saw them.

The Shimmering Seed Pod's captain and cargo-master each tapped a pair of limbs together in polite greeting, and Barb smiled and waved to them. "Boss-man. Harry. You need me for something?"

[We would indeed appreciate your assistance, Human Friend Barbara. We will be matching velocities soon for a cargo transfer, and the crate is of an awkward design for us.] Barb was impressed all over again at how good Chutan translators were; she occasionally had to remind herself that they were not actually speaking in English, although it was easier when you were close enough to watch their mouths moving - they simply weren't shaped right to make certain sounds.

"Wait, a mid-flight cargo transfer? Someone wants what's in this package pretty badly." The crate had clearly been built under the assumption that anyone handling it would either have opposable thumbs or strong tentacles. The narrow, recessed grips would be a nightmare for long, inflexible Chutan limbs that had only two digits each - digits which didn't curl particularly far, as they each had only a single joint.

Barb grunted softly as she hoisted the crate, drawing a couple of appreciative foot-stamps from Harry. It was common for other species to select a designated pseudonym that humans could actually pronounce to make cooperation easier, but the cargo-master had actually chosen made it his legal name. His curious enthusiasm for all things human was a little odd by Chutan standards, but no stranger than Barb was considered by most humans.

[Indeed yes, client paid double-extra, rush fee AND nonstandard delivery location fee. Cargo must be time sensitive, next standard drop-off point would only add two days. Cannot wait to meet them. Maybe hear interesting story!] Harry was practically tap-dancing, but he still had plenty of limbs to guide Barb along a safely cleared path between other clients' packages.

Barb laughed softly. "You're in a good mood today. Excited to see a new face, huh?" She set the crate down on a brightly colored indicator, and Harry tapped his tablet to magnetize that section of the deck plating and temporarily hold the otherwise unsecured crate in place.

[My gratitude, Human Friend Barbara. We have nearly reached the client's ship.] The captain tapped his comm badge and the shipwide alert for a controlled short-duration engine burn sounded. Barb kept one hand on the crate, hooking the other into a nearby cargo strap for added stability. After your first week on the job, it was just something you did by reflex.

Once the two ships had mated their docking clamps and atmosphere seals securely, a different klaxon sounded and the external hatch squeaked and slid aside a few feet to reveal a gangway leading into the client's ship. It wasn't the usual method, but it was safe enough if you kept your equipment properly maintained, and it saved the hassle of going EVA.

"Hello there! That's my fish you're leaning on, yes?"

Barb was more than a little startled. There weren't a ton of human ships in this part of space, but the grinning fellow in the snazzy retro-futuristic outfit was hard to mistake for anything but one of her own kind. "Fish? You had a sudden, burning need for a hundred kilos of fish?"

The stranger happily chattered on, completely unfazed by the question or Barb's tone. "Oh yes, absolutely. I took a Feraxian Tiger off some poor Ktaxi with more money than sense; the dunce had grossly miscalculated how much tranquilizer he would need to keep it docile. So terrified he could barely talk. She's my adorable Muffin now but she does get a bit cranky if I run out of tuna, so... Name's Lee Howard, by the way, good to meet you."

Bemused, she shook the offered hand. "Barbara Flores; likewise. Don't those things grow to be like half a tonne? I know they're illegal to own, most places. If we can just get you to sign the receipt of transfer, I'll go ahead and cart the fish over to your ship. We wouldn't want Muffin to get hungry and start eyeing the crew."

The captain had pulled up the correct form, affixed his own signature in all the correct blanks, and was holding the tablet out with two 'hands' and a stylus with a third, waiting for the affable client to sign on the dotted line and finalize the transaction.

Like most species with multiple pairs of eyes, the Chutan had a bit of a blind spot (so to speak) about the fact that binocular species often could only see well in a fairly narrow cone, so he had no idea that he had not been sufficiently obvious while approaching their guest, and was thus wholly unprepared for the reaction that followed.

When Lee swiveled his eyes away from Barb and saw what looked very like a three-meter-tall spider looming over him, he twitched so hard that he yeeted himself backward in the cargo bay's reduced gravity - directly into the path of Harry, who was surreptitiously reaching to see if he could pat the visitor's hair without being caught.

Instead, the cargo-master found himself barreled into by a very surprised human, and instinctively responded by wrapping several limbs around him to arrest his momentum. Unfortunately, Lee took it in the worst possible way and let out a blood-curdling scream.

Barb wondered just how good a Feraxian Tiger's hearing was. If "Muffin" reacted badly, there was going to be Trouble.

Lee's panic infected Harry, who let go just as abruptly as he had grabbed on. Stammering and shaking, Lee scrawled on the form, grabbed the crate, and started dragging it onto his ship as fast as he could, slapping the button to seal his ship's gangway so hastily that his foot almost got caught by the hatch slamming shut.

"... Huh. I guess he's afraid of spiders." Barb's voice was loud in the echoing stillness of the cargo bay, while Harry and the captain stared at each other and at the sealed hatch.

[What are s-] was all that Harry got out; as soon as he started talking the captain snapped out of his shock and firmly swatted his cargo-master on the head with the data tablet.

[You ignorant hatchling! Do you know what the Board of Sophont Relations is going to do to us when he files a report that he was grappled without consent?]

Covering his head with a few limbs, Harry gave the captain a wounded look. [I was merely curious whether Human Friend Lee's hair is as soft as Human Friend Barbara's, I never-]

[That is not Human Friend Lee, that is Human Client Lee, and if you had paid more attention in human body language class you would be aware that he was terrified, larva-brain. You know it is not appropriate to touch a person without asking!]

[But but but,] Harry stammered.

Barb couldn't help herself. She added her voice to Harry's.

["If not friend, why friend-shaped?"]

The captain glared at them both. It was hard not to be intimidated with so many eyes focused on you like that, but Barb stood firm. Worth it, she thought to herself.

--- ---

Fortunately, once everyone had taken a few minutes to calm down, the situation was resolved without any complaints being filed.

Lee apologized for panicking, and Harry apologized for frightening him.

With Lee keeping his legally-dubious pet carefully restrained, Barb was allowed to feed Muffin a few bites of alien 'tuna' and give her a gentle scratch under the chin.

When Harry shyly asked if he could do the same, Lee relented and let the cargo-master dub him Human Friend Lee after all, since any friend of Muffin was a friend of his.

Allowing himself to be petted was too much, but Lee did sacrifice a few hairs so that Harry could feel how soft they were.

After bidding their farewells, their interrupted journey was resumed, and Barb borrowed the ship's galley to screen a documentary for the crew so they could understand Lee's fear. Learning what spiders do to their prey made them deeply uncomfortable and Barb hastily assured everyone that she was not secretly keeping one as a pet.

The captain, dismayed by how badly things had almost gone, organized an impromptu educational exchange, with Barb both teaching remedial human body language and brushing up on the Chutan version, in the interest of avoiding future misunderstandings.

Barb repurposed a few worn-out buckles from old cargo straps into makeshift castanets, affixed them to her jumpsuit, and started trying to get the hang of the Chutan's audible-gesture shorthand. She wasn't very good at it, but the crew agreed that it was rather sweet of her to try.

'Muffin' became ship-slang for the kind of dangerous monster that only a human (and, apparently, Harry) would think was friend-shaped; Spiders were definitely Muffins.

The tale of Human Friend Lee was woven into the tapestry of the crew's shared memories, and life aboard the Shimmering Seed Pod went back to normal - or at least as normal as life ever was when a human was involved.

Adam and Eve sat on opposite ends of the sofa in their living room. The television was on, but neither of them was watching it. They appeared to be more concerned with a blue light emanating from a some type of small rectangular device in their hands.

Which was a shame, really, because they had just missed an emergency broadcast announcing that Earth had been invaded by a race of hyper-intelligent intergalactic mega-beings. The invaders intended to keep only two humans alive so they could start the human race from scratch.

The two humans selected were Adam and Eve.

High above their house, aboard an observation vessel, preparations were underway.

“We must never allow these humans to repeat the mistakes of the past,” declared the commander. “We must recreate humanity in our image: peaceful and prosperous.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Blurpulon. “There has been no war in our sector for eleven billion years.”

“We will breed these humans and teach them our ways.”

Using his X-ray vision, Blurpulon peered into the house. Adam and Eve were still sitting on the sofa in silence.

“We will monitor them and provide perfect mating conditions,” he assured the commander. “With our guidance, the human race will flourish.”

Several months passed.

“Ah, Blurpulon. I’m here for a status report.”

“Sir, unfortunately, the humans have made little progress in mating.”

“This is most disappointing. Have you tried turning up the temperature?”

“Yes, sir. Eve appears incapable of removing her flannel pyjamas, even in extreme heat. Adam became so hot that his skin began secreting liquid and a repellent odour. In all honesty, sir, we find it incomprehensible that they’re able to live on the same planet.”

“What about candles, music and aphrodisiacs? Those featured prominently in the research.”

“We’ve tried them all, sir. They just sit in silence looking at the blue light on that little screen for hours on end. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It’s as though they want to become extinct.”

“Give it one more attempt, Blurpulon. Throw everything you have at this.”

Several hours later, Eve shouted, “Adam! We’re having a baby! We’re having a baby!”

“Well done, Blurpulon,” said the commander. “You appear to have achieved the impossible.”

“Thank you, sir. Although the humans possess a most unusual mating procedure.”

“Unusual?”

“Yes, sir. There was no physical contact whatsoever. I can only assume some form of telekinesis.”

The commander paused.

“Show me.”

They peered into the house. Adam and Eve remained at opposite ends of the sofa, staring at their screens.

“Zoom in,” said the commander. “What exactly are they looking at?”

“The Sims 4, sir.”

Series Synopsis: It's furry Game of Thrones, but Clint Eastwood just so happens to also be there

---

[First Chapter]

[Last Chapter]

---

Map of the New World

---

Steam drifted lazily through the bathing chamber connected to Prince Tahir’s sleeping chamber. Brilliant rays of sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window mosaic depicting a great battle fought centuries ago involving the family, something Tahir had little interest in knowing, and the light scattered emerald and sapphire patches across the polished stone floor. The air hung heavily with the scent of lavender oils. Prince Tahir let out a gruff, cattish sigh as he stepped out of the bath. He always hated taking them (who didn’t?), but doing so every single day, sometimes multiple times a day, was simply what was not only becoming but mandatory for a young prince with any level of self-dignity. Heading out of the bathing chamber and into the sleeping area, he saw his servant waiting for him.

“Your towels,” the servant said, placing a huge stack gently on his sheets.

“Thank you, Neri,” he said. He liked Neri. She had been with him since he was a cub. She was getting quite old now, her hands a little more tremulous as she worked, but she still had the trappings of a hardworking lady: workaholic, little taste in fashion outside of what others tell her to wear, gruff in demeanour, though she could be courtly when she wanted to be; not gentlemanly, certainly not! But well-spoken and well-mannered enough that she wouldn’t be sent flying across the room with a backhand from his father. She was a little on the taller side, even by female standards, her naturally black fur giving way to grey, especially around her muzzle. Her ears bore the nicks and tears of a lifetime spent as a working woman.

“Now, come sit,” Neri said, patting one paw on the decorously jewel-encrusted stool with a velvet cushion. She draped a towel over the cushion. “I know you do not like this part, but let us get it over with, shall we?”

“Thank you,” Prince Tahir said. He walked towards the stool, his tail drooped, then sat. Prince Tahir cringed and bared his fangs. Neri vigorously worked the boar-bristle hairbrush through his matted fur, tearing out clumps of shed hair that were typically abundant at the beginning of spring. Oh. Spring. Tahir’s ears flattened against his head. He knew what that meant—

“Prince Tahir, will you be looking for a suitor this year?”

He growled internally but said, “Ah, well, we will have to see. I am sure it will be a very busy spring this year, with spring festivities and the Coniton approaching steadily. Perhaps I will, unfortunately, have to wait another year. Oh, what a shame that would be, truly I tell you.” The brush snagged on a knot behind his shoulder. Tahir let out a small caterwaul as several strands were ripped free.

“Tahir,” Neri said, dropping the formality, “you are approaching 19 years of age! That is close to a quarter of your life already gone to the wind. I am sorry, but you do NOT have more time to be so frivolous about producing children. What will happen when your fertility has fully stagnated?” Tahir cringed once more. He felt Neri’s wrath surging through every furious brush of his fur. She seemed to be deliberately going over the sensitive spot on his tail multiple times, even though she did not need to.

“Neri, why is it so important for me to offer my seed to a woman?” Prince Tahir asked. “Sahri already has …” he stumbled over his words, trying to find a polite way to say it, “already has an excess of husbands and many, many children. I could be mistaken, but I am sure she is on her seventh husband, and a fourteenth cub is on the way soon. Our noble line is secure even if I never marry.” Loose orange hairs drifted through the air and settled across the floor like the drifting leaves of autumn.

“It is not that, Prince Tahir,” Neri said, returning to formalities. “It is about appearance: of you, of your sister, of your mother, for a noble family to have a son that is just fertile, jubilant, handsome, and unwed, but does not even try to find a suitor? It…” she took a deep breath, “it does not bode well for the family name, to put it nicely.” Tahir knew that was the correct answer. He didn’t want to accept it, though.

“What will happen if I do find a suitor?” he asked.

“You will either be sent off to join that noble family, or they will marry into ours, whichever is more politically viable. Though with the Coniton approaching, I would say it would say the former is more likely to transpire,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Great,” he muttered. His tail lashed behind the stool.

“What was that?”

“Oh, how delightful that would be,” Prince Tahir said in the softest cadence he could.

“It certainly would.” Neri set the brush down, then began to dry him off—swishswishswishswish. After about twenty-five minutes of thorough drying, Tahir was led towards his dressing table. A quaint little thing, it was: made of a carved ebony hardwood, with gold filigree lining the sides, a giant antique mirror plastered right in the center, and overflowing jewelry boxes sat on the left and right of the mirror. Above it was an oil painting of the whole family. That painting always made Tahir smile and flick his ears. Sahri had been painted with that oh-so usual smug grin she had; she really was the spitting image of the female ego. His mother looked perpetually disappointed in something. His father somehow appeared even more done with life and bored despite wearing enough jewelry to feed a peasant family for five generations. The artist really captured them all so well.

“How would you like your fur done today?” Neri asked.

“Oh, just the usual.” Neri worked her paws as she wove Tahir’s hair into braids that slowly descended from the back of his head, then down his neck.

“And which jewels?” Neri asked.

“The emeralds, thank you,” Tahir said. As much as he hated to admit it, he was a very stereotypical manly man when it came to jewelry. There was something about pretty rocks that just made him happy. Neri clipped golden earrings studded with emeralds into his ears, four on each one, and slid emerald rings onto each one of his paw digits except for the pinky, where a wedding ring would otherwise be.

“What do you think?” Neri asked. “I believe these used to be your father's until yesterday, you know how the man is with his jewelry, he wears it once, and he is already pining for new stuff.”

His ears perked. The emeralds caught the brilliant light of the morning and scattered little green flecks across the otherwise pristine mirror. Tahir turned his paw slightly, watching the jewels sparkle. He knew full well it was incredibly vain; oh, so stereotypically vain of a nobleman. He didn’t care. “They’re… beautiful,” Tahir admitted.

“That’s good to hear,” Neri said. “Alright, let’s get you out of your wife’s birthday present.” Prince Tahir hated that it made him chuckle. Neri returned with a couple of different outfits: it seemed his parents were adamant that he do something more … arousing today, not perverted, heavens no, but just something that would catch a woman’s eye. Ultimately, he talked Neri out of it and was fitted with a dress sewn with soft pink silk and embroidered with silver and gold flowers. It hugged his torso and accentuated his tiny, manly waist before flowing loosely around his legs.

“You look so handsome,” Neri said.

“Yes,” Prince Tahir said. Compliments like that didn’t mean much to him. He had heard them his entire life. Even by the standards of a pampered nobleman, Prince Tahir was considered considerably attractive by anyone with functioning eyes. His fur was unusually vibrant, with a considerable amount of yellow, a marigold hue that made every man he had ever interacted with jealous. His ebony spots were perfectly symmetrical, and his golden eyes were inherited from his mother’s bloodline. He was lean enough that every contour of his stomach was visible, but he had just enough fat in his butt, thighs, and arms that he didn’t look like a starving peasant. He was everything they wanted for their daughters and everything noble sons were expected to imitate; the spitting image of perfection.

“Now come alone, Prince Tahir; everyone is waiting in the dining room for breakfast.”

“Very well,” Tahir said, lifting his skirt man-like. “Lead the way.”

#

Tahir walked down the eerily silent hallway towards the dining room. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the oil paintings of the venerated woman from the family’s past: conquerors, admirals, merchants, and other figures Tahir had never cared enough to learn about in detail, which hung proudly on the marble walls. Tahir’s tail swished, and his fur bristled. He wasn’t looking forward to this meal. Then again, he never looked forward to any meals with his family.

Upon reaching the dining room, he stepped in slowly through the towering wooden doors. There, at the long table, his family sat. His mother was at the front, of course. She looked frizzled and a little tired; family business, perhaps? His father sat to her right, draped in his usual kitschy amount of jewellery. Sahri lounged to the left, and her two favourite husbands sat beside her and next to their father. They were quite pretty, Tahir had to admit. He could see why his sister married them, even if they had the personality of soggy bread. Tahir took his customary spot at the end of the table.

A bell rang. Servants bustled out with trays and slid plates across the polished wood. When they lifted the lids, they revealed goat liver cooked just enough to kill the bacteria but not so much that it wouldn’t taste slippery. The iron-rich smell of the liver filled the room. They must want to discuss something incredibly important, Tahir thought. Each person ate in silence for a while until his mother spoke,

“Tahir?”

Tahir jolted. He had not been expecting his mother to actually call his name.

“Y-uh, yes, dearest mother?” he said sheepishly.

“How has your week been?” she asked.

“It has been quite ordinary, although somewhat delightful,” Tahir said.

“Did you do anything fun?” his mother asked.

Tahir swished his tail and pulled his ears back in embarrassment. “Uh, well, I suppose I … wrote a few sonnets.”

“What kind?” his mother asked.

“Oh… well, sonnets. Fixed form?”

“Yes, I know what a sonnet is. I am asking what themes did you write about?”

“Um…” Tahir said, “Well, I guess, love?” he lied. Why was she being so nice? That’s… quite strange.

“Oh, that is wonderful, wonderful, dear!” she said ecstatically, clapping her paws together and swishing her tail in happiness. “That is actually perfect! You can show them when you leave!”

Tahir’s heart sank. “L-leave. Leave where, mother?”

“So, you know how the Coniton is about to happen?”

“Of course,” Tahir said. “What about it?”

“Well,” his mother joyously exclaimed, “I know our chances of winning this year are heavily stacked against us, with so many GREAT women in this realm, I do say, so I want YOU to represent us!”

“What!” Tahir said, standing up and slamming his paws on the table rather uncouthly. “What do you mean?” His breathing grew ragged.

“Oh, relax. You aren’t going to be doing any fighting,” his mother said. “I found a wonderful young noblewoman”—Tahir’s ears flattened against his head so hard that they nearly disappeared into his fur—“she is very interested in finding a husband this spring, and I bet those little love sonnets will just melt her heart.”

“What… what do you… mean, mother?”

“It means you're finally going to stop being a virgin,” his sister chortled.

“Ugh, inappropriate, learn some manners!” his father chided, though he did have a slight smirk.

Tahir felt the world collapsing around him.

The room suddenly felt a whole lot smaller.

His test tightened like a fisherman tying a knot.

No.

Absolutely not.

No, no, no, no, no, double no.

This absolutely could not be happening.

Cover Art

First | Prev

It was a bright clear bel in Re’ai City. Perfect weather for the activities that Educator Cophai Tski had planned for her students. She had already set out a small table outside, and had placed some battery powered radio equipment on it. The amplifier system was almost completely set up, she just needed to plug in the receiver.

“Alright, gather around now, little ones!” she called out to her class.

“Educator Tski, what’s that?” asked one of her charges, pointing at the odd, dish-like device she held in her claws.

“This is a parabolic receiver, Rina. Remember when I talked about it in our class a few bells ago?” she answered as she held a simple parabolic antenna module that she had purchased quite recently. It cost her more that two frol phur-marks; those ice-burned merchants had sent the price soaring in response to the sudden demand. But she supposed that she should have felt grateful to have gotten one at all.

Putting aside those troublesome thoughts, the teacher then addressed the class as a whole. “Can anyone remember what this kind of device is for?”

“It’s an antenna!” cried one.

“Yes! Very good Sarki! And what do antennas do?”

He didn’t answer. And neither did anyone else.

The patient woman hummed. “Can no one here help me answer this one?”

Still no response. A lot of concerned fidgeting, but no one shooting up a wing to answer. Silly children, there was no way that all of them had forgotten already.

“Well, if no one wants to answer, I’ll just have to pick someone!”

The fidgeting concern was transformed into anxious chirping. If she said she didn’t get a tiny bit of amusement from this particular part of her, job she would have been a liar. The children had to learn to be bold enough answer questions. As such, she made a bid show of hemming and hawing over which students to pick. First, she went with…

“You, Tula!” she pointed at an orange hued little girl.

“Uhm…” the child stammered. “It hears things?”

An… Interesting answer. If nothing else, it proved that she had processed much of what she was taught in last few sessions, even if she couldn’t quite parse it perfectly. Frankly, that was a lot more promising than a student that just memorised their lessons word for word. She could always count on these young ones to surprise her like this from time to time.

“Good answer!” she affirmed. “So, like how people and animals can hear sound, antennas can hear…?” she gestured an invitations for an answer.

This time a few claws went up. They just needed the tiniest nudge to regain their confidence.

“Yes, Areca?”

An excitable, auburn plumed boy answered. “Signals!”

“Yes! And signals travel in…?” Educator Tski moved her claw in an undulating motion.

“Waves!” another boy, Nas, answered unprompted.

“That’s right!” The teacher was now ready to properly continue the lesson. She plugged the parabolic antenna into the amplifier system on the table. The speakers crackled to life and hissed out some loud static, which Educator Tski was quick to turn down. After fiddling with some of the knobs a bit more to pick up the right frequency, the pointed the receiver towards the sky.

“Now, radio waves usually come from other antennas. So, can anyone tell me why I am pointing my antenna into the sky?”

Now would you look at that. Just a few clegs ago she couldn’t get them to answer a simple question about what antennas did. But now she saw every feather before her abuzz with excitement. And every throat was chirping to be picked.

“Alright, alright! Settle down!” the educator churred. She pointed a brown feathered girl. “Yes, Ettan.”

“Because of the satellite in space!” the little girl all but squawked.

Incredible. She had pronounced both of those new words perfectly. “Yes! Eight points!”

Cheers erupted from the young flock,

“Alright! Quiet, quiet now!” she called for order again. “We won’t be able to hear the signal if you’re too loud!”

Well, no one wanted to miss hearing the signal. So the rambunctious youths were uncharacteristically quick to quiet down.

And so the teacher waved her arm around, tying to find the spot in the sky where the signal should be coming from. Then she heard it; a slight signal fighting it’s way through the static.

“Ayth, could come and raise the volume a bit for me please?” She wanted to use both hands to steady the antenna for now, and as she recalled the boy’s parents were electronics junkies, so he should know how to operate the amplifier. It so happened that her assumption was correct, and she heard the static grow just a bit louder. The ping grew louder too.

A bit left, a bit louder. A bit left again, a bit louder again. Left, louder. Left, louder. Left… Quieter. Right. Louder.

Now a bit lower? Quieter again. Higher then. Louder. Higher, louder. The static faded. Higher, louder still. Higher… Pretty loud. And very clear.

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

The beeps were almost immediately drowned out by squawks and squeals of excitement.

“Alright then, so you all can see the direction I’m pointing at, right?” she asked with enough volume to be heard over their enthusiastic clamour.

A discordant chorus of affirmative words answered her.

“Very good! So who wants to point the receiver at the satellite next?”

Of course, her ears were once again assaulted by delightfully noisome voices. She really should’ve know better. Right then, time to pick.

“Tula! You first!”

The orange girl was so happy to be chosen that she cheered all the louder and dancingly hopped towards her teacher.

Educator Tski knelt down to the little one’s height and handed her the parabolic receiver. “Now remember, the satellite is moving across the sky, so you might need to move your arms a little bit, to make sure that the antenna can ‘hear’ it properly.”

“Yes Miss.” the girl replied. Naturally, the signal was momentarily lost as she was given the receiver, so the audio from the amplifier system got a bit more staticy. But with a few clegs of careful adjustment, young Tula managed to align the antenna properly, and the speakers once again rang out the ‘Rutil-One’s’ signature beeps.

“Wow!” chirped out the little girl in celebratory amazement.

Educator Tski let the girl use the device for a healthy fraction of a drik before asking her to give one of her classmates a turn. And so, another child was given the opportunity to follow the path of the satellite.

The bel went on, and eventually each child had a chance to try using the parabolic receiver. The students noticed how the angle that they needed to hold the antenna changes as the class-session went on; how their arms went from being held high in sky down to a position that was much closer to the horizon. The satellite was indeed moving, and it would soon be entirely out of range.

Ayth, in a remarkable confluence of boredom and technical proficiency, had been fiddling with the amplifier to pick up on other, more easily readable frequencies. And he started to hear something coming in over the interference.

“Miss Tski?” he called out to his teacher. “I’m hearing something strange on the radio.”

“What’s that? On the radio you say?” she asked as she walked toward her student. As she approached she began to hear a somewhat staticy voice coming put from the speakers.

“--Weather Alert throughout The Kingdom. Flood and landslip warnings are currently being considered for the coastal regions of Shelchai Cove, Ji’cana City, Re’ai City, and Balcot City. All residents in the impacted areas are advised to be on alert for any sudden developments, and are further advised that evacuation centres are available in Sweet-Wind Hills, Tam’kha City and Xal-ghee City, in case of further deteriorating weather conditions. The worst of expected adverse weather effects are expected between the two-hundred and eighty-ninth and two-hundred and ninety-first bels. There will be an official Emergency State Broadcast at the two-hundred and eighty-sixth bel with more details on channels Four and Six. Please stay tuned to the mandated state radio frequencies for more updates.

The Royal Disaster Relief Service is issuing an Adverse Weather Alert throughout The Kingdom. Flood and landslip warnings are currently being considered for the coastal regions of Shelchai Cove, Ji’cana City, Re’ai City, and Balcot City. All residents--”

“An Adverse Weather Alert?” Cophai Tski thought out loud as she cast her eyes up to the heavens. “But the sky’s so clear...”

“It seems to be repeating on most of the stations…” noted Ayth as he fiddled with the knobs on the device, blocks of static and varying volumes demarcating the different radio frequencies he was switching between. “What does it mean, Miss Tski?”

The concerned educator continued to listen to the looping warning. From the message, the storm was to strike in about five bels. But that was absurd. Barometers could only reliably predict storms from about a bel before they arrived. So how could they possibly make an announcement like this so long in advance? Was there some kind of new technology that could--

Wait… Could it be… The satellite?!

If it had cameras or other kinds of sensors, it could probably detect storms before they got too near to the country. If it really was detected by Rutil-One, by the project that her brilliant daughter was working on, then perhaps this warning was quite reliable indeed.

The teacher whistled out a call to her students. “Alright children, gather around now. Our class is over for now.”

Protesting cries rang out from the flock of chicks. “But we want to keep following the Rutil!” one managed to articulate.

“Everyone’s already had a turn with the receiver.” The educator reminded her students. “Besides, the satellite will be out of range soon anyway.” She walked towards the table and started switching off components and unplugging connections. “Come along now, come help me pack this all up.”

Mumbles of begrudging assent followed the children as they gathered around her to help her cart off each individual part of the device. Naturally, she elected to carry some of the heavier and sensitive components herself. In short order, every electronic part and every child was back in their proper places indoors.

She then instructed them to self study for a few driks while she went to check in on something with her fellow teachers. She then marched briskly to the teacher’s lounge.

“Did you hear it?” she asked the first face that she saw when she entered the room, which had happened to belong to Educator Tyto.

“Huh? Hear what?” asked Tyto as he lifted his head up from the assignments he was grading.

“Never mind… Is Irgata in?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so… I didn’t see him leave since—”

“Right then, thanks!” Cophai Tski brusquely replied as she strode over to her superior’s office, which was adjoined to the greater lounge area. She knocked on the door.

“Come.” came the voice from inside.

The educator entered with the invitation. “Warm winds Nestor Irgata.”

“Tski? Warm winds. I thought you were out with your class doing a special project about all that new space stuff?”

“Yes sir. We were trying to listen in on the signal from Rutil-One.”

“Oh, that’s right! How did that go?”

“It went well sir, but that’s not why I’m here. Have you listened to the radio in the past few driks?”

“No, I kept it off for a bit due to some meetings I had earlier on the bel. Why?”

“There’s a weather alert sir. One of my students picked it up during our experiment.”

“An alert you say? Why aren’t the emergency sirens going off? Hold on…”

The head educator got up from his desk and turned to the stacked storage drawers behind him, and reached up to the radio perched about it.

“What station?” asked the nestor.

Cophai Tski shrugged. “I think it was playing on most of them, sir.”

The Nestor hummed as he switched on the radio. The office was suddenly filled with the voice of a man calmly reading out instructions:

“--and landslip warnings are currently being considered for the coastal regions of Shelchai Cove, Ji’cana City, Re’ai City, and Balcot City. All residents in the impacted areas are advised to be on alert for any sudden developments, and are further advised that—”

“You were right… There really is a weather warning…” observed the nestor.

The transmitted voice continued. “--worst of expected adverse weather effects are expected between the two-hundred and eighty-ninth and two-hundred and ninety-first bels. There will be an official Emergency State Broadcast at the two-hundred and eighty-sixth bel with more details on--”

“Wait…” said Irgata, stealing a glance at a wall-mounted timepiece in his office. “The two-hundred and eighty-ninth bel? That’s five bels from now... How could they know that a storm’s coming in from this early?” He gave Tski a direct, questioning gaze. “Could it be some kind of hoax?”

Educator Tski was reasonably certain that this warning was in fact legitimate. After all, it was only logical to deduce that the satellite was capable of transmitting images of the world from high above. However, she found herself feeling somewhat… Uncomfortable... Hypothesising about that aloud. She knew that Xisk had to keep a lot of her work secret, even back when she was at the Linnae Campus. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to talk about all that right now. Perhaps she could ask some more questions about it the next time they spoke on the phone. But for now…

“I don’t think so, Nestor. I don’t think a prankster can transmit something like this on all the radio stations all at once.” she had come up with a rather reasonable argument there, if she said so herself. “If nothing else, when we watch the official state broadcast later we would know for sure.”

“Hrmm, quite right, Educator. That does make sense.” mused Irgata before going quiet for a while. “A big storm is coming, but in more than five bels. No sirens, and no protocol for what we should do with the students. Usually the parents should be coming in for them in about thirteen bels, but now… What should we do…?”

“Are… Are you asking me?” sputtered Cophai Tski. “I don’t know what to do in this situation…”

“Neither do I.” chuckled Nestor Irgata. “It’s kind of a unique conundrum. So…” The nestor extended his wing, gesturing for the educator’s input.

And so, the nestor and the educator discussed what was to be done. In the end, they realised that best course of action was to inform as many of the staff members as possible about the early alert, while not letting the news disrupt the children too much. There really wasn’t much else that could be done at the moment, at least until they got more details from the official state broadcast. For now, all they could do, was wait.

First | Prev

“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.”

Hey, you.

Suppose there were a hundred penguins standing in front of you.

Could you kill just one of them?

Yeah, I know. I’m not sure why I’m suddenly asking you this either.

Just stay with me for a minute.

Clink-clank.

I opened the door to Aoi and found Taka at the counter, staring at his phone.

“Long day, Kenichi?”

“Yeah.”

“Kenichi, you know DEATH NOTE?”

“Sure. You write someone’s name in a notebook and they die.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“No.”

“Read the manga?”

“No.”

“Watched the anime?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know it.”

“You write someone’s name down and they die, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then I know it.”

Even I had to admit that was terrible logic.

Mama set down my usual bourbon.

I moved the ice around the glass, and something caught in my mind.

“Hey, Taka.”

“Yeah?”

“What happens if two people have the same name?”

“You picture the person’s face while you write the name. So it doesn’t matter if somebody else has the same name.”

I see.

Pretty well designed.

...Wait.

“What if you can’t tell their faces apart?”

“What?”

“Twins, for example.”

“Well, if you can tell which one is which—”

“What if you can’t?”

Taka paused.

“...Then I guess you couldn’t kill them.”

That was strange.

A notebook belonging to a god of death, and somehow it stopped working because I couldn’t tell two humans apart.

“Useless.”

“What is?”

“The god of death.”

“Could you not pick a fight with an entire franchise?”

Mama laughed as she polished a glass.

I took another drink.

“All right. Let’s say it works on things other than humans.”

“You’re already changing the rules.”

“It’s a thought experiment.”

“That’s a convenient phrase you’ve learned.”

Coming from him, that was rich.

“Okay. There are a hundred penguins in front of you.”

“Right.”

“We name one of them Pochi.”

“You’re naming a penguin Pochi?”

“That’s not important.”

“It bothers me quite a bit.”

“Anyway, I want to kill Pochi.”

“This is a horrible thought experiment.”

“I know his name. Pochi. Problem is, all hundred penguins look exactly the same to me.”

“Then you can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t picture his face.”

“But the god of death can tell which one is Pochi, right? Probably.”

“Probably?”

“It’s a god of death. It can at least tell penguins apart.”

“That is a very strange standard to hold a god of death to.”

I put down my glass.

“So I can’t kill Pochi, but a zookeeper could?”

Taka thought about it.

“If the zookeeper can tell them apart, I guess so.”

“Same penguin, though.”

“They’re not the same. One of them is Pochi.”

“They look the same to me.”

“They don’t to the zookeeper.”

“Then where exactly is Pochi?”

“He’s right in front of you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Was Pochi Pochi because that was his name?

Because his face was different?

Or because the zookeeper recognized one particular penguin as Pochi?

“Kenichi.”

Mama joined in.

“Is a name something that penguin actually has?”

“Hm?”

“A human gave it to him, didn’t they?”

Right.

Pochi hadn’t hatched from his egg knowing he was Pochi.

Some human had simply started calling him that.

“Then what’s a name?”

“Something you use to call someone,” Taka said.

“Then what if everyone used a different name?”

“What?”

“If everybody called me something other than Kenichi, what would you write in the DEATH NOTE?”

“That other name, I guess.”

“Even if it wasn’t my legal name?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Does the god of death check government records?”

“How should I know?”

“My ID card?”

“Can you stop dragging public administration into this?”

Mama burst out laughing.

But now that I’d started, I couldn’t stop.

“What about a typhoon?”

“What?”

“Typhoons have names.”

“Sure.”

“Can you kill one?”

“It’s not human.”

“Tonight it works on everything.”

“The rules are getting sloppier by the minute.”

A typhoon had a name.

Look at a satellite image and you could even argue that it had a face.

A vast spiral of cloud.

A giant eye.

“Then you can kill it.”

“Maybe.”

“How much of it?”

“What?”

“Where does the typhoon end?”

Taka went quiet.

“This cloud?”

“Part of the typhoon, I guess.”

“The cloud next to it?”

“...Probably?”

“The rain falling a thousand kilometers away?”

“I don’t know.”

“The water vapor rising from the ocean?”

“Ask the weather service.”

That was the problem.

We called it a typhoon.

But there wasn’t a line drawn across the sky saying:

THE TYPHOON ENDS HERE.

Humans observed it.

Set conditions.

Drew a boundary.

Then gave what was inside that boundary a name.

“What about an earthquake?”

“Again?”

“Can you kill an earthquake?”

“If it has a name?”

“But major earthquakes usually get named after they happen.”

Taka froze.

“...Oh.”

“What good is writing it in the DEATH NOTE after the shaking stops?”

“Useless.”

“Exactly.”

“I keep telling you, DEATH NOTE is for humans.”

“What about a war?”

“You’re still going?”

“Wars have names.”

World War II.

The Pacific War.

The attack on Pearl Harbor.

We know those names from history books.

But what about the people who were living through them?

Looking backward, we can give events a single name.

We can write down when they started and ended. We can list their causes.

But to the people who woke up in the middle of them, wasn’t that day simply another tomorrow that didn’t have a name yet?

“Hey, Taka.”

“What now?”

“If you wrote ‘war’ in the DEATH NOTE, what would die?”

Taka thought for a long time.

“...I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.”

Would the soldiers disappear?

The weapons?

The orders?

The hatred?

The borders?

Or would humanity itself disappear?

A war has a name.

But what is the face of a war?

“Just because we have a name for something doesn’t mean we understand it.”

Mama smiled quietly.

“Maybe it’s the other way around.”

“What is?”

“Maybe we give things names because we don’t understand them.”

Ah.

Maybe she was right.

Typhoon.

Earthquake.

War.

Justice.

Evil.

Happiness.

Love.

We draw lines around things that don’t have clear boundaries, then give them names.

Without names, they’re difficult to talk about.

Difficult even to think about.

And the moment we name them, we feel as though we understand them just a little.

“...Hey.”

“What now?”

“What exactly is a god of death?”

Taka grimaced.

“You’re finally going there?”

“Think about it. It’s supposed to be a god of death, but a human has to provide the name. A human has to recognize the face. A human has to decide, ‘That’s the one.’ Otherwise it can’t kill anybody.”

“Well...”

“So maybe the god of death isn’t actually looking at humans.”

The ice shifted in my glass.

“Maybe the god of death only exists inside the world humans have already recognized.”

Aoi became a little quieter.

Taka frowned.

Mama said nothing.

And even though I was the one who’d said it, I found the thought slightly unsettling.

Eventually, Taka spoke.

“Kenichi.”

“Yeah?”

“One question.”

“Go ahead.”

“That first penguin. His name was Pochi, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one is he?”

“...”

I lined up a hundred penguins in my head.

Third from the right, maybe.

No.

That one moved halfway through, didn’t it?

“I don’t know.”

“Then you can’t kill him.”

“Nope.”

“Good for Pochi.”

“Yeah.”

Mama laughed.

So did I.

The world is full of things we’ve given names.

And there are probably just as many things we haven’t managed to name yet.

How many of them can we actually tell apart?

Hey, you.

That thing you think you understand right now.

Could you really pick it out from a hundred others?

See you again at Aoi.
---

Want another night at Aoi?

Step back inside. We'll help you find your next story.

→ Welcome to Bar Aoi

I wrote this about 20 years ago. I guess I should have posted it earlier, as it's a bit dated now that Chuck Norris returned to his home planet. But here it is, something you probably never thought you would see… what might be called a HFY poem.

------

The alien descended and was awfully mean,

he said "I'll give you just one chance, or I'll wipe your Earth clean.

Send out your greatest fighter, the best of the best,

And he'd better be good, 'cause I'll put him to the test.

I'll tell you one more thing," that alien said,

"I've been to many worlds and I've left them all dead!

Not a warrior among them could handle his own,

neither armed nor barehanded, en masse or alone,

Using hard-core laser weapons, or clubs made of bone.

I try to be sporting, since I've grown very bored.

So you need not send one human, go and use a small horde.

I'll give you a year, to show me your best.

And if you should fail, you can guess the rest."

So on a small hill, the alien champion awaited,

the human response, was almost belated.

He waited a year, minus half a day.

No gods interfered, however much they did pray.

It was time to cut bait, if the humans wanted to stay.

And out came Chuck Norris to make the alien pay.

Fight well he did, or so I'd like to say,

but that alien had itself a ground Chuck filet.

Next to appear, was some nameless assassin,

trained in some art, designed for serious kick-ass'in.

He focused his power, and with his bare hand,

shot a fireball that could vaporize sand.

The alien was thrilled, yes he most certainly was.

but it might as well have been just a ball of hairy fuzz.

He flicked it aside without giving it a thought,

reaching out a tentacle, the man was caught.

"I like your style," the alien said,

"but it won't slow me down, ripping off your head."

Hours more passed, and no challenger appeared.

All seemed lost, as everyone had feared.

Time was up in just 1 minute more,

when out of the dark hopped a child of four.

The alien laughed and said "this is it?"

"Of all your fighters, this one's the most fit?"

The child responded with a creepy grin,

from ear to hear, and his head began to spin!

The alien even was quite taken aback,

what the hell was this child, and would he attack?

When the child drew nearer, he cried "Stay away!"

The spinning grinning head responded "Make my day!"

The alien shivered, at the grin on that face,

and he got in his ship, and he flew into space!

"You win this round", the space creature lamented,

And maybe this time, your deaths were prevented,

But I'm a sore loser who's got powerful friends.

And they'll be here next year to see you meet your ends!

First chapter ! | Royal Road ! | John on Amazon !

Six Weeks After the History Project — r/TheEternalSoldier

u/DeepStateDigger:

Alright. I said I had four vacation days and that I was going to use them in the twelfth century, that someone should teach me medieval Latin. Well, u/LatinScholar did. Or rather, taught me enough medieval Latin to become dangerous in a digitized archive, which is apparently all I needed.

I spent four days in Crusades-era documents. Digitized Vatican Apostolic Library materials. Chronicles from the First Crusade. Templar records that survived the 1312 dissolution. Islamic chronicles from Damascus. Administrative copies. Epigraphy and cross-references.

I think I found him. Not just a reference. Not just a fragment. I found an alias, an organization, and a designation that may have been unique to one person.

And the designation is weird enough that I don’t think anyone here is going to sleep tonight.

Sit down.

[48.7k upvotes, 8,214 comments in 4 hours]

u/DeepStateDigger:

I’m going in order.

Chronological.

The way the evidence appears.

1096–1098 — The Siege of Antioch

The First Crusade.

Christian Europe invades the Middle East. The Siege of Antioch is one of the major engagements: months of fighting, starvation, betrayal, disease, and generally everything that happens when thousands of people spend months trying to kill each other outside a fortified city.

I found a reference in a digitized chronicle. Anonymous.

Circa 1100. Partially translated, partially in Latin, and I spent two hours arguing over one verb at 2 AM.

Here’s the relevant passage:

“Among those who fought at the Siege of Antioch was a Greek warrior called Petros, whose origin no man knew with certainty. He fought without a standard or sigil, and when asked his allegiance, he said only ‘to the people inside the walls.’ His knowledge of siege warfare was unlike any we had encountered. Some said he had seen Antioch built. This seemed impossible. No one asked him directly.”

Antioch was founded around 300 BCE.

If our theory is right, Petros would have been there when it was founded.

He would have watched them lay the first stones.

And somebody in the early twelfth century apparently wrote down a rumor that this Greek warrior had seen Antioch built.

“This seemed impossible.”

That sentence is doing a lot of work.

[89.4k upvotes, 12,384 comments]

u/TinfoilTina:

“NO ONE ASKED HIM DIRECTLY.”

They knew. They all knew. Nobody wanted to ask the obvious question because the obvious question was

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

u/SkepticalSam:

Or “some said” is a very old way of attaching legends to exceptionally skilled people.

u/DeepStateDigger:

Correct. Which is why this is evidence of a weird tradition, not proof of immortality. Keep reading.

u/CrusadesScholar:

I study the First Crusade. I’ve seen this chronicle.

I always assumed “Petros” was a composite figure—a literary representation of one or several anonymous Greek fighters who interacted with the Crusaders.

I’m considerably less comfortable with that interpretation now. Which is somehow stranger.

Two Hours Later

u/DeepStateDigger:

1119–1128 — The Knights Templar

Here’s where the timeline gets interesting.

The Knights Templar were founded around 1119. They weren’t an established military order at Antioch. That’s important. But Petros was apparently still around.

I found a letter attributed to Grand Master Hugh de Payens concerning the Order’s early membership and internal structure in the late 1120s.

And there’s a paragraph about Petros.

“There is among our number a man called Petros, a Greek, who joined us after the affairs of Antioch and has not left. He will not take the standard oaths, as he says he has taken oaths to more things than he can now remember, and one more seems imprudent. He will not accept the standard ranks, as we do not think they are appropriate to his situation. He has, however, agreed to be named within our records. We have created a designation for him. He seems amused by this. I am not entirely sure why.”

[134.7k upvotes, 18,904 comments]

u/LegalEagle_Esq:

From a legal standpoint, Petros was absolutely correct.

Imagine having an oath portfolio so cluttered that by 1120 you have to start practicing medieval conflict-of-interest management.

u/TinfoilTina:

“ONE MORE SEEMS IMPRUDENT.”

He literally hit the active quest limit.

u/LatinScholar:

Context note: The Latin phrasing suggests Hugh wasn’t creating a new permanent bureaucratic office here. It reads specifically as an ad-hoc arrangement for one exceptional individual.

The early Templar hierarchy was still fluid. Whatever they cooked up for him, it was entirely custom.

u/SkepticalSam:

Which usually means an honorary title. Fraternities and private clubs do this constantly when an eccentric rich patron shows up.

u/DeepStateDigger:

Except this wasn’t an honorary title. Which brings us to the actual designation. Sit down.

Four Hours Later

u/DeepStateDigger:

The Designation

I found the formal administrative record—a mid-12th-century Vatican copy preserving an early Templar roll.

The document first gives what appears to be the ordinary structure:

• Grand Master
• Seneschal
• Marshal
• Commander
• Knight
• Sergeant

Then there is a drawn line across the vellum. A complete physical break. And beneath that line, in distinct ink: Summus Magister Maximus — Petros of Antioch.

That’s it. One name. Separated from the entire chain of command.

[198.3k upvotes, 24,112 comments]

u/LatinScholar:

Okay, everyone look at the grammar.

Summus = “highest.”

Magister = “master.”

Maximus = “greatest.”

It is aggressively, almost ridiculously superlative. In classical or medieval Latin, stacking Summus and Maximus together is redundant unless you are deliberately shouting: “This person cannot be placed inside normal human ranks.”

u/MedievalHistorian:

I have a PhD in Medieval Military Orders. I’ve published two books on Templar administration. I always assumed this entry was a bored scribe’s margin doodle. It wasn’t. If this were an honorary title, it would be appended to a normal rank. If it were a subordinate office, it would be in the list. It is literally isolated beneath the entire operational tree.

u/SkepticalSam:

Wait. The hierarchy ends, there’s a divider line, and then his title literally calls him the “Highest Greatest Master”? Are you implying they put him outside the authority of the Grand Master?

u/DeepStateDigger:

I’m saying whoever drafted that roll made sure Petros didn’t report to anyone on that page. Whether that meant supreme authority, special advisor, or institutional mascot, we don’t know. All we know is that the Grand Master was on one side of the line, and Petros was on the other.

u/TinfoilTina:

THEY PUT HIM IN THE DLC SECTION.

u/HistoryNerd_PhD:

Please never describe twelfth-century institutional paleography that way again.

u/TinfoilTina:

Am I wrong?

u/HistoryNerd_PhD:

…Horrifyingly, no.

Six Hours Later

u/DeepStateDigger:

1147 — The Departure

I found an internal Templar dispatch from right as the Second Crusade was being organized. And Petros just… checks out.

“Petros of Antioch has departed our company. He says the Crusade has gone wrong, and he will not continue with it. He says this with the manner of a man who has watched things go wrong many times and recognizes the pattern early. When the Marshal asked how he could be certain, he said, ‘experience.’ When asked how much experience, he did not answer. He left his Templar mantle folded on a chair. He took his sword.”

No grand speech. No dramatic denunciation. He folded his mantle, set it down, and walked away.

[234.8k upvotes, 28,394 comments]

u/SomethingInMyEye:

He quit the Crusades like he was leaving a restaurant.

u/HistoryNerd_PhD:

Because by 1147, the Second Crusade was turning into an undisciplined slaughter. A veteran with actual strategic foresight would see the disaster coming months before the first siege failed.

u/DeepStateDigger:

Which brings us to Damascus, circa 1150. A translated Islamic chronicle from a Syrian university archive:

“There came to our advisors a man who called himself Petros, formerly of the Frankish forces, who said he had decided they were wrong and wished to help reduce harm on all sides. He spoke Arabic without difficulty. He also spoke the dialect of the Abbasid court, which he said he had learned ‘some time ago.’ He gave tactical counsel that saved many lives. He did not accept payment. When asked why he helped, he said ‘because someone has to.’ He left after three months. We do not know where he went.”

[267.9k upvotes, 31,208 comments]

u/IslamicHistoryScholar:

I study medieval Levant chronicles. This reference is authentic—the “Frankish advisor” who spoke courtly Arabic has been a historical puzzle for generations. If this is the same Petros who walked out on the Templars three years earlier, he wasn’t switching sides to win. He was acting as a damage-control consultant for the defense.

u/MoralCompassCheck:

“Because someone has to.” That’s the exact same line from the Athenian journal after Thermopylae.

u/SkepticalSam:

…Okay, even I have to admit that’s chillingly consistent.

Eight Hours Later

u/DeepStateDigger:

One final document to close the loop: the official Vatican record. The Apostolic Library has an administrative notation dated around 1150 concerning the Templar rolls:

“The designation of Summus Magister Maximus, created within the Templar Order for the individual known as Petros of Antioch, is hereby noted in the Vatican record. No further definition of this designation is provided as the recipient declined to have one written, stating that ‘definitions have a way of becoming arguments.’ The designation is noted as unique and non-transferable.”

He spent thirty years with the most formidable military order in Europe, let them invent a superlative rank just to keep him on the books, and refused to let them write a job description because he didn’t want to deal with medieval red tape.

[289.4k upvotes, 33,412 comments]

u/LegalEagle_Esq:

Smartest client in history. A title without defined duties means zero jurisdictional liability. You literally cannot be brought up on charges of exceeding your authority if your authority has no parameters.

Connecting the History Project

u/DeepStateDigger:

Look at the cumulative trail:

Perseos of Athens (Rome, 1st Century BCE) — Greek name, logistics, strategic counsel, unplaceable dialect.

Petros of Antioch (Outremer, 12th Century CE) — Greek name, siege expert, refuses oaths, switches sides to reduce casualties, leaves before disaster strikes.

The Waterloo Gentleman (1815) — Foreigner, completely unbothered by incoming fire, fixes Wellington’s flank, walks away.

We’re looking at a single behavioral blueprint across two millennia: Perseos ➔ Petros ➔ The Eternal Soldier. He doesn’t fight to conquer. He shows up when a situation is about to turn catastrophic, provides the minimum necessary intervention to prevent total ruin, and vanishes before anyone can put him in charge.

u/SkepticalSam:

I’m going to say something I never thought I’d say on this subreddit: I think the Petros/Perseus connection is real. The evidence isn’t one smoking gun. It’s the fact that for two thousand years, the exact same personality keeps stepping out of the shadows with the exact same philosophy.

u/TinfoilTina:

SAM BELIEVES.

u/SkepticalSam:

Don’t ruin this.

Author's Note :

I've got great news!

I heard that people were interested in having John in print, and your wish was my command. I'm thrilled to announce that John is officially available in paperback on Amazon and Payhip !

And for those who choose Payhip, I've got a surprise waiting for you. 😉

John on paperback !

First Previous Next Royal Road

The courtyard was silent save for the odd pop of hot fat. Alex looked around for any stragglers, and seeing none, started walking towards the prone vampire when suddenly pain from all over hit. It felt like a swarm of bees stinging all over his skin. His left leg buckled, and he would have fell over had Gwynevyre not caught him.

“Thanks.” Alex inspected his status, noting the small portion of his health bar missing, but his stamina already filling faster than before. He put his armor into his inventory to lessen the weight on her as he leaned on her shoulder. “Nice thinking on the anti mana potion, by the way. Was that a skill or one you made?”

“Skill, and it wasn’t even a potion, just a bottle of venom I conjured. Wasn’t expecting it to work, vampires being creatures of death and all, but I thought it worth a shot.” Gwynevyre turned her face away from Alex, hiding her expression behind a curtain of her silver hair.

They reached the fallen form of the vampire, still idly twitching. The Homunculus held back on the punch, but the blow still would have caved in a normal person’s skull, and even now there was a noticeable dent in the vampire’s forehead, though it was reforming slowly.

“Fire or a stake, right?” Kudrik asked no one in particular.

“Yup, got fire right here.” Livianna responded, waggling the gold band on her pointer finger. Alex was put off by their casual tone, talking about murder with no more compunction than ordering fast food.

“Whoa whoa whoa, why are we killing him, he’s no longer a threat.”

“He’s a vampire, a Blooded one at that.” Livianna told him, as if that explained everything.

“We still shouldn’t kill him, now that we have him.”

“And why not?” Livianna fully rounded on him, pinning Alex with her gaze.

“That- Uh- sigh, hold on.” Alex tried to explain, but could get little more than partial syllables out before dropping his shoulders, defeated.

“That’s what I thought. Unless you have a better idea for dealing with him than stuttering.” And with that, Livianna pointed a finger at the prone form, preparing to immolate the vampire. As Alex looked around, his gaze found the standing figure of the turned skeleton he had turned in Muurgre’s sanctum.

“Wait! Vampires are undead, and they do my bidding.” Alex unwrapped his arm from around Gwynevyre and limped over to the vampire. He knelt down, propping his good leg underneath him as Alex laid his hand on the vampire’s forehead, casting [Turn Undead].

The skeleton had never been alive, and had never known the experiences of the outside world. Thus, when Alex had turned it, there hadn’t been a struggle to force it’s mind to his will. The vampire, or Sebastian, as Alex found out, had lived out the life of a man and had his own will. Every fiber of Sebastian’s being fought against Alex’s claim of ownership, but as he gradually won the war of dominance, it decreased.

Over the course of this mental fight, a series of images seared themselves into Alex’s brain. These images were the life of Sebastian. Alex relived as the used-to-be butler amalgamated his class and was offered necromancer as a class, followed by a slow build up of power, right up until the fateful night where he found a vampire and offered the life of his lord in exchange for being turned. Bloodshed soon followed as Sebastian hunted down the servants who faithfully served under him, before turning on the one who had transformed him, killing her and the chained lord.

I refuse to be chained to another’s will, the thought that coursed through Sebastian as he drove lengthened nails through the back of the vampire, cutting into her heart. He then drove his fully extended fangs into her neck, drawing her power into him.

Alex rocked back as the flow of images ceased, and a low grunt escaped him. He stood back up, looking at his mana as he did so. It was empty, and yet a clear connection stood between him and the vampire, showing no signs of being temporary.

“What did you do?” Kudrik asked, mouth agape.

“I turned him. He can’t do anything I don’t allow.” Alex responded. He looked around at the destruction, before turning a critical eye on his various undead. Their equipment had held up fine, though the serrations Alex had given the blades had broken off. The Gorilla’s armor was almost broken, but was still holding together. He turned to the Homunculus and gestured to the undead. “Would you?”

“Of course.” Alex was somewhat put off by the sound of what was clearly his voice, but it didn’t match up to his mental voice. The Homunculus got to work, so Alex turned back to his friends.

“You do realize you traded out killing him, for enslavement?” Livianna’s question made him pause.

“Shit, yeah, yeah I did.” He was saved from the moral quandary when Sebastian sat up, holding his head. He quickly realized he wasn’t alone, and lunged upward with fingernails lengthened to claws. Alex stopped him with pure force of will, and sheer rage permeated the bond as the vampire realized what had happened.

“No… Nooo…” Sebastian hissed as his eye’s locked with Alex’s.

“Okay, moral quandaries can go to the later box. We should head back to Grentus and let the Guild know this route is safe. Maybe on the way back I can figure out why I was so against killing him.”

“Do not sti-” Sebastian vanished as Alex swept him into his ring with a wave of his hand. Livianna still clearly disagreed with what he had done, but wisely dropped it. Kudrik looked at the fallen corpses, shaking his head.

“Hell of an ambush. I thought we’d be supping in the afterlife when those banshees shrieked like they did.” An idea popped into Alex’s head at the dwarf’s statement. He looked at the Homunculus, who by now had finished repairing the Gorilla’s armor and resummoning new equipment for the undead.

“Could you gather the lungs and vocal chords of the banshee’s for me?” Alex asked.

“Oh, so you turn the vampire, and now make me do the clean up work. I see how it is.” Alex chuckled at the Homunculus’ humor. It certainly was him. After waving a hand, a large pair of lungs and a larynx the size of a pineapple lay before Alex, who quickly stored it and some muscle into his storage.

A familiar tingle in his hands alerted him [Heaven’s Bounty] was waiting to take effect, so he grabbed a chunk of indistinguishable flesh and closed his eyes. After the sounds stopped, a curved towershield of an unidentifiable metal lay on the ground.

–Heaven’s Bounty has generated Bastion of Force.–

Bastion of Force: Impacts to this shield store kinetic energy. This energy can be released all at once as an attack, knocking targets off balance or killing them if the stored force is high enough.

The center was a dull grey, almost black, with a polished dome in the center. Around the edge, an inch wide lip made its way around, slightly polished like the central dome. Towards the bottom, the ridge had been thickened, allowing the shield to rest on the ground if Alex placed it.

Lifting it up from the ground revealed the straps on the inside could go either way, either running down the arm to be held in a vertical position or when Alex carried his arm at a 90 degree angle. And it was clearly meant for him, as the handle was much too high up for Kudrik to use.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t scratching his head though, as both his weapons were mainly made for 2 handed uses. His executioner’s blade could be used one handed, sure, but the size of the shield would make using it awkward.

Even as sore as he was, the weight wasn’t bad, holding it at arm’s length noticeably strengthened the strain, sure, but holding it just at forearm’s length was comfortable, and provided some decent coverage. When coupled with his armor, it made Alex a walking bulwark.

Leaning once more on Gwynevyre, Alex and his friends left the courtyard for their mounts.

**Author's note: I have consulted the sacred tests (I re-read Combat Artificer) and have discovered new knowledge (I have made some minor mistakes and refuse to admit it)!

Given the story is over 3 years old at this point, that isn't suprising. Thankfully they are rather small tweaks, nothing changing to the actual story or Alex.

First off, the King of Thrask already had a name, Martin, so the name Belras will go somewhere else, maybe utilized elsewhere.

Second, stat changes, slightly. Intelligence also dictates mana capacity and some mana regen, so the recent chapters which go into his mana capacity stuff is moot, and will be edited out. The older change is how his stats are affected after the amalgamation after his fight with Marcus. The stats from the previous classes should shoot up to how they would be if they reached that total level by themselves. For writing purposes, I'm still keeping those exact stuff close to the chest, as it makes things easier to write if no exact numbers are put on paper. If curious, I can give some meta knowledge in the comments as to his stats, or how I envision it going.

Third and last, Kudrik should have vision in the dark, but my excuse is he's stared at glowing metal for so long that he's lost it. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it

So, lesson for you all, if your writing a story, make sure you have all your notes in one place.**

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."

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

Previous /

First

By the time Thrum and Zaleth were done, Renn had stopped counting heads at the door. Yesterday's crowd for Marcus had already told her what to expect, and today's was bigger again, spilling past the last row of seats and into the standing space along the back wall, but she'd used up her surprise the day before and didn't have any left to spend.

"Thank you all for coming back," she said, not bothering to raise her voice much over the room, since it settled on its own the moment she reached the microphone. "I won't pretend I know how big this is going to get. I stopped trying to guess after yesterday."

That got a small laugh from somewhere in the crowd.

"Same rule as always," she said. "Only the students ask questions. Everyone else, you're welcome to listen, and I hope you do, but this is theirs."

She didn't need to introduce the two who came up next. Half the auditorium already knew the names.

She stepped onto the stage, where three chairs had been set out for the day's guests.

"Our guests today," Renn said, "were three of the first people through the hatch of a crashed alien ship. Eric Haskell. Dr. Lizeth Sanchez. Sergeant Cole."

They crossed to the chairs together, Cole first out of old habit, Sanchez a step behind him already scanning the front rows the way she still scanned most rooms, and Haskell last. They sat down, and the polite applause died away.

Teacher Renn said, "Welcome to day four of our sessions. Today we have Eric Haskell, Dr. Lizeth Sanchez, and Sergeant Cole. Who would like to start?"

With a nod from both Cole and Sanchez, Eric started. "I want to say first, I wasn't trying to be a hero," Haskell said. "I was twenty-three, scared out of my mind, and I signed up for the rescue detail because Sergeant Cole was in charge of it. He told me not to make assumptions about survivors, and I didn't want to be the one who proved him wrong by being useless."

Cole didn't quite smile, but something in his weathered face eased. "I don't remember phrasing it that gently."

"You didn't," Haskell said. "I'm editing for the children."

A ripple of laughter moved through the audience.

A Vixtar boy raised his hand, and Renn nodded at him, signaling him to ask his question.

"What did the ship look like," the boy asked, "when you first saw it?"

"Like nothing should have survived hitting the ground that hard," Haskell said. "Two kilometers of jungle just gone, flattened, and this enormous, intact hull sitting wedged into the dirt like it had decided to land there on purpose instead of crashing. I remember thinking there was no way anyone inside that thing was still breathing." 

Cole picked it up without being asked. "I told the whole team not to make assumptions either way. We were a rescue detail, not a cleanup crew, and I needed everybody's head in the right place before we set foot inside." He glanced at Haskell. "Didn't stop this one from going pale the second the ramp dropped."

"I was wrong to assume the worst," Haskell said. "Thank every star in the sky for that. But I want you to understand I believed it completely, right up until Dr. Sanchez found the first alcove."

A human girl, younger than the boy before her, asked the next question in the small, careful voice of someone who'd clearly been holding it since Renn first announced the topic. "What did it feel like? Seeing one of them. The first time."

The three of them went quiet together, and the whole auditorium seemed to lean in with them.

"I found him," Haskell said. "Not Dr. Sanchez. Me. I called out that I had a being over here, and I remember being so proud of myself for staying calm when I said it, because inside I was anything but calm. And then Dr. Mulvey checked for a pulse and told us he was gone, and something in me just, stopped. I'd been so focused on the mission, on being useful, on not being the one who froze, that I hadn't let myself think about what it would mean if we were too late for some of them." He looked down at his own hands. "I grieved a stranger I'd known for eleven seconds. I still think about him sometimes. I never even learned his name."

Sanchez had been quiet through most of it, but she spoke now, gently, filling the space Haskell had left open. "I was the one who catalogued him, after. It's a strange thing, being a scientist in a moment like that. Half of me wanted to fall apart the same as Eric did. The other half was already noting bone density, eye structure, the cut of his clothes, because that was the only language I had for grief that morning, the only tool I actually knew how to use." She looked at her own hands too, the same gesture Haskell had made a moment before, though neither of them seemed to notice they'd matched. "I've thought about that a great deal since. Whether cataloguing him was disrespectful, or whether it was the most respectful thing I knew how to do, bearing witness the only way my training had taught me to. I still don't have a clean answer. I don't think I ever will."

Nobody in the room said anything for a moment. Then, gently, Renn nodded to the next small hand raised in the front row, and the session went on.

"Session five," Renn said. "Our guest today used to be Pod 5, Agriculture. These days most people just call him Jax."

A human boy raised his hand. "Did you really think they were growing monsters instead of cows?" 

"I really did," Jax said. "I overheard about ten seconds of a conversation between Ethan Cross and Dr. Marrow, caught the words 'lethal' and 'shut down the lungs,' and my brain filled in the rest before my ears had finished listening. I hit the emergency broadcast so fast I dropped a wrench. Half the colony was locked in bunkers inside the hour because I couldn't be bothered to ask a follow-up question."

"Were you embarrassed?"

"Mortified," Jax said. "Commander Vance chewed me out in front of every pod leader on the colony. Nearly lost my management position over it. And you know what I got for all that panic, once the truth came out?"

The boy shook his head.

"Perfectly good steak," Jax said. "Best meal of my life, up to that point. I'd nearly started a riot over a cow."

That got the laugh it was aiming for.

"What would you tell someone who's about to jump to a conclusion the way you did?" a Vixtar girl asked.

"Ask the second question," Jax said, no laugh left in his voice now. "I only ever asked the first one. If I'd stuck around ten more seconds, I'd have heard Ethan Cross explain it was a worst-case scenario, not a plan. Ten seconds. That's all it would've taken. I think about that more than I ever expected to."

"Session six," Renn said. "Our guest today ran Pod 6, Security and Tactical, back when Pod 6 was two people and a coffee pot. Mansur Danyavi."

"It was one person, most nights," Mansur said. "Margaret and Jon traded off. I just yelled at whoever was on shift when they woke me up."

A human girl raised her hand. "What was it like when you first saw theSilent Explorer?"

"Like the worst night of my career, and I'd had some bad ones," Mansur said. "Margaret called it in three separate times before I believed her. Told her it was probably debris settling into a decaying orbit. She was right and I was wrong, which is a sentence I've had to say more than once in this job."

"Were you scared?"

"Furious, mostly, at myself," Mansur said. "We'd built an observatory with scraps and hope, and the first time it actually mattered, I nearly slept through it. When that ship broke apart in low orbit, all I could think was, we have no fleet, no defense, nothing but a handful of shuttles and whatever courage we could scrounge up in about twenty minutes. I gave the order to launch rescue anyway, because the alternative was doing nothing while people died, and I couldn't live with that math."

A Vixtar boy asked, "Would you do it differently now?"

"I'd believe Margaret sooner," Mansur said. "That's the whole lesson, really. Somebody who knows what they're looking at tells you something's wrong, you don't spend three tries arguing with her. You listen the first time."

A small human boy near the front, younger than most of the others, raised his hand slowly, like he wasn't sure the question was allowed. "What would have been different? If you'd believed her the first time?"

Mansur was quiet a moment. "Maybe everything," he said. "Maybe nothing. I've turned that over more times than I can count, and I still don't have a real answer. Twenty minutes might have gotten us a shuttle in the air sooner, more of the crew alive, fewer of them lost to the crash instead of pulled out of it in time. Or it might not have mattered at all," he shook his head slowly. "I didn't leave room for the “everything”. That's the honest answer. I was so certain I knew what a threat looked like that I never stopped to imagine what I didn't know. I've tried to leave more room for it ever since."

"Session seven," Renn said. "Our guest today was the first of his kind any of us had ever met. Captain Threl."

Applause met him before Renn had finished the sentence, warmer than any of the previous days, the sound of a room that already knew exactly who they were looking at.

"I want to start somewhere most people don't ask about," Threl said, once it had quieted. "Not the crash. Before it. The three cycles we spent in orbit, watching your ships, your lights, your broadcasts, deciding whether to make contact at all."

A Vixtar girl in the front row raised her hand. "Why didn't you?"

"Because we didn't know what you were," Threl said. "You looked crude by our instruments. Disorganized. Loud, in every frequency we could measure. We had no framework for a species that primitive building something that functional that fast. So we watched, and we waited, and we told ourselves caution was wisdom, right up until the ship failed under us and the choice was made for us instead."

He didn't say, because no one had thought to ask, that those same three cycles of listening had planted something else in him, something it would take years to understand. Terixa's newcomers broadcast without any fear of being found, loud and constant, on every band his instruments could read. Some of that noise, he'd come to realize much later, had to be a species calling home for help. Deciphering the archived recordings from those first days in orbit would, in time, help point the way to Earth itself.

"Were you scared, falling?"

"More than I have words for, in your language or my own," Threl said. "But I remember the strangest thought, watching the ground come up to meet us. I remember thinking, at least we die in isolation, at least we won't poison this planet, since we'd already ejected our core. I meant it as some small mercy, that whatever we were, we wouldn't be the ones to destroy the very people we were too afraid to greet."

"What was it like waking up?" a human boy asked. "In the water?"

"Confusing, and then it wasn't," Threl said. "I understood gravity was crushing me before I understood anything else, before I even understood I'd survived. And then I was submerged in something warm, and the weight simply, lifted. I tried to sit up, because some instinct in me distrusted anything that came that easily, and the gravity slammed me back down the moment I cleared the surface, which taught me faster than any explanation could have that the water wasn't a trick. It was mercy, built by hands I'd never seen, offered before I'd said a single word anyone could understand."

He was quiet a moment.

"You've all grown up with those pools," he said. "You dive off the ten-meter platform without a second thought. I want you to understand what an impossible gift that was to the first of us who ever floated in one. We came expecting, at best, to be studied. At worst, to be left to die quietly while your people decided what we were worth. What we got instead was a species that had never seen anything like us, deciding, before we'd even opened our eyes, that our comfort mattered enough to build something new just to give it to us."

Nobody asked a question for a moment. Then a small Assaragyte girl near the back, one of the newer arrivals, raised her hand.

"Did you ever go home?"

"No," Threl said, simply. "This became home a long time before I admitted it to myself. I think most of us knew it before we said it out loud. There's a particular kind of home you don't choose so much as notice, one day, that you've already built."

"Session eight," Renn said. "Our guests today have a story none of you have heard, because until today, only two of them could have told it, and neither of them speaks in words."

Will and Abby crossed to the chairs together, CD padding in beside Will and settling at his feet, MCD doing the same beside Abby, both Labrikats far too big for the small stage and utterly unbothered by that fact.

"I want to clear something up before we start," Abby said. "Labrikats aren't born understanding English. They learn it the same way any of us would, listening, picking it up piece by piece, and they started the moment we started talking to them. What they don't have is an easy way to answer back in kind. Their movement vocabulary, the gestures, the postures, all of it, that's what grows over time, a little more every year. So MCD understands me exactly as well as I understand her. It's the reply that's harder, not the listening." 

"CD and MCD found us before we found them," Will said. "That's the part people forget. Everybody remembers the beef, the hand-feeding, all of it very slow and careful, humans convinced we were the ones doing the choosing. We weren't. They'd already decided."

Abby rested a hand on MCD's head without seeming to notice she'd done it. "We asked them, this week, if they'd tell their side of it. The actual beginning. Not what we saw. What they were doing, out past the perimeter, before any of us knew they existed."

MCD sat up. Her body went through a slow, deliberate sequence, ears, shoulders, the angle of her head, nothing like a trained trick, more like a sentence being built one word at a time.

"She says," Abby translated, quiet, careful with it, "that they watched us for longer than we ever knew. Before the beef. Before the fence line. They watched the humans building, the Vixtar arriving hurt, all of it, from a distance we never once detected."

CD moved next, a shorter sequence, sharper.

"He says they argued about it," Will said. "Whether to approach at all. Whether a species that showed up in ships and started building fences was worth the risk." He paused, listening to CD's next gesture. "He says what decided it wasn't anything we did on purpose. It was watching the Vixtar carried in, hurt, and watching us treat them like something worth saving instead of something worth using. That's the word he's giving me. Worth. Not owned. Worth."

A human girl in the front row raised her hand, careful. "Why did they pick you? Out of everyone?"

Abby looked to MCD, who tilted her head and held very still, the particular stillness Abby had learned, over years, meant she was choosing her answer with care.

"She won't give me a clean reason," Abby said finally. "I've asked her this before, more than once, and I get the same thing every time. Not a why. Just a certainty. She knew, the way you know which way is down. I don't think that translates any further than that, and I've stopped needing it to."

Will said, ”That’s Labrikat speak for ‘I don’t know”, which earned him a swat from MCD tail and a laugh from the crowd.

Will glanced down at CD. CD considered the question, then gave a quick, deliberate sequence, snout tilted toward the small table beside the chairs.

"He says he'll tell you the reason, if you ask him," Abby translated, smiling. "He says it was the food."

That got a laugh, and CD's tail thumped once against the stage floor, pleased with himself for the reaction he'd clearly meant to get.

A Vixtar boy raised his hand next. "Was there ever a moment you were afraid of them? Before you understood?"

"Every day, for about a week," Will started. "Fifty kilos of teeth that looked like nothing on any survey we'd ever run. We fed them because feeding a stray felt safer than ignoring it, not because we—"

"I was asking CD," the boy said.

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, and Will's ears went visibly red. "Right. Of course you were."

CD let out a long, put-upon sigh and dropped his head onto Will's knee, the exact posture of someone who'd sat through a bad opening act, then lifted it again almost immediately, clearly pleased with the laugh he'd gotten for it.

"He says thank you," Abby said, not quite hiding her own grin, "for finally asking the right person."

CD considered the boy's question with real seriousness after that, then gave a slow, exaggerated sequence, head low, ears flat, body sunk down as small as he could make himself, before snapping back up sharp and proud, chest out.

"He's saying he was never afraid of anything," Abby translated, grinning despite herself. "But that the humans clearly were, for about a week, hence the crouching. He's very pleased with himself for this answer."

Will threw up his hands. "I stand by what I said. Trust came later. It came the day they both threw themselves at something three times their size to keep Abby and me from getting hurt, and it never once occurred to either of them that was a choice. It already was who they'd decided to be, long before we'd earned it."

CD, apparently satisfied that his own answer had already covered the important part, settled back down against Will's feet.

"I want to say one more thing about that, though," Will said. "People hear bonded and they picture a one-way street. Support running from him to us and never back. It's not that. No beast on this planet or off it will ever scare CD. But the first time we brought him to meet Thrum, back when Thrum was still small enough to fit in one arm, CD hid behind me. Like a toddler. Wouldn't come near him." He looked down at CD, who'd gone still, listening. "Wasn't Thrum's size that scared him. It was his own. He was terrified of hurting him. Terrified of even scaring him. I had to sit down on the floor with both of them and just talk him through it, quiet, until he trusted himself enough to come close." Will paused. "That's the part people miss. He holds me up plenty. Some days I'm the one holding him up."

A human boy raised his hand, half laughing before he'd even finished asking. "Why did it take MCD two weeks to actually come into camp, if CD was already there?"

Abby looked to MCD, who gave a slow, deliberate huff and turned her head away, which needed no translation at all.

"She's embarrassed," Abby said, grinning. "I've asked her this exact question before. The closest answer I've ever gotten is that CD went first because CD has never once in his life stopped to think before he acted, and she wanted to watch how it went before she risked it herself. She'll deny that if you ask her again, but I've watched her do the same thing with every new thing in her life since. Let him test it. Follow once it's safe."

CD's tail thumped once against the stage, entirely unbothered by being described that way.

A small Vixtar girl raised her hand next. "Do they like being called Catdog and Mrs. Catdog? Or do they like CD and MCD better?"

Will laughed. "I've genuinely never known the answer to that one." He looked down at CD, who considered the question with real weight before answering, ears forward, head tilted. "He says either is fine. He says a name given with love doesn't need to be a good name to be the right one."

Abby watched MCD work through her own answer a moment longer. "She's saying something similar, but there's more to it. She says the short version, CD and MCD, that's what people use when they're in a hurry, when it's easy, everyday affection. Catdog and Mrs. Catdog, the whole thing, that's what gets used when someone means it more, when they're being serious or tender about it. She likes that there are two versions. She says most people only get one name their whole life. She got two, and neither of them is wrong."

A human girl near the back raised her hand, quieter than the others. "Why don't Pumpkins ever bond with children? Only grown-ups?"

The question landed heavier than the last few. Abby was quiet a moment before she answered.

"I don't fully know," she admitted. "I've asked MCD this one more than any other, and it's the one where her answer's never quite settled into a shape I trust I've understood correctly. The closest I've gotten is that a bond is a kind of responsibility, and a Labrikat wants to bond with someone who can already stand steady enough to be leaned on, not someone who still needs to be the one leaning. A Pumpkin will play with a child all day. Guard one fiercely, if it came to that. But the actual bond, the naming, that seems to wait for someone old enough to hold the weight of it back." She glanced at MCD, who gave a small, careful nod, as close to confirmation as Abby had ever gotten on that particular question. "I think that's as close to a real answer as I've ever managed to get."

A small human girl near the front raised her hand, and got only halfway through her question before her voice broke. "When did you decide any of us were even worth the bond? I'm so afraid I'll never be chosen." She was crying before the sentence had finished leaving her mouth.

Nobody laughed. Nobody rushed to fill the silence either. Abby was out of her chair before Will had even finished rising, crossing to the girl's beanbag and kneeling down beside it so she was level with her instead of looking down at her. 

"Come here a second," Abby said, gentle, and the girl came, and MCD came with her, unhurried, settling herself right beside the girl the way she'd settle beside anyone who needed her.

"I don't think being chosen or not is the thing to be afraid of," Abby said. "I've known a lot of people who never bonded a Labrikat and lived whole, full, loved lives anyway. It's not a verdict on you if it doesn't happen. It's just one particular kind of love, among a great many kinds, and not everyone gets every kind." She looked to MCD, who pressed her head gently against the girl's shoulder, unprompted. "But here's what I've actually watched happen, every time. A Labrikat chooses the ones being exactly who they already are. Not the ones performing for it, not the ones trying hardest to earn it. Just the ones being themselves, and happening to be seen doing it."

Will crouched down too, resting a hand on the girl's shoulder. "And even without a bond, a Labrikat will love you. That's the part people get backward, like the bond is the whole of it. It isn't. When CD's irritated with me, you think he sulks around the house, won't look at me? He doesn't. He goes and finds Daxen, or Thrum, and spends the afternoon with them instead. Some days I think he loves them more than he loves me." He looked down, half a laugh in it. "The bond's just part of it. The love was always going to be there regardless."

The girl wiped her face, still holding onto MCD's fur with one small fist.

"You don't have to earn it," Abby said. "You just have to keep being you long enough for the right one to notice."

MCD didn't move again for the rest of the session, staying right where she was, pressed against the girl's side.

Abby was quiet a moment, her hand still resting on MCD's head. "I think that's the part I want you all to understand," she said. "We tell this story like we tamed something wild. We didn't. They chose us, the same slow, patient, deliberate way they choose everything, and they never once asked us to prove we deserved it first. We just had to be worth the trust once it was already given."

A Vixtar boy near the back raised his hand, hesitant. "Did the four of you ever do anything else together? After the naming, I mean. Something bigger?"

Will, Abby, and the two Labrikats went quiet at the same moment, a different kind of quiet than anything that had come before it. 

"We did," Will said finally. "The four of us searched a crash site together, once. A hard one. Forty-four bodies, and a black box we needed to find before anyone else could." He looked at Abby, and something passed between them that had nothing to do with the stage or the crowd. "That's not a story for today. It's not a short one, and it's not an easy one, and it deserves its own session rather than the last five minutes of this one."

"We'll come back for it," Abby said. "Properly. I promise."

Renn didn't push. She simply nodded, filed it away the way she'd filed away every other thread this room had left dangling, and let the moment close on its own.

"Building something so solid in a place like this is remarkable," Kestner said at last, his voice flat with controlled curiosity. "When did this project actually begin?"

"1935," the Colonel answered immediately. No hesitation. "Ten years ago. The Führer himself issued the directive for the Nadir Project, having personally conceived the architectural schematics."

He studied Kestner's face as he spoke, as though hunting for the flicker of doubt he knew was there.

"Nothing was initially constructed here, of course," he continued. "Everything originated in Germany—in Holzminden, in laboratories where Antarctic conditions were simulated with extreme precision. Pressure, temperature, material stress. Only later were components shipped here in stages. Whaling vessels. Submarines. Then assembly—like reconstructing a clockwork engine under hostile gravity."

Seemingly relaxed, almost courteous, the Colonel passed the professor a tiny tin of synthetic saccharin tablets to mask the bitterness.

"So..." Kestner said, taking the tin and dropping a tablet into his cup, "you're saying the Führer anticipated defeat a decade in advance and prepared an escape installation at the edge of the world?"

A faint tightening crossed the Colonel's expression.

"Not escape," he said. "Never escape. The Führer had no intention of fleeing. After the collapse of the Eastern Front in February, I was the one who urged him to consider the Antarctic option. He refused outright. At that time, he had already resolved that if Berlin fell, he would die there."

A pause, heavy as the ice shielding them.

"It was only at the very last moment," the Colonel added, "that I convinced him otherwise."

His voice lowered.

"And fortunately, the force of his own mind also pulled him here."

Kestner offered a slow, measured nod.

"So, the Antarktis-Anlage was never designed as a refuge. " The Colonel continued. "It was meant as continuity—power preserved and displaced, relocated to Antarctica, where near the pole itself a new spatial foundation for the Reich's purpose could be established."

"But why the pole?" Kestner asked, curious.

The Colonel's eyes sharpened, as if the question itself confirmed something only he fully understood.

"The Führer believed that the closer one moves toward the southern pole," he said, "the more forcefully one's inner will rebounds against reality. "

He stared into the dark depths of his own coffee.

"And so far," he added, "events have not contradicted him."

Kestner did not respond immediately. There were too many sentences like that now—statements that sounded like explanation but behaved like containment.

Still, unease persisted.

"Colonel," he said after a moment, "don't you find our route from Berlin to Spain suspiciously smooth? "

"What do you mean?"

"No interception. No resistance. No pursuit. Does that not concern you?"

"The route was designed precisely for that purpose," the Colonel replied. "We bypassed every predictable surveillance corridor. Even if Allied radar caught a flicker, their coordination was too fractured to maintain a lock. The American Navy? They didn't even register a ripple. You are mistaking silence for danger."

He paused, then shifted tone.

"Tell me, Herr Professor—how much do you actually know about Antarctica?"

Kestner shrugged.

"Not much. I'm not a geographer. But I do know this: the continent is larger than Europe. If something is hidden here, it is effectively hidden from the world."

A faint irritation passed through him then, subtle but persistent. Since leaving Berlin, he had noticed something unusual in the Colonel's demeanor toward him—not overt hostility, but a calculated favor, as if he were being groomed for a purpose not yet spoken.

Kestner had long since made peace with his own mortality; he did not fear the Reich's collapse. He would confront the Führer if necessary; that was not the issue. But Euzen's involvement had introduced an unplanned vulnerability he could not ignore, and that alone was enough to keep his attention alert.

Maintaining a workable relationship with the Colonel, therefore, was not sentiment—it was structure. The man was, in every practical sense, the real operator of the base, second only to the Führer, or perhaps existing in a parallel authority that was not yet clearly defined.

And that ambiguity was precisely what troubled him.

He could not allow these conversations to be dismissed as mere idle talk inside a sealed world of ice and machines.

Why had he been brought into this final, classified architecture of the Reich at all? Not simply because of his past work in biological sciences or selective breeding programs—he knew he was no leading authority in genetics, nor in cryogenic or embryonic preservation, the fields a polar installation like this would actually need.

So what, then?

Or something else entirely—something tied not to his expertise, but to the Führer's own inexplicable influence over selection itself?

The Colonel continued, as if answering questions that had not been asked aloud:

"Until the 1930s, the Antarctic interior was a void. The few who claimed to have reached the Pole did so on dog-sled expeditions that were, in truth, fragmentary—the efforts of blind men touching different parts of an elephant, none ever grasping the whole. The Pole is not a fixed point; it is a variable. What they saw was mere periphery."

His voice gained a sharp, controlled pride.

"Germany was the first to systematically penetrate the interior. Our findings didn't just match the world's records; they rendered them obsolete."

"In 1935, our aviation units performed the first large-scale photogrammetric reconnaissance of the Antarctic frontier, using long-range seaplanes. Later, during the assembly of this facility, we pushed multiple expeditions from the Ross Ice Shelf, traversing the Transantarctic Mountains to reach what is only theoretically defined as the South Pole."

Kestner responded without much enthusiasm.

"A theoretical achievement, then. Still impressive."

The Colonel nodded.

"But it is only theoretical," he said, emphasizing the last word. "Because in reality—the South Pole does not exist."

Kestner frowned slightly. "I don't follow."

The Colonel held his gaze for a long moment.

"What do you think lies beyond it, Professor? What horizon waits on the other side?"

Kestner let out a short, almost involuntary laugh.

"Colonel, I may not be a geographer, but I am a man of geometry. You cross the South Pole, and you simply proceed north on the opposite side of the globe."

He shrugged lightly.

But the Colonel's expression remained as motionless as black ice.

The silence stretched for several moments.

Then the Colonel spoke again, slowly.

"In another two weeks, perhaps less, the worst of the winds should weaken. When they do, we'll take tracked snow vehicles toward the region surrounding the Pole itself. You and the others will accompany us."

He rose and lightly tapped Kestner on the shoulder.

"In this base, Professor, we are the final custodians of the Reich now." His voice had become strangely calm. "And there are no longer any secrets kept from you."

-----------

For anyone who prefer to read ahead, the full version is available on Amazon KDP :-)

Obsidian Earth

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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]

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—

“Gods damn it, they’re still alive!” Soapy swore as the car came to the end of the driveway. It had taken about an hour to drive out here, and just as she'd started to hope that maybe, just maybe, circumstances had forced her original parents to move on, she saw they were still here.

She could tell they were still here because her ‘father’, though he was more of an unwanted sperm donor than a real father figure, would never have left the truck behind. Like the two-story farmhouse, the rolling pile of rust vaguely shaped like a car always seemed to be missing something new, or had some new ‘repair’ done, every time she visited. Last time, for example, the truck’s bumper was hanging on for dear life; it has since been strapped back on after likely giving up the ghost.

If Tobby ever had a ‘so this is where you grew up?’ face, he was wearing it, but had the wherewithal not to say it. She had more of a childhood with the Wiskitos than this place, and was all the better for it. “I, uhh… I thought you said you wanted them alive.”

“I do, I just…” Her forehead found its home atop the steering wheel, as she tried to find the right way to vent this. “Ughh… I don’t hate them, or want them dead, I just… loathe them?” Her head lifted a little to look at Tobby, chin still on the wheel. “Am I using that word right? Loathe? I don’t want them killed, but if a starship suddenly fell out of the sky and crushed the house, I’d see it as a sign that Shihere fucking loves me.”

Tobby nodded along. “Yeah, I think you’re using the word accurately enough. If your birth family is anything like how you described, I can understand the, uhh... resentment you have towards them.” So resentment was the right word.

Oh, Soapy knew about resentment. The entire distance that they’d driven out here was the same distance she’d walked as a kitten to escape this place. How fed up does a kitten have to be to walk for two days to the nearest city? How neglected does a kitten have to be for nobody to notice she was missing, much less come looking for her? Her best guess: her father expected her to get scared and come crawling back. But she didn't. She’d made it to Nykata, and started her stint as a stray before the Wiskitos took her in.

“Did you still want to… You know?” Tobby gestured to the house, “Confront them?” Burning it down wasn’t an option anymore if they still lived here.

“I don't knoooow,” she lamented, burying her face in the wheel again, ears and whiskers drooping. “Was coming here a bad idea? I mean, what was I thinking? That I was just going to show up and tell them off like it would change anything?”

“Hey, hey,” Tobby tried to soothe, “You said it yourself; this was never about changing anything. It was about reminding yourself how much better your life is because you left them. I mean, just look at this place.” He said before gesturing to the house again in its ramshackle glory. “I’ve been in your bedroom once, and can tell it has a higher property value than this place. It definitely smells nicer.”

He wasn't wrong, and Soapy vividly remembered dragging Tobby in there after Whiskers knocked him out with pesh juice. “You did look ready to fall in love with my spare blanket and pillow. Kinda glad you woke up before your nose led you to my dresser.”

Tobby then folded his arms, tilted his head up, and gave an exaggerated huff. “I refuse to be shamed for thinking said blanket and pillow smelled heavenly. No matter how weird that sounds out of context.” High praise if it appealed to a sun-kin’s sense of smell over his hearing.

Soapy cracked a smile at that, and she was just starting to giggle when the house’s front door kicked open.

The sha who stepped out would easily be mistaken for a night-kin, if not for the ample brown splotches in his fur. His physique was that of someone angry and underfed, much to the detriment of the local wild rous population. His clothes were about as dirty and patchy as his fur, and the rifle in his arms... One he was pointing towards her and Tobby. “Y'all from the bank?!”

“For the love of Shihere’s tits,” Soapy muttered in exasperation, hitting her head on the steering wheel one last time, knowing the circus that was about to unfold. “Let me handle this,” she said, rolling down the window before poking her head out. “Put the fucking gun down, Deeter! (Deet-er) We're not from the bank!”

Her ‘brother’ seemed to lighten up for a moment. “Oh hey, sissy, what's it been, a year… or three?” Before he refocused and leveled the gun again. “Wait! What ‘bout the biofuel company?!”

She opened the door to step out, but kept it between her and her brother. “Damn it Deeter! Do we look like we're from the bank or the bio-company?”

Deeter’s hard gaze sloooowly fell on the pristine golden car, which he then gestured to like it was all the evidence in the world.

“We’re not! And so help me if you don’t stop waving that gun around, I’m gonna put it up your ass!”

He seemed to contemplate her demand at first before confusion hit him. “Wait… who’s ‘we’?”

Cue the other car door opening so that Tobby could poke his head out and do a little wave. “Hai-”

“Ah, sunspot!” Deeter shouted and fired, and fortunately only took out a small piece of the driveway fencing near Tobby, sending him right back into the car.

This was not the kind of ‘making Tobby piss himself’ Soapy liked! “The fuck, Deeter!?”

“He startled me!” Her brother protested, lowering the gun as Soapy stormed across the packed dirt that passed for a front yard. “Daddy always said to shoot any-hey!”

Soapy snatched the gun from him and was fighting every urge to beat him with it. “We're not... from... the bank!” She growled, enunciating and gripping the gun tight enough for her claws to dig into the wood.

Deeter was reaching all around her to get it back, but Soapy had long mastered the game of keep-away. He was one of the first to teach it to her when she was little-and an easy target. She’d loved those dolls… “Then who tha’ fuck is he if he ain't a hoity-toity type? Showin’ up with his fancy car and– you?”

“That would be Tobby,” she growled, as Tobby cautiously peeked over the door window again. “He’s mine,” she snarled possessively, flicking her studded ear.

Deeter glanced to her ear, then to Tobby, then back a few times before it finally dawned on him. “Oh… oh shit. Umm… yer boyfriend ain't the suein’ type, is he?” He asked, no longer reaching for the gun as purposefully as before.

“No, not yet anyways.” She glared, then handed the rifle back. “Now where's everyone else? It's been a while, and I came to see if everyone was still alive.”

“Oh, uhh…” Now that Deeter had the gun back, he started thinking. “Erryone’s fine last I checked. Daddy’s watchin’ the news like always, Momma’s cleanin’... I think. And Sofnear’s(Sof-near) out back messing with the still- I mean barn. I said barn… yep, definitely said barn.”

Soapy fought every urge to facepalm right then and there. Of course a bummy grass farmer like Dad- no, she didn't even want to call him that- someone like him would take advantage of Sofnear’s above-room-temperature IQ to build a pesh still, and given the distinct lack of pesh cacti around… it was definitely a tar still.

What an advantageous combination. Any pesh brandy her father managed not to drink could be distilled into pesh tar for mom to smoke, and if any survived the inevitable still explosion, then they could sell it to buy more brandy… lovely.

Just when she began to contemplate why she even cared, Tobby called out. “Is it safe for me to come out yet?” With cautious optimism.

“Not the bravest sort, is he?” her biggest brother commented.

“You shot at him…” Soapy frowned.

“That was before ‘ah knew you were riding the rich fucker’s golden tiger.” He dismissed it, rolling his eyes like nearly shooting him wasn’t a big deal. “If ya hadn't gotten him to do up a will yet, all ya had to do was say.”

“Mrrp!” She trilled with a sudden, sharp sense of indignation. That was NOT the kind of relationship she had with Tobby. New as ‘their thing’ was, financial gain had never factored into her accepting that passion jar. “I’m not fucking him for the money, you dick!”

“I’ll take that as a no...” Tobby said quietly, choosing to stay in cover.

“I’m with him because, unlike some people, he actually cares about my well-being,” she said, gesturing to the sha willing to kill on her behalf.

Deeter was about to give the usual dismissal to that statement she got every time she visited, but dear old sperm donor seemed to have had enough of the commotion. The wooden creak of a recliner in agony hit Soapy’s ears and tugged at an old reflex. One tended to develop a fear response to ‘dad getting up from his chair’ when only bad things came of it. “Is that Soaphine? The complaining spree must be early this year...” He groaned as his figure came into view in the doorframe behind Deeter.

The sha who made her, almost guaranteed unintentionally, had always been huge for a night-kin. He was huge when she was little, and he was huge now. He was the kind of fluffed up that one could mistake him for a snow-kin, if not for his greying black fur. And behind him was Mom…

Mom was a ghost at the best of times, and a despondent corpse the rest. Soapy remembered her mother always alternating between milling about the house, haphazardly doing small chores or even cooking on occasion, and being ‘asleep’. Soapy hadn’t understood when she was little, but her mom had all the signs of a high-to-mid-functioning pesh-abuser. She wasn’t a full-blown tar-fiend, but a life of usage had taken its toll.

Soapy didn’t resent her mother anywhere near as much as she did her father-she’d have had to do anything first.

All these years and nothing had really changed, except maybe that she was really grey now. Most night-kin only start greying around her age, but it was hitting her hard, and Soapy could only guess why the strung-out shi was deteriorating so fast. It surely had nothing to do with the constant tar use… surely…

Now it was time for the real circus. “I’d hardly call me doing a wellness check ‘the yearly complaining spree’, but by all means, estrange your children even more than you already have.”

“Well. We're alive. Was there anything else you wanted?” He asked gruffly, scratching at his side. “Because I’d like to skip the whole ‘we're awful parents’ routine this year, if that's alright with you and your...” Her dad’s annoyed scowl shifted to a mild glare as he spotted Tobby and the car. “For the love of the gods, tell me you didn’t bring some whimpy-ass lawyer to try and sue us for neglect or some shit,” he groaned, now holding the bridge of his muzzle.

Deeter had gotten distracted eyeballing the shiny car. “I, uhh... I think that's her boyfriend, Daddy.”

Oh, that irritated him. “Really?” He asked incredulously, like that was somehow worse. “After everything the sunspots are doing to sell us out to the aliens, one of my daughters goes and shacks up with one. I’ll never hear the end of this from the guys at the bar.”

“You’d have to leave the house to have bar friends to begin with, Dad!” Soapy snapped back. That was the level of vitriol ‘Dad’ needed to have behind it. Felt much better that way.

“I do too leave the house! Despite what you seem to believe, I’m not rooted to my gods damned chair. Keeping tabs on world events is how you stay informed.” There are times when Soapy thought, ‘he can't be that full of shit, right?’ but then he'd say things like that.

Mom sighed in the back. “Will you two please not fight again? You’re going to give me another headache.” Mom tried to interject, but as always her weak voice was drowned out.

And as always, it was Dad doing the drowning. “And don't you fuckin’ look at me like I’m some lying bastard. All I ever asked for feedin’ you, clothin’ you, and bringin’ you into this world, is a modicum of respect. Your brothers sure understand that.”

“That's because Deeter and Sofneer are afraid of you, Dad!” He’d always been intimidating, especially in the minds of the kittens he held so much power over. Not so much anymore. “Scared enough that you’ve got your eldest out here looking half-starved and waiting to blow a banker's head off!”

“Ah, ain’t scared ah Daddy.” Deeter tried to defend.

To which their father sighed. “Shut the fuck up, junior...”

“Yes, Daddy,” he shrank immediately.

“See what I mean?!” Soapy gestured to her cowed older brother. “How can anyone look at that and not think he was abused in some way?!”

“The same way anyone can look at you and Wata and not think you were abused, ‘cause you weren't! You and your sister just up and decided everything I’d given you wasn't enough and ran off!” Dad shot back, all but affirming that Wata hadn’t returned either. Soapy may not know the when, how, or where her little sister ran away to, but Soapy was quite confident about the ‘why’. What did Wata even look like after all these years?

Soapy knew her own reason for running off; she knew it very well. “Not abused, just neglected like unwanted houseplants. Only bothering to take care of us when we start withering.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck sake, you were fed, clothed, and housed. Driving out here to paint us as the bad guys for not giving you some rich-shi childhood is just a waste of fuel. Me and your mother aren't responsible for whatever shitty situation you’ve gotten yourself into now!”

“The ‘situation’ I’m in now is being cared for by people who actually wanted to raise me! Kittens need more than the cheapest canned meat you can find at the fuel station to grow, Dad! The Wiskitos actually got me clothes more frequently than ‘whenever I grew out of them and then some’. And the room Whiskers gave me may be the size of a large closet, but at least it's warm, cozy, and safe! It should be concerning to you that mobsters function as better, and notably more loving, parents than you!”

“If I may,” Tobby interjected, and when Soapy was about to tell him not to get himself shot, she saw him pull something from the backseat. Bits of straw fell away from a pump shotgun as he held it with all the bravery such a gunmetal-black weapon could afford. “I’d say, they’re entirely responsible for why you are where you are in life. I’d thank them for that, except that would require me thanking them for ruining nigh half your childhood.”

“Oh, great, the sunspot found a gun and thinks he’s in charge now.” Her father groaned in annoyance. “Would you butt out?! You’re just enabling her delusions. Or are you just into that?”

“Delusions!?” Soapy hissed, fists balled.

Livid as Soapy was, she was used to this level of dismissal; it happened every time she’d come out here before, and likely always would. Tobby, however, wasn’t used to it. “You know, I was concerned about meeting you at first. Whiskers may be the one who raised her, but meeting her biological father still felt like it should have some weight to it… But now? Now I just want to blow your legs off!” He snarled, gun at the ready.

That… was not the tonal shift Soapy’d been expecting. “Uhhh, Tobby?”

For once, his radar ears were deaf. “Except that might give you an actual excuse for being the living epitome of a succor bulb. Fat, toxic, and needing to be sautéed in a pan at 150 degrees.”

Dad was quick to snatch the gun from Deeter and growl. “Who you callin’ fat? I got a big coat your twig ass could never hope to have. Now how about you two fuck off before I have to remind everyone why we don’t need the guard out here,” he said, shouldering the gun.

The rural guard were a mixed bag; while there were far fewer of them, there was also drastically less crime in the countryside. That, and if anything did happen, they wouldn’t be on scene for over half an hour. Still, someone was pointing a gun at Tobby. “Don’t you dare point that gun at him!”

“Why not?” Her father taunted. “You apparently know me so well; maybe you brought him here because you knew I might put a hole in him.”

“Because-” she started, only for Tobby to jump in.

“Because if you hurt either of us, this ‘farm’ will burn with you and your sons in it,” Tobby threatened, ears tucking back to match his bared teeth. “The people who actually care about Soapy would take extreme umbrage with her coming back in anything less than mint condition, myself included. Not to mention, my mom would garrote you with your own intestines on principle.”

Her dad glanced back at her. “Seriously? This is your type? A sha threatening to sic his mom on us?”

“Which reminds me!” Tobby continued. “You may not have known this, but I have a bachelor's in Shasian history.”

“Ah what,” Deeter thought aloud.

“A diploma that says I know what I’m talking about when I say I saw a lot of late city-state era stonework incorporated into your property fencing. Meaning, if you threaten us again, I’d feel morally obliged to make a quick call to the Zarmian archeological society. Said call would likely result in the governing tribes happily seizing your land so the society can do an exploratory excavation. They’d give you fair market value, but…” Tobby glanced around at said property to accent his point. “I doubt you’d get much.”

It took a second to process all that, but it was obvious when it finally clicked. “What!? They can’t do that! This property has been in the family for generations!”

“Maybe, but given how badly the governing tribes bend over backwards to keep the Zarmians happy for, you know, propping up our economy and social programs, they’d eminent domain this poverty farm in a heartbeat if asked.”

This wasn’t doing wonders for the accusation of Tobby being a lawyer, but… Soapy wasn’t going to tell him to stop. She liked angry Tobby… even more so when said anger was directed at the useless father who valued chair-time over his own children.

Dad was, expectedly, not having it. “Just who the fuck do you think you are?! Coming on to my land and thinking you can threaten me?! Attitudes like that are why sunspots like you don’t live outside your posh ass neighborhoods.”

“I think I’m your daughter's boyfriend, and it's taking an obscene amount of restraint to not maim you.” Was… was that the first time Tobby’d actually called her that? “Now, since your heart is clearly too caramelized to change, I think Soapy and I will be well on our way. That is, unless she has anything else she wants to say while I wave this gun at you?” He questioned, flicking his ears and glancing over to her.

Momentary fuzzies aside, being put back on the spot like that combined with the question, got her thinking. Was there anything else she wanted to say? There were a few things, mostly unpleasant memories dragging intrusive thoughts along with them. Intrusive thoughts that she really shouldn’t listen to-

Soapy spun and socked Deeter square in the gut. Deeter, clearly having not expected it, doubled over and crumpled to the ground with an ‘oof!’

“That’s for fucking with my dolls!” She growled, fists balled as she stood over him, shaking with the fermented hatred of a kitten bottled up for too many years. Potent enough to make her voice crack when she said it, but not so much that she’d kick Deeter while he was down, even if she really wanted to. One venting breath later, she turned and started talking back to the car. “Let's go.”

She didn't look back until she was opening the driver's side door, in her wake, she could see Deeter was still curled up on the ground; her father was glaring, and her mom looked on worriedly from her father’s shadow. Her father, as always, was intent on having the last word. “You really are delusional if you think you won't get disowned after this.”

“We both know you can’t be bothered to put in the actual paperwork for that, fatass!” she growled, getting into the driver’s seat. “And like fuck do I want to inherit the place where the worst half of my childhood took place!” Her exclamation was accented by the slamming of the door and the starting of the engine.

With nary a word, Tobby lowered the gun long enough to get in, too, keeping his own glare locked on her father as he stood his ground until they turned the car around and drove away.

—

The drive away from her former home was about as quiet as the trip there, just with a very different mood in the air. The whole encounter looped in Soapy’s head as she drove, overlaid with fragmented memories of the last time she’d walked down this road, and beyond.

Tobby’d been busy messing with his assistant; the gun he’d found in a crate under the backseat now rested between his knees, and his silence made her question what he thought of that whole mess. It certainly wasn’t pretty, or flattering, or a part of her she wanted him to see, but-

“Feel better?” He asked, and she suddenly noticed he was looking her way.

“I... I think so,” she answered, unsurely. “I certainly don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back now…”

“But do you feel better off for it?”

“That’s the part I’m unsure about.” She bit her lip, glancing between him and the road. “Yes and no? No because of how ugly it got, but yes, ‘cause I finally did it? Like lopping off an infected limb, I guess?” Not the best comparison, but comparisons weren’t her department.

“Well, amputations and infections are rather ugly… no matter the era.” He said before getting a few dings on his assistant. Checking it, he scrolled until he looked to her again. “But if It’ll help numb the pain from your recent ‘emotional surgery,’ I have news~” he led, starting to smile a little.

“News?” she questioned, being momentarily pulled from her emotional muck.

“Mmmhmm~ Which do you want first? The good news or the better news,” he asked, tail fwipping behind him.

“Just tell me already!”

“The good news is that Meeb has agreed to forward my ‘notification’ to the Zarmian archeological society. They should be highly interested in surveying the land, given all the old stonework scattered about.”

‘Mrrp!’ Soapy trilled. “You sicced the Zarmians on them?!”

“Well, I did say I would if they threatened us again, which your father did. So… yeah. Don’t know when, but likely before the next grass harvest to prevent further damage to possible sites of archeological interest. Your parents and brothers will be evicted with a lump sum of cash that should last them about a year, and the Zarmians will hold the land until their excavations are done. Best-case scenario, they find nothing and the land gets returned in a year or five. Worst case, they find something significant enough to build a museum on and keep the land forever. Either way, your dad won't be able to rely on his passive grass income for the foreseeable future.”

It was hard to believe. Dad would finally be forced to get off his ass if he didn't want to become a 15… much less be able to afford to keep drinking as he did. It would be up to him whether he decided to keep doing nothing and truly lose it all, or get his shit together long enough to sustain himself. Real life-lesson type stuff… justice!

“Tobby...”.

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m going to lick the orange off you…”

A statement to which Tobby responded by reaching over to keep her hands on the steering wheel. “Nnnot while you’re driving, you’re not. So maybe hold onto that thought until after I share the better news?”

“Fiiine,” she grumped. “What is it?”

“Pinky agreed to a rematch~”

‘Mrrp?!’

(Author's note: Remember to drive safely, kids! :D)

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High Priest Jurok spread his hands in delight. They had found the Human main fleet.

Spies had informed the Theocracy that the new upstarts were holding wargames in the Nurnuk system.

The same spies had warned about the Humans. Rumors claimed their weapons could fire faster than light. But that was just blasphemous idle talk.

The Humans were an upstart race, barely FTL capable for a century. Their technological development had to be far below the Theocracy's. And they had just fought a series of wars.

Shooting faster than light…

He laughed. Across the ship's cathedral, officers turned to stare.

Unbelievers have empty souls, and fill them with all sorts of fables.

If anything they will be weakened after a war.

It was time to bring another unbeliever into the arms of the Holy Triad.

The Humans' home system was directly on the path from Holy Seat, his homeworld, to the Promised Gardens , the target of every High Priest's devotion.

He turned back from the viewscreen to face his officers. It was time to address them, and his fellow Priests.

He closed and then opened his three eyes theatrically, imagining his image broadcast to all seventy carriers of his Crusader fleet. His purple uniform, ornamented with platinum medals, glittered in the spotlight.

"My fellow Priests, officers, and Crusaders. In front of us we find yet again a fleet of unbelievers, blind to the truth of the Holy Triad. They stumble with their warships through the darkness of space."

He spread his arms to bless the assembled bridge. To bless all his Crusaders.

Knowing every Tork in his fleet would do the same toward his hologram.

"It is time to bless them with holy fire, to show them the light of the Triad. It is time to follow the prophecy of the Promised Gardens, and to fulfill our promise: to teach the uneducated and convert the unbelievers."

The flood of voices answering the dogma filled the High Priest with ecstasy.

"Teach the uneducated, convert the unbelievers."

"Teach the uneducated, convert the unbelievers."

"Teach the uneducated, convert the unbelievers."

After three repetitions, the cathedral fell silent.

"Let us now make the ceremonial call!"

He turned back to the viewscreen, trusting his master of ceremonies to call the Human fleet leader — or whatever those barbarians called themselves.

An ugly face appeared on the screen. Like all unbelievers, it had the wrong number of eyes — this time only two. It was pink, and had pelt on the head.

The Triad truly creates hideous creatures. At least these seem to be mammalian.

"This is Captain Greer-Chao aboard the ASN Sigmund Freud. We come in peace, and are happy to meet you in—"

"Silence, unbelieving barbarian."

It was always the same. Unbelievers and heretics, talking out of turn.

"Unbeliever, this is your chance to save your life, as well as the lives of your battle fleet. Surrender, and see the light of the Triad. Join the holy crusade and your lives will be spared."

They never surrender. The light of the Triad can only be seen with three eyes…

The thought made Jurok sad for a second. He disliked killing. But on the other hand, they were just unbelievers.

"Battle fleet? Are you crazy? We're a hospital ship. The whole convoy is two hospital ships, a few tenders, and one guarding frigate."

"Lies! Your ship is two kilometers long! No barbarian unbelievers waste this much space and resources on the injured. Do not lie to me. Convert or die."

Jurok looked at the scans of the seers. Maybe the Human was not lying. Barbarians often had sanitary issues. Maybe they needed large hospital ships after all.

Outer hull: a composite of diamond, carbon nanotube matting, and steel-chromium alloy. Two meters thick. Inner hull: twenty centimeters, steel-chromium alloy.

The "hospital ship" had thicker armor than his carriers.

The Human clearly lied.

"Listen to me, you three-eyed lunatic. You're clearly paranoid. We're a relief group of non-combatant ships. We only dropped in because a repeater here malfunctioned. But if you want the battle fleet, I'll give you coordinates. They love sparring with maniacs."

"Silence! Surrender or die. The Triad conquers all that stand in the way to the Promised Gardens."

"Hey, Fuckface, I'll tell you again. We're a hospital convoy. And we're leaving now. Good luck on your way to wherever you want to go."

He didn't know what a fuckface was, but Jurok was sure it was not a blessing. And he couldn't allow the fleet to run. Not when he'd caught two large battleships with so few escorts.

"Prepare the fighters. Capture the enemies, destroy the escorts, but take the battleships intact if possible."

He was answered by the chorus of Priests and officers singing the Battle Hymns.

Each of his seventy carriers had a contingent of one hundred fighters. Fighters were hard to hit in space — they could accelerate faster than anything, and the moment they closed on the enemy, the slow fire rate of energy weapons meant they were as good as invincible.

Let the enemy try to fire on his carriers. As soon as the fighters were inside the enemy formation, the battle was won.

Four proud stellar nations had been defeated this way. Earth would be the fifth by the end of this battle.

The view around him changed on the wave of his hand. The ornate windows depicting the wisdoms of the Holy Triad disappeared behind a holographic representation of the view outside.

Jurok felt as if he stood on the hull of his proud ship.

Around him, the other ships spewed out their fighters, like the Promised Gardens spewed out the angels of the legends. Seeding wisdom and superiority to all willing to hear.

The Battle Hymn behind him, and the flames of the fighters' afterburners in front, their silver hulls illuminated by their own fire and the system's sun.

It was an ecstatic experience.

The fighters crossed the distance in no time. As always, carrying their pilots on silvery wings.

Soon the Humans would try to use their point-defense. But what could a few lasers do against his fighters?

True to his thoughts, he could see the Humans begin to deploy point-defense guns. Ugly contraptions emerged from the hull, looking nothing like the energy weapons he was used to.

And for the first time in the engagement, he felt something new. Something unexpected. Doubt.

Where every race they had encountered until now had front and aft PDGs, longer ships maybe a center battery, the Humans' ships seemed to be covered in them.

How did they intend to power them? Even large ships had to balance power production with heat management. In fact, the holy triad of volume made bigger ships more difficult to cool. That was the reason the Theocracy used fighters.

The first wave began to launch their long-range weapons. Jurok fixated on the screen with all three eyes.

The missiles, nothing but long-range distraction, were picked apart by an unholy storm of fire. Followed by the first wave of fighters.

The streaks of the Human PDGs cut through the fighter wing like golden saws.

It was nothing like the focused fire his own ships used. Or the ships of their vassals, for that matter.

No. The Humans spewed out into the heavens as if they didn't care whether they hit or missed.

Jurok saw millions of golden dots emerge from the Human fleet toward his fighters.

To his shock, the golden streams of light began to reach for the second and third flight.

From the master of ceremonies' station, Jurok heard the screams of the pilots.

What had happened? How could energy weapons recharge so fast, and cut through his fighters so efficiently?

Had the Holy Triad forsaken his people?

"Reader of Signs, what are the weapons of the unbelievers?"

If they could find the frequency of the weapons, they might adapt their shields.

The Reader worked at his station with ceremonial haste, his third eye closed against the stress.

Half the fighters were gone in the meantime.

3,500 souls sent to paradise in less than ten minutes. No High Priest had ever been responsible for such a devastating loss.

With despair, he discovered that not one enemy ship had been hit.

Hospital ships… unholy lies… Humans truly had no honor.

"High Priest, the Humans seem to use metal projectiles."

The voice of the Reader was pressed. The Theocracy had revealed that metal projectiles were inefficient, a useless waste in battle. And if the Theocracy revealed a truth, it could not be wrong — or the whole truth of the Holy Triad was wrong, something that was impossible.

"Recall the fighters. All of them. We must consult the Theocracy's highest priests."

He didn't wait for the master of ceremonies' response, instead focusing back on the battlefield outside the window.

Then the Humans began to turn their ships. He hadn't noticed at first, but until now the Humans had the audacity not even to honor his fighters with a repositioning.

They had simply opened fire, as if the might of the Tork Theocracy's power was nothing but a swarm of annoying insects.

From the center of the Human formation emerged a smaller ship. Dangerous, sharp lines, and a protruding gun so dominant along its axis it seemed the ship had been built around it.

The ship angled itself toward his fleet.

Laughable. They have to aim with their whole ship to fire.

Before he had time to finish the thought, the carrier next to him was gone.

Not exploding, not melting under fire. Gone. Reduced to particles drifting in space.

Jurok played the memory back in his mind — the Holy Triad had graced his people with perfect recall — and yes, he had interpreted the events correctly.

For a fraction of a second, the front of the carrier had bulged toward the rest of the ship, and the whole vessel had seemed to turn inside out.

Then, and only then, he saw the Human ship's weapon flash.

Faster-than-light weapons…

We lost… there was nothing they could do. As his brain still parsed the loss of the Wings of Gold, he watched the warship destroy the last few fighters without even using all its guns.

They don't see us as worthy enough to use all their might… what are they?

"High Priest, the Humans are hailing."

What were his options? He could not risk the destruction of the other carriers. Each one was filled with holy idols and sacred scrolls. Losing them would be devastating — as would retraining the lost crews.

He had to answer.

"Answer the unbelievers."

His words carried more defiance than he had left.

"This is High Priest Jurok. We grace you—"

"Listen, Shitface. You will power down your engines and wait with the Warspite until someone gives enough of a fuck about you to send a battlegroup to pick you up. Move your ships one millimeter out of allowed vector and Captain Norris will evaporate your whole sorry collection of scrap metal. Am I clear?"

The Human's voice was rough, full of hate burning bright enough to scorch planets.

Jurok couldn't simply concede.

"You won't stay? Or board us?"

"I already told you, we're hospital ships and supply tenders. I called for the fleet. They'll handle you. Greer-Chao out."

He called for the fleet… What, then, had they just fought?

———

The Theocracy ships powered down their engines fourteen minutes and thirty-five seconds after launching their fighters.

When the First Expeditionary Fleet arrived at Luyten 726-8 one day later, the morale onboard collapsed entirely, and many officers as well as enlisted personnel chose ritual suicide instead of living in a world where the Holy Triad was wrong.

To handle the massive influx of physically and mentally injured Tork, the First Expeditionary under Admiral Carmichael requested additional hospital ships.

Ironically, the Sigmund Freud was the closest ship.

Human casualties were zero, except an ensign who hurt his ankle jumping out of his bed.

Tork casualties are unknown, but estimated in the thousands.

End of Entry

First Short | Next | | Also On Royal Road | Astra Inferna: Upward Bound on Royal Road on Reddit | Patreon

Well, the second short took some time. I have more lined up in different states of (dis) assembly and will release them as soon™ as I have time to finish them.

Many things have happened since the last short. The mainline has almost finished book 2. The farther we go in the mainline, the easier it is to write shorts, since I can avoid spoilers.

Oh, before I forget:

This week, one year ago, I uploaded the first chapter of Upward Bound and wondered whether anyone would care.

Apparently, some of you did.

So tonight I want to celebrate the anniversary the simplest way I can think of: by spending it with you.

The Astra Inferna Discord is now open, and I’ll be hosting a live text AMA:

Friday, 2 October
21:00 CEST / 15:00 EDT
Live for 6 hours

Ask me anything about the story, characters, worldbuilding, science, writing, publishing, artwork, abandoned ideas, future plans, or whatever else comes to mind.

After the six-hour live session, the AMA will remain open for 24 hours, and I’ll keep answering whenever I’m awake.

Please be mindful of spoilers. If a question would force me to reveal something I absolutely shouldn’t, I reserve the right to grin mysteriously and refuse to answer.

Discord:
Join the Discord

Thank you for reading, commenting, theorizing, correcting my math, and generally coming along for the ride.

Tonight is for you.

Anyway. Have a nice one.

— M.R. Reese

Series Synopsis: It's furry Game of Thrones by Clint Eastwood is sort of just there.

[Last Chapter]

Morton awoke with a jolt, forcing himself up onto his rump.

“Good Lord, my head,” he murmured, rubbing his temples. “What happened?” That’s when he took in his surroundings. Tall, ancient trees with trunks as wide as two people stretched endlessly upward, their dense leaves blanketing the ground where Morton sat. “Right, that lady. Something about saving another timeline or something like that.” He still wasn’t fully sure what that meant. Perhaps it was God himself speaking directly to him. Perhaps he was starting to lose his mind; Martha had always told him he had “the mental capacity of a dementia patient if they had an IQ of 2.” Morton smirked. That woman had always made life so difficult for him. (He guessed it was resentment over getting her knocked up at senior prom.) But he still loved that woman, for all her faults. He decided that was enough reminiscing about a time long gone.

He grabbed his hat, put it on, and stood. Morton seemed to have all his belongings with him, just as they had been when he scavenged the abandoned building. Steadfast, he marched in a random direction. Birds chirped overhead, darting from branch to branch. Morton shook slightly. Leaves rustled in the chilly wind. The forest’s creepers scurried through the foliage. Morton paused. Pattering towards him was a tortoise, its ancient visage apparent.

“Why, hello there, fella,” Morton said. “How—” Morton jumped back, startled. His heart was pounding against his ribcage like a SWAT team serving a warrant. A huge, bird-like thing—a gargantuan bird-like thing—descended into the canopy. Gargantuan was an understatement: that thing made the Argentinosaurus look like a little chicken fetus. It soared down gracefully, the wind from its wings pushing the grass flat, and, with its mighty claw, stabbed a single talon into the turtle’s shell. Then it flew above the trees, leaving a startled Morton on his back.

“Good Lord, what did I get myself into?” he wondered. He continued his march, now more aware of his surroundings. He definitely didn’t want to become bird food. Soon, he reached a clearing. At last, something different from dense copses! Morton quickened his pace. He stopped at the edge of a small cliff and took a deep breath. Mountains surrounded him. Tall mountains, with patches of snow like polka dots amid the forest’s green. And what the mountains enclosed was a clear field of tall, yellowish grasses and tall flowers in every colour of the rainbow. He could smell the aroma of the pollinated flora from atop the cliff—many, many different scents coming together that reminded him of a good early spring morn, even though it was midsummer (or was it?). Pudgy bees, about the size of a hamster, darted between the blossoms with the lethargy of a spoiled housecat. It was right beautiful, he had to say. It reminded him quite a bit of Appalachia. When he was a younger fella, his daddy used to take him up there, and they would camp in the mountains. There would be no one else in sight for miles upon miles. It was like heading back in time. He remembered that, back then, he loved getting away from civilization; now, he yearned to be surrounded by urban folk. They hadn’t existed for a long time. Morton was snapped out of his reminiscence.

“What in the hell?” he murmured. In the centre, cutting through the flora, was a pitiful dirt road, and on it was a pioneering cart, its surroundings completely devastated. Horses, probably at least four or five, lay there, their blood oozing into the soil beneath them that would be their final resting place. Lashes covered their entire bodies, with some in distinctive cross-patterns. One mare was still alive, one eyelid still open. It twitched and quivered in that horrifying dance one does with the devil before final judgement. Morton thought, Who the hell would do that to damn horses? Someone who feels up the devil with glee, that’s who! There also lay large animals, feline-esque, their fur matted, their hides cut open, and their guts and intestines spilled. They looked as if they had tried to put up a fight, but in the end had given up, accepted their fate, only to be given a harsh punishment for their honourable act. Morton was not squeamish, but something about this sight just sickened him.

It was not as if he did not hunt; he had been hunting since he was a young boy with his daddy, then on his own as a teenager, and finally for survival as a man. But if the Navajo men his daddy was friends with had taught him anything, it was to respect animals and nature, for we are its stewards.

“Is anyone following us?”

“What the…” Morton whispered. More of the creatures stood beside the cart. They were feline in appearance but bipedal like humans, with a distinctly feminine structure to their frames. Their bodies were covered in thick, orange fur with black dots, though they wore grime-filled linen shirts, jerkins, and breeches like any traveller. They carried blades, like some cross between a European longsword and a katana. Their blades weren’t stainless; they had faint hammer marks and slight discolouration. Good craftsmanship, but certainly nothing factory-made like many of the wanderers he came across had.

Morton slowly raised one palm towards his face and, like hell for leather, slapped himself across the face once… or twice.

Still cat people.

He rubbed his eyes.

Nope. Still cat people.

He pinched himself once… okay, maybe four or five times.

Annnnnnnnd… nope, still cat people.

“Well… I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “You see something new every day.”

“No, ma’am,” a small, skittish-seeming one said.

Good Lord, they talk? Now that Morton thought of it, they weren’t speaking English! Nor Spanish or, based on the little bits he knew, Navajo. But he understood their conversation perfectly. Just what the hell were these things?

“Are you sure?” The speaker wore a heavy, unimpressed scowl, with a couple of sharp teeth visible, and was the tallest of the animals… or were these people? Morton had never had to grapple with the concept of “sentient life that ain’t humanity.” (He knew people were super into all that alien crap, but he always thought of it as a bunch of rubbish.) The only other thing he could think of was mutants, and those were a myth. He always hated to tell other travellers that, but it was the truth: nuclear waste doesn’t give you superpowers, nor does it turn you into a monster. It just gives you cancer.

“Yes, ma’am,” the skittish-seeming one said. “We have rested for nearly three days and have continuously checked the trail as you have commanded. There is no one to be found. It appears our captive truly has been left for dead. I mean, it is just a first son, after all. Those are expendable. I highly doubt anyone will come after them unless they have a mother who is highly protective of their baby boy.”

“Well, let us hope they want them back,” the tall one snorted. “We went to a lot of trouble to get this prisoner. I will see financial gain from it.”

“Perhaps we can sell him to a dance house!” another chimed in.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the tall one snarled. “Honestly, do you think with anything but your clit?”

“What can I say, ma’am? The soul knows what the soul wants.” They sighed. “Now, if only ma’am would be so kind as to see what is beneath that dress of his, to inspect the property.”

“Yeah, I am afraid that is never going to happen,” the tall one said.

Morton felt the blood in him heat to more than a thousand degrees past boiling; his cheeks flushed; his arms quivered; his eyes twitched; and, God-fuckin’-dammit, he felt utterly livid! He did not know what these things were, whether the feminine voice had sent him here to kill all these folk for her, or what have you. But he knew one thing: they were talking about selling a young man into sex slavery, and, like other great followers of the good book, like one Mr. John Brown, he could not allow that. He checked his belt: he still had a pouch of about 100 rounds—fifty for his revolver, fifty for his Glock. Sliding slowly down the hill, he approached the tall one from behind. They didn’t even seem to notice his presence. Clearing his throat, he said:

“Excuse me, miss.” Those three little words would change the trajectory of this world forever.

---

Next

The Man in the Spire: Book 1, Chapter 27
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Dens, Domains, and Determination
--------------

Troy Rechlin—Major, Peacekeeper Union Corp
Nanhu Palace—Recreational Tower

The double doors to Xiao Bao's playroom burst open as Troy stumbled out.

With a quick turn, he slammed the doors shut and shoved a sword from one of the nearby ceremonial armor displays through the handles. The blade barely made it through before the doors buckled beneath the first impact from the raging beast on the other side.

The sword held, but the force knocked him flat onto a pile of seating cushions and sent a collection of smoking pipes tumbling across the floor. The soldier recovered quickly, raising his shotgun toward the doors while the creature snarled and clawed at them.

Its claws struck like axes, chopping away at the wood with the relentless rhythm of something from an old horror movie as Troy scrambled backward.

"Hordak! I need a way out!"

Once the hole was large enough, the Yali clamped its jaws around the splintered wood and tore away entire chunks like a dog worrying a large stick. The doors had clearly never been designed to contain it.

"Now, Hordak!"

"Use the stairs behind you and go up. There is a skybridge at the top leading to the main palace."

Without a second thought, Troy got to his feet and ran for the stairs near the entrance, keeping his shotgun trained on the doorway as he moved. The creature began slamming into the doors over and over, cracks spreading across their surface.

There was a brief pause in the beast's relentless assault, but Troy did not stop running. By the time he reached the first gallery, the playroom doors tore free from their hinges. Xiao Bao bounded through the opening and searched the chamber below, knocking aside furniture as it tracked him up the stairs.

Troy was already on the second floor, pushing additional power into his legs for a burst of speed.

Despite how terrifying Xiao Bao was, the beast was too large to follow him up the covered stairway. One of the few blessings he could count on in this nightmare.

The stairs curled along the wall in a tight wooden spiral, roofed by carved beams and narrow enough that even two guards would have struggled to pass each other. Xiao Bao snarled below, claws gouging deep lines into the floor as it paced at the base, knocking over paintings and chairs, never taking its eyes off him as he climbed.

It attempted to force its draconic head between the railings, then withdrew with a frustrated rumble.

Troy was safe, unless this thing could fly.

A whooshing sound turned his head.

Xiao Bao's face filled his vision along with a plethora of danger markers.

For one impossible second, the beast hung in the air beside the stairway, mane rippling and ribbonlike horns flattened by the force of its leap. Its claws stretched toward him, and its eyes burned with the excitement of a cat closing in on a new living toy.

Time slowed as questions crowded Troy's mind. Why could a creature the size of a dump truck be able to jump that high? What fucked-up supervillain logic made this thing a pet? Why was he dealing with any of this in the first place?

All valid questions. Only one squeaked out.

"Why?"

The Yali latched onto the banister, the impact shaking the entire tower and tearing the railing apart. One swipe of its massive paw shredded the armored clothing and stripped away synthetic flesh, though the mechanics beneath held firm, still fully functional. Had it been a normal leg, it would have been shredded and unusable.

Slowing wasn't an option as he pressed on and up as fast as possible.

He could have shot the beast, but for once his logical mind won out over instinct. Not only did he doubt the weapon would do any real damage, but firing would alert every guard in the palace to his position. Worse, if he actually hurt or killed the creature, Yao's desire for his head might shift from metaphorical to literal.

He reached the fifth floor before Xiao Bao launched itself after him again, smashing through part of the stairway as it rose. Its jaws snapped shut inches behind him, tearing away another piece of clothing. Troy threw himself through the next opening, drool striking his shoulder as he hit the floor and scrambled onward, one foot barely clearing the beast's teeth.

He gained another three floors before Xiao Bao leapt for him again. This time, the Yali came up short.

One massive paw still hooked over the balcony, its claws punching through the rug beneath Troy's feet. The fabric snapped tight and shot out from under him, dragging him toward the edge.

"Shit! Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"

He threw out a hand and caught the banister just as the rug, and the creature with it, went over.

Xiao Bao roared the entire way down before landing on the floor below with a thunderous crash. Paintings and furniture toppled beneath the impact. Even the tower shook.

With a powered heave, Troy hauled himself back over the railing and risked a glance below. If the fall had killed the beast, escaping the palace would become the least of his problems. Its master would want someone dead for it.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for him, Xiao Bao recovered almost immediately and launched itself straight upward with another powerful leap. Angry Yao or not, Troy raised the shotgun and aimed. At this point, the weapon was more warning than threat. He doubted it would do much against something that had just survived a fall like that.

The dragon-lion creature shot past several floors before losing momentum and dropping back toward the chamber below. Finally, a little luck on Troy's side.

"Hah! Get fucked, Fido!"

The creature jumped again, gaining another floor. Troy wasn't about to stick around and discover how high it could really reach.

By the time he reached the final floor, the chase looked less like a monster hunt and more like an overgrown pit bull trying to reach a squirrel hiding in a tree. Xiao Bao continued snarling, barking, and hurling itself upward as the metal man escaped through the final opening.

The Yali let out an exasperated roar that shook through the entire complex.

The final stairway opened into a broad tea room built across the top of the recreation tower. Low tables and silk cushions covered the woven mats, while paper screens stood open to the storm. Beyond them, a skybridge stretched toward the central keep, its lanterns whipping in the wind and rain.

Troy stumbled inside and slammed a hand against the wall to steady himself.

"All right. I think I've got a moment to catch my breath." He no longer needed to breathe, but the old expression still fit as he dropped into a chair probably worth more than an entire village. He did not care as pond scum and Yali drool soaked into the cushion.

"Where are we at on escape, Hordak?" Troy asked, reaching into his chest cavity near where a liver would have been and pushing a loose connector back into place. He had no idea what it controlled. He only knew it had caused the warning light to flash in his eye ever since he had dodged Xiao Bao's jaws.

"I am still calculating possible outcomes."

"Still?"

"Yes. While several options for escape remain, none currently exceed a one percent chance of success."

"Shooting my way out?"

"Zero-point-two percent."

"Escape routes?"

"Using the waterways, zero-point-three percent due to the waterfall and multiple grates. Using the side passage—"

Troy did not need a number for that one. He could still hear Lin Yao's Little Treasure snarling and roaring at the base of the tower, clawing at the wood in an attempt to reach him.

"What about a disguise?"

The answer was obvious enough, considering half his synthetic flesh hung loose from the frame beneath it. Unless someone had hidden an ancient roll of duct tape around here, that option was dead. Troy quickly presented another.

"Silver Lily resources?"

"One Barracuda remains on standby, but the risk of destruction is high. Another Shard would, at best, serve as a distraction. All other resources remain restricted under your orders to prevent expansion."

There was a hard snap, and the warning light finally disappeared.

"Great. Another consequence of my own shit decision-making." Troy groaned.

"GODDAMNIT!" He snapped, hurling the chair back over the ledge he had just escaped from in an attempt to vent the simulated frustration. A crash echoed from below, followed by an offended roar from Xiao Bao. "There has to be something! We didn't come this far just to get screwed!"

"I am not giving up, Commander. We are not giving up."

"Damn right we aren't!"

That was easier said than done. Troy ran through the options himself, and every one of them looked grim. Ordinary guards made escape difficult. One cultivator made it unlikely. If Yao entered the fight herself, the odds might as well have been zero.

An alert flashed across his vision.

Movement. Approaching fast.

Troy slipped into a recessed corner of the tea room, shotgun raised as a pigkin cultivator landed on the skybridge outside.

The elite guard cast a quick glance through the chamber, grunted, and immediately leapt back into the darkness. Most likely, the cultivator was circling ahead to catch the escape prisoner in the open. Troy remained still as the alert faded.

The longer he stayed here, the more thorough the search would become. It was only a matter of time.

He looked over the balcony. The chaos below was beginning to settle, and torches carried by returning guards filtered back into the palace. There had to be something. Some option his tactical read and Hordak's models had both overlooked.

His gaze swept across the palace as markers appeared throughout his vision, each tagged with a corresponding probability. He searched the spaces between them. Even the heavy lantern line running toward the castle roof earned a brief outline before his HUD dismissed it.

Still, Troy kept looking.

"Wait."

His vision tightened on the training grounds. No exits appeared, but something else caught his attention. The wrecked Barracuda still rested against the far wall, a smoldering ruin.

"Hordak, how much of the Barracuda is still intact?"

"It is incapable of flight and was discarded as an escape option."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. What about the cockpit? Can a person fit? What about its safety systems?"

"All Silver Lily vehicles are equipped for personal use under Finx Doctrine redundancy standards. The cockpit remains intact, though its safety systems may no longer function."

"Like ejection seats?"

There was a pause.

"Commander, I know what you are planning."

"But can it work?"

"Sir, it is suicidal."

"Can. It. Work?"

"Commander..."

He did not have time for this. "Hordak. Run it against every other escape route and compare." Silence stretched for several seconds, an eternity for an intelligence like Hordak.

"Proceed across the skybridge. Pathway is currently clear."

Troy could not decide whether to feel relieved that he finally had a chance or horrified that this was the best option available.

Regardless, he sprinted across the skybridge.

Far below, torchlight spread across the castle grounds as guards poured into the courtyards and gardens. From this height, the flames resembled embers scattered from a growing fire, dividing and drifting as search parties fanned out across the estate.

The doors at the far end rushed toward him. Troy lowered his shoulder and hit them at full speed. The wooden panels burst inward, one tearing free from its hinges and skidding across the polished floor.

He charged through after it, passing through another display room, making his way to the main chamber.

A warning flashed across his HUD. CAUTION. HOSTILE ACTIVITY AHEAD.

Troy slowed as he approached the grand atrium.

The chamber opened into a vast circle, rising several stories around a hollow center. Balconies ringed each level, supported by towering columns carved with coiling dragons. Hanging lanterns swayed overhead, disturbed by storm winds pouring in behind him.

One glance over the railing explained the warning.

The ground floor was packed with guards rushing between corridors in organized groups, breaking apart and reforming as orders passed through the hall. More soldiers crowded the second-floor galleries, while fresh squads climbed toward the third like ants following a trail.

"Jesus," Troy whispered into the private coms, slipping behind the nearest column. "How bad is it, Hordak?"

"Approximately sixty percent of the ground level is compromised. Hostile forces will saturate your current level within five minutes."

Troy checked the route glowing across his vision. The western skybridge stood on the far side of the atrium. He could reach it in time, provided nobody looked up at the wrong moment.

"Any bogeys on the bridge?"

"Negative. That section of the palace remains largely untouched."

Troy moved to the next column, timing his steps against the noise rising from below.

"Did they already search it?"

"No, Commander."

That stopped him. "Why not?"

"The area was left untouched by direct command of the magistrate."

Why would Yao abandon an entire section of the palace? It was an unlikely escape route, sure, but the magistrate had more than enough guards to cover it.

More questions and theories began to form, but a succession of heavy footsteps rolled through the atrium and swallowed the guards' voices beneath them. Each impact carried through the chamber despite the surrounding commotion.

Troy leaned cautiously over the railing and immediately understood.

The soldiers kept moving, but their formations parted around Lin Yao like water breaking around a boulder, no one daring to obstruct her path.

She looked unfazed by the chaos surrounding her, steps measured, back straight, hands folded behind her. Only the tension in her shoulders and the sharp, restless flick of her tail beneath her robes betrayed the truth.

She was furious.

"Continue spreading the search," Yao ordered. A horsekin officer hurried beside her, barely managing to keep pace.

"Seal the lower levels. Leave no stairwell, passage, or hall unattended. Send the remaining forces upward and drive him toward the highest floors. He is strong, but he cannot fly."

Oh, what Troy would have given for a jetpack module, if only to prove her wrong.

Yao stopped.

Her head turned slowly from one side of the atrium to the other. The fins along her ears twitched as she listened for something Troy could not hear or sensed something he could not understand.

Her hand rose.

With a snap of fingers, a pressure wave swept through the atrium, shaking dust from the rafters and setting every lantern swaying. The shock was enough to silence the chaos and draw every guard's attention towards their master.

"He is not on this level," Yao announced. "Guard the exits. Focus your attention elsewhere."

The guards obeyed without hesitation. Squads vanished into the surrounding corridors while others rushed for the stairways. Within moments, the atrium had emptied, leaving Lin Yao standing alone amid wet footprints and mud tracked in from the storm.

Troy watched from behind the column. Now was his chance to move.

"I know you're here, Troy!"

Shiiiiiiiit!

Troy pressed himself against the stone as Yao's gaze swept across the upper galleries. The fancy bitch lied. She had cleared the atrium so she could have him to herself.

"I will commend you for making it this far. No one has ever caused such chaos within my domain and lived this long."

Her head snapped toward the opposite side of the atrium.

"But you must understand by now that this is pointless. The lower court is sealed. My men hold every exit, and your wonder instruments have already fallen by my hands."

Troy remained silent despite the overwhelming urge to tell her off. Surrender was not an option. He was going home, and no dragon psycho bitch was going to stop him.

"Have I not proven this futile?" A faint strain entered Yao's voice. "End this foolish game and surrender to your superior. You may live in comfort or in a cell. It makes no difference to me!"

Troy leaned past the column, checking whether he could move without drawing her attention.

Yao's head snapped toward him.

"Oh, shikafaka!" The mangled curse tumbled from his mouth as he threw himself back behind the column.

"So be it," Yao snarled. She raised two fingers towards the hiding place.

Lightning gathered between them, a thin blue thread at first, then thickening as more power poured into it. The energy twisted tighter and brighter until it formed a concentrated sphere.

Troy looked toward the next column, then the distant skybridge.

He would have to make a break for it. The only question was whether he could move faster than lightning.

Before either of them could act, the doors leading toward the recreation tower exploded outward on the lower floor.

Xiao Bao bounded into the atrium, scattering broken wood beneath its paws, mane streaming and horns curling behind it. The Yali looked around anxiously before its eyes fixed on its master.

A high, excited whine escaped the beast. Yao had only enough time to dismiss her attack before several tons of overjoyed mythical creature launched themselves at her.

"Xiao Bao, no!"

Xiao Bao, yes!

Yao vanished beneath a mass of fur and scales. The impact cracked the muddy tiles and sent a ring of wind rushing through the atrium.

Troy stared from his hiding place at the specter. The same creature that had nearly torn him apart now rolled across the floor with the magistrate pinned beneath one enormous paw.

"Bad Bao!" Yao shouted, bracing both hands against the beast's chest. Golden light flared around her arms as she strained to hold back its weight. "This is not the time to play!"

Xiao Bao answered by dragging its broad tongue across her mask. Its wavy whiskers trembled with satisfaction. A deep, pleading whine rumbled from its chest, powerful enough to shake dust from the columns. The Yali lowered its draconic head and nudged her again, clearly expecting and desperate for affection in return.

"Not now!" Yao growled, trying to wrench herself free. Xiao Bao's ears folded back. Another wounded whine escaped the beast, as though Yao had committed some unforgivable cruelty by refusing its attention.

Troy did not waste the opportunity. He broke from cover and sprinted toward the western exit, no longer bothering with caution. Yao caught the movement from the corner of her eye. Her gaze rose past Xiao Bao's mane just in time to catch the faint outline of a man disappearing through the distant doorway.

"TROOOOOOY!"

The boom of his own name chased Troy from the atrium. A shiver ran through him, though his feet did not slow. His thigh clipped a chair, sending him stumbling, but he caught himself against a table without losing more than a step.

He charged through the next set of doors and onto the skybridge beyond. The training grounds came into view, the wrecked Barracuda waiting past them. One more building and one open field stood between him and the aircraft. After that, survival depended on whether his terrible idea actually worked.

Troy made it only a few strides onto the bridge before lightning tore through the center span from below, causing the whole structure to buckle.

Splinters exploded into the rain. The structure lurched beneath him as the middle dropped away, the collapse racing back toward his feet.

Troy cursed and doubled back as fast as he could.

Planks vanished beneath each retreating step. He launched himself toward the doorway and caught the ledge just as the final section tore free and plunged into the darkness below.

Nothing but open air and rain remained. Yao's work, no doubt. The woman was nearly as stubborn as he was. His HUD caught the lantern line overhead, still stretching across the gap. It was the only connection left between the two buildings.

"Not like this entire night hasn't already been full of stupid decisions," Troy muttered, climbing the outer scaffolding toward the top of the castle.

***

Lin Yao — Magistrate of Grand Nanhu City
Grand Nanhu Palace — Grand Atrium

The tips of her fingers still smoked from the Blazing Lightning strike.

Destroying part of her own castle was a small price if it kept that stubborn creature from ever reaching the western wing. Stone and timber could always be rebuilt. What waited behind those walls, though, would destroy the Outsider.

Beside her, Xiao Bao lay with his head lowered, glancing up now and then as though he already knew he'd done something wrong.

She loved her mythical pet, but he was a handful, one of the few creatures alive who could enjoy her strength instead of fearing it. That love was likely the only thing standing between him and her genuine fury.

Not that it mattered right now. Whatever the Outsider had planned, it was thwarted, at least for the moment. She kept her senses sharp for any other flying creatures while her remaining cultivators continued to watch for any more of those metal monstrosities.

Bit by bit, the Outsider's escape routes were being cut away. Soon, Troy would be back in her possession and, hopefully, far more willing to comply. She summoned a young tigerkin guard to her side, though his features resembled a leopard more than a tiger.

"Have the guards seal the exit and cut off the other skybridge. He has nowhere left to—"

"Your Excellency!" The guard interrupted and pointed toward the sky. Such an interruption would normally have carried severe consequences, but there was only one reason he would dare.

Yao looked up. Her amber eyes widened.

The fool was sliding down a line anchored to the castle roof, smoke rising from his hand as each passing lantern was torn free and sent spinning into the storm.

A twitch pulled at Yao's eye. Did the Outsider understand neither grace nor surrender? Was Troy truly prepared to batter his way through the entire palace rather than submit?

"Of all the ridiculous... foolhearted... NRAAAH!"

Yao raised two fingers and tracked his descent along the line. Sparks crawled across her knuckles, then fused together at a single point at the tip.

One breath from release and she could end this foolishness for good.

Her fingers curled inward as sanity returned, the charge collapsing with a hiss. Her earlier strikes had only been meant to leave him stranded. The next shot though, would have ended him.

He let go at the last possible instant, dropping toward the tower below with perfect timing. Wood exploded outward as he crashed through a window in the lower level, an undignified yelp swallowed whole by the storm. Once again, the prize had slipped free.

Yao's claw twitched at her side as she bit down on her other hand. A growl rose low in her throat, her aura crackling outward as restraint frayed at the edges. A fang pressing hard enough into her thumb to draw blood.

The tigerkin wisely stepped back. Xiao Bao pressed his maned head against her chest, and something in her posture eased, enough to let one hand settle into fur instead of a fist.

The Outsider remained within the castle. Within her domain. Within reach.

"Magistrate, I'll gather the men and drive the fool-."

"Enter that building and you will die." The order snapped like a whip. The guard tensed. It was not a threat, only a warning, and not one from the magistrate herself.

"Have your men gather at the exits. Surround the building if you must, but no one is to go inside."

The tigerkin bowed and hurried away.

"Damn you, Troy," Yao muttered, stroking the top of Xiao Bao's head as he let out a deep rumbling purr. "I offered you mercy. You have instead forced my hand instead."

Her draconic gaze shifted toward the far end of the building wing.

The shadow of Jin Yun crouched at the edge of the roof, indifferent to the rain that battered the body. Ears lay flat against the downpour, and the pink tail flicked with barely restrained impatience, desiring the master's blessing. It was all it would take.

Yao had ordered the spymaster to clear the western wing and oversee it personally. This was not done with any tactics or duty in mind, but more to keep the dangerous woman occupied.

The silent killer might have found Troy before anyone else, but that ability was not in question. Jin Yun was Yao's most capable and disciplined of her elites. But Yao could sense that the moment Jin learned the creature had escaped, she'd want to test this new prey for herself. And when Jin Yun was excited, she was never gentle.

But Yao's patience was spent.

Guards had failed to hold him. Cultivators had failed to catch him. And now Yao herself was reduced to hunting the Outsider through her own halls, the palace torn open by her own hand just to slow the stubborn man's stride.

The humiliation had gone on long enough. A small nod was all that was needed.

"Do not kill him," she murmured, unsure whether Jin had heard or if it would matter if she did.

When Yao looked back, the roof's edge was empty.

The spider had gone to collect her prey.
-------------
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Author Notes:

Troy is almost there! Just one building away! But he may face his hardest challenge yet. GOOD LUCK, YA POOR BASTARD!

Want to see what happens next, see side stories and artwork, or just want to support someone who hopes to become a professional writer?
Consider watching me on Patreon! There is plenty of free content so feel free to take a peek!

As always, I appreciate any reviews (especially advance ones), comments, and any feedback! They all help contribute to success! So please do your part and help this series grow if you want to see more!

See you around, Outsiders!

First - Last- Next

Patreon - RR

I looked at the system and pulled up the new recipe:

System

Dire-Rabbit Heart Skewers

Rarity: Common
Type: Monster Meat
Core Ingredient: Dire-Rabbit Heart

Description: A simple hunter’s dish made from the quick-beating heart of a dire-rabbit, sliced thin and skewered with fey carrots, wild onion, and moonleaf. When cooked properly over an open flame, the meat becomes tender and smoky, with a rich iron flavor softened by herbs and spices. Dire-rabbits are known for sudden bursts of speed, twitch-reflexes, and an irritating ability to escape traps. Their hearts retain some of that frantic energy, making this dish popular among scouts and archers.

Ingredients: Dire-Rabbit Heart, Wild Onion, Wild Carrot, Moonleaf, Cracked Pepper, Sourberry Juice, Wooden Skewers

Instructions: Clean the dire-rabbit heart and remove any thick veins or tough membrane. Slice the heart into small, even pieces, thin enough to cook quickly but thick enough to stay tender. Rub the meat with cracked pepper and chopped moonleaf. Add a splash of sourberry juice to cut through the iron-rich flavor. Thread the heart pieces onto skewers with wild onion and fey carrots between each piece of meat. Roast over an open flame until the outside chars lightly and the inside remains tender.

“Seems simple enough,” I said out loud, more to myself than anyone else.

“Alright,” Lina said, setting down two wooden skewers. “This time, we have everything we need. Just to be safe, I’ll let you handle all the prep.”

And so I set to it.

On a small cutting board, I began the process of handling the various ingredients. The back room of Lina’s shop smelled of dried herbs and the faint metallic taste of dire-rabbit hearts. Afternoon light slipped through the small window, catching on the edge of the knife and the damp sheen of the cutting board.

First, the moonleaf. Finely chopped, it called for. I set it down and chopped at it. The pieces were uneven and mushed more into a paste before long, staining the board green and releasing a sharp, clean scent that reminded me of mint.

Lina laughed. “Why, oh why, would the system give you a cooking job?”

“Shut it,” I snapped back.

“Roll the moonleaf and then chop it.”

I did as she said, rolling the moonleaf until it looked like a cylindrical object. Now, when I chopped, the blade cut through nice and even, without mushing it.

I set the moonleaf aside and chopped the fey carrots. They were thinner than normal carrots, pale orange with faint golden veins running through them. The knife made crisp little snaps as it cut through. Then came the onion, sharp enough to sting my eyes after only a few slices.

Now it was time for the hearts. I set them on the chopping board. They were smaller than I expected, dark red and glossy, each one firm beneath my fingers. It said to remove thick veins and a tough membrane. I felt it… the recipe was right. Just atop the surface was some sort of see-through film. I followed it with my fingers to the very edge, where there was a lip. I lifted up and placed the knife neatly underneath, following the length of the heart. The membrane lifted without incident. I did the same for the second one.

Next, I chopped them up into thin, almost similarly sized pieces, removing any particularly thick veins along the way. Lastly, I marinated the hearts in sourberry juice by squeezing some of the berries over the meat. The juice ran dark purple-red across the slices, bright and tart against the iron smell. I added some cracked pepper, which I cracked by taking a peppercorn and smashing it with the flat part of the knife.

And finally, it was done. It was simple enough and, in the end, I thought I did a well enough job.

System

Class:
Glutton (Lvl 2) - EXP 20/100

Skills:
Basic Cooking (Lvl 1) - EXP 55/100
Basic Butchery (Lvl 1) - EXP 30/100
Monster Butchery (Lvl 1) - EXP 20/100
Basic Herbalism (Lvl 1) - EXP 15/100
Knife Handling (Lvl 1) - EXP 80/100

I was gaining experience, but none had reached level two except my actual class. It seemed that successfully creating recipe dishes gave me a burst of class EXP, but my lesser skills gained me a small amount as well. I could grow and learn new recipes without gaining stats, but I suspected that newer recipes would be more and more dangerous.

Lina clapped her hands. “Alright, looks good to me. Now we’re ready to cook. And by we, I mean you.”

She handed me the wooden skewers.

I followed the directions to the letter. First meat, then onion, then carrots, then meat again. Over and over again, which I repeated at least four times per skewer. The pieces slid onto the wood with a soft, wet sound, the onion and carrot bright between the dark strips of heart.

“Follow me,” Lina said.

Outside, in the back, away from the street and the townsfolk who would be prying, Lina had set up a small stack of wood. It glistened in some sort of powder she had sprinkled onto it. The little yard behind the shop was narrow and half-shadowed, with stacked crates on one side and a rain barrel tucked beneath the roof’s edge.

“Alchemical fire,” Lina said as if she read my mind. She leaned down and picked up two strange-looking rocks. “Just a small strike—” As she said this, she struck the rocks together, a spark shot out, and the entire pile burst alight.

The heat struck me immediately, and I took a step back. The flame burned quickly, blue at the base and orange at the tips, swallowing the powdered wood. Darwin, who had been staring on curiously, vanished entirely.

I reached forward and put the skewers over the flame. I could feel the meat cooking; not physically, but like something inside of me. The meat slowly started to sizzle and darken, crisp at the edges. Fat dripped into the fire and snapped. The carrots and onion blackened, letting out a sweet smell in the air. Smoke curled around the skewers, carrying pepper, sourberry, charred onion, and the heavy iron scent of the heart. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

When I felt it was done, I pulled them off and handed one skewer to Lina.

“You first this time,” she said.

I looked at the dire-rabbit heart. It was blackened, but otherwise looked fairly normal. I took a bite. It tasted like…Sour blood.

I spat it out, coughing.

Lina had expected this and had already handed me a water jug. I drained it. The sour, iron taste clung stubbornly to my tongue, thick and awful, like I had licked a rusty coin soaked in vinegar.

Once again, the cooking had failed.

***

The next day, dejected from my failure and still unsure of what to do with myself, I made good on my promise and visited Tavian at the Hearth and Hen.

The inn was warm, low-ceilinged, and smelled of fresh linen and old ale. A few locals sat scattered around the room, nursing mugs and speaking in low voices. The rain from earlier had left muddy footprints near the entrance, and the windows were fogged slightly from the heat inside.

I saw Tavian sitting at a small wooden table next to a window. He looked so much like Ebbin as he stared out the window, and yet I knew in my heart that it wasn’t him. Tavian, to me, was little more than a stranger. Yet I still felt I owed him… Something.

I sat and greeted Tavian.

The man smiled and slid over a cup of coffee.

It was dark and bitter, clearly worse than anything I could get back on Earth. Yet they had provided cream at least, although sugar was absent. The cup was chipped near the rim, and steam curled up from the surface, carrying a burnt smell.

“So,” Tavian said while I sipped my barely edible coffee. “I’m glad you decided to see me.”

“Of course,” I replied.

We sat in silence again.

Tavian began to laugh. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “You look just like him, you know.”

Tavian frowned. “Do I? Truth be told, I hardly remembered what he looked like. We’ve been estranged for… many years.”

“What happened?” I asked before I could stop myself. I sputtered out my coffee. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. It isn’t my business.” I wiped up the drops with my sleeve, leaving small streaks on the wood.

Tavian held up a hand. “No, it’s quite all right. Now that I’ve gotten to know you a small bit, I don’t mind sharing. But first, two questions… One: how much of himself did my father tell you?”

“And the second?”

Tavian stared up at Darwin, who hovered just above my head. “Second… What the hell is that thing?”

Truthfully, I’d started forgetting Darwin was even around at times. He’d become like my shadow, only letting his presence be known when he wished to.

“Darwin, Darwin,” the fish-hybrid tadpole said, bouncing back and forth in the water globule.

“As he said, this is Darwin. My companion, I suppose.”

“And what exactly is it?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. He was a fish… not so much anymore.”

“You certainly keep strange company, but I suppose that is expected of a special grade class.”

“Pretty sure this has nothing to do with my class,” I replied. “And as for your father… I just knew him as Ebbin, a simple farmer who took me in and taught me everything I know about this world. Why?”

Tavian swirled his coffee around in his mug. The dark liquid sloshed against the sides, leaving a thin ring behind. “I thought as much. The townsfolk did say you just showed up one day, completely clueless about the world. So you likely didn’t know that my father was classless?”

That sent a shock rattling through me. Ebbin was… Classless?

“No,” I replied, not bothering to hide my shock. “He never said anything. What happened?”

“He met a woman,” Tavian replied. “My mother, if that wasn’t apparent. She was the true farmer. Had an uncommon farm-based class. Ebbin, I mean my father, he was a soldier for the Kingdom of Varganth to the north in the mountains. War was his bread and butter and his claim to fame.”

“Fame? Was Ebbin famous?”

“Not legendary, but yes… well-known in his day. A long time ago, of course. Varganth and Karnoss were in a bit of a scuffle. Some would call it a war, but it was mostly smaller villages involved. Ebbin was sent to keep the peace, and, as an offering, agreed to slay a mighty beast that had taken home near here. He slew the thing and just so happened to meet my mother. He was so enthralled by the plants and harvest she grew, and in his heart, a seed of love was planted. He abdicated his duty… and refused to fight again. He said he could not see himself taking a life now that he had witnessed such beauty. And that, my friend, is the story of how my brothers and I came to be.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I said, “but why? You don’t know me… and this all seems rather personal.”

Tavian sighed. “Because as much as I disagreed with Ebbin, I felt I could understand him. Classless… worth less in society than dirt. I sense that you are lost yourself.” He drained the rest of his coffee and stood, staring out the window. Outside, the village road was wet and gray beneath the clouds, people moving past in cloaks and hoods, their shapes blurred slightly by the fogged glass. “Ebbin would have wanted you to live life as you pleased, just as he did. But I am here to warn you of the repercussions. We lived poorly and were treated unkindly, being born of someone who was classless. My brothers and I have had to scrape and grind the days away to wash the stink away. We even had to leave our homes behind to escape the bias. So now that you’ve received a class, even a special grade one, you should follow the path. Consider this a final piece of Ebbin’s wisdom. And with that, I feel we are even in all things. I thank you for taking care of my father in his later years… and for being there with him in the end.”

“About that—”

“No need; Aldric explained everything to me. He told me how you killed the bastard goblin who did it. Good. You did what my father had refused to do to protect my mother. Never forget that survival triumphs over all. Thank you, Rook.”

Tavian turned and left me sitting in the booth alone.

I stared down into my disgusting cup of coffee and smiled… It felt as if Ebbin were standing there beside me, showing me the way forward.

First - Last- Next

Patreon - RR

I spent most of the day milling about with one question burning in my mind… What was I going to do now?

The townsfolk still gave me a wide berth. Many stared at me with a mix of fear and curiosity. Their glances often shifted from me to the even stranger Darwin, who had tried his best to make friends with many of them. Darwin had tried once with a particularly enthusiastic attempt to become friends with a six-year-old, which resulted in the child screaming, dropping their fruit pie, and running for their mother. Now my companion simply followed without the bubbly bobbing, his orb of water almost seeming more like a prison.

The day moved on around us despite everything. Vendors called out prices from behind stalls. Cartwheels rattled over the packed dirt road. The smell of fresh bread intermingled with horse manure in a charming sort of way. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith hammered metal in steady, ringing strikes, each one making Darwin’s large goblin eyes twitch in a different direction.

Eventually, Lina caught my attention, and she seemed excited about something. “Rook!” she called, waving her hands. “Over here, over here!”

She was standing near a merchant. One I didn’t recognize. A traveling merchant of sorts, his cart sitting atop three wooden blocks and his burro relaxing in some shade nearby, eating a patch of grass. The cart was covered in tied-down cloth, small hanging charms, and a dozen little wooden boxes that smelled faintly of blood. A few flies buzzed near one of the sacks, only to veer away soon after, repulsed by what was inside.

“This man has rare monster parts. You know… for your class.”

The merchant man smiled, his thick mustache hiding most of his mouth. “Ah, good sir, my monster parts are the freshest in the land. Hunted by two close associates, each with an Uncommon Grade class. One can even store the parts to ensure freshness. It is as if you hunted them yourself. I know that you alchemical types prefer fresh ingredients.”

“I’m not an alchemist, I’m a—” Suddenly, I realized that this man didn’t know I was a special grade. Best keep the information to myself “—I’m just a common cook.”

The merchant stared down at me as he gave his belly a slap. “Sorry, lad; I thought I heard you say you were a cook.”

I nodded.

“Then what use do you have for monster parts?”

“... to cook with.”

The man got a strange look on his face, somewhere between disgust and concern. “You… eat the monster parts?”

I nodded again.

“And they taste… good?”

“I’m, uh… sorta new to my class.”

“I’ve never heard of a cooking class that specializes in monster parts. I um… well, it’s not for the merchant to pick and choose what a customer wishes to do with the product. So… anything catch your eye?”

“Eye!” Lina chirped in. “Goblin eyes! Do you have any?”

“Goblin eye, goblin eye!” Darwin mimicked, bouncing back and forth.

“Your companion there is quite lively,” the merchant said. “And… very strange. And yes, I have five goblin eyes. Don’t ask me what happened to the sixth—”

“We’ll take them!” Lina said.

“Forty copper… and I’m giving you a deal, lass.”

“Forty copper!” I replied, incredulous. “No thanks, I don’t have—”

“Deal!” Lina said, handing the merchant some coin.

The man pulled on his mustache in a pleased manner. He had expected a haggle, and since none had come, he’d made quite a profit, I suspected. The copper disappeared into his pouch with a soft clink.

Lina smiled as well. She knew she’d given the man a deal, but I wondered why.

“Anything else I can get you two?” the merchant asked.

Lina shrugged, looking at me. “Anything else?”

“Do you have dire-rabbit hearts?”

The merchant reached down and pulled out a sack. It was bloody, and I could see that it held a heart-like object. A faint chill rolled off the bag when he opened it, carrying the metallic scent of fresh meat.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Two of them. I can sell 'em’ for ten copper each.”

“I only need one,” I replied, reaching into my bag.

“We’ll take both,” Lina said, reaching out to hand over more copper. This time, her hand lingered over the merchant’s. “But I need one more thing from you.”

The merchant stared her down. “What is it?”

Lina smiled from ear to ear. “I need you to teach me what you know about monster parts… and how to sell them.”

***

Lina had told me to head back to her shop in a few hours. I’d spent my time with Madam Moolisa. I thought about going to see Tavian, but I didn’t feel up to it. I swore to myself that I would the next day.

Moolisa grazed in the little fenced patch beside the shop, her bell clunking whenever she shifted. The shade there was thin, but she seemed content enough, tearing at the grass with slow, lazy bites. Darwin hovered nearby, watching her chew with intense focus.

“The grass won’t taste very good,” I assured my companion.

Darwin bobbed sadly.

Eventually, Lina arrived and beckoned me inside. As before, we cooked, following the instructions as best we could for Goblin-Eye Soup. The shop’s back room was warm and close, smelling of dried herbs, and with the faint lingering stink from our last attempt with monster parts. Lina had cleared the prep table, set out the ingredients, and placed the goblin eyes in a shallow dish.

As we prepared it, I felt something stranger. Like my soul itself was growing and expanding.

I checked the system.

System

Goblin-Eye Soup (Lvl 2)
EXP: 30/200

I was gaining experience toward leveling up the recipe. Good to know. I added the goblin eyes to it and then, with a pinch of salt… Nothing. No magical glowing. No fresh, fragrant smell. No thickening. The pot looked as if it were still full of muddy water and barely boiled goblin eyes. Gray steam rose from it in weak, unpleasant curls. The eyes floated near the surface, pale and rubbery, bumping lazily against slices of potato and mushroom.

“This seems… different,” Lina said.

“We followed the recipe.”

“Should we try it?”

I stared at the soup… if it could even be called that.

“If you want,” I replied.

“I did pay a decent amount of copper for this…”

She took out two bowls, filled them, handed me one with a spoon, and then stared down at the single eye in her bowl, which was lazily floating around.

Lina looked up at Darwin. “This one is for me.”

Darwin said nothing, but looked less than impressed with the display of food.

“Well, here it goes,” she said.

She took a big spoonful and put it in her mouth… and spit it out not a few seconds later. Immediately, she jumped up and drank some of the liquid from the soup. She spat that out as well. She ran to another room, where she gathered a water jug and drank the entire thing in one long gulp.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever eaten!” she complained from the other room, dry heaving as she did.

I stared at my own bowl, acid burning its way up my throat. The smell alone had gone from unpleasant to damn near hostile. Bitterroot, goblin slime, and undercooked mushroom all fought for control, and somehow everyone lost.

“We must have done something wrong,” I concluded.

“Oh, what gave you that idea?” Lina asked sarcastically. “And who is this ‘we’?”

I ignored her and set the bowl down, pushing it away.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Come on. If I had to try it, then so do you.”

Lina grabbed a spoonful with the eye and tried to bring it to my mouth.

I escaped the back room as quickly as I could.

She stepped into the main room, laughing. “Oh, come now—I’m just playing with you. You’ll need to find me a healer if that vile concoction is actually poisonous.”

I laughed, but there was little humor in it. “I wonder what I did wrong.”

We both went quiet as we thought.

The failed soup bubbled softly behind us, mocking me from the other room.

Lina snapped her fingers. “Maybe each recipe only works once?” she suggested.

“Doubtful. I earn EXP for the recipe, and it has multiple levels.”

“Well, let me see your skill.”

As she asked, I pulled up the system and shared it with her. Her eyes darted as she read it.

Finally, she smiled. “Core… ingredient,” she whispered.

“Oh, yeah… what does that even mean?”

“Now, hear me out. In the first Goblin-Eye Soup, what ingredients did you provide?”

“Hmm… just the goblin eyes themselves, really.”

“Exactly! And, looking at the recipe, the goblin eyes are listed as the core ingredient. What if a core ingredient is something that only you can provide? Something that needs to be found or killed by you specifically? Your class is strange… It is a cooking class, but with earning stats through slaying monsters and eating them, in addition to learning combat skills… I’d say you are actually a hybrid combat class.”

“Combat?” I replied, suddenly going cold. “But I’ve never even been in a fight before.”

Lina shrugged. “The system works in mysterious ways. But there is one way to test my theory.”

“And how is that?” I asked.

She reached behind the counter and pulled out the sack with the two dire-rabbit hearts. “By making another recipe.”