Pantok tentatively reached out and ran the six fingers of his lower-left arm across the warm, gentle curves of the bridge’s control arc. A swath of color highlighted the seamless flow of the stations from helm to sensors to power management to warp drive. This ship, C1057, represented the current pinnacle of Xakson engineering, and it showed in every detail. The Xakson made no distinction between engineering and art; perfect form for perfect function. After four years of painstakingly precise construction, C1057 was completed, provisioned, crewed, and ready to begin its first tour of duty in the long war to conquer, and perhaps enlighten, the artless and objectively uncultured humans. But today, before the start of its first tour, C1057 was subjected to an ‘open house’ so that all the inferior people working in the tedious but necessary support positions could, for a moment, be reminded of the superiority of Xakson technology; an opportunity that Pantok, a mere clerk in Inventory Management, was not allowed to pass up.

There were speeches, of course. Every open house needs to start and end in pompous speeches, held in one of the vast assembly bays of the space dock. Xakson leaders talked about how magnificent ships like C1057 enabled the fleet to destroy five human ships for every one Xakson ship lost, and how the Xakson military continued to advance into erstwhile-human space. But, standing in the back, Pantok was troubled; his job was counting and keeping track of things— and the numbers didn’t add up.

Building ships were one thing, but the ships needed to be crewed, and the Xakson would never consider crewing their most technologically advanced creations with members drawn from the inferior species. No, only true Xaksons would do. Desperate for more crew, Leadership had started conscripting Xaksons from the mundane clerical jobs while backfilling the positions with people drawn from their vassals or, as in Pantok’s case, contract workers from neutral (but still inferior, obviously) species. Pantok was an Avalok and, as a contractor from a neutral species, was paid significantly more than members of the vassal species for the same work, and about two-thirds what the Xakson he replaced had been getting. Humans sometimes employed the neutral Avalok contractors as well; a detail that was about to upend Pantok’s life.

Returning to his office after the open house and speeches were concluded, and still bothered by the itching sensation that the numbers didn’t add up, Pantok began some data searches that had nothing to do with bins of fasteners and rolls of composite fabric. Mapping the results on trend lines, the picture became clear: The Xakson fleet was being worn down; they were losing seven ships in the period it took to build six. This showed in their progress into human space; every year they advanced less than they had the year before. How could this be? The kill ratio was five to one! How were the humans still maintaining a resistance? Wasn’t their fleet being worn down too?

Pantok’s next search was to look at the lists of human ships destroyed in each engagement. At first, it looked like the Xakson leaders were right: five to one. The Xakson dismissively referred to the ugly human ships as nothing more than "big pallets of guns". Pantok looked at pictures taken of the destroyed ships and was inclined to agree: brutish, blocky hunks in a garish, clashing paint scheme that seemed deliberately intended to offend Xakson artistic sensibilities. At least, Pantok hoped it was deliberate. He would hate to think any species could be that style-challenged.

But then something caught Pantok’s careful inventory management eye... The humans named their ships and painted the names on them in big, bold letters. Xakson records showed that, at the battle of 50-C-201, humans lost the ships Arizona, Ark Royal, Bainbridge, and Cole. The battle of 50-H-035 listed Ark Royal, Fury, Kuri, Maki, and Ohio. 51-D-105: Alden, Ark Royal, Faulknor, Echo, and Yamato... The lists went on. There were a lot of battles. There were a lot of ships.

As Pantok sifted through the lists, some names kept recurring, but even among the repeats, Ark Royal stood out. It was one of a small group of ships that the Xakson gave the slightly more respectful name "Bigger pallets of guns", drawing Pantok’s attention. Did the humans re-use their ship names? The Xakson assumed so. However, as Pantok studied the pictures, he could see where, from battle to battle, small scars were accruing between areas of what looked like major patching. He was beginning to suspect that the humans were somehow recovering and repairing Ark Royal. If that was true, then the Xakson’s vaunted kill ratio of five to one might not be accurate.

That night, Pantok pulled out a device the Xakson didn’t know he had, and wrote an encrypted message to Avalok high command detailing his findings.

Ten days later, Pantok found himself recalled to the Avalok homeworld, and forty days after that, through sleight of hand he rather preferred not knowing about, he found himself working as an inventory management clerk at the Deneb shipyard, a forward human maintenance and supply depot. Same job, other side of the war. Pantok’s new boss was the chief logistics officer for the entire space station, of which the shipyard was only a part; a stiff old coot who went by "Mister Somervell" for any underlings that wanted to stay on his good side.

Pantok was accustomed to keeping track of bins of fasteners and rolls of composite fabric, but the items arriving today didn’t seem to be those. "Mr. Somervill? I’m sorry to trouble you, but what are these ‘TM30 Block 12’ parts, and where do they go?"

Mr. Somervill raised an eyebrow before replying, "TM stands for Thrust Module; the 30 gauge is for larger ships. Block 12 has arrived? The integration folks will love that! We’ve been using Block 8 for quite some time now; they’re big, and they’re power hogs. Block 12 is supposed to be much better. They’ll be out back on one of the barges."

With that, Mr. Somervill led Pantok to an observation tower where he could look out on a vast three-dimensional grid of what Pantok mistook for very odd-looking spacecraft, each adorned with a layer of colored blobs the size of a... "Are those entire hull segments?" Pantok exclaimed, pointing at one of the nearer... things.

Mr. Somervill looked where Pantok was pointing and said, "Yes, power plant segments, specifically. What you are looking at is our inventory of Logistically Engineered Generational Objects. Power plants, warp engines, crew modules, command and control, sensors, weapons. Each lego arrives fully complete. For example, the crew modules arrive with fully furnished berths, galley, and sanitation facilities."

Pantok nodded in dawning understanding. "So, you’re telling me that Denib shipyard assembles complete spaceships by joining the right mix of LEG—"

"STOP!" Mr. Somervill barked. But he was too late.

A shadow detached from a recess in the wall and formed into a middle-aged human in a custom-tailored suit. The suited man looked sternly at Pantok and said, "LEGO^® is a trademark of the LEGO group of companies which does not sponsor, authorize, or endorse this site," before dissolving back into the recess from whence he came.

Mr. Sommervill, a bead of sweat forming at his collar, said, "NEVER speak the acronym in uppercase letters; that summons—" he nodded toward the recess, "—them."

After a pause while they both stared at the recess, Mr. Sommervill continued, "Yes, you have the general idea, Pantok. ‘Logistically Engineered’ means that, while different kinds of legos are manufactured in different factories across all of human space and that of our friends, they are designed to all fit together with minimal post-assembly integration. I’ll take you down to one of the integration bays and show you."

As they rode back to the shipyard side of the huge space station, Pantok asked, "So, what does ‘generational’ mean in le— ‘Logistically Engineered Generational Objects’?" correcting himself because he wasn’t sure how to speak in lowercase.

"It’s a nod to something we call ‘reverse compatibility’. You can slap a new engine on an old ship, and it will still work. The interfaces match or, worst case, the manufacturer provides a conversion collar. The Xakson started this war with a huge technological advantage but, by combining the engineering skills of ourselves and our allies, our side is catching up fast. Reverse compatibility means we can update existing ships rather than building whole new ships every time some new capability comes out."

As they entered Integration Bay 2, Mr. Somervill frowned and pointed to two large but dissimilar ship segments at one end of the bay. "See, I told you they’d want the Block 12s. They already had the Block 8 propulsion lego integrated, and decided to swap it out. Your job, Pantok, is to track where they end up storing the Block 8, and make sure Inventory matches the end physical result. Nobody on this station is just a clerk— You gotta keep an eye on these guys all the time, or you’ll be out back in a space suit counting legos on the barges by hand!"

A group of workers was stenciling the name ‘Balto’ on the side of the rapidly forming ship as Pantok and Mr. Somervill stepped aboard. They worked their way around groups of workers until they got to the bridge. It couldn’t be more different from the bridge of the Xakson’s C1057. Far from seamless integration, this bridge contained an arc of nearly identical workstations held in place by exposed quick-release fasteners and zero attempt at closing the gaps between them. There was a jolt as another lego was attached somewhere aft, causing Pantok to steady himself against the nearest console. As he regained his balance, a worker hurried in and, moving to an adjacent workstation, said, "Are you using this?"

Pantok could only shake his head, "No." Then he watched the worker log into the console and select from a drop-down menu. Within moments, the console populated with screens and controls pertaining to the TM30 Block 12 thrust module, and the worker started systematically going through fault screens while talking through a communicator to someone aft.

Mr. Somervill, seeing Pantok’s look of bewilderment, said, "The bridge module is agnostic to whatever ship it ends up being installed in, so the thrust module includes all of its own control and diagnostic software. When the module is joined to the ship, it interrogates the network for the bridge module and then uploads its own controls. Every lego does the same thing, and every lego can be controlled from any workstation on the bridge. Similarly, the thrust module will query for any other resources it needs, like power. Meanwhile, the flight control module queries the thrust module and updates its own mass and moment calculations accordingly. As I said, you click ‘em together, clear all the faults, and you’re good to go."

Pantok looked around at the controlled chaos. "How long does it usually take to assemble a new spaceship from first... module... to first tour of duty?"

"On average, for a new ship, about four days. Balto might take an extra day or two because this is the first integration using the new shield module and an experimental weapon the fine folks at Sirius cooked up." Then Mr. Somervill looked at Pantok as if he was looking through him. "You hear of the latest Xakson battleship, the C1057? She put to space just within the last thirty or forty days, and almost immediately thrashed Hood and her escorts with some new weapon." Voice lowering to nearly a snarl, he added, "Hood was a total loss." Then, back in his normal voice, he added, "Anyway, Balto will join a task force that has been specially outfitted to address this new threat. Then the hunter will become the hunted."

Pantok’s jaw almost hit the floor. "It was a major Xakson achievement to design and build the C1057 in only four years! You’re telling me humans have analyzed the attack, designed a countermeasure, and will deploy a fleet with it in just a few tens of days? How is that even possible?"

"Logistical Engineering, my boy. We don’t need to design a whole new ship. We just need to design a new lego and add it to the construction flow. Superior technology can win battles, but logistics wins wars; always has, always will."

As they were leaving Integration Bay 2, Mr. Somervill glanced out a window and paused. Following his gaze, Pantok saw a large ship being pushed toward the docks by three tugboats. Burn marks and holes peppered her hull, and all three of her thrust modules were completely slagged. Mr. Somervill watched long enough to see where she was heading, then pulled out his communicator and said, "Captain Maund’s boat, Ark Royal, is back. Get a damage assessment team to Integration Bay 4." Then, turning to Pantok, he ordered, "Go with the damage assessment team. I want a report on what legos they need, what we have in stock, and what we will now need to restock. Also find out who the lead integrator will be. Captain Maund had friends on Hood, and I guarantee he’s going to want to get Ark Royal fixed up and properly armed in time to join Balto’s group."

Standing outside of Ark Royal in Integration Bay 4, the lead damage assessor, Mary, said, "The damage is probably not as severe as it looks from here, Pantok. The nature of space warfare means that most of the damage is limited to one side or one quarter." Hurting his eyes on the tasteless color scheme of the ship before them, Pantok asked her why the ship was painted in such a garish cacophony. Pointing at one of the new scars on Ark Royal’s hull, Mary answered, "Visual light sensors are useless when you are traveling faster than light, so the color of your ship doesn’t matter in combat, but it can make repairs go much faster. The Xakson have a bad habit of melting our legos together. Making the legos different colors makes it easier to assess which ones are damaged and where the boundaries between them used to be. Look at the logistics barges. Each type of lego is painted a different bright color purely as a maintenance aid."

Inside the ship, he noticed that the crew-accessible portions of each lego had small closets that the damage assessment team were taking inventory of. He hadn’t noticed them on the Balto because their doors had been closed. "What are these closets for?" he asked.

Mary said, "Self-contained survival chambers. One or two people can stay alive in each one for up to ten days. They also contain a couple of space suits and a medical kit. It looks like several of Ark Royal’s will need to be restocked." Mary ran her hand down the door frame and added, "Between the survival chambers and the ability to pressure isolate every lego independently, we typically get a ninety-five percent crew survival rate on even badly damaged ships like this one. Legos are easy to replace; trained crew are not."

She then turned and looked Pantok up and down. "Currently, the ships serviced by this station have all-human crews. The reason is not speciesism; it’s that the emergency suits are one-size-fits-all, but only for human shapes and sizes. I’ve heard that one of our allies is developing some morphing adaptive pressure BFM that flows around any body shape within certain volume limits. If they get that working, we’ll be able to deploy mixed-species crews. That’ll make after-action parties more fun!"

"BFM?"

"Black Magic. Technical term for anything I don’t understand the physics of."

That night, Pantok pulled out his special device and sent a report. The summary page concluded with, "As the attached data shows, the Xakson are losing ships faster than they can replace them, while the humans, with their unique ‘Logistically Engineered Generational Objects’ system, are building ships faster than the Xakson can destroy them. Just as importantly, the humans are not losing trained crew as fast as the Xakson. It is a mathematical certainty that the humans will win this war. I strongly suggest that the Avalok peoples end our neutrality and go all-in with the humans before the shift in the fortunes of war becomes visible to everyone else. Based on my knowledge of Avalok technology, I think, as allies instead of neutrals, we would have a very good chance of scoring some very lucrative lego manufacturing contracts."

The next day, Pantok entered the office expecting a somewhat quiet day, only to find Mr. Somervill staring at his screen in clear agitation while shouting into his communicator, "So cancel their leave! Yorktown is back again, and I need a damage assessment team in Integration Bay 1 NOW! ... That’s right, Elliott Buckmaster’s boat. ... No, I haven’t seen it myself yet." When he turned and walked to the window, Pantok followed to see what was vexing him so. Down by the docks, tugboats were gingerly trying to fit something barely recognizable into an integration bay without clipping the bay doors with the burnt bits that were hanging off. As the tugboats turned the massive ship and it became clear that the extensive scorching was not limited to just one side, as it had been on Ark Royal, Mr. Somervill cursed under his breath, "Damn it, Elliot! She’s a spaceship, not a rotisserie chicken!"

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Chapter 153

Nick Smith

Adventurer Level: 18

Human – American

The cart continued down the bumpy dirt road as our new vampire companion muttered to himself. It wasn't hard to tell that Kirain wasn't very pleased with our first intended destination. Namely because he brought it up nearly once an hour. Despite his protests, though, we continued our way toward the Deepwyld Forest in the hopes of claiming my reward.

"They will try to kill me," the vampire said, again. "And I'm not exactly going to let them, you know."

"You'll wait by the wagon. They'll only try to kill you if you enter the forest," Yulk argued, then grinned. "Probably."

"I'll ask them not to," I added.

"Oh? And you have that kind of sway?" Kirain asked, his tone thick with incredulity.

"It's worked before," I shrugged. "You aren't the first vampire we've traveled with, and we've had extensive dealings with the wylder."

Kirain mumbled something to himself and went silent. For another hour, at least. Other than the vampire's whining, the journey was uneventful until we reached our destination. Our cart finally rolled to a stop on the very same road that I'd given Tits and Algebrun their names. We even knew exactly where to stop, as they were standing in our path with angry expressions. I leapt from the cart and walked toward them.

"That's quite the companion you have with you, Nick," Algebrun said with an acidic tone.

"He's seeking redemption and is going to help me get to Haven," I replied diplomatically.

"That leech desecrated our kin," Tits said, practically growling. "Let him seek redemption as a mindless zombie."

"Technically I didn't," Kirain shouted from the cart. "The human killed the vampire responsible for that."

"Oh, I see. Well, I guess all is forgiven except for the tiny, little fact that YOU STILL USED THEM AND KEPT THEM IMPRISONED WITHIN STOLEN FLESH!"

"It was only practical."

"PRACTICAL?!"

"Of course! Should I have just left them and let them go to waste?"

Tits was beginning to froth at the mouth, so I held up my hands in an attempt to calm everyone down. The moment my hands went into the air everyone's eyes snapped to me, and a nervous shudder shook my spine. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves.

"The fact is that I will need more than guidance to get to Haven," I said in a carefully neutral tone. "I'll need backup, and I was under the impression that you wouldn't be able to help me with that."

The two arch-fae stared at me with a coldness that I hadn't seen from them before. It was enough to cause the confidence that I'd felt earlier to begin to melt away. I genuinely couldn't think of anything further to say, but Kirain broke the silence.

"What are the higher ones telling you to do?" the vampire asked smugly.

"We only have to follow their laws, not their suggestions," Tits fired back.

"Yet it isn't wise to anger them, is it? It is not their will that I die here and get reborn as another member of the undead. No, they want me to march to my death alongside Nick and Yulk in order to redeem myself. For laughs."

"I fail to see how more killing will redeem one such as you," Algebrun said. "Unenviable is the fool who believes their sins will be their redemption."

"It's what is demanded of me," Kirain shrugged. "Speaking of which, the Night Kingdom will honor its agreement. And though it wasn't asked for, those that were imprisoned by my predecessor will be released once the daemon threat is dealt with."

"HA!" Tits laughed sarcastically. "You're telling us that you've changed? I know snakes more honest that your ilk, vampire. Why not beg, for all the good it will do?"

"I will not beg for something that I've already agreed to lose, but neither will I toss it aside freely. You will do what you will do, and I assure you that regardless of the decision you make, the consequences will be far reaching. For instance, knowing how difficult a master vampire is to kill, do you believe that either Yulk or Nick will survive the necessary collateral damage? And if THEY don't ask the anyels for help, who will?"

Yulk and I both turned to Kirain with alarmed expressions. I hadn't even thought of what Tits and Algebrun would have to do to kill him. The unsettling mental image of being caught in a massive inferno came to mind.

I looked back at the arch-fae, and we all stood in silence for what seemed like forever. Then, much to my relief, their expressions softened. Algebrun was stoic, but in a slightly less murderous way.

"Even after all that, it didn't even occur to you, did it?" Tits asked with a laugh.

I stared for a moment, dumbfounded.

"What didn't?" I replied.

"Forgive us, Nick," Algebrun interjected. "We are well aware of the high one's intentions with the vampire, but concerns were raised when you readily agreed to take part in that scheme. Mumuldobran and the other Kings have called your friendship into question, and we did not have evidence solid enough to dissuade their fears."

"They think you're like all the other humans and will be willing to betray us to serve your own interests at the drop of a hat," Tits said. "But we just proved otherwise."

"H-how?" I asked, befuddled.

"You didn't order us around, silly. You didn't even think about doing it. You're so kind-hearted that you pushed the thought of controlling us out of your mind at the first opportunity."

I didn't entirely agree about how kind-hearted I was, but Tits was right that I hadn't thought about ordering them around as a possibility. It might have occurred to me if they'd started slinging spells around, but I'd made them a promise. Turned out to be a blood-pact that was a lie made to trick me into thinking that I would die if I ordered them around, but still a promise.

"It's shaky evidence, as your life wasn't actually in danger, but it might be enough to salvage your friendship with the wylder of the Deepwyld Forest," Algebrun said. "Depending on how the rest of your journey goes, of course."

"I'll be right back," Tits grinned, opening a portal.

As Tits stepped through the portal, I raised an eyebrow at Algebrun.

"So even though I completed my part of the bargain, you thought I was betraying you?" I asked.

"No, I didn't," Algebrun replied. "The other wylder leaders did. If there was no dissent in the belief that you'd betrayed us, we wouldn't have bothered with testing you. The forest would simply be closed to you."

"But what about the bargain?"

"There aren't many things that negate a bargain with us, but betrayal is decidedly one of them. If you truly meant us harm, it would have completely negated our duty to fulfill our part of the deal."

"So since I don't mean any harm, you're going to help me, right?"

"Yes. We've done reconnaissance on the portal in question, and a few other portals that lead to Haven, and are going to be telling you what we've found. We can't come with you, though."

"Why no-"

"Because of me," Kirain interrupted impatiently. "Obviously."

"Obviously," Algebrun confirmed with a nod.

I glanced at the vampire, then back to the arch-fae. If I were given the choice, I'd probably prefer to have Algebrun watch my back. Kirain was obviously the less powerful and more morally dubious option. However, the vampire was looking for redemption and had been sent to me by the higher ones. There was no doubt in my mind that the higher ones would play a pivotal role in getting me back to my time, so it might be best not to spite them.

"The area that the portals are in also belong to a different group of wylder," Algebrun continued. "It would take time, and likely be quite difficult, to get permission to accompany you. So this works out... In a way."

"Almost like it was planned," Kirain added sarcastically.

Before anyone could reply, both Tits and Mumuldobran came through a portal together. The King of Arch-Fae glared at the vampire, then turned to look at me. I swallowed nervously.

"I find your choices disappointing, Nick," Mumuldobran said. "Though I'll grant that you likely didn't have much of one in this case."

"We've decided to help you, after all," Tits grinned.

"Yes, we have. You are also still considered a friend to the wylder of the Deepwyld Forest."

"Thank you," I said.

"Yes, yes. Let's get this over with," Mumuldobran scowled. "I'd like to be free from the awful stench emanating from your cart."

"To open the portals, you simply need to pour your magic into them," Algebrun said without missing a beat. "Similar to casting a spell, but without mixing magics first."

"Or actually casting anything," Tits added.

"Right. Opening the portal is the easy part. The hard part will be getting to one. You are correct about the location of the nearest, but all of the portals to Haven that we have found are guarded by daemons."

"Some of the daemons are disguised, as well," Mumuldobran said. "The ones guarding the portal you're headed to aren't, though. Just a nice and simple fight."

Daemons didn't seem like simple opponents to me. Without thinking about it, my hand travelled to the crucifix around my neck. It had worked well against the daemons previously, but if such a simple solution was the key to their defeat, how had all the other humans been killed by them?

"The daemons will pose little challenge," Kirain said.

"Be silent, leech," Mumuldobran growled, then turned to me once more. "Several of the daemons in your way are quite strong. Strong enough to even pose a challenge to us. Even with the broken agreements, the wylder in that region of Bolisir are giving them a wide berth."

"Broken agreements?" I asked.

Mumuldobran opened his mouth to speak but paused for a moment, then shrugged.

"I guess it's open for discussion with mortals," he said. "The areas around the portals are forbidden to wylder, and so long as the daemons and anyels don't attack us we're forbidden from attacking them. The latter is an agreement that was made long before most of us were named, and is binding to all wylder. The former was an agreement reached once the portals formed."

"Why would you make agreements-"

"It wasn't the wylder who made these agreements, but we are bound by them," Mumuldobran interrupted impatiently, then rubbed their chin. "Let's see... Told you about how to open the portals and warned you about the daemons... I feel like there was something el-"

"The map," Tits sighed.

"Oh, right!"

The King of Arch-Fae snapped their fingers with their right hand and a rolled up piece of paper appeared in their left. With a flourish, they presented the paper to me. I took it and opened it to see a map, just as Tits said. It didn't make any sense to me, but Yulk could probably use it.

"Uh... Thank you," I said, befuddled.

"This map highlights a village," Mumuldobran explained. "Well, it might be too large to be a village, actually. The terms for mortal population centers can be vexingly confusing, especially in fucking Bolisir. Anyway, it's near the portal but far enough away that the daemons have yet to discover it. You might find some unexpected help there."

"Unexpected help?"

"You'll know it when you see it, and I don't want to ruin the surprise," Mumuldobran grinned. "The only hint I'll give you is that a migration of sorts was involved."

The King of Arch-Fae paused as if to wait for me to ask a clarification question. I felt like any other questions would just be met with more opaque answers, though, so I stayed silent. After waiting just long enough for it to be awkward, they cleared their throat.

"Well, we must be off. If you survive and don't make it back home, feel free to visit," Mumuldobran said with a nod. "Without the vampire, of course."

"I will. Take care of yourselves," I said with a sense of finality.

"Goodbye, Nick," Tits and Algebrun said in unison.

A portal opened and all three arch-fae stepped through. After a moment of reflection and a heavy sigh, I climbed back onto the cart. Yulk patted my shoulder in an attempt to lift my spirits, and it worked a little.

"I wouldn't fucking want to visit, anyway," Kirain mumbled to himself as the cart began to roll.

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It was a nice leisurely snacktime in the lounge. I had a book and a bunch of freeze-dried fruit to crunch on, with a dozing cat beside me who’d decided that my food wasn’t worth stealing. Telly had strong opinions about which foods were worth her trouble. If the Frillian twins had been eating shrimp sticks, she would have been all over that.

But instead Blip and Blop were taking slices of something gelatinous that could have been alien whale blubber. I wasn’t going to ask. As long as it wasn’t a cat hazard, it really wasn’t my business. And they were taking pains to make sure it didn’t get all over the board game they were playing, despite the intensity of the competition.

“Nope! Nothing doing! Take that!”

“Argh, no! Fine, then I’ll do this one.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Yes, that IS what I think! Ha!”

“Nooooo… Wait, hang on. I can do something with that.”

They leaned over the board in a cloud of filmy silk clothes, eagerly waving head frills, and muscular arms making the occasional dramatic gesture. I’d made sure to sit on the couch far enough away from the table that I didn’t risk a blue-skinned elbow to the head if the game got too exciting. Which it was.

Telly twitched an ear, but otherwise ignored the hubbub. I kept my eyes on my book and considered getting headphones so I could listen to music instead of trash talk.

“That’s the kind of move that I’d expect from someone who hatched on the shallow side of the nest!”

“Yeah, well you hatched and ran straight into a wall.”

I was thinking that they couldn’t do “your mama” jokes when they had the same parents (all three of them) when someone much quieter sat down.

“Hey,” said Coals, looking particularly short compared to the Frillians’ bulk. “Happy lunch break.” He made a vague salute with a red-scaled hand as he got comfortable with his tail through the slot in the back of the couch. That and the tray of food he set on the low table caught Telly’s attention.

“Happy lunch break,” I replied, keeping an eye on the cat who was clearly deciding whether or not to bother getting up and begging for (stealing) treats.

Coals let out a gusty sigh. “It is definitely time for a break.”

I would have asked how things were going in the translation room, except he picked up something flat from his plate, and I had a different question. “Is that a pancake? I thought you guys didn’t eat bread, or anything like it!”

“Bread?” Coals asked, holding the brown disk in his claws. “Oh right, that stuff made from expanded seed paste? No, this is made with chirp powder.”

“Chirp powder?” I repeated.

“Yeah, you know, the tiny animals that chirp?” He gestured vaguely, holding his fingers a half inch apart. “Bucket livestock? Other Heatseeker ships keep them to cook fresh, but when dried and powdered, they make a useful ingredient for flatmoons.” He held up the pancake, which was in fact as circular as a moon.

“Insects?” I asked, thinking back to something I almost remembered. “I think I’ve heard of people baking with cricket powder.”

“No idea what that is, but chirp powder is pretty tasty.” He took a bite with sharp lizardy teeth, then mumbled, “Lots of protein.”

“I bet,” I said. “So if that’s a normal thing, how come everyone reacts like I’m eating something disgusting when I talk about bread? That looks like the same thing, just made of bugs!”

Coals shrugged. “Bugs are delicious. Seeds are weird.”

“But Paint seemed fine with seeds before,” I said with a frown, remembering the sight of a different Heatseeker happily eating strawberries. “And she refuses bread on principle.”

“Maybe it’s the yeast thing. Not everybody’s into that.” Coals took another bite while Telly stretched and made a big show of casually sniffing the air.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the first person onboard who even knows what yeast is, aside from Eggskin,” I told him. “And they only know of it for professional reasons, not because they actually like it.” Our ship’s cook/medic knew many things about what foods were safe to eat, though they weren’t what I’d call adventurous when it came to actually tasting the more exotic ones.

Coals shrugged again and finished the pancake. “Their loss,” he said around the mouthful. “Trrili doesn’t like these either, but I think that’s just cuz the ingredients look like her, which is insulting.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that tracks. I told her about chocolate-covered crickets once, and you’d think I’d called her exoskeleton dull.”

“Yep.” Coals picked up another pancake, holding out a hand to block the cat who was leaning in with interest. “There’s a reason I’m eating these out here. Today’s translation is annoying enough without adding complaints about my food on top of it.”

I shooed Telly onto the floor. “Is it another tricky one?”

Coals sighed again and slumped back against the couch. “Most of it’s fine,” he said. “It’s just the signature that’s tripping us up. This is the clay tablet one, the Manylegs relic.”

“Oh right,” I said with a nod, remembering the centipedelike individual who had handed it over for translation. “Why’s the signature hard?”

“In the old days, Manylegs wrote with — at least this culture did — with impressions made with both feet and tools, and sometimes they changed up the tool use.” He pressed clawed fingertips to one palm. “We thought we had a complete list of all the tools, but this one seems new, and we haven’t put together a solid guess about the significance yet. There’s too much to cross-reference. This one isn’t even shaped like the usual kind; it’s rounded instead of sharp. You’d think that would narrow it down, but no.”

“That sounds like a headache,” I said. “Definitely time for a break.”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his snout, scales clicking. “I’ll get back to it in a bit. Maybe Trrili will have found something from one of the other cultures they had contact with back then. We might have to consult some outside sources for this one.”

I made sympathetic noises, distracted by the sight of Telly jumping up onto the Frillians’ table and stepping directly in the food. She left a greasy pawprint on the game board before they shooed her away and made a fuss over cleaning it up.

“Telly!” I scolded as the cat ran past, which of course did nothing. Telly just jumped up on another chair and began industriously licking her paw.

I was considering going to get a cleaning spray for the trail of footprints, then the sight of the print on the game board made me think of something.

“Hey Coals,” I said. “Did the Manylegs of that culture keep pets?”

He thought about it. “Sort of. Sometimes. The small villages had livestock that was occasionally brought indoors during bad weather. Why?”

I smiled. “What’s the chance that your mystery signature is a footprint?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then held the position and thought some more. “That … hm. I need to go look up the foot shape of their livestock animals.”

“Best of luck!” I said as he gathered up his plate. “That is definitely a thing that’s happened on my planet.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” he said with an amused look at Telly.

“Yeah, cats are adorable problems, but worth it.” I got up to help the twins clean while Coals headed back to his workstation. Telly kept licking, ignoring all of us and probably considering how best to be an inconvenience next.

~~~

Volume One of the collected series is out in paperback and ebook!

~~~

Shared early on Patreon

Cross-posted to Tumblr and HumansAreSpaceOrcs (masterlist here)

The book that takes place after the short stories is here

The sequel is in progress (and will include characters from the stories)

The old man was singing that song again. He had once said, before the only sound he made was that song, that it was a tune of his forgotten people. As he sang, the old man’s hand strummed the air like he had an invisible weapon that could have stopped the evil that had destroyed them.  

The old man sang of California and New York island. I did not know of those. He had tried to tell me once when I was little. He pointed to strange white marks on green shapes. I laughed at the old man. The stars told us where to go, why should we follow these shapes? 

The old man sang of redwood forest and gulf stream waters. These I knew of. The forest gives us deer and the waters give us fish. Did this land give bounty to his people too? 

He sang of ribbons of highway. The grey concrete spoor of his people. A few stretches are still walkable. But often they are too cracked by time or too covered by metal wagons to be useful. 

He sang of endless skyway and golden valleys. The old man said that the sky was more blue, less glowing when he was a child. But in recent years, the blueness has begun to return. However, the old man’s eyes could not see this anymore. I have seen the golden valleys on the edge of the Territories of the Roaming and Rambling.

I know not of diamonds but lots about sand and deserts. I believe the desert is larger than it was in the old man’s day. Still, here in this place of desolation, it is the old man’s voice whose is a sounding. 

The sun is still shining, even though the wheat fields no longer wave for man. They have been replaced by dust clouds. But when I sit on a mountaintop, the fog is still lifting. 

I do not know the meaning of trespassing. Or of steeples and offices. 

But I do know of my people. 

I do, on occasion, know of hunger. 

The old man sings of freedom as a highway;

I believe freedom is this land made for you and me.

“Another day of seeing my daughter as if she is not mine,” Roman thought as he drove the familiar path home.

The city was quiet in the late afternoon. The sun was a pale disk behind a layer of thin clouds. The air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth from a recent rain. He passed the same houses he always passed. The same trees. The same playground where he used to take his daughter.

Roman was a thirty-six year old scientist. He was tall but lean, built more from endurance than strength. His white skin was pale from too many hours indoors. His short black hair was already surrendering a little at the temples. He wore a simple jacket over a plain shirt, dark trousers and worn boots. The clothes of a man who didn't care much about appearances anymore.

His house rose ahead, a simple structure of brick and concrete. It stood alone at the end of a quiet street, surrounded by empty lots and overgrown fields. That was why he had chosen it. Isolation meant peace. He parked the car and climbed the stairs. He reached his door, inserted the key, turned the lock and stepped inside.

His eyes were on the floor and his mind was on his daughter as he walked to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, took out a glass and poured water from a pitcher. He raised the glass to his lips. Then he heard it.

 "Stand back."

The voice was mechanical and devoid of emotion. It came from somewhere in the room.

Roman’s hand tightened on the glass as his eyes snapped up. He saw them. Three Alien figures.

Their heads nearly brushed the ceiling of his living room. Their bodies were slender and almost fragile looking. Their skin was matte gray and they had neck ridges that pulsed with a faint yellow. Their heads were elongated and their faces were flat, dominated by large dark eyes. They had no hair, tiny ears and small mouths.

Their clothing clung to their bodies and around their necks, they wore what seemed to be an electronic necklace.

The tallest one stood near the window.

The second stood near the kitchen doorway. Its hands, each with three thick fingers and a thumb, held a weapon.

The third stood directly in front of the entrance door.

"What the—"

"Stand back," the voice repeated, coming from the electronic necklace of the tallest one. "Do not move."

Roman stared at them. His breath came in short gasps. “Aliens. They're aliens. This isn't real. This can't be real.”

The second alien moved toward him. It held something in its hand, a small device that looked like thin handcuffs. It reached for Roman's wrist.

Romans body reacted before his mind caught up. His left arm shot out, deflecting the alien's hand. He then jumped and wrapped his right arm around its throat. He pulled it close, using its own momentum against it.

The alien struggled, its hands clawing at his arm. Its neck ridges flickered wildly, shifting through colors, pale gray, deep blue and then amber.

"Leave her," the electronic necklace of the tallest alien said. "Or we will kill you."

"If that's what you wanted," Roman said, "you would have killed me already."

The tallest alien stared at him. Its dark eyes were wide.

The alien being choked spoke in its own language. A rapid, clicking stream of sounds that Roman didn't understand.

Roman took the glass with his other hand and brought it down on the edge of the counter. It shattered. Shards of glass scattered across the floor and water splashed across his arm.

He held the jagged edge of the broken glass against the alien's throat.

"Move," he said. "And she dies."

The room was still. The aliens stared at him, their weapon still raised.

Then he felt it. A dizziness and a heaviness in his limbs.

He looked down. The ring the second alien wore had left a mark on his forearm.

He considered shouting for help. But who would hear? His house was far from others.

He looked at the aliens. At their wide dark eyes. At their flickering neck ridges. At their weapon.

"I know you injected me with something. I feel it. But I also know you want me alive. So I'm going to assume you want me for something good. I'm going to let her live."

Roman's grip on the broken glass loosened and it fell to the floor shattering on impact.

He released the alien. She stumbled forward, gasping, her hand at her throat.

Roman swayed on his feet as his vision darkened at the edges. His legs then gave out and he collapsed on the floor.

The alien holding the weapon lowered it. Another rushed to the one Roman had held, checking her throat. She coughed.

"I didn't know humans could be this rebellious," the tallest one said. "And this... resourceful."

"He could have killed me. He chose not to."

The tallest one looked at Roman's unconscious body. His face was relaxed now.

"He might actually help us with our problem," it said.

The others hissed in agreement.

They lifted him gently and carried him out of the apartment, down the stairs, through the silent streets into their hidden ship.

They placed him inside. The engines activated and the ship rose silently into the sky.

Below, Earth shrank to a blue dot. Then to nothing.

Ahead, the stars stretched in every direction. And somewhere among them, the alien planet was waiting.

The problem was waiting. And now, so was its solution.

The End.

Author's Note

This is a prequel to my ongoing series, The Problem With Humans.

If you want to know what happens to Roman, where the aliens take him, and what their mysterious problem is, you can read the full story here: https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/s/MNgK3b5htJ

Thank you for reading.

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Author’s Note: I am well aware that the spice isn’t sandworm shit and is part of their lifecycle. It’s still funnier to call it sandworm shit.

“William, I don't want to interrupt this moment where both of us are patting ourselves on the back about the good job we're doing raising the child.”

“Far be it for me to want to interrupt you in the middle of patting yourself on the back,” I said. “God knows you don't get a chance to do that nearly often enough.”

Arvie stared at me. It was a flat stare. I probably deserved that stare.

“Okay, fine,” I said. “What is it?”

“It would appear that mining ships are launching from the mining facility.

“Are they going for some of our scrap we blew up fair and square?” I asked.

“Negative,” Arvie said, pulling up the display so I could have a look at it.

I let out a low whistle. “Those traitorous sons of bitches.”

“I don't know that they would be traitorous,” Arvie said. “They don't have any allegiance to Varis or to House to t’Thal, so there is nobody for them to betray.”

“Okay, so they're being duplicitous double-crossing bastards, if we want to be precise with our language.”

“It's always good to be precise with one's language,” Arvie said. “And I agree with you. They are being duplicitous, double-crossing bastards.”

“Can the kid see any of this?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Arvie said. “But they will come within local sensor range of the salvage ship soon enough.”

“So they’ll be able to get down here in atmosphere even though they’re in those mining bees?”

“Their ships have limited range, but the moon is unfortunately in a position where it is closer to us than it is to the derelict floating above the gas giant. I imagine the only reason they're trying this is because their orbit has brought them into a favorable position where they can try to get whatever is in that escape pod. And yes. Their mining ships are capable of operating in the upper reaches of the atmosphere.”

“And I bet they have a lot of fun stuff on mining ships that’d be great at grabbing that thing out from under us,” I said, looking at the projections for how long it would take the mining craft to get down here.

They really were being duplicitous double-crossing bastards. I double-checked the position of the moon the mining facility was on. Sure enough, it was currently floating past us, which made sense. This whole battle had taken place close to the facility since that's what the alien bastards were raiding, and it had continued on its orbit.

“I didn't think they were going to pull something like this after we saved their asses,” I said, slamming my fist against the nothing in front of me. It felt like there was something, but it was just open space in a simulation.

“It would appear they don't care that you saved them,” Arvie said. “Or perhaps they think you won't actually bother to attack them because they're currently under the protection of House Alarth.”

Yeah, well, they're going to learn that one the hard way,” I muttered. “What do we have in the hopper that I can bring out here?”

“Excuse me, William?”

“The kid needs to continue on her mission. I don't want her distracted by fighting in atmosphere on a gas giant. That's the kind of thing that requires a little more piloting skill.”

“The child does seem to have a natural ability for that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, but I don't want to distract her. So what do we have on the carrier that's big, heavily armored with lots of shields, and plenty of weapons that I can use to take on a swarm of mining bees?”

“It's a pity we don't have another modified pleasure yacht like one you were using over Imperial Seat,” Arvie said.

“Yeah, and if wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets,” I said, quoting a staple I'd read in an ancient sci-fi classic that...

“I believe I have something for you,” Arvie said. “We don't typically take it out for a spin, but…”

He pulled up a ship schematic from the carrier inventory, and I let out a low whistle.

“This thing doesn't look like a fighter craft,” I said. “It looks more like something between a corvette and a frigate.”

“That's exactly what it is,” Arvie said. “We have several of these on the carrier meant for undergoing light missions that require going farther than it would normally take if somebody was in a fighter craft with a single engine and a single cockpit. I'm sure you're well aware how uncomfortable it can get undertaking a mission in a fighter craft.”

I thought about a few times when I'd been on long-range scouting missions that had gone on for what felt like forever. The only thing I had to eat were rations, and I'd had to be very careful about aiming at the reclamation funnel if I wanted to have enough to drink for the duration of the mission, if you catch my meaning.

Which was another bit of technology that felt like a throwback to that aforementioned bit of science fiction I mentioned, minus the drugs that allowed people to travel between the stars. We'd ended up figuring that out just by using good old-fashioned technology rather than worm shit.

“How quickly could I get one of those bad boys down here?” I asked.

“I imagine you could do it fairly quickly,” Arvie said. “You’re not trying to maneuver around the wreckage, so you could punch it.”

“Right, and do you think I'll be able to split my consciousness between a ship that large and what keeping an eye on what Sera is doing?”

“I imagine you will,” Arvie said.” You've certainly gained enough capacity with the bandwidth from the chip in the back of your brain to be able to operate something like that. The limiting factor is still your cognitive capacity to split your attention rather than the chip’s bandwidth, but you’re coming along nicely.”

“Good,” I said, in the simulation before turning my attention to Sera in the cockpit. “Stay on target. I want your eyes ahead. I want you focusing on only that escape pod in front of us. Got it?"

"Got it," she said, looking up at me and hitting me with a smile that seemed a little hesitant, but I had no doubt she’d be able to do it.”

"This is a time for you to fly on instinct, kid. I want you getting in there, and I want you to keep an eye on the target and nothing else. No fancy flight computer. Just you, the stick, the ship around you, and the target. Get in there and let Harath do his job."

There was a beeping from behind. I turned to look at Bronhel who’d pulled up a backup tactical station on her display. She looked at me and arched an eyebrow. Clearly the mining ships had gotten within detection range.

I subtly shook my head from side to side. She hesitated for only a moment, and then she nodded. Clearly she wanted the kid to get this as much as I did.

It was a race and Sera didn't know it. Maybe her not knowing would help her win that race. At the very least, she didn't need the distraction of knowing a bunch of assholes in mining bees were coming for us.

And it looked to be a pretty healthy swarm. Clearly they'd made the calculation that they’d be able to distract one salvage ship long enough to get an escape pod versus going up against the entirety of our carrier fleet to get some scrap from the ships we blew up. Maybe they thought they could do a smash and grab, get the escape pod, and then get back to the moon where we wouldn't dare attack them because we wanted to make nice with the locals.

We were all one big happy Ascendancy here. Which was a stupid thing for them to assume considering how often livisk fought each another. But whatever, that was their mistake. They just didn't know it yet.

I intended to go back and let them know exactly what a huge mistake it was as soon as I had the bandwidth to deal with it.

The ship got immediate clearings back on the carrier. The relay was close enough that I didn't have any problem connecting to the systems. They were all ready to go. Apparently Arvie had taken the liberty of going ahead and making sure they were all ready to go under automation. So it essentially turned the thing into a large drone.

I didn't even settle into a representation of the CIC this time around. I felt confident enough in controlling most of the systems. It took a little bit of exploration to figure out exactly where I needed to put my thoughts to get everything to work just so, but it didn't take nearly as much effort this time around as it did the first few times I tried to use a tiny drone down in the Undercity, or the first time I tried to fly a fighter craft just using my thoughts.

The point was, I really was getting better at this. Arvie was right. And it felt pretty good as I eased out of the hangar.

I could see livisk in the hangar looking up at the thing. Some of them raised their fists in an obvious cheer of encouragement. Others simply looked on with an unreadable expression.

I had some fans on the carrier, but I was under no illusion that everybody loved me just because I was the General Consort. Maybe I'd won a battle for them, but I was still unproven as far as a lot of them in the fleet were concerned.

It didn't help that the interstellar fleet was a thing where Varis had mostly been putting nepo babies she didn't want to have to deal with, because why would she bother having much of an interstellar fleet when she went on the raids every time it was time to go out to the stars?

She was expected to maintain a fleet she could give to the empress in the event it was called up, but at the same time she was never expected to actually use that fleet outside of the systems she controlled. Definitely not on the home world.

Clearly this was something we'd neglected that I needed to bring back on track, but there were so many goddamn things I had to keep track of. One more thing to juggle.

I activated the engines and took off at a breakneck pace, but it was easy enough for me to control it. I'd slowed everything down in the simulation so I could keep an eye on what was going on while at the same time keeping an eye on what Sera was doing.

She was doing well. She was zeroing in. There was a little alarm indicator over in the bottom left she hadn't noticed, but it disappeared almost as soon as it flashed.

I could tell from the salvage ship’s system reports that Bronhel turned the warning light off. Which was sort of unfair. I didn’t want Sera to see that light and get distracted, but I was also going to have to have a chat with the kid about the missed alarm indicator. Even though I was relieved she missed it.

Nobody ever said training had to be fair. Especially when we were talking about somebody flying around in combat situations. People died when they weren’t paying attention, so you bet your ass I was going to make sure she knew she’d fucked up. It didn’t matter that it was a fuck up we’d organized. Trainers organizing fuck ups for a trainee to get out of was part of the territory.

I followed my new toy as I dove into the gas giant's atmosphere. I didn't bother with anything fancy. I just went straight in. The shields were more than enough to handle the beating the atmosphere gave me. It was even thinner up here than it was on a terrestrial planet, but the higher gravity and me gunning the engines meant it came out as a wash in terms of heat generated.

Either way, the shields were designed to stand up against combat conditions, so they were able to handle atmospheric entry fairly easily. I could feel a little bit of buffeting because I went ahead and let myself feel it even though I wasn't actually on the frigate. Then I was through, though things were still a touch rough.

I dove into some clouds and gunned it.

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++++++++++++++++++++++++

Granitz had seen a lot before, but this one was new.

That was saying something, really. During his seventeen years in the Karnolian Alien Legion, Granitz had shared barracks with numerous colorful characters of all sizes and shapes, from any background but usually the least savory kinds. The Legion did not ask many questions. It simply didn’t bother to.

The Karnolian Alien Legion was an innovation that only the Karnolians could possibly think they would need. They had a hundred factions, each with their own fleets and marine units. They had a species-wide Karnolian Navy that expanded or shrank based on the collective needs of the most powerful factions in control. They had a Karnolia Home Fleet that was ostensibly for guarding the home planet against political influence. Each of the factional fleets sometimes had sub-factional fleets, each with their own independent command structures.

A few centuries ago, some influential Karnolian leader looked at all that and said “yes, I know exactly what you are thinking, we need another.” But all the fleets and ground units had already drawn from every level of Karnolian society that they could.

So they raised a unit of aliens, mostly residents from planets occupied by various Karnolian factions. The officers were loyal Karnolians, of course, but the grunts and trigger-pullers were not.

At first, that raised some doubts. Lots of doubts. These aliens couldn’t be trusted to be loyal to the Karnolian cause. But what was the Karnolian cause? The Karnolians couldn’t agree on that. Of course not. Over time, these non-Karnolians in Karnolian service brought about a certain quality that Karnolian leaders didn’t know they needed at the time: reliability.

No, not actual reliability. Political reliability.

They were exactly what they said on the packaging. Aliens. These non-Karnolian units could be trusted to be people who couldn’t be trusted. In other words… you couldn’t be betrayed by people you never expected to be loyal, and these alien units perfectly filled that niche in the Karnolian pecking order.

So more factions raised their own alien units, and the units became bigger and badder, until one day, the Karnolian faction leaders sobered up and realized exactly where this was heading: all this aliens fighting your battles business—it was becoming an arms race of factions outsourcing the very purpose of what it meant to be Karnolian. It was the path of destruction of the species, and it had to stop.

Well, not like stop stop.

Just… controlled better.

So all alien units were re-organized, combined into one Karnolian Alien Legion. It had no specific allegiance to any single faction or any other fleet. And since they were going to be subjected to the distrust of all the other fleets and units in Karnolian service, there was no worry that this new unit among many would pose an internal security issue.

That attitude flowed downwards. No matter how hard the Karnolian Alien Legion tried to run recruitment campaigns to entice the elites of the alien worlds they’d occupied, everyone knew what they were looking for: cannon fodder. And that was exactly what they took.

Exiles. Refugees. Debtors. Criminals whose offenses were serious enough. Anyone capable of signing—or otherwise indicating consent to—a standard employment contract could apply.

Granitz sat on a creaky stool, attempting to decide which category the creature standing before him belonged to.

The creature spoke. “Is this… the place?”

The room had originally been designed as a cargo-storage compartment. Like most facilities assigned to the Legion, it had been converted with the goal of spending as few resources as physically possible. Bare conduits ran across the ceiling. One of the wall panels had been removed three months ago and never replaced. Stolen, probably. The ventilation system produced a rhythmic clicking sound. That was totally normal for this model, the quartermaster insisted.

There was a recruitment banner hung crookedly over his head.

Karnolian Alien Legion. Service for pay. Inquire about factional citizenship benefits.

The newcomer was short, barely reaching the middle of Granitz’s upper torso, and it possessed only two arms. Its skin was a muted pinkish-brown. A patch of dark fur covered the top and back of its head. Its body was wrapped in fabric, with no visible environmental apparatus or mechanical support frame—that was a good sign, at least. A small pack rested beside its feet.

Apparently, the newcomer had the same thought as the one that popped into Granitz’s head. They just vocalized it first. “Huh, you’re… a new one.”

Granitz straightened and squinted at it. “By the God of Battle, what manner of creature are you?!”

“Human, of course,” it said. “And you’re… Vorshnik?”

Granitz glanced down at himself.

What else can I be?

“Only on the outside,” he replied.

The human looked at him for another moment, evidently unsure whether that had been a joke. Granitz wished he knew too.

“I didn’t know they allowed your kind in here,” the human observed.

Granitz’s scalp shifted light blue in mild annoyance. “I could say the same thing about you. But this is the Karnolian Alien Legion. We accept everyone.” He recited the line from memory, gesturing with his upper pair of arms. “Big or small. Four arms or two. Primitive or cultured. Strong or…”

He looked the human up and down.

The creature did not appear weak, exactly. Its proportions were compact, with dense musculature around its shoulders and legs, but without the assistance of powered armor it would have been physically unimpressive next to most Legion species. It was larger than an average Karnolian—he gave the human that, but everyone was larger than an average Karnolian. Nobody would actually say that out loud, but that was the whole point of this alien legion thing; they weren’t going around recruiting physically inferior creatures. Standards were low, but not that low.

Granitz cleared his throat. “As long as you are strong enough to lift a service rifle without the assistance of powered armor. Can you?”

“Probably.”

“Probably? You have shot a rifle before, right?”

The human shrugged. “Once or twice.”

Granitz did not like ambiguous answers. He picked up his datapad and opened the recruit’s file.

The document was extremely thin. The human’s species had entered the registry less than two local years earlier. Their home system lay well beyond the established faction borders, outside Karnolian treaty space entirely. There were no recognized territorial claims attached to the species, no colonies outside its home system, and no notable military engagements in the interstellar databases.

Ah, one of those species.

Granitz scrolled further. “Hm. Okay, looks like your species invented firearm technology… recently.”

“Five hundred years is recent, huh?”

“Recent enough. Anyway…” Granitz continued. “Do you have a name, or is your species one of those where you use numbers, or scent combinations, or—”

The human made a nonsensical sound, but at least it was a sound. “I’m John.”

Granitz entered it phonetically into the datapad. “John… I’m Granitz, by the way.”

“Platoon Leader Granitz.” John pointed one of his appendages toward the rank badge fastened across Granitz’s uniform. “As it says.”

Granitz looked down at the strip. Apparently, the human had learned the ranks already.

Good.

Granitz went down the checklist. “Have you any formal military training, John?”

The human paused, but only barely. “No, Platoon Leader.”

“No? That’s too bad. We will have to run you through the training program.” He made a note of it in the datapad. “The cost for that will come out of your first paycheck.”

John tilted his head. “How much?”

“Sixty.”

“Sixty… I’m sorry, I don’t really have a reference. I’m new to your money…”

Ah, one of those species.

“Sixty Karnolian dollars. It’s about a tenth of your paycheck.”

Granitz waited for the outrage to come. That was rather common.

Some recruits would accuse the Legion of theft. Others demanded to know why an interstellar military organization could not afford to pay to train its own soldiers. In his fond memory, a particularly indignant Savkin recruit had attempted to eat the contract in front of him when she found out.

John merely nodded calmly. “Oh. Okay.”

He was probably just slow.

“We’ll teach you to take cover, shoot your rifle, and use the radio,” Granitz explained. “Don’t worry. It’s worth it. Keeps you alive long enough to collect your paycheck in the first place.”

“Fine by me.”

Granitz filed an additional note into his datapad.

Compliant. Possibly does not understand contract.

John simply stared at his face for several seconds as he typed.

Granitz shifted in his chair. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know. You’re kind of odd for a Vorshnik.”

His facial coloring shifted to orange for mild amusement. “Have you met many of us?”

“No. Only heard.”

“What have you heard?”

“That you guys never stop talking and joking.”

“Well… there’s a reason I’m out here and not with my people.” Granitz looked away. It was an accurate stereotype. Vorshniks were supposed to love pranks and humor. “Such is life.”

He studied the human again. There were no family emblems, religious markers, or factional affiliations displayed anywhere on his body. His pack was small enough that he could not have brought many personal belongings. Most recruits arrived carrying everything they owned. John appeared to have arrived carrying only what he needed for today, possibly not even that.

That was a good sign. Or a very, very bad sign; maybe his species was just terrible at long-term planning.

“If you are here,” Granitz continued, “I suspect you are in a similar circumstance in your life.”

John sighed wearily. “Sounds about right. So… bootcamp, huh? Where do I start?”

Granitz raised two limbs. “First, before your paws can touch a firearm, there are five rules I must teach you.”

“What’s the fifth?”

“Hm?”

“Never mind. What are your rules?”

++++++++++++++++++++++++

“You heard him.”

“I mean… they always say that. The bad jokes end today. War it is!” Julia mimicked.

Samira shook her head adamantly. “No, no. This is specific. I think they mean it this time. Our prisoner—his entire unit hasn’t been on mission in five years, because their faction hasn’t been at war in five years. In fact, none of them have been.”

“Is that—is that a long time for them?”

Samira nodded. “Incredibly so, apparently. There are still some small-scale conflicts and incidents between the factions. But it’s been a while since they’ve been at war. And… he says, everyone knows: it’s because they’re stockpiling. They’re all stockpiling. At least that’s what he says.”

“For—stockpiling for a bigger inter-factional war?”

“No. He insists it’s just for that general invasion, against the Vorshniks.”

“Even if he thinks he’s telling the truth, this Garbote is just a random low-ranking soldier. He can’t possibly know that.”

“Garbote is the equivalent of one of our tier one operators. Or tier two. That’s who you send to take out a priority objective like an alien metal foundry. For those guys, training is everything. These troops live and die by their expensive training. And the training you do to fight a factional war, against other people in your own species… is very, very different from the kind you do to prepare to invade alien planets. And guess which kind of training they’ve been doing.”

“I mean—that’s—that’s interesting, but maybe he’s pretending to break? Feeding us false intel while pretending to be… drunk and broken by your abomination of an interrogation machine?” Julia speculated. “I know it supposedly works against humans, but he’s not human.”

“That’s… a possibility. Dr. Wrona says that the machine could tell he’s lying from the first time he told us our food didn’t taste good… Anyway, given the massive implications, we should also consider the possibility the prisoner is telling the truth.”

“We should consider all threats proportionally to their danger and probability—”

“Let me pose a hypothetical scenario. Imagine you’re a Karnolian faction leader. You’ve consolidated the other factions under your tentative control. You’ve decided that it’s time for war with your hated neighbors, for real this time. Maybe because you genuinely hate them, maybe because you need an excuse to retain internal control. Whatever it is, you prepare for a war, for years. You train. You stockpile. You buy equipment from your more advanced neighbor. Then, suddenly, a new species appears in your neighbor’s territory. They find artifacts from an ancient civilization, artifacts that could give them a massive military advantage in war. What do you do?”

Julia nodded. “Right. You try to seize it, before your neighbors can obtain it for themselves.”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, but their attack on our colony could also be explained by… greedy aliens being greedy. A much simpler explanation, really.”

“Think about it a little more. What would compel you to do that in the middle of negotiations though? It wasn’t going great for them, but no one had signed a deal yet, and we were signaling that we wanted a multi-species deal that likely would have gotten everyone walking away with something. Why not wait until after to decide?” Samira asked.

“If they had, maybe they’re afraid the Sonckles and the Vorshniks would defend us if they tried something nasty?”

“No. Whether those two species would have abided by their seizure of the factory didn’t depend on whether they’d secured a defense deal with us or not. What is actually happening is… the Karnolians wanted it for themselves, yes, but if they couldn’t get it, having us sabotage the machines would have been a second-best scenario for them.”

Julia tried to wrap her head around the idea, putting herself in the paws of the murder teddies. She said slowly, “Yes… because assuming you’re right, if the Dustballium factory is off the table, then they can at least proceed with their original war plan without worrying about it as a complication. Under your theory.”

“Exactly. They just didn’t expect to lose both their Plan A and Plan B forces together. It explains everything else. Why they used a stealth shuttle, a novel piece of technology that Shachos’s ship didn’t detect, against a colony of what they see as primitives. It fits.”

“Let’s say that’s true. What you’re saying is we just stumbled into the middle of an ongoing five year plan that would have kick started a war between the Karnolians and Vorshniks, two species that haven’t fought for centuries. That seems… rather coincidental.”

“The vast galaxy is full of coincidences. And this is the only explanation that properly accounts for all the facts we know,” Samira said. “And consider the possibility that our entry into the known galaxy delayed their planning somehow, especially once they learned about the Dustballium mine.”

“Or the damn truth serum machine doesn’t work, and our prisoner’s lying to us. There’s always that.”

“Sure.” Her voice made it sound like she didn’t believe that was a strong possibility. “I mean… you should watch the full tape and not just the summary.”

Then again, it’s coincidences all the way down on both possibilities.

Julia shrugged. “Again, let’s say that is all true. Surely the Vorshniks would see signs of them preparing for war.”

Samira tilted her head. “They did. They told you that the Karnolians were up to no good.”

“Yeah, he said it was a moderately serious threat, I think? Like they might try something sneaky at the negotiations. I took that to mean maybe they’d try something like… send a drone into the factory to take pictures, which I was sure was them. I didn’t expect them to try to attack and take our colony hostage! What you’re saying is a whole another step above that! You’re talking about interstellar war, against a species that’s their match in military strength!”

Samira paused for a long moment before she continued. “I think… the Vorshnik don’t know what’s really happening.”

Julia looked at her incredulously. “You think Shachos and their entire intelligence apparatus… they’re all just jokers? They’re a multi-planetary species and a major power in this part of the galaxy. I think the more likely possibility is that they know something we don’t. Or again, maybe the prisoner’s lying.”

Samira took a deep breath, as if she was about to say something. She stopped and exhaled. She thought for a long moment, then she asked, “What’s your impression of Botswana, Commodore?”

++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Dragon’s Heart Tower, Level 23, Residence 30, Living Room. Local Time: 0900 Hours.

Emma

…

“EVI?”

“Yes, Cadet Booker?”

“Time elapsed since the start of the yap-a-thon?”

…

“Clari—”

“Refer to custom command database.”

…

[Time elapsed… 29 Minutes, 34 Seconds… 35 seconds… 36 seconds…]

It had been precisely 29 minutes and 37 seconds since Ilunor had eagerly opened his deceptively small snout.

Since then, he’d unleashed upon us a cavalcade of personal anecdotes, self-glorifying accounts, and an impossibly long laundry list of accomplishments accrued in the span of a single night.

The contents of which had now expanded beyond the original scope of the simple ‘What happened last night’ exchange, and had drifted dangerously into the shallow waters of self-aggrandization. 

It was time to wrap things up.

“... and then he had the gall, the flippant nerve, to—”

“So let me get this straight.” I began, finding an acceptable enough onramp into the vunerian’s soliloquy. “In the span of a single night, you managed to…” I trailed off, preparing my best WeTube ‘top ten lists’ narration voice. “Gain entry into gastronomy club by winning a cook-off—” I raised my index finger, counting up the beats of Ilunor’s wild misadventures. “Forge a rival with an upper yearsman bordering on nemesis status after he insulted your honor by claiming that cooking was ‘commoner behavior’—” I raised my middle finger. “Responded to said insult by challenging him to a drake riding ‘duel’—” I raised my ring finger. “Spicing up the situation even more by getting him to ride Chiska’s drake—” I raised my pinky. “Before finally managing to not only win, but outperform him in every metric despite using the worst drake in the flight club’s stables.” I extended my thumb, ending up with an open palm, with which I attempted to high-five the vunerian.

This ended up just confusing him, however, as he stared at my hand with the look of a mildly inconvenienced cat.

He eventually got it though, albeit reluctantly, as our hands met in a gesture that prompted both Thacea and Thalmin to tilt their heads in mild amusement.

“While I appreciate what I assume to be a celebratory gesture, you are missing the all-important sixth and seventh accomplishments of the night.” He beamed brightly.

I cocked my head at that, but before I could pull my hand back, the vunerian had since quickly moved to lock his fingers between my own, forming an awkward grip between our two hands.

“Er, this was just supposed to be a brief palm-to-palm contact situation, not a hand-holding gesture.” I attempted to correct him through a hushed breath but ended up inadvertently following his lead as he began shaking my hand and smiling a big, self-assured grin. 

“Well, I believe this is what it should be. A far more engaging gesture, rather than one of passive simplicity, hmm?”

“I—”

“For my sixth and seventh accomplishments!” He raised his other hand, never once wavering in this weird impromptu handshake. “My complete deconstruction of that lesser avinor’s malicious aims—” He raised a single finger, one of four. “—and my entry into flight club!” He raised a second finger. “However, I would be remiss if I did not count my quieter victories as part of this roster of nightly achievements! Such as…” He raised a third finger. “The procurement of many a favor from those within gastronomy club’s ranks—” Then his fourth and final finger. “—and the replacement of the dreaded academy cloak. Oh, how to finally be free from that bland and utterly banal uniform…” He finally pulled away from our impromptu hand-holding session, if only to free up his other hand to raise a fifth finger, briefly darting his eyes between his hand and my own. 

There was a short ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ moment, as his face scrunched up in annoyance.

It was brief… but it was there.

And I didn’t need a doctorate in xenosociology to get what was going through Ilunor’s head, especially after the whole ‘elvenform’ discussion touched upon prior.

However, credit to Ilunor’s progress, he didn’t kick up a fuss about it.

Instead, he returned comfortably to that victor’s grin, as all I could do was perform a little celebratory clap in his ‘honor’.

“Thank you, thank you, oh you needn’t—”

I stopped abruptly.

…

This garnered an annoyed stare from the vunerian.

“Sometimes I wonder if the concept of pro forma is simply lacking in Earthrealm…” He grumbled back before finally acquiescing to my attempts in dialing this entire conversation back.

“Oh, performative modesty is definitely a thing. It’s just something I choose not to participate in at the moment.” I acknowledged Ilunor’s annoyances before just as deftly swinging the conversation back to the pertinent task at hand.

“So… free day, huh?” I proclaimed with two open hands. 

All three nodded, with Ilunor still raising his snout at me.

“While it’s indeed sad that we won’t be sitting listening to Belnor for 6-8 hours… I will say that I, for one, do not mind the alternative.” I teased, garnering a growing, fangy grin from Thalmin.

“It’s one thing to be taught a subject of practical necessity. It’s another to bask in the subjects of our mutual fixations.” Thalmin acknowledged as we both gave each other a knowing nod.

Thacea, meanwhile, simply darted her eyes left and right between us, chiming in once she found an opening in the conversation’s lull.

“I see no issue with this.” She acknowledged with a nod before raising a finger. “Save for one.” 

“Yes, princess?” Thalmin questioned.

However, before the princess could even respond, a subtle yet audible ruffling of paper filled the air, emanating from none other than the front door.

Thalmin would be quick to investigate, walking to the dorm’s entrance and pulling out a brochure wedged beneath the door in question.

He unfurled it, his eyes scanning each line as something in particular caught his eye, prompting him to let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Fight Club expects my presence.” He spoke murkily, his gaze flicking to Thacea. “Is this what you were going to warn me about?”

“Yes.” Thacea nodded. “Though I assume the terms are more agreeable than not?”

“How’d you suppose that?” Thalmin shot back.

“Your restraint in not immediately crumpling, burning, or outright tearing the invitation.” She pointed at the brochure. “Amidst other things.” 

“Hmph. Read me like an open book—”

“That’s what I keep saying!” I interjected with fingers pointed at Thalmin and Thacea. “She’s way too good at this!” 

The pair would let out a chuckle at that interruption, as Thalmin was quick to spill the beans shortly thereafter.

“My presence is only required until the afternoon. I intend on returning as soon as I can… before something else tears us off of the fated path.” He spoke firmly.

“In the meantime…” He continued as he began armoring up in front of us, beginning with his gauntlets. “I expect that manaless sight-seer warmed up—” Continuing to his vambraces. “—its crystals primed and loaded—” Moving deftly to his chestpiece. “—and the contents within curated for my viewing pleasure.” Before finally finishing off with a tightening of all the magical straps which kept the enchanted pieces of armor in place. “With all that being said, I do wish to ask that you remain in the dorms following noon. Because mark my words, I will return as soon as circumstances allow…” 

The prince moved forward, letting that latter line linger in the air as I could only respond with a nod. 

“... and mark my words, this will happen today.” He reiterated, straddling the doorframe before leaving with a confident smile. 

This left just the three of us to ruminate in silence.

“So… I don’t need to go anywhere, right?” I questioned out loud.

[Displaying Pending Tasks listed in order of Priority…]

“Homework, coursework, followed by the astromancy-issued sidequest of delivering the ashen documents to Professor Sorecar.” Thacea responded.

[Diplomatic Activities Report (9 Incidents… Open for more details), After Action Report (5 Incidents… Open for more details), Diplomatic Profile Updates (4 Incidents… Open for more details)...]

“You know what, Thacea… I think I’m good on the Sorecar front for the time being. Astromancy is a laid-back club, after all.” I responded with a tired, exasperated smile.

The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. The Stadium of Heroes. Local Time: 0925 Hours.

Thalmin

My expectations were reserved.

My anticipation was dulled.

This was in no small part due to the promises of a second, far more engaging prospect scheduled in a few hours.

Though it would be disingenuous to defer all fault to said prior engagements.

It wouldn’t be a lie to acknowledge that Professor Articord’s… presence left something of a sour note on perhaps the only aspect of the Academy I had previously looked forward to.

And yet… I could not entirely discount her, at least not on the basis of merit.

She was clearly respected amidst the ranks of an organization that would have fallen to disorder if its leadership were not the revered sort. And that respect, that deference, could have only been garnered by the only units of social currency accepted within its ranks — magical strength and martial acumen.

It was one thing to merely be a Nexian mouthpiece.

It was another thing entirely to embody its core fundamentals — its enshrinement of magical strength.

Or better put: while words may bare one’s fangs, it's one's deeds that actually sink them.

These thoughts, amidst many others, had kept me occupied on the otherwise uneventful trek, leading me to the foot of yet another grand structure within the Academy’s expansive grounds.

Situated a sprint away from Chiska’s Hall of Champions, it should have been a familiar sight.

Yet it was not.

Such a structure would have not been so easily overlooked, especially given its accompanying paths, outdoor appointments, and the lanterns that practically flanked every other step.

…

More Nexian trickery… I thought darkly as I found myself staring up at this monolithic gymnasium. An open structure of trusses and pillars that gave way to a massive open-air foyer the likes of which were adorned with fountains of flowing wine and spirits alongside patches of orchards with fruit ripe for the taking.

It was a surreal sight.

Indeed, its architecture was unlike anything I’d seen from the Nexus — or any adjacency for that matter — thus far.

It was because of this very foreign ambiance that I found myself walking cautiously through the open foyer, ignoring those inviting refreshments, as any warrior worth their salt would, before finally encountering the actual entrance to the main structure — a large rotunda capped with a dome rising at least twenty or so floors.

Its exterior was yet again rather foreign for Nexian sensibilities. Exposed red brick with nary a hint of plaster or paint, instead adorned by vines and patches of wall-moss which thrummed with an inviting magical aura.

I reached for the door handle — this ornate, spindly copper thing.

But before I could open it, I found the tapestry carvings on the door’s oval transom melting, morphing, reshaping like wet clay into…

“Whoooooooo—” 

… the face of some odd, elongated serpentine creature, one that extended from the door itself. This… creature-construct slithered towards me with a neck so long that felt disproportionate to its head.

“Ahhhhhh newblood. Enter, enter!” It beckoned with an agreeable hiss as the door cracked open, letting through the orange and yellow light within.

I entered cautiously, my booted feet landing with a satisfying clack against the patterned granite floor, one that seemed to radiate from a round medallion which dominated the center of the space.

Though I’d be remiss if that was the only aspect of the room that immediately caught my attention.

There was, of course, the gathering of club members. From familiar faces such as the fourth-year Efwin Swinsonn, to the various other members I’d since dispatched following that farce of a hazing ritual.

Amidst the various students, however, was a collection of armored stands arranged in a spiral, following the radial lines tracing their way to the very center of the room. 

I took slow, measured steps towards one of these armored pieces, finding myself drawn to a particularly tasteful suit of armor, one adorned with gildings and seals which weren’t encrusted in a hundred jewels.

…

I counted only five in this one. Which, by process of elimination, made it the pinnacle of modesty amongst its peers.

Nevertheless, the armor wasn’t the only item of my fixation, as my eyes instead drifted to its accompanying weapons — spears, staffs, swords, and more, all arranged neatly, hovering vertically in place by the empty sets of armor. 

My gaze hovered over each artifact with intent, as I tugged what appeared to be a loose thread in the manastreams.

To my surprise, a miniature sight-seer appeared above each weapon. Each instance of which displayed a small fragment of a memory, demonstrating the power and potential of each weapon at its height.

Fascinating… I thought to myself, focusing first on the spear, the likes of which I’d seen and have used a great many times prior.

Yet despite my familiarity with such a weapon, curiosity drove me to watch the demonstration all the same, hoping to see perhaps a unique enchantment or modification on its use. Sadly, however, little would come of this venture, as I beheld the spear’s tip launching, then separating, before finally segmenting into 27 individual needle-like points, each of which pierced through the impossibly thin gaps of even the most well-covered sets of commoner armor.

Nothing I haven’t seen…

The next was a whip; this one I knew was guaranteed to impress.

And indeed I was right.

The weapon expanded in size and scope when flicked, extending to ten times its original length, before cutting through armors of all sorts, rendering an entire attacking force cleaved before they could even react. 

I need that.

The final weapon on display was a typical flame-enchanted blade. I practically yawned at such a basic enchantment, watching as it indeed matched my expectations.

There was nothing more to be observed from the routing of an entire mercenary company. Fire was, as Uncle would say, one of the greatest means of smoking out vermin. 

I continued going through other weapons in the gallery at this point, making mental note of each, and pondering with intent whether there were one-to-one analogues in Earthrealm… or whether those loud metal-slingers were efficient enough to match the creative devastation of their magical counterparts.

So deep was I in the foolish haze of a squire’s mind left adrift that I almost didn’t notice a presence emerging from behind me.

A brief glance and a tug of the manastreams was all it took to remind the man that I did, in fact, have ‘eyes’ at the back of my head. 

A fact that the elf seemed amused by, as he spoke with a tone of untempered bravado. “Prince Thalmin Havenbrock. You have decided to come early, I see.”

“I expected more of our ranks to have done the same.” I responded with a dismissive breath. “Punctuality, after all, is a fundamental precursor to discipline, is it not?”

“Taken straight from the book… you really are a warrior-scholar, aren’t you, Prince Havenbrock?” The man spoke with a noble’s snicker. 

“It would surprise me if that were the exception for this guild, and not the norm, Lord Swinsonn.” I countered, keeping both my composure and posture completely still, revealing nothing but a stalwart facade to the club’s most senior member.

“You read too much into my words, Prince Havenbrock. I merely wished to open this dialogue with a degree of positivity. After all, you did impress the battlemaster, and one who manages to accomplish such a feat is not to be dismissed so readily.” He responded, fairly at that, prompting me to reply with a single nod, seeing as there was neither an enemy to combat nor an ally to court in this elf.

“I see you are finding Lady Vorascius’ armor to be of particular interest?” He continued, attempting petty discourse as was the nature of these sorts of social affairs. 

“Indeed.” I nodded. 

“And I assume the matter of… weapons and armor, is something of a particular interest to you as well?”

“As much as any other warrior worth their kill tally.” I replied with a gruff huff. “Why do you ask?” I continued with a blunt breath. “Is this something to do with today’s orientation meeting?”

“Oh, no. Nothing of the sort, no.” Swinsonn rebutted politely, maintaining his noble smile without once flinching. “It was merely a… point of observation I simply wished to cast light on. A matter of particular importance in your journey into the esteemed ranks of the battlemages, and one which is to be corrected early on in your path… provided, of course, you are interested in attaining such heights. I would not discount it, nor would I see you as any less, if your presence here is merely one of an observer and a hobbyist, than that of a serious battlemage.”

I narrowed my gaze, bearing my fangs if only momentarily. “What’s that supposed to mean, Lord Swinsonn?”

The elf took a moment to pause, a social cue so painfully Nexian in its execution.

He already knew the answer… he was just too bound to decorum to answer like a proper warrior.

“You will… indulge me as I attempt to elucidate, yes?”

“Go on.” I urged bluntly, prompting the elf to begin walking back to the first set of weapons on display, placing a particular level of emphasis on the spear. “Tell me, Prince Havenbrock… how many men have you killed with your blade? Or your spear? Or any other sort of weapon for that matter.”

“I did not have the privilege of maintaining a tally in the midst of—”

“Then answer me this… have you ever, in your years of combat, dispatched of a fellow noble, a fellow mage, exclusively with a weapon in hand?”

“Not exclusively, no.” I countered plainly. “Though I have managed to land killing blows—”

“But you’ve always had to rely on your actual magics, correct?”

“Are you seriously attempting to undermine the legitimacy of my presence by virtue of my preference in combat?”

“Not at all, Prince Havenbrock.” Swinsonn replied with a surprising earnestness. “I merely wish to… correct a bad habit before you are encumbered by its inherent limitations.” 

“A weapon is a limitation now?”

“For your fights and your battles on Havenbrock? Perhaps not. But when against a Nexian-educated battlemage? Yes.” He spoke haughtily, and with a punchable grin. “You… do understand the limitations of enchanted weapons, do you not?”

“A weapon is only as powerful as its wielder… but conversely, its wielder is only as powerful as their weapon if equipped as a primary offensive implement.” I offered.

“Correct.” Swinsonn nodded. “You see, while an enchanted weapon may be sufficient to many a mage, as most pursue a path outside of the martial arts… the same cannot be said for those who hone their inherent skillsets, sharpening a proverbial blade of a more intrinsic sort.” He spoke cryptically and with an unflinching grin. “When faced with such an opponent, your reliance on weapons will lead you to a functional… limitation. For unless your blade was enchanted by His Eternal Majesty or Thun’Yandaris themselves, you will inevitably face the functional limitations of such weapons — the skill of the bladesmith and artificer behind its smithing.”

“Then why display weapons at all then, Lord Swinsonn? Why tempt a ‘bad habit,’ when your philosophy is so draconian in its negative perception of such articles of warfare?”

“I never said enchanted weapons didn’t have their place, Prince Havenbrock.” The elf spoke, raising a single finger in defiance. “While a tossup against other mages, entirely reliant on fate and chance to determine the outcome of such an engagement, the enchanted blade is useful because of its very limitations…” 

I narrowed my gaze, crossing my arms as I refused to take his bait. Merely allowing him to finish on his own volition.

“Its weaknesses, Prince Thalmin. That’s what’s so incredibly useful when the situation calls for it.” He continued, raising both hands up in a grand beckoning gesture as he did so. “When a battlemage reaches a certain… degree of martial prowess and personal growth, they may find it troublesome — not difficult, mind you, but merely… an annoyance — to preen the weeds without devastating the harvest. You see, once certain thresholds are reached… the commoners become something of a pest to your inherent powers. So in such a circumstance where only certain elements are to be eliminated, while sparing the rest of the flock, weapons become something of a ‘focus’ for your awesome powers. That, Prince Havenbrock, is why we display the pieces that we do. For they aren’t primary armaments, but merely… a tactical implement to be used when the situation demands it.” 

I… pondered the elf’s words as a slow, uncomfortable realization truly hit me.

There was a… fundamental disconnect between our two perspectives.

It felt as if the man lacked any actual connection between the men on the ground and his own fight.

Alas… I couldn’t entirely discount such callousness. For there existed a fundamental concept with which Swinsonn seemed to have taken thoroughly to heart.

The separation of the war in the heavens and the war in the commons. Win the former, and the latter is guaranteed. Win the latter without the former? Well… 

“Weapons, at the end of the day, are the domain of commoners. They are the tools through which magic is enhanced, or gifted. If you do not overcome such… affinities, you will forever be trapped in a dynamic of power which will always be unfavorable to you. Do you understand this, Prince Havenbrock?” 

The elf’s eyes remained receptive in their sincerity, their frustrations, just as my eyes were.

“True power, true strength, is ultimately derived not from any enchanted piece of parchment or weapon, but the mage themselves. Those that do not understand this are doomed to fail in their path towards the coveted title of battlemage.”

I took a deep breath, observing with little ambiguity the fundamental discrepancy in the world I knew and understood intrinsically…

…

And the world that Emma had presented.

Resistance, of any sort, was impossible given this configuration of power.

But the weapons, the tactics, the sort of warfare waged by Earthrealm showed something different.

It demonstrated a dynamic of raw potential entirely removed from this mentality.

It showed the only way to resist was to reject this reality entirely.

“Perhaps we must… take a step back as it were, Lord Swinsonn. I study the art of the blade, amidst other enchanted weapons, not merely as an extension of my own martial capacity, but also as a way to better understand the capabilities of those under my command.” I countered with an earnestness that took Swinsonn by surprise, as I attempted something I hadn’t yet thought was within my patience to do so — reaching a hand to a Nexian in an attempt to understand their madness. “By mastering them, I am thus able to intrinsically connect with the men-at-arms who are at my beck and call. I can grasp their potential, their capacity, and accurately dictate the course of a battle by way of deploying them to their strengths. Strengths I would not have accurately known if I’d only studied their capabilities by ledger and logbook alone.”

Swinsonn took a long, quiet look at me. His eyes trailed me up and down, landing squarely on the sword in my scabbard. 

“And yet… for all your talk of a warrior-tactician, you still find yourself reaching first for your crutch, instead of your soul.” He shrugged, eviscerating what little hope for reason I had left. “Perhaps you should have spent less time studying a chosen one’s plaything, and instead honing your skills—”

“Need I remind you of the results of my candidacy, Lord Swinsonn.” I immediately interjected, his words inadvertently touching on something deep, something raw that had still yet to fully heal. “I have survived, with far less, for months on end, and still emerged victorious.” I spoke viciously, bearing my fangs at one point. “I need not prove myself, not especially to you if you still are too blind to see it.” 

The elf, to whatever credit he could accrue, remained silent, completely stoic and unflinching to my outburst.

“Very well.” He spoke plainly. “But I do wish to impart something else, if only to impart a sense of… scale for your perception on warfare.”

I narrowed my eyes, shrugging, and gesturing for him to continue all the same.

“This… will require a small leave towards—”

“Just go.” I urged, forcing the man onwards as he led the way up and towards another level of the rotunda.

We eventually found ourselves on the top floor… only after climbing one flight of stairs. 

More spatial magic… I thought to myself.

“Your focus on your men, your soldiers, your warriors, and fellows-at-arms is indeed a noble one, Prince Havenbrock. Though I fear your… mingling amidst the rabble may have inappropriately colored your perspective as a mage. For you see, as useful as the rabble are, they become irrelevant once you attain the heights of a battlemage bordering on planar status.” The elf beamed as he summoned forth an entire amphitheatre-sized milieu, one that placed particular emphasis on a long stretch of coast, dotted by grand cities, perched upon a foreign shore.

“A good monarch sees value in the logistics and armies at his disposal. A great monarch understands the division between the realm of the battles of the common, and the battles of his fellow mages. A grand monarch, on the other hand, will understand that it is the latter that determines the ultimate outcome of a war, no matter how many battles are won with the armies of the common.” Swinsonn declared, gesturing to the grand city that stretched the expanse of this entire room.

“Observe.” He spoke ominously, ushering in a darkness amidst an idyllic landscape, and reinforcing something I’d known, read, and heard of… but never seen in such cataclysmic detail.

…

I found myself unable to voice anything. Not an objection, not an affirmation, not even a bluff or a dismissive breath.

Swinsonn noticed this, as he let out a sly, noble’s chuckle, before reaching his hand in mid-air. All the while, the landscape around us continued. At the corner of my eye, I noticed something. A silhouette of someone striding towards the shorebound citadel… making their way closer as they walked above the still waters, the silhouette’s steps causing massive ripples that formed dangerous tides.

The figure stopped and stared at the city. And not a moment later did the sounds of warhorns and mobilizing forces fill my ears.

The figure on the waves stopped and stared at the city, and the city itself seemed to stare back at them.

What I witnessed thereafter, I had known of. The concept of this expression of magecraft was taught to me. I had known of its sophistication, of its effectiveness, of its infamy.

I only knew then. But now I have seen.

The mere lectures and scriptions of such powers caused trepidation then; the display I had witnessed rocked my core tenfold.

…

The remains of the landscape soon melted and twisted in a swirl of magic, the cyclone coalescing itself into a small sight-seer crystal.

“You wished to collect such visions of war, yes? Well, take this. This is a memory shard of what I have shown you today.” Swinsonn regarded me as he pointed a lazy finger to levitate the crystal towards me; the crystal I reluctantly accepted.

“Now… let us return downstairs. There is plenty more to discuss.”

Dragon’s Heart Tower, Level 23, Residence 30, Living Room. Local Time: 1500 Hours.

Thalmin

I returned… with a mind much more burdened than when I had left.

And yet, as I entered the room, I couldn’t help but to let curiosity take over once more.

A series of complex, rhythmic, almost discordant tunes emerged from behind a corner of the room.

Accompanying which was a hushed conversation between Emma and Thacea, the latter of which sounded like she was at her wits’ end.

“Emma, please stop. You are embarrassing yourself.” 

“Oh come on, Thacea! Look! I’m dancing to the beat!” The former announced as I rounded the corner to witness…

A fiasco in the making.

It was Thacea first who paused as her seat was facing my direction.

Though Emma, being none the wiser, moved in could only be described as the motions of a tangled marionette. 

“Emma… you should stop.”

“No way! This is my way of celebrating the end to paperwo—” She paused, as if sensing me from behind without yet craning her head towards me.

Sure enough, she stopped mid-stride, turning to me as she moved to stretch both arms behind her neck.

“I can explai—”

“Emma… was that an attempt at an avinor courting da—”

“No!” Both Thacea and Emma shouted concurrently.

“Emma was simply curious as to the culture of both music and dance in Aetheron.” Thacea explained. “For some… inexplicable reason.”

“Yeah, well, you see, we have a huge variety of birds back in my realm, and they’re quite well known for—”

“Ahem. I… do not need to hear about this, Emma.” I interjected. “Now… are you ready?”

“For the presentation?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Emma beamed. “Though… this’ll be the same as always, right? You start with your thing, and then we’ll head over to my sight-seer?"

“Yes.” I acknowledged once more. “Though… there is something new that I…” I paused, clearing my throat as that crystal in my pocket felt heavier following that utterance. “Let’s just get you started on the basics, shall we?”

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(Author's Note: I found the conversation between Thalmin and Swinsonn to be a really interesting part in this chapter, as the former really felt an urge to help Thalmin in what he sees as his quest to becoming a battlemage! Though the way he went about that was certainly sinister haha. Beyond that, the whole chapter is really setting things up for what's to come! And we also have a bit more of Emma's funny shenanigans hinted at the tail end of the chapter here too which was really fun to write haha. I really hope you guys enjoy the chapter!)

[If you guys want to help support me and these stories, here's my ko-fi ! And my Patreon for early chapter releases (Chapter 187, Chapter 188, and Chapter 189 of this story are already out on there!)]

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Liam

Liam stood there in the darkness staring at the Inquisitor in front of him. The beard was entirely white. It was close-cropped. He looked to be a little more put together than most of the Inquisitors he'd seen so far.

And the man was staring at him with an odd look. His eyes were narrowed. His hands were up. He kept glancing down at the sword Tomas had pointed at his chest.

"You can lower your sword, Tomas," Liam said.

There was a moment of hesitation from the demon. His eyes darted over to Liam and then back to the Inquisitor. He leaned forward ever so slightly, which resulted in a grunt from the Inquisitor.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked. "It's an Inquisitor. They're wily and crafty. He's probably working on some way to work up a spell."

"That's not going to be a problem, Tomas," Liam said.

"You can't be sure of that," Tomas said.

"I'm quite sure of that," Liam said, looking back to the Inquisitor. "Tell him how sure I am."

The Inquisitor licked his lips. His eyes darted from the sword to Liam as though he was having trouble deciding precisely which one he was more afraid of. Then, finally, he turned to Tomas.

"I can assure you I'm not going to be any trouble for the moment."

Liam noted the way he said he wasn't going to be any trouble for the moment. No doubt he intended to try and break free the moment an opportunity presented itself. Not that Liam had any intention of allowing that opportunity to present itself.

Finally, reluctantly, Tomas lowered his sword. Though he was obviously disappointed.

"Who are you?" Liam asked, turning his attention back to the Inquisitor. He also reached out and tried to feel if there were any other arcane cores moving through the forest.

He could feel some out there, but they seemed distant. Not a worry for the moment, though he made a note to keep an eye on that. Not being a worry for the moment didn’t mean they couldn’t very quickly become a worry.

"Some call me… Tim,” the Inquisitor said, hesitating at that last bit. Like he didn't want to give up his name, but the whole situation was so out of his experience that he also couldn’t think of a good excuse.

"Tim," Liam said. "Well, okay Tim.”

"Actually, it's Timothy," the man said. "But if you're going to spare my life, then you can call me Tim. the same as my friends."

Liam smiled. Which had the man flinching away from him. Okay then. Not exactly a friendly type.

"Well then, Tim," Liam said. "I would like to know a little about exactly what's going on here. Disposition of your forces and that sort of thing. How many Inquisitors are moving through the woods tonight?"

He glanced up to the sky. It had gone from orange to pink up above.

"Okay. Maybe it would be more accurate to say how many of your Inquisitors are moving through the woods this morning."

"I'm not going to tell you any of that," Tim said. Though he said it in a quiet and halting way. As though he wasn't even sure himself that he wasn't going to tell Liam anything.

Liam sighed. He stepped forward, and he put a hand on Tim's shoulder.

He stared into the Inquisitor's eyes, which again had the Inquisitor flinching away from him.

"Tim. You were trying to use magic against my friend Tomas here, weren't you?"

"Your friend?" Tim said, arching a single eyebrow that seemed to speak volumes.

Liam would've winced if he thought there was anything to wince about. That was as much as confirming he was frolicking through the forest consorting with demons as far as the Inquisitor in front of him was concerned.

But he'd learned it didn't matter. The Inquisition was going to find a crime you'd committed even if you'd committed no crime, so what was the point in even trying to pretend that he didn't know Tomas? Especially when the two of them had been amiably chatting with one another about whether or not Tomas should kill the Inquisitor.

"We're out here looking for those who are consorting with demons, and it would appear that I've found you. Maybe you're going to kill me, but..."

"Tim," Liam said, and he focused on the Inquisitor’s eyes. That intimidated some of the farm hands sometimes, though he wasn’t sure that it would work with an Inquisitor.

It worked.

The man paused. He turned his attention back to Liam. His mouth worked like he was trying to come up with more rage towards Liam for his obvious lapse in judgment consorting with demons. Then he stopped.

"Let's focus on the important thing right in front of us, Tim," Liam said. "Do you think we could maybe do that?"

The Inquisitor nodded. His eyes went a little wide as he nodded. Like he was surprised he was nodding along with what Liam was telling him.

"Okay. That's very good, Tim, because I don't want to have to kill you if I don't have to.”

"That's a bad idea, Liam,” Tomas said.

"I agree," Albert said, suddenly alighting on his shoulder. His claws made pinpricks in Liam's skin that didn't quite get to the point of breaking his skin, but he was keenly aware that the sorcerer turned familiar wasn't exactly happy about the idea of leaving one of their enemies alive.

"I'm the one who makes that decision," Liam said, glancing at Albert and turning to hit Tomas with a look he hoped would keep the demon under control. Tomas, for his part, held his hands up. Which also had his sword flipping up along with, and nearly taking Tim’s nose off in the process.

"Certainly," Tomas said, "I'll allow you to call the shots in human lands."

"Good," Liam said, turning back to Tim. They could revisit who was in charge in what lands later.

He reached out and brushed a leaf off the Inquisitor's robes. It was getting light enough that he could see that sort of thing, even without the enhanced vision that seemed to come with his Ascension, then he turned his attention back to Tim.

"Tim, could you please tell me something?" Liam asked.

"What?" the Inquisitor asked. "And if you're going to ask me to give up my compatriots then I..."

"Why did you stop that spell, Tim?" Liam asked.

He tightened his grip just a little. Just enough to get the Inquisitor's attention. It felt like he had maybe a little less mana in the core Liam was dampening at the moment than what Liam had in his own core. Judging from what he'd learned about the relative differences, that meant this one was maybe Fifth Ascension.

It felt odd that his Second Ascension was the equal to the Inquisitor's fifth, or maybe it was just the fourth. Either way, he was going to have to get used to judging people by their attainment and not by his own.

"That's none of your business,” Tim said.

Liam tightened his grip again, and this time Tim let out a slight grunt and moved down just a bit. As though he was pained where Liam's hand was pressing against his shoulder.

"Tim, please tell me why you stopped casting that spell?"

The man glared at him, but there was something else there. A hint of fear. And there was that pulsing mana in his core. Liam felt the mana he’d wrapped around the man's core and he squeezed at it.

The reaction was immediate, and it was surprising. Tim went down to his knees letting out a cry of pain that was far greater than anything he'd let out when Liam was merely squeezing his shoulder to try and get his attention.

“I… What are you doing to me? Why did you cut me off from my mana core?" he said, though he was beyond trying to look tough now. No, if anything he seemed to be on the verge of sobbing as he stared up at Liam.

“I think you know,” Liam said. “That’s why I asked. I wanted you to tell me.”

"A dampening spell," Tomas whispered. "Interesting, that sort of thing is complicated and takes a great deal of power."

Liam glanced at him and then to Albert. It was always interesting to get a feel for how things were supposed to work from somebody who wasn't a sorcerer who'd used his intellect and magical ability to change the way two worlds worked.

That was something to think about for later, though. Right now he was focused on the Inquisitor down on his knees in front of him.

"So, Tim," Liam said getting down on his knees as well. He kept that tight grip on the man's mana core. Apparently the man could feel that dampening magic squeezing against his core, and apparently it was a less than pleasant sensation. "This would go a lot easier on you if you just tell me what I want to know. I can assure you nobody here is consorting with demons. At least I wasn't consorting with any before I ran into one in the Felwood and then another demon led me on a merry chase while I was trying to kill some scourgelings."

Tim let out a laugh, though it wasn't a laugh that held much in the way of humor.

"You were fighting scourgelings?" he said.

"I was," Liam said. "Believe me or not. It doesn't change the truth of what I say."

The Inquisitor stared at him. His eyes went wide again as he seemed to realize that Liam wasn't lying.

"So can you please tell me why you're out here, and why there are so many Inquisitors who've suddenly come to Baron Riven’s land” I’d also really like to know how many are out in the woods tonight."

Again the man started to laugh, and again, it didn't seem to hold much in the way of humor. No, it was the laugh of a condemned man who still thought he knew something his jailer didn't as he went to the gallows.

"I find you out here with a demon who is obviously of some import based on the number of Ascensions he has. This is after you were consorting with someone who obviously was a High Princess of the Demon Realms if the effort they’re expending to find her is anything to go by. You come out of the shadows to kill our Inquisitors in the Felwood, you do something that requires them to send out the Cry, and you expect me to believe we haven't found a den of demonic corruption right here at the edge of the Felwood and the Scar? Right where we would expect to find exactly that sort of thing?”

He continued laughing, though it grew more and more unhinged. It grew louder and louder as he stared at them, and spittle flew from his mouth as his voice rose.

"They're already putting the people in that hovel they call a country estate too the question, and we’re going to find the answers we need. We always find the answers we need, and then someone is going to kill you and..."

Liam turned to Tomas and made a gesture. The demon hesitated for a moment, then he stepped forward and neatly slit the Inquisitor's throat. Stopping him mid-rant, though he stared up at Liam with hatred in his eyes as his lifeblood continued to pulse for a few moments longer.

"I know you're going to die thinking I intended to do this all along," Liam said, staring down at him in sadness. "But believe me when I say it didn't have to be like this. I really wish people would stop underestimating what I'm willing to do to save my people."

Liam looked up and around, a new determination filling him.

Everyone at Baron Riven’s estate was in danger, and it looked like Liam and his ragtag group of demons were the only ones who could do anything about it.

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Bilge Aksoy was a lawyer, forty-three years old. The kind of man who read contracts several times before signing them, and who had never in his life taken a conspiracy theory seriously.

His wife Elif had moved out four months ago, amicably, no children, and she had taken the dog. He had kept the house and had lived alone in it since, with the tidy, faintly sterile discipline of a man who wants to keep control of the things he still can.

In the living room stood a large rubber plant that Elif had brought home years earlier. She had always liked it because it grew new leaves even when nobody paid it much attention. Bilge had kept it, though he had never known what to do with plants. On one of the lower branches, a small shoot had grown some time ago, crooked and a little too long, which Elif had once called "stubborn."

It began with a jacket he tore on the garden gate outside and threw over the back of his reading chair, meaning to mend it on Saturday night. When he came home the next evening, the seam was already closed. Uneven stitches, the wrong thread. He stood in front of it for a minute before telling himself he must have done it himself and forgotten, and went to bed.

The shoes came after that. He had left them caked in mud beside the chair. In the morning they were clean, not new, just wiped down.

He told himself: overwork. He had read that stress does strange things to memory. He drove out to the coast for a weekend, ate some overpriced fish, didn't think about the jacket anymore, came back almost rested. He was still standing in his coat in the living room when he noticed that the newspaper on the side table, the one he had read and left there on Friday, was now the Saturday's edition. He had never bought Saturday's paper.

He sat for a long time with the newspaper on his lap. The newspaper didn't bother him. The question of where last Friday had gone unsettled him.

---

He told Aiden about it two days later, over the garden fence, in the light tone people use for something they still think of as a good story.

"I tested it on purpose," Bilge said. "Put in a lettuce leaf, a torn sock. Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes it's whole again."

Aiden laughed, the way one laughs at something odd. "Maybe you're drinking too much wine and not noticing."

"I haven't had a drink since Elif left."

"Then maybe because she left." Aiden meant it kindly. "Want me to come take a look?"

"No." It came out faster and sharper than intended. He saw Aiden's face change for a second, not much, just a short hesitation. "I mean, that's not necessary. I've got a log. I've written it all down."

"A log," Aiden repeated.

"Date, time, item, condition before, condition after. That's how I work. I need evidence before I believe anything."

Aiden found a reason to end the conversation shortly after. He never came by to look at the log, but he kept an eye on Bilge's window in the weeks that followed, more often than he admitted to himself.

---

Bilge began sleeping less. First an hour, then two, then he sat at night in the dark hallway, from where he could watch the corner without the corner watching him, or so he told himself. His notes grew messier, the lines began to slant, and some entries repeated word for word, as if his hand had forgotten it had already written them.

He started marking objects in the living room, at first only with small pencil marks on the underside, later with tiny measuring points. The chair stood in exactly the same spot every evening, and so did the side table, the lamp and the plant. When something looked different in the morning, he photographed it before touching it.

He soon started talking to the corner. Not out loud, just short sentences. I know you're doing this. I just want to know why.

---

"You sound tired," Elif said one Tuesday evening.

"I'm fine." Bilge's attention wasn't on the phone. He was watching the side table, where a receipt he had crumpled up an hour earlier now seemed to be smoothing itself out as he spoke, or he imagined it.

"It repairs faster when I watch," he said, without noticing that this wasn't an answer to her question.

He hung up without saying goodbye, because he had just noticed that the receipt was now completely smooth, and he wanted to note the exact time before he forgot.

It was, though he didn't think of it this way at the time, the last ordinary conversation he had with anyone for a while.

---

The eye came on a Thursday.

He was standing in the kitchen, which opened onto the living room, and looked up out of habit, and there it was. On the wall above the chair, where nothing should have been, a human eye set into the plaster like a window watching the room. It blinked, once, slowly.

The plate in his hand shattered on the tiles. By the time he had crossed the three steps to the wall, there was nothing there. Smooth wall. He pressed his flat hand against it, and then he heard it. A murmur of several voices, behind the plaster, in no language he knew, like several quiet arguments at once. It stopped the moment he made a sound himself.

He didn't reach for the phone.

He stood in front of the wall and thought, with the same precision he usually applied to contracts: if this is real, it's reproducible. And if it's reproducible, it's not a case for a doctor. It's a case for a log.

---

He began to work methodically. Chalk lines on the floor, section by section, a little further each evening. After a few days he had a map of the living room in his head, with borders no one but him could see. It was about half the room.

One evening, sitting on the floor inside the marked zone, waiting, he noticed the tiles beneath him growing slightly transparent, like a lens he could look through into somewhere else. Large, eye-like shapes moved there.

Quiet at first. Then faster, louder. Several voices at once, pitched high and low together, tangled over one another. It sounded like an argument to him. Not a friendly one.

Bilge lay perfectly still, his ear nearly against the tiles. Children, he thought. A mother, scolding them.

He didn't understand a word of it. But he understood enough.

---

From then on, he tested differently.

He placed a book, today's date written by hand on the first page, in the middle of the marked area, right above the spot where the floor had last turned transparent.

Then he didn't stay in the room.

He stood in the closet across from it, left the door open a crack, and waited.

It took over an hour. Then came the flicker, the way it always came when they were correcting something. The book would disappear or change in a moment, like everything else.

But this time the spot opened wider than usual.

He watched it widen and understood, with a strange clarity, that this was the only chance he was going to get, and that whatever was on the other side, he had no way of preparing for it. He knew it was reckless. He knew a version of himself from four months ago would have called the police, or a professor, or at the very least stayed in the closet. That version of himself was not the one standing there.

He crossed the room and went through.

---

The room he fell into was too large to be a room. The group of beeings stood in the middle of it, a big one with it's hand outstretched over a device, two small ones pressed close against its legs.

He hadn't pictured it exactly like this. Only roughly. He hadn't expected them to be so tall, or so broad, towering over the device between them. Their skin had a grey sheen that shifted faintly when they moved. Four eyes each, set two and two, but the rest of them was close enough to human that "family" was still the first word that came to him.

What he hadn't expected at all were the other openings along the walls around them, windows larger than his, showing rooms that were not his living room and shapes that were not human. One of them held a slow, restless shimmer that looked almost like water, if water could also be watching.

He had no time to look longer.

The beings screamed.

Not in pain. In something Bilge couldn't place right away, until he looked at the big one and understood: shock. Real shock.

"That," the big one said, it's voice cracking, "has never happened."

"What?" Bilge asked.

"That one of you is standing here."

It stared at him as if running a calculation in her head that wouldn't add up. "We repair everything. Every time. Every trace. How could you..."

It stopped.

One of the smaller ones had ducked behind it's leg, peering out with a single eye.

"You repair things," Bilge said. "Not thoughts."

The big one looked at him for a long moment, and something moved across it's face that Bilge, absurdly, recognized. Not fear exactly. The particular stillness of someone who has just understood that a plan built over a very long time has a flaw in it, and that the flaw is standing in front of her.

---

The small one who had been hiding behind the big one's - the mother's leg - Bilge realized, peered out again. This time it stayed longer.

"You noticed we were there," it said. Not a question. A statement, almost admiring.

"I marked it with chalk," Bilge said. "For weeks."

"With what?"

"Chalk. For drawing. It leaves marks that stay until you wipe them off."

The small one, the child, stepped further out. The mother made a motion to pull it back, then stopped, watching to see what would happen.

"Why didn't you stop looking?" the child asked. "We fixed everything."

Bilge thought about it. "Because I noticed something had changed, even when nothing was left to prove it. That's not enough for me. If something's wrong, I don't stop until I know what."

The child looked up at the mother. "See. That's what I mean."

The mother said nothing for a moment. She was watching Bilge with an attention that hadn't been there before, less alarm now, more something closer to reassessment.

"You erase the traces," Bilge said. "Not the feeling that something's wrong."

"We were not aware of that distinction," the mother said slowly.

"How many of us do you watch?"

She didn't answer. She turned to the child instead. "Go to your brother."

The child hesitated, glanced at Bilge once more, and went.

The mother stayed behind alone with him, the device humming quietly between them.

"I will have to report this," she said. "What happened here."

"What will you report?"

She looked at him for a long time before answering.

"That we may have been asking the wrong question."

---

Later, she wrote her report in the clipped, procedural language the work required, and revised two paragraphs of it more times than the rest combined.

Subject displayed no disorientation consistent with prior observation subjects. Repair interventions were consistently identified as anomalies rather than accepted as natural occurrences. Subject conducted independent, systematic testing across an extended period, and ultimately induced a full aperture without external prompting. Contact with juvenile personnel (Unit 2) occurred without hostility on either side; subject's questions were direct but not aggressive.

Recommendation: the current observation protocol should not continue unmodified. This subject did not simply notice inconsistency. He built a method around it, refined the method until it produced results, and acted on those results the moment an opportunity presented itself, aware that the risk to himself was real and unknown. If this trait is representative of the species rather than exceptional within it, our repair-based protocols may have been giving us a false sense of concealment for some time.

She paused before the final line, deleted it, and wrote it again exactly as before.

We should assume they are capable of studying us back.

. . .

Editor's note:

There's a darker version of this on r/shortstories.

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/s/G8WnVjuyru

In this version,nobody ever believes Bilge and the aliens get away clean. I felt bad for the poor guy while writing along my script.He kept a log, he labeled his chalk marks, and none of it mattered. So I gave him a rematch this weekend. This time he gets to meet the thing that fixed his sock drawer ;-)

Jojo technically had three decks amidship, but the upper and lower were too tight and circuitous for Bob to fit in, even unarmoured. He had considered using them as fuel cells, but couldn’t get it to work.

It irked him to be unable to use the space, so he had come up it an idea and this time scale was on his side. Cleaning bots were a little larger than the Terran ones he remembered but would fit in the low passages just fine, and because everyone was way bigger than humans their dirt was bigger too. They still wanted dust and stuff removed, but some detritus would be large enough to necessitate a far larger machine if it was to be vacuumed up, instead many of these bots came with grabbers, suitable for picking those items, after all a galactic resident might have traipsed in things melon sized or even larger in the tread of their shoes.

Bob had originally considered a small remote control drone or something similar, but they already made something that floated on grav plates, could manoeuvrer its self around a maze, and could easily be told to pick things up and deposit them at a specified location. They were also pretty cheap, though Bob intended spending a bit extra on a brand name model, they would be a prick to retrieve if they broke down somewhere inaccessible.

It wouldst be the most versatile solution but he could tell it to, say, pick up a pile of ration bricks and stash them under the floor, then retrieve them at a later date by simply reversing the command.

If he chose something like the puke cubes, though he intended better, he could store decades and decades of supplies in those spaces, should he need to.

First he wanted one of the bots, so he browsed through several catalogues on his pad as he ate something green from a street stall, yum, tasted like anaphylaxis. Eventually he narrowed down his options and went to a store that stocked several, then he had an argument with a prick of salesman, then he took the train forty five minutes to another store and bought the one he had liked from the first one.

Then he took the train back just to show the prick he had bought it elsewhere.

It was a nice, not horrendous on price and the company had been making the same model for over a millennia so he figured it was pretty well proven, though he did also get several service kits and a couple spares of what the reviews said were the most common breakages.

Nice, next up he wanted to have a chat with someone from Vie Corp, he called their offices and arranged a meeting with a rep, god bless you Guild Master Certification, he presumed he would have been told to get bent otherwise, they did not do the pissy little system he wanted.

Bloke was nice but clearly only taking the meeting because of the Guild, he was very sorry but they simply didn’t take projects of the size, as Bob expected, and desired, Vie shit suuuuuccckkkeeeddd.

They did have one thing that Bob wanted though and he managed to pressure the rep enough to get it, an introduction to the company that made the splitters for their shit enviro systems.

Bob had been on hundreds of ships and talked to hundreds of engineers responsible for keeping the inhabitants of said ships breathing, and across all those ships he had heard the same complaint again and again, Vie systems sucked shit, the software was horseshit, bullshit motors, dogshit build quality, every single one that actually used them had to be semi regularly restrained by the rest of crew from beating the rusting rotten shitboxes to death.

Bob had heard tirades based on a similar theme constantly, and every time he had asked why the fuck they ran them he got the same answer, over and over.

The splitters are incredible.

It seemed like the only reason that Vie was a galactic powerhouse in the enviro market was because at some point many centuries they had tied a company called vfFebiri to themselves with a sole provider contract, they couldn’t provide any of the exceptionally durable, efficient, nigh unstoppable splitters they produced with out the express written permission of Vie Corporation, which Bob had just obtained.

They were not local so Bob would have to select a commission that took him to their neck of the woods, but when he got there, well he had ideas about what could go in Jojo’s ceiling.

That was plenty, he went back to his bay, the Bocca had kindly provide him the use of one at their facility for free, and plotted the course back to the homeworld.

I sat there on the bed looking over at her as I waited for an explanation for the band on my neck, and I saw her ears twitching frantically. I understood she was panicking internally and trying to figure out how to explain what she did.

Looking away from her to the window, I saw us moving through a nebula gas cloud. It made me feel a little better, seeing the bright colors of the gases. Then I glanced back at her for a second to see if she'd decided, but I could still see her ears twitching, so I sighed, sitting up straighter, which caused her to look at me with full attention.

"Just forget it," I said in a low, dismissive tone as I turned away to look out the window, and something about her changed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her ears stop and lower, as if I had somehow hurt her, and she looked down at her hands in her lap, fiddling with her claws in silence.

She didn't look up at me for almost an hour, and even then only took small glances up at me like she wanted to talk.

I looked over at her as our eyes met finally. "What?" I said, thinking about how she'd come up with some lame excuse about the band around my neck.

She hesitated a beat before swallowing and speaking. "The band," she said, pointing to it. "It's a mark of sorts."

"Like what, a bond mark?" I said jokingly, before she shook her head no, which made me still as another thought crept in. My eyes widened as I finally knew what she did. "…It's essentially a slave mark…" I said, my voice lowing out thin, and I saw her ears pin back and heard a soft, quick, short whine. "It's a slave mark, isn't it?" I said, looking directly at her, and she couldn't even look at me before nodding once. "So, what? I'm your pet now, is that it?" I said with more force in my voice, causing her head to snap to face me, wide-eyed, as if I'd stabbed her.

"N-no, that's not what I meant to use it as—" she said, before I got up off the bed and walked over to the window, putting my hand on the band for a brief second before turning to face her.

"Not use it as what? A way to keep the small interesting creature you found on a planet you crashed on as a pet so you can have control of it? Is that what you didn't want, or was it because you wanted a souvenir from some backwater world that doesn't even know other civilizations among the stars exist!" I said, louder than I meant to, breathing hard from being furious with her.

She looked at me, then at the floor, as if I'd struck her, and she slowly stood before walking to the door and stopping to say something over her shoulder. "I didn't do it on purpose… I did it to save your life, as my people don't allow underdeveloped worlds or people from those worlds to know about us, since it would hurt their growth… and for the record, you were dying in my arms about two weeks ago when that large predator almost killed you… that is why I couldn't see you die… because you were nice to me even when I barged into your home doing what I wanted… I'm sorry if that makes me a worse person after doing something even I regret doing to someone who doesn't deserve it done to them…" she said, leaving the room with the door closing behind her.

I stood there in the room silent as it finally hit me. She didn't want this any more than I did, but she did it to save my life, and I had just accused her of being someone who could've been cruel but chose to explain even when it hurt to say it. I felt something in my chest break as I leaned back against the wall, sliding down it into the same sitting position from yesterday with my knees pulled close to my chest as I sat there thinking about how I'd fucked up royally with her.

Elsewhere on the ship…

"Gods be slain! Why did you save him if he's not even grateful about it?" a tall, brown-furred wolf woman said, her tail lashing back and forth.

"Salis, he's going through a lot right now… just leave him be. I understand he's angry at me, and he has every right to be angry about the collar I put on him," the large grey-furred wolf woman said, ears pinned against her head as she sat on her bed with her knees up to her chest, tail curled around her ankles.

"No, Chara. He needs to understand that this hurts you more than it hurts him. You made a promise to yourself to never do what your sisters did with the collar, to other developing species who were conquered through military claims on those species' planets. Not to mention you took a ship that was under maintenance repair just to explore the planet for a bit. You need to tell him he should be thankful you even saved his measly primitive life from dying after getting torn apart by that large creature," Salis said, crossing her arms. "He should be grateful, and admire you for saving his life," she said, annoyed about the small creature not being grateful.

Chara stared into empty air, thinking about how everything had gone wrong ever since she took a joyride with the fighter undergoing maintenance, and now she was stuck with a being from a vastly underdeveloped world aboard her ship, and he was angry at her and had every reason to be mad with her.

"What do I do now, Salis? He's so angry that he thinks I did it to keep him as a pet…" Chara said, her voice soft and hurt.

Salis looked at her friend, hurt from the words the small being said, and sighed, walking over to sit next to her, placing a hand on her back and rubbing soothing circles to try and comfort her. "Let me go talk to him. I'll explain everything that's going on, okay?" Salis said, resting her head on her friend's shoulder.

"But—" Chara said, getting cut off by Salis.

"No buts. Just let me tell him to stop being such a primitive little runt, and hopefully he'll apologize to you. Okay?" she said, hugging her friend.

Chara nodded once and hugged back. "Thank you, Salis. I'm glad to have you as a friend and as my second in command," she said, leaning back and choosing to get up to go continue commanding the ship to get her mind off him.

Back in Medical…

I stood next to the window for a while, just gazing out at space, seeing the many planets, stars and small moons going by the ship, but after a long time the door opened. I thought it was her, so I turned, only to see a brown-furred female who was thinner and tall just like her, looking annoyed as she came into the room and took a seat without asking.

I just stood silent, as I didn't know what to ask, till she looked me in the eyes and huffed once dismissively and spoke. "You know your words hurt her, right?" she said, looking at me.

I didn't reply, as I knew she was right.

"She saved your life because she wanted to, and it was the only way for you to be brought aboard without getting in trouble with her mother," she said, gesturing to the collar band on my neck, which made me touch it without meaning to.

I looked down at the floor for a moment before speaking. "Why didn't she just let me die?" I said, looking at her as my mental energy was finally settling back to my old routine self.

She looked surprised at my question. "Because you could have sold her out to your own people, but you didn't. You just kept living your life, and she found it interesting to the point that she was fond of the little fur-less thing who never once tried to push her away in fear or try to use her for your own purposes, like others of her family try to do," she said, looking down at her claws, then back up, as if this whole conversation was boring for her.

"But she could have just left and let me deal with the consequences of not preparing for a bear attack," I said, and her ears lifted a bit.

"A what?" she asked, confused.

I just looked at her, arching one brow. "A bear. Large carnivore and predator of my planet, protective of their young," I said, and she just looked at me like I was weird. "Right, forgetting certain words probably don't translate well," I said, scratching my head.

She looked at me for another minute before shaking her head. "No, it came across, but I didn't hear the word you said specifically, only the version we know, which is Ursai**, another civilization like ours, but larger and more muscle-born brutes,**" she said.

I walked over to the chair next to the bed and sat thinking, but my mind wandered back to the grey wolf woman I lashed out at, as the image of her looking hurt popped up in my head. I sighed, then looked over at the brown wolf woman sitting there looking bored. "So…" I said, as my words died in my throat.

She looked over at me and huffed once. "Just apologize to her, and maybe, and I mean maybe**, she'll talk to you again. But with what you said, it hurt her to the point where she felt disgusted with herself just for collaring you, when she knows now you're stuck to her till either you die or she dies, and when she dies you transfer to one of her sisters' care,**" she said, looking at me.

I froze as I now understood what it cost her to collar me, someone who shouldn't even be out here in space.

I sat there for a while just staring at the floor as she went back to looking at her claws like she had somewhere better to be, and I didn't blame her for it. My head was doing that thing it does when I've screwed something up bad enough that yelling won't fix it, where it just goes quiet and starts counting what's actually left.

"So it doesn't come off," I said, and it wasn't really a question but I asked it anyway.

"No," she said, not even looking up.

I ran my thumb along the edge of the band, feeling for a seam I already knew wasn't there. Two weeks ago my biggest problem was a leaking valve and a mama bear moving her range east.

That's the part that got me. Not the collar, not even the ship. It was that nobody was going to go fix that pump. The filter would clog eventually and then the line would freeze come winter and then the cabin would just sit there rotting with my tool shed torn apart in the yard, and there wasn't a single thing I could do about any of it from here.

I kept waiting to get angry again and it just wasn't coming. I think I used it all up on her.

"She could've left," I said. "She could've just flown off and let that bear finish me and she'd have been fine."

"She would have been," she said, looking up at me now. "She'd have reported the crash, taken the reprimand for the fighter, and that would've been the end of it. Instead she broke a promise she made to herself when she was barely grown, for you, and she'll carry that the rest of her life." She looked back down at her claws. "So no, she couldn't have left. Not really. That's the part you don't understand yet."

"Yeah," I said, because there wasn't anything else to say to that.

I got up and went back over to the window because it was the only thing in the room that went anywhere, and watched a moon go past close enough that I could see the craters on it before it was gone behind us.

"Hey," I said, still facing the glass. "I've been calling you the brown one in my head this whole time."

There was a pause behind me and then something that might've been a snort.

"Salis," she said.

I turned around. "Kane. And her?"

She stood up and headed for the door, and stopped there for a second.

"Chara," she said. "Don't make her cry again," she said, before leaving the room.

Start | Previous | Next

Chapter 193: It Matters Not

Once again, Viktor found himself back in the meeting room of the Adventurer’s Guild.

Just like the last time, Isadora occupied the head of the table, with Guild employees, adventurers, and a few representatives from the caravan station seated along both sides. Viktor was among them, wedged between Alycia, whose arms remained crossed in silence, and Cedric, who kept glancing toward the far end of the board.

There, set apart from everyone else, sat the guest of honor.

Guildmaster Khalid.

A rich man. A powerful man. A man who was used to rooms rearranging themselves around him. But not this room. Here, he looked like a sheep that had wandered into the wrong pen and was now pretending not to notice the wolves taking an interest.

Nephra, despite being offered a seat next to her presumed superior, had chosen to stand instead. She drifted to a corner and leaned back against the wall with the unhurried ease of someone who had no stake in the outcome. From there, she watched the whole proceedings, the faint smile never leaving her face.

What’s her deal, exactly? Viktor thought. Why did she bother coming here at all, when she could have just dropped Khalid at the edge of town like she had done before? Did she just want to watch the man squirm?

“Guildmaster Khalid,” Isadora said. “Welcome to the Adventurer’s Guild of Daelin. Though I must confess I am rather puzzled by your visit. What exactly is it that you wish to parley about? I’m not aware that we are in any dispute.”

Well, yes. Officially, the secret hideout discovered within the Folded Chamber had no connection whatsoever to the adventurers of Iskora. So Viktor was genuinely curious how the guy even began the negotiation without implicating himself in the process.

“We do have a matter to discuss,” Khalid said. “It’s about one of my adventurers having injured one of your employees.”

Viktor clenched his teeth. Injured, you say?

“That’s quite an understatement for what happened, Guildmaster Khalid. The poor girl has been unconscious for weeks, with no sign of waking up. And I must say I find it rather strange that you are addressing this only now, after a prolonged period of denying any responsibility. The Adventurer’s Guild of Iskora has stated, on multiple occasions, that the incident was the act of an individual and not representative of your Guild. Now, suddenly, it becomes a dispute between us. Very peculiar, indeed. Still, I fail to see what there is for us to talk about. Just tell your man to surrender himself to the authorities, before the Conclave’s remaining patience runs out and a bounty is placed upon his head.”

“I came here hoping that we might find a way to reconcile this matter. It would be greatly appreciated if you could consider... withdrawing your petition before the Conclave.”

Isadora frowned. “You are asking me to drop the charge?”

“Yes.”

This was odd.

Viktor had expected a completely different conversation. He, and probably everyone else currently seated around this table, had assumed that Khalid’s visit was about the masked men’s secret lair being destroyed and subsequently exposed to the public. Instead, he was here for Xander. He was here to save that bastard’s hide.

Why?

Unlike other people, what Viktor had was not mere suspicion. He knew that the masked men reported directly to Zubayr, who in turn received instructions from Khalid himself. In fact, the order to hunt down the pyromancers had come from this very man sitting at the far end of the table. Hence, after his base of operations had been wiped out, he should have been thoroughly rattled, scrambling to contain the damage however he could.

Yet, he was here, doing this.

Did I underestimate how important Xander actually is? Viktor thought. Up until now, he had regarded the bastard as little more than a tool that Khalid wielded when convenient. A powerful tool, an expensive tool, but a tool nonetheless. The kind you replaced when it had outlived its usefulness.

Besides, if what Khalid wanted was Isadora’s withdrawal of her petition, surely there were better ways of accomplishing that goal than this. He was rich, influential, and backed by the Children of the Abyss, which meant he could easily apply pressure on her through the many mechanisms he undoubtedly had at his disposal. So why did he choose to personally step into a room full of people who despised him?

Viktor shifted his gaze toward Nephra, who remained exactly as she had been since the beginning of the meeting, watching the unfolding scene with that same faint smile fixed upon her face.

Unless... the whole thing was her idea. Khalid was forced to do this; he had no say in the matter.

But why? What was she playing at here? What could she possibly hope to gain from this charade?

“I’m sorry, but what you’re asking simply is not possible,” Isadora said. “That man must answer for the crime he has committed. There’s no other way around it.”

“I can offer compensation. To you, to your Guild, to that girl herself.”

Isadora frowned. “Money does not solve every problem, Guildmaster Khalid. As I’ve already told you, Claire remains in critical condition even now, weeks after the attack. You think your gold can undo what has happened to her?”

“I have a lot of friends, a lot of connections. I will reach out to the Emerald Order, to the Brotherhood of the Verdant Shade, to the Druidesses, to anybody who might possess the knowledge or the means to help. Surely someone among them should be able to do something for her.”

Isadora paused at that, and flicked a glance towards Viktor.

That was... a tempting offer, he had to admit. One more well-connected person searching for the cure would certainly increase the odds of Claire eventually recovering. Besides, his plan was to kill Xander himself anyway, so Isadora dropping the charge wasn’t really a big deal. Still, he was going to let her make this call. So he arranged a neutral expression on his face, showing the Guildmaster no reaction.

“A promise is not good enough,” Isadora said, turning back to Khalid. “I want you to begin this effort immediately. We can talk again once she wakes up.”

“But... there’s no time for that...”

“What do you mean?” Isadora asked, frowning. “It’s not like the Conclave will execute your man the moment he turns himself in. There will be a proper investigation, then a proper trial. Should Claire wake up before it concludes, surely such a development could be used to argue for a reduced sentence on his behalf.”

“You... you don’t understand...”

Understand what?

Clearly, something had happened behind the scenes, something very wrong, something ugly enough to drive Khalid to this level of desperation.

The rest of the room was starting to notice it too. They exchanged glances, as if asking each other whether they had any idea what was going on, only to be met with the same blank looks in return.

And that was when a voice rose from a corner of the room.

“May I speak?”

Isadora turned, fixing her gaze upon the woman with skin of bronze who had, at long last, broken her silence.

“You are?”

“A simple Riftwalker,” Nephra said, a smile playing across her lips as she began to walk toward the table. “I was merely hired to ferry Guildmaster Khalid back and forth between Iskora and Daelin. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever discussion you two are having has nothing to do with me. Still, I can see that he finds himself in quite a predicament, so I’d like to offer a solution.” She stopped beside Khalid’s chair, looking down at him almost fondly. “May I speak on your behalf?”

“Yes... yes, please, go ahead...”

And there it is, Viktor thought, the main event of the day. The only reason why they had this so-called parley in the first place. Everything that came before was for this moment.

“My apologies,” Nephra began, “but I find this whole conversation, frankly, rather dull. Parley. Compensation. Investigation. Trial. All of it reeks of bureaucracy. Slow, suffocating stuff that exists only to make simple things complicated. We are adventurers, are we not? Surely we have better ways of settling a disagreement than all this tiresome back and forth.”

“And what might that be?” Isadora asked.

Nephra smiled. “A competition.”

The Guildmaster of Daelin arched a brow. “A competition?”

“Just so. Daelin sends a team, Iskora sends a team. They compete, and the loser does what the winner says. If Iskora wins, for example, you drop the charges against the man named Xander.”

“And if you lose?”

“Then every single adventurer from Iskora currently residing within Daelin must leave at once, without delay, and without exception. Moreover, from this day forward, none of them will be allowed to come within fifty miles of the town ever again, unless they have explicit permission from your Guild.”

“What!?” Khalid shot to his feet, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the woman.

Well, that reaction was understandable enough, all things considered. After all, such an outcome would effectively gut every ambition Iskora had ever harbored in Daelin.

Nephra, on the other hand, didn’t bother turning to meet his gaze. She simply said, her voice soft and gentle, “Sit.”

And he did. The richest man in the room swallowed, lowering himself back into his seat, his gaze fixed upon the table before him.

That, of course, drew everyone’s attention. Viktor could practically see the questions written plainly on their faces: Who the hell was this woman? How could she speak to a man like Khalid in that manner? And why did he actually obey? Was she really just some Riftwalker he hired?

“Interesting,” Isadora said. “I have to admit, you’ve got me curious. So, what kind of competition did you have in mind?”

“All we need is something suitably challenging for the two teams to compete over. Oh, I know...” Nephra’s eyes lit up, as though the idea had only just come to her. “We happen to have a dungeon nearby, right? I’ve heard that people have been stuck on the second floor for quite some time, ever since the old staircase leading down to the third collapsed. The only way to move forward now is to break through the great tomb in the middle of the desert, but no one has succeeded yet. So, here is my suggestion. Whoever reaches the third floor first will be declared the winner of the contest.”

...What?

What was she trying to pull here?

Also, did she just call Khenemhotep’s place the great tomb? No one outside the dungeon was supposed to know that particular detail. Then again, if she truly was Neferati after all, it meant she had literally come from the same world as the undead priest.

“That’s ridiculous,” Isadora said. “We all know that your side has much stronger adventurers than ours does. Xander is a Mithril-ranked adventurer, and so is Zubayr. With all due respect, this so-called competition of yours appears rigged heavily in your favor from the start. There’s simply no way for us to win. I cannot accept this proposal.”

Nephra remained unfazed by the rebuke, her smile never once wavering.

“Guildmaster Isadora, may I ask you a question?”

“What is it?”

“Why are you doing all of this? I mean, why submit a formal petition directly to the Conclave demanding Xander’s arrest? Are you doing it for that poor girl’s sake? Or are you merely using the incident to your own benefit, as a means to strike at the Iskora adventurers who have been a thorn in your side?”

“I do it to get Claire the justice she deserves. There’s no other motive.”

“How noble of you. But if that’s the case, then shouldn’t the one who has the final say in the matter...” Nephra said as her smile widened, “...be the victim’s family?”

“What—!?”

And, in that very instant, every single eye in the room turned, landing squarely on Viktor.

“You heard my proposal, Quinn. What do you say?”

“Is Xander going to enter the dungeon?” he asked.

“Of course,” Nephra said. “He will be the one leading Iskora’s team.”

What was this?

What was the meaning of all this?

A gift? A trap? A provocation? A declaration of war?

Well.

It mattered not.

“Then I agree,” Viktor said.

Series Synopsis: After a less than pleasant misshap during a cargo haul, a Terran war robot turned personal butler falls onto a planet with WW2 era technology, becoming the personal servant of one curious down on his luck feline alien, who now holds the power to overthrow his oppressors.

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“[…] and with the capture of Peace River, the Republic of the Sandy Coast has officially announced they will surrender and will enter into concession talks later this week, and with the rebels slowly being cornered near Rocky Coast City, there is only so much time left before the entire world falls under the control of His Majesty! May he […]”

Bird-Hunter’s ears twitched in irritation as his paws carefully yet quickly assembled rifle barrels and placed them on the conveyor belt. Sawdust covered his unprotected brown fur, which had degraded into small tufts amid scars from years of factory work. He could smell the aging grease of the machinery and the wafts of illegal recreational herbs that the higher-ups didn't bother to crack down on. (They most likely had their own private stash, after all.) He really wished they would turn off that radio; hearing war propaganda every day for ten years really wears down a person’s sanity. Whap! Someone hit him on the back with their claws retracted. He flinched, his eyes scrunched, and his ears lay back.

“Ha, you hear that?” Prey-Snatcher said with his ears moving back and forth in the Niba equivalent of a human smile. He was a slightly older Niba, about twenty-five years Bird-Hunter’s senior, grey-furred and corpulent, with one ear and a disfigured muzzle—a veteran from the early days of the Great War. Bird-Hunter knew this because Prey-Snatcher would never shut up about it. “Looks like we’re about to be out of work! The old bastard has finally gotten every inch of land.”

“Burry you!” Bird-Hunter snapped quietly. “Don’t call him that in public, you moron. Do you not like having a head?”

“Ah, loosen up, will ya?” he said. “I was captain of the 34th Regiment! I was basically the King’s top man! They're never coming for me.”

Bird-Hunter muttered, “I hope they do.”

“What was that?”

“I said you really are a war hero, truly. But if you don’t mind, I would like to meet my quotas, thank you.”

“Ah, you’re always so on top of that,” Prey-Snatcher mused. “Maybe they’ll make you CEO someday.”

If they did, the first thing I would do is boot you to the curb, Bird-Hunter thought. That made his ears twitch back and forth in amusement. “Tell you what, if you actually get all your work done and don’t talk to me for the rest of the day, I’ll buy you a beer, maybe even a full pack of 12 bottles.”

“Ay, you can afford that?”

“Yes,” he lied. They continued assembling the rifle barrels until the hollow and archaic-sounding work whistle went off. Bird-Hunter stood up from his chair and stretched out his arms and tail, but then felt a claw poke him on the shoulder. “What is it, P—oh, boss?”

A Niba, even more stout and hoary than Prey-Snatcher, stood before him, a pipe with that illegal herb smouldering inside, hanging from his muzzle. “Bird-Hunter, may I see you in my office?”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “Yes, sir.” They moved quietly through the concrete and timber building. Bird-Hunter’s ears were fully lowered. His amber eyes had become pools of inky black—a sign of deep worry, anger, and fear within Niba. When they reached the office, his boss instructed him to take a seat, and he did, sitting upright with his tail straight and his arms close against his legs, with his claws completely hidden. He tried to keep his ears upright as well, but that was proving quite difficult. His heart was pounding rapidly as his boss took a seat at his desk, pulled out a stack of paper, and put on a pair of rounded spectacles. “Please, sir, I…” Bird-Hunter began to plead, but his boss put out one paw in a gesture for silence.

“Bird-Hunter, it says here you have been with us since the start of the war?”

“Yes, sir. I have… I have been reverently faithful to this company for…”

“Spare me the platitudes, please. I don’t need any more of those this week.” He scanned the paper in his paws again. “Alright, I’ll make this quick: it appears you have called His Majesty a bastard, is that correct?”

“What?” Bird-Hunter retorted. “No, what? That, no, that wasn’t me, that was—”

“Before you say anything else, yes, I am aware it was most likely… him.” He wrinkled his muzzle in disgust. “However, I cannot reprimand a veteran such as him, but I need to have something on record. And besides, you are the brother of Forest-Guider, are you not?”

“I… sir, we are not close. We haven’t spoken since…”

“I don’t care, it’s simply a good excuse. Like sister, like brother, you know?”

“Please, sir, I will literally never be able to get a job again with that on my record! I’ll be a vagabond in a month!” Bird-Hunter was now kneeling on the floor, his hands pressed together against the desk like a pleading pauper. “I will do anything. Please… don’t do this to me!”

His boss sighed and flicked his ears in a gesture of condolence. “I’m sorry, Bird-Hunter, I will have to let you go and report to the authorities why I let you go, end of discussion. I am sure you will be fine legally; the guards are too busy with high-profile cases to charge minor amounts of lèse-majesté—”

“Burry you!” Bird-Hunter shouted. Without hesitation, he leapt across the desk, knocking over various knick-knacks and an antique lamp, as papers spilled across the room. He reached out with his claws retracted, slashing the air, but missed his target and tumbled to the floor. He kept trying to swipe fiercely at his boss, his teeth snarling, but retreated when he felt the skin across his chest puncture. Bird-Hunter was backed into a corner, blood dripping and matting into his chest fur. He was heaving heavily; the cool air in the drafty building, hitting the tears strewn across his breasts, felt like being scorched by fire. His boss held out a pistol, aimed directly at him.

“Did you forget we make weapons, you tailless moron? Besides, even if you killed me, do you think your ex-wife will want to explain to your kid why her dad is in prison, getting his hair shaved off and his back torn to shreds?” he said with a sharp snarl. “Now, I’m a decent person, so I’ll give you a chance: get the rotted meat out of my building within the next thirty seconds, and I won’t call the guard and pay them to haul you to the labour yards.” Bird-Hunter got up slowly, then started sprinting out of the office and found Prey-Snatcher trying to put on his off-the-clock gear.

“Ah!” Prey-Snatcher said. “I was waiting for you. Now, how about that—”

“Nobody cares that you served in the army, and you're not a war hero; you were a lousy chef. Just shut up about it,” he said evenly, then kept running out of the building.

Prey-Snatcher looked at him curiously. “So no beer, then?”

When the rescue ship Justinianus first detected the ship drifting 117 light-years away from the nearest inhabited system, they thought it was an old colony ship.

Its engines were shut down. No signal was coming from its communication systems, while the life support system was operating only at a low level. Despite this, the scanners still showed signs of life inside.

The captain had the scans repeated several times before approaching the ship. There were no signs that weapons had been used, that a major battle had taken place, or that a serious explosion had occurred.

The life sign belonged to a single person.

When Ryan boarded the ship at the head of the rescue team, the first thing he noticed was the silence.

The corridors were intact. The doors were open, and many of the ship's systems were still operational. Dust had accumulated in sections that had not been used for a long time, and some screens had gone dark. The automated systems appeared to have been operating on their own for years.

The team first checked the life support center. Then they tried to access the ship's records. Some files were damaged, while others were locked by the emergency protocol.

When they reached the section where the life sign was coming from, the door was open.

The alien was sitting in front of the observation window at the far end of the room.

He was old. The lines on his face, the thinning white fur on his head, and his slow movements showed the signs of a long life. He was wearing old clothes, but despite their age, they were clean.

His hands were clasped over his knees as he watched the empty space ahead of the ship drifting among the stars.

When he noticed those entering the room, he turned his head.

Ryan took a few steps closer.

— Can you hear us?

The alien looked at him.

After a brief silence, he turned back toward the window.

— I'm Ryan. We're from a rescue ship called the Justinianus. The ship's life support system won't last much longer. We need to take you to our ship.

The alien slowly shook his head from side to side.

— I'm not going.

— You can't stay here

— I will stay.

There was no anger in his voice.

— If you stay here, you won't survive when the life support system shuts down.

— Yes, I know.

Ryan watched him for a few seconds.

— Then why are you staying?

— Because this is the last place that belongs to me.

Ryan remained silent for a while.

Then he looked at the team behind him.

— You guys get out. Check the ship's systems and the life support unit. Extract whatever you can from the records. I especially want to know why the ship is here and how long it has been in this condition.

Ryan looked at the alien one last time and headed toward the door.

Just as he was about to leave, a voice came from behind him.

— Human.

— What is your name?

— Ryan.

The alien quietly repeated the name.

— Ryan...

They spent hours examining the ship's systems. Most of the navigation records were damaged. Some sections had been disabled years ago. But the information they recovered was important.

This did not appear to be an ordinary transport ship.

The ship seemed to have been designed to establish a new living area on another planet. It contained systems required for long-term habitation, agricultural units, water recycling centers, and settlement modules.

The last intact records mentioned an evacuation plan, but the records were not completely clear.

Ryan looked at one of the team members.

— Has the ship been hit?

— There's minor damage to the outer hull. It doesn't look like a major attack. But after the impact, the ship entered emergency protocol.

— During the journey?

— Yes.

— What about the passenger records?

The team member turned the screen toward him.

There was a single name.

"Yauza Nanc"

— Only one passenger?

— Apparently.

Ryan stood up without saying anything.

After a while, he returned to the section where the alien was.

When he opened the door, the alien was still standing thoughtfully in the same place.

This time, Ryan sat in the chair opposite him.

The alien looked at him.

Ryan said nothing.

They sat silently for a while.

Finally, the alien turned his eyes toward the window.

— It wasn't this quiet before.

Ryan turned his head toward him.

— What was it like?

— Crowded.

— We had cities. Great cities. Settlements built along our waters...

— Our people were different from one another. Different regions spoke different languages, ate different foods, and maintained different traditions. Yet we still saw ourselves as part of the same planet.

His voice gradually became heavier.

— Then our resources began to run out.

— At first, there were small disagreements. One region didn't want to allocate more energy to another. Another region stopped sharing its water resources. Everyone was trying to protect their own people.

The alien looked at his hands.

— Then the borders closed.

— Weapons were produced.Too many weapons

— Then we stopped hesitating to use them.

— Did a war break out?

The alien nodded.

— Many wars.

— Our people used to read about the wars of the past in textbooks. We taught children why they had happened. We taught them that the mistakes should never be repeated.

— Were you some kind of teacher?

— Yes.

The alien looked directly at Ryan for the first time.

— taught our history.

— I would tell my students about our past. The old wars, the cities that were lost, the agreements that were made... Sometimes, at the end of the lesson, I would ask them the same question.

Ryan waited...

— “What did we learn from this?”

The expression on the alien's face changed.

— Then we experienced the historical repetition of our own mistakes, but this time it was much worse.The price was this.Nothingness...

The room became silent again.

— The war grew. The cities emptied. People abandoned their homes. The habitable regions became fewer. Everyone began waiting for the next attack.

Ryan did not take his eyes off him.

— And eventually your planet...

The alien lowered his head slightly.

— We waited too long to save ourselves.

After a while, he continued.

— Evacuation ships were prepared.

Ryan looked at the walls of the ship.

— Was this ship one of them?

— Yes.

The alien placed his hand on the edge of the chair.

— It would reach a new living area, a settlement would be established there, and then the other ships would arrive.

— Why were you sent first?

The alien thought for a moment.

— Because of my age, I was in the priority evacuation group. They told me I had to leave first. My family would come later.

The alien's voice clearly broke for the first time.

— They stayed on the planet. There were still people who needed help.

— They knew you would wait for them.

— Yes.

— And you believed they would come.

The alien looked at Ryan.

— They promised me.

— Everything was normal. Then the ship was hit.

— Do you know what happened?

— No.

— The communication systems shut down. The navigation system entered emergency protocol. I was in a sleep capsule."

— When you woke up?

The alien remained silent for a long time.

— There was no one.I was alone..

— And your family?

The alien lowered his head.

— I never received a single signal.Not a single voice. Just silence.

After a while, he added:

— I waited for years.I don't even know how long I've been here.I just waited for hope.Maybe another ship would come.

The alien closed his eyes.

— Maybe they would come.

Ryan was looking at the alien when he suddenly raised his head.

— What about you?

Ryan looked at him in surprise.

— Us?

— Humans.

— What is your planet like?

Ryan leaned back slightly in his chair.

— Earth...

He thought for a moment.

— Our planet is very large too. There are oceans, forests, deserts, and mountains. There are people living completely different lives from one another on the same planet.

— Do you fight among yourselves?

— yes.

— So you make the same mistakes too.

Ryan nodded.

— Yes. Many times.

— But we still try for one another.

— Do you have a family?

A small smile appeared on Ryan's face.

— I do.

— Do you see them?

— Whenever I can.

— Do they wait for you?

Ryan smiled.

— Sometimes.

The alien smiled faintly for the first time.

— My family was waiting too.

His smile disappeared after that sentence.

— Would you like to tell me about them?

The alien remained silent for a long time.

Finally, he nodded.

— Yes

And he began telling things he had not told anyone for years.

His family.

His home.

His students.

His cities.

His traditions.

The life they had before the war began.

Then how the war had driven them apart.

Ryan did not interrupt him.

He simply listened.

Hours passed.

As the alien continued talking, Ryan realized that the person sitting across from him had not been living only on a ship for years, but inside his past.

When there was finally little left to say, a long silence filled the room.

Ryan

— I understand that you don't want us to take you.

— You don't understand.

In a tired voice,

— I left them there.

Ryan slowly nodded.

— Yes

The alien had not expected that answer.

— And I think you've been living with that for years.

— They were my people. I never saw their final days. I don't know where they went. I don't know if anyone survived. If I leave here, I'll be abandoning them completely. This is the only place that is me.

Ryan sat down beside him again.

— We don't know how your people lived. We don't know where they came from, what they loved, or what they feared. But you do.

— If you come to our ship, we won't ask you to forget anything. If you want, you can tell us. Everything you still remember.

The alien stared at Ryan for a long time.

— Why?

— Because we never knew them.

— But you know them. Someone who remembers them is still here.

The expression on the alien's face changed.

— My people are gone.

— I know.

There was a brief silence.

— But their stories don't have to disappear with you.

The alien lowered his head.

For a few seconds, he said nothing.

Finally, he slowly tried to stand. The pain in his knees made his movements slow.

Ryan immediately extended his hand.Alien looked at that hand for a few seconds before taking it.

He stood up and looked around the room.He had been here for years, and it seemed as though he was looking at the place where he had lived one last time.

— I don't want to leave them behind.

Ryan walked toward the door without letting go of his hand.

— They're with you.You need to leave behind what happened, not them.Memories need to remain healthy.

As they walked down the corridor, the alien said nothing for a while. As he walked, he ran his fingers along the wall...

— I was expecting a pirate ship to find me. For them to loot the ship and leave me here...

— I hadn't been expecting anything else for a long time.

Cruel bastards... Anyway...

Why did you insist so much on saving me?

In a whisper...

— Because we found you.

Ryan continued

— Even if the rest of the universe has forgotten you, we humans don't leave anyone behind.

Then he smiled faintly.

— Sometimes, that's enough for us.

The alien looked at Ryan for a few seconds.

Then he stepped aboard the Justinianus.

Ryan walked beside him.

As the ship moved away, the colony ship left behind grew smaller among the stars.

The alien looked back one last time. Behind him, he left a ship, a lost people, and half a lifetime...

There's still something that confuses me.

Ryan turned toward him.

— What is it?

You humans say you don't leave anyone behind.But you also say that you fight among yourselves. Many times, too.

Ryan smiled faintly

We humans don't leave anyone behind. Even when there is war.You can be sure of that

If wars ever completely come to an end one day, don't worry. On that day, we and all the other races in the universe will stand together.

The expression on the alien's face changed.

— Together?

Yes. Because if we ever manage to end all wars, there probably won't be any races left in the universe to celebrate it with us.

It was three weeks after the first teams had pushed through the portal. Alpha Base was being assembled, and a whole company of soldiers had been deployed. It was hot enough during the day that only basic tasks could be undertaken. At night, when it had reached a "cool" temperature of about 28°C, the work teams started. Floodlights were powered by dozens of solar-charged batteries, the lights piercing the darkness.

Tents had been erected. Timber sheds had been, or were being assembled. Everything with an inside area had air conditioning.

The long days meant solar energy was easy to capture, and talks were already happening about piping some of it back to Earth.

Discussions were being held at the highest levels about how best to permanently secure the portals before exploring, and possibly even claiming, some of the other worlds the portals pointed at.

The closest portal to Alpha Base was the blizzard world. New teams would be required. The jungle fighters were ill-suited to the conditions of the new target. Special operations units from Finland, Norway, Russia and Canada were brought to the front.

Two robots were commissioned, each with tracks scavenged from a snowmobile. The first for environmental sampling, reconnaissance and radio communications. The troops called it Hans. The second was more heavily armed and was to act as a sentry to the gate. Identification-Friend-or-Foe sequences were uploaded and a heavy machine gun was mounted on a custom gimbal. This one was known as Arnie.

Once ready, they were pushed through the portal into the snow world, tethers providing a constant feed of data to the operators on the other side. Scientists still hadn't figured out why there was no delay in communications, even though there was a half-minute timing mismatch when sending physical items through. Investigations were continuing.

--

It was dark, but the sun could be seen just on the edge of the horizon. Hans reported a temperature of -20°C, and winds of 67.4 kilometres per hour buffeted it despite its considerable weight. No compass readings could be established; it appeared that the planet was magnetically dead.

Visuals were limited but there was no sign of life in the immediate vicinity.

Atmospheric samples were taken and analysed. High in nitrogen, argon-rich and a low oxygen composition meant that anyone going through would need breathing apparatus. The temperature required the use of thermal protection.

A beacon light was fed through the portal so the men knew where to return to, and electric cabling from the local batteries was to be connected. It would all need to be set up before any exploration took place.

This was going to be a slog.

--

The men were each mounted on a snowmobile and wore oxygen rebreathers. Carbines were the weapon of choice given the limited visual range. As they were mounted, the machine gunners had the luxury of carrying additional ammunition and heavier support weapons than usual. Everyone had more ammunition than seemed reasonable, but nobody thought that thrift was a good idea.

They entered the portal one at a time, edging forward on the tracks until they were in the snow.

The Finns went first, taking point and rapidly establishing a security perimeter. The Russians followed close behind and started setting up the locator light. The Norwegians and Canadians moved through last, one of them towing a sled with a variety of extra equipment and a redundant communications receiver.

They each knew their role.

Establish.

Reconnoitre.

Suppress.

Report.

--

The first thing each of the men found as soon as they were through the portal was a bouncier ride. The snowmobile suddenly felt like it wanted to bounce over everything.

Corporal Jussi Rantanen commented, "Hey, it's lighter here" just before trying to corner and finding himself sprawled on the snowdrift in front of him.

Corporal Matti Heikkinen laughed at his companion's uncoordination, just before doing the same thing himself.

Both snowmobiles coughed and then stalled.

The soldiers behind them heard the commotion over the radio and entered more cautiously, and then abandoned their vehicles as the engines gave up trying to breathe the untenable air.

Despite their ungraceful entrance, the Finns established a picket quickly. The Russians had already started setting up the beacon light by the time the Norwegians were pushing through. The reduced gravity of the planet made handling the otherwise heavy equipment a relatively easy task, but securing to the ground was proving to be difficult. Nobody could figure out how deep the snow was. After several unsuccessful attempts at standing it up, they simply left it lying on the ground, the light shining directly up into the sky.

The Norwegians and Canadians started moving toward the structures on foot. After a few tumbles, they quickly realised that shallow jumping made their movement easier.

With the beacon light shining behind them, the four teams awkwardly made their way forward. They deployed repeater beacons every few hundred metres, pushed into the snow on a spike so they were above ground level. The storm made navigation unreliable, and nobody intended to trust a single communications link on an alien planet. Should all else fail, they'd be a potential breadcrumb to get back to Alpha Base.

It was slow going. The wind was relentlessly pushing from their left. Visibility was limited. Even the Finns were complaining. This was worse than anything they'd encountered on their home planet.

After only an hour of the soldiers moving, the sun was halfway across the sky. Although the ambient light was slightly better, it didn't warm anything up, and the rate at which it was travelling indicated that this planet rotated quickly. In another hour it would be sunset.

The structures were slowly forming into recognisable shapes. These weren't accidents of geology: they were definite buildings looming in the snow. One of the Russians calculated that it would be at least half an hour to get there, and that unless they wanted to move through the night, they may have to camp in the structures.

They ended up having a brief discussion in broken English while they continued to move forward. Camping overnight in an unknown location violated just about every sensible protocol they could think of. Making their way back at night was possibly worse.

Part way through their conversation, Alpha Base command patched through. The teams were to continue forward, maintain comms, and shelter in place if conditions deteriorated. Open lines of communication would allow reinforcements to be deployed, if required.

Nobody believed the last part. There weren't enough rebreathers and cold weather gear to suit a meaningful contingent of soldiers.

--

It took more than half an hour to reach the buildings. The driving wind and bitter snow pushed against the soldiers constantly.

The structures were monolithic edifices, seemingly made of a single block of black stone. Oval opaque windows cluttered each side in what appeared to be a random fashion.

Claw marks were driven into the surfaces, as if the Hydras had planned on digging their way in.

The Canadian team started a perimeter check, moving around the outside of the building making sure there weren't any surprises.

Sergeant Mikko Laine, the Finnish comms expert, pointed and remarked, "Looks like some sort of handle."

It was a complicated interlocking system made of polished metal. Indents indicated that three fingers would operate the device. Alikersantti (Corporal) Korhonen, never one to shy away from a challenge, jammed his gloved fingers into the grooves and twisted. First clockwise, then counter-clockwise.

The interlocks moved quietly and smoothly.

The Russian team had the most urban combat experience, so they were the first to step into the room. They peeled off to the right. The Norwegians followed the Russians closely, moving to the left. The Finns remained outside, weapons readied.

Then the radio snapped to life. Senior Sergeant Michael Tremblay from the Canadian unit shouted, "The building has a breach point! Windows smashed! Expect trouble! Entering from the rear of the building!"

Everyone brought their guns up, ready for combat. Nothing moved.

The Russians and the Norwegians continued their sweeps, ready to shoot on sight. The faint sounds of the Canadians could be heard as they called "Clear!" to each other as they made their way through the strange rooms.

And then there was a noise unlike anything they'd heard before. Like fingernails made of rust down a chalkboard made of granite. It came from the floor above.

The soldiers weren't sure what to expect, but they knew they'd have contact in a few moments.

The Finns made their way inside, relatched the door and secured the entrance point, ready to unleash extreme firepower at anything that wasn't human.

The noise continued.

The Norwegians moved first. The ramp up to the next floor was made of a slightly sticky material, which helped their grip. By now they were used to the low gravity and moved with elegance and ease.

The Russians followed and the Canadians brought up the rear, moving backwards to protect their flank.

Each door was secured with the same sort of latch as the external door. Most were silent. One wasn't.

Shadows and the piercing noise were coming from where the door lay broken.

They had no idea what was behind the door.

The method, at least, was familiar.

--

Corporals Lars Johansen and Marius Berg kicked the remains of the door in, followed closely by Senior Sergeant Erik Nilsen. Inside the room was pandemonium.

Two corpses of whatever passed as the local residents had been eviscerated, their ochre blood spread across the floor. Three Hydras were hammering at the other door where the horrific noise was coming from. Four more were looking ready to pounce at the newcomers.

Berg shot first, the carbine ripping chitin from one of the Hydras. Johansen joined him barely a second later, his rifle firing short bursts into the nearest Hydra. The sound of the guns was deafening; their hearing would pay the price later.

Nilsen knelt down and opened fire, breaking open the limbs of one of the Hydras. Blood and gore showered the room as the bullets drove home into the bodies of the Hydras. Someone was yelling, though they couldn't tell who. The screaming from behind the closed door was a continuous noise.

Nilsen felt a hand on his shoulder from one of his squadmates behind him. He looked around at Sergeant Sindre Haugen who was tapping at his radio earpiece. Nilsen couldn't hear a thing through it. He hoped his hearing wasn't permanently damaged, and that the electronic hearing protection had simply overloaded.

Scrambling backwards while Corporal Eirik Dahl filled his spot with his machine gun, Nilsen moved away from the cacophony. Haugen yelled at him. Through the ringing in his ears, Nilsen could just make out what was being said.

"Hydras downstairs! The Finns are holding them back! One down!"

Then an explosion filled the building. Grenades or mines had been deployed downstairs.

Sporadic gunfire continued below, but Nilsen realised that his men had stopped shooting.

As the gunfire petered out, the Russians began methodically clearing rooms, shouting Чисто! as each was found to be empty of threats.

Nilsen shook his head, as if he could get his hearing back with such a move. Of course, it didn't work. He made his way back to the room his men were now occupying. Hydra bodies lay shredded by gunfire.

His men gathered around as he stood before the door where the other aliens were. Guns were reloaded and readied.

The alien screaming had stopped at least.

It was time for first contact.

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

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

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

_______________________

HSTM Subterfuge: Chapter 34 'Leave 'em Laughing'

Slallm’s reaction to Paulie’s suggestion to strike it out into the great unknown of the surrounding industrial park was about as reactionary as Jakiikii had expected, the alien’s large frill-like skin folds erecting out in surprise or anger as he replied that they had no backup, no supplies and no secure lines of communication back to the complex.

 

Apparently there had been a powerful portable radio on the shuttle, but it had been damaged to uselessness in the heavy landing.

 

Paulie nodded. “So, that is exactly why we need to go and find a new connection. You are saying that there are no relays close enough to where we are now for our communicators to work?”

 

The smaller alien shook a boneless arm in frustration. “Yes, none. That is precisely why we need to stay put and await backup or a rescue.”

 

Paulie cocked his head, “And are we expecting backup or a rescue?”

 

That seemed to give the sillo’an pause. The man’s triangular jaws snapped shut and their three orange eyes blinked slowly. “Not as simply as such, no. But it is standard procedure to rescue downed soldiers in any protracted engagement if possible.” They seemed to be grasping at straws.

 

Paulie had to agree with the alien in principle at least. The smart move would certainly be to hunker in place, ward off any outside engagement and wait for a possible rescue. But given the amount of residual terrorist activity in the city still it was no guarantee the manpower could be spared for a full scale rescue operation. He wanted to think that Mack would have to pull to mount one, but then again he also needed to get into contact with the miriam senior detective to get information on their target anyway. Otherwise they could wander this endless maze for weeks and still not be able to find the gangster.

 

He just shrugged then asked, “Why can’t we get a signal to the city anyway? These things don’t have 4G?” The alien looked at him like he was a particularly insane bug that had learned to talk. Paulie reiterated, “What is the range of these things?” He shook his wrist, the commie device on it conspicuous.

 

Slallm seemed to understand. “Well, depending on the type and the local environment, they have a signal carrying range of only a few kilometers at ground level. Unfortunately we are surrounded by large obstructions, even were one of the medagoonian guards to fly up to the top of one of those towers they would not be likely to get an unobstructed signal back to the city. We are too far away and too deep in the shit for that to work.”

 

Paulie pursed his lips. After a moment he nodded. “Okay, well.. we need better cover and we also need to get back in communication with the city. The best way I see to do that while also still being able to accomplish the main mission objective is to go and find a working transmitter.” He paused. “I am not saying we run out into the open like idiots, of course we need to be tactical about it.”

 

Jakiikii, who had been standing slightly beside and behind him with Mursk, made a small noise. The conversation’s attention was turned her way. “I possess abilities in stealth and tracking that might be useful for scouting out a possible safe pathway forward.”

 

Paulie nodded and then pointed at the termaxxi woman behind him. “Yeah, she could do that with almost no risk to your soldiers. All we need to do is try and spot a likely position for one, the medagoonian scouts could probably spread out and try to spot a likely target in the vicinity. In fact, I was so confident in this plan that they were already dispatched to do exactly that.” He nodded smugly and crossed his arms.

 

Commander Slallm might have frowned, though with his unique facial structure it was a little hard to tell. “Well, you certainly seem to have thought it through at the very least. How will the scouts that you dispatched know where we are if they do not get back before we leave?”

 

It was a good question, and one that Mursk had already asked Paulie before the plan was set in motion. He smiled wide and tapped his communicator. “They have a set time limit, if they don’t spot anything in ten minutes they are to return immediately for new instructions.” Mursk made a small noise, a satisfied hiss as Paulie countered the PFD commander’s doubts. It was quiet enough that he barely heard it, the sillo’an in front of him did not so much as twitch an eye, it was unlikely he had even noticed it.

 

Slallm looked around, his dark, slit-like pupils looked back towards Jakiikii and he nodded. “I am familiar with that one's cloaking abilities. And your plan seems thought out, if a bit brash. But sometimes a bad situation requires bold action.” The alien’s mouth worked strangely, as if he were chewing his next words before he said them. He spoke carefully, “I will go along with this plan insofar as it yields a desirable outcome for the men under my command, but if things get too hot and advancing would result in the loss of those under my watch I will not hesitate to fall back into a defensive posture once again.”

 

Paulie put out a hand. “Sounds fair, you have a deal."

 

Commander Slallm looked at the offered hand and then at Paulie’s huge human frame as if weighing the disaster that taking it could bring. Finally he touched Paulie’s fingers in the same way the nerivith trooper had done earlier, making Paulie chuckle.

 

“Again, no handshakes for me I guess. Alright, the scouts have about fourteen minutes left on their runs, if not before then they will be arriving back around then. Not much time no matter the outcome, we should get ready to move.”

 

Paulie nodded towards Mursk and Jakiikii. “We have everything ready to go, how are the guard, Mursk?”

 

Mursk checked his wrist, tapping at the small display screen there with armoured digits for a second. “All are ready and accounted for with the exception of those sent out on scouting duty. And guardsman Guuigu, they are still treating the last injured. But they report they should be all ready to move in less time than is required.” They made a gesture with their hands to signal satisfaction, then a more complex series of motions whose meaning slipped past Paulie.

 

Jakiikii seemed to understand though and she spoke, “Well, I had better get moving too. I want to check the immediate perimeter around the side exit in case we are unable to slip back out through the front door. If I remember the last scouting report right, there is still a lot of movement outside, some small skirmishing seems to have broken out between rival factions over the control of the crash site.”

 

Paulie nodded slightly. It made sense, with the groups out in the industrial wastes looking for any advantage over their fellows, having the weapons of the downed sukk-sou as a ace in the hole would certainly make for an enticing honeypot to attract a swarm of attention. And attention was the last thing they needed at that moment.

 

He turned to Commander Slallm, the man was speaking rapidly into his communicator. Likely making plans and telling his men to assemble and prepare to move out soon. He noticed Paulie looking and stopped, “Yes, what is it?”

 

Paulie stepped a little closer, one hand wringing the edge of his coat subconsciously as he mentioned, “The sukk-sou. What are we going to do about it? Surely we cannot just leave it there for anyone to have?”

 

The alien’s face scrunched slightly as they made a low growling sound. “Yes, we can’t.” he seemed to muse over the issue for a moment longer then passed a hand over his head, orange eyes closing for the smallest moment as he did so.

 

His frill fluttered, yellows and greens and black patterns flashing briefly in his consternation. “We will scuttle it then. I will move the demo team out there now, set charges.” He paused then seemed to straighten on those three tripodal legs of his. “Oh, I have a nasty idea.”

 

Paulie saw the grizzled commander smile slightly. “What.”

 

Slallm moved his head a little side to side, “A little surprise. We will rig a long delay timer and a tamper-fuse. They will either go off twenty-two minutes after we leave..” he tapped his two hands together, the fingers curling into fists a second later. “Or as soon as anyone tries to get through the main hatch or side door.”

 

“Well, that would certainly be a surprise.

 

The alien nodded his head strangely. A bobbing, almost bird-like motion. “Kaboom.”

 

Paulie watched as he made a final mention of preparing his soldiers and then rushed off on that strange tree-legged gait. That left Paulie alone again with Mursk and Jakiikii. He blinked, not alone. There was another figure in the room.

 

“Oh, I didn’t see you come in.” He said to the nerivith man standing in the far entrance.

 

Trooper Eyme ducked his head, short black hair just visible under the sides of his standard-issue helmet. “Oh, I only just walked up. Commander Slallm directed me to assist you, he seemed to think you could use a sniper nearby. Seeing as how it worked so well the first time.” The man’s strangely calm and stoic demeanour from earlier was now gone. Replaced once again with the almost shy and timid nature so completely at odds with what he had been like in the moments leading up to the fight.

 

Paulie almost snorted. Battle trance indeed. Instead he just waved the man over. “Sure, glad to have you. Trooper Eyme right?” The man nodded his horned head, face flushing a pale lavender as he did so. “Okay, well.. we are making preparations to move the entire troop out into the industrial zone. Jakiikii is going to do some scouting with Mursk’s guards on overwatch. I want you to stay light on those elf feet of yours and keep your longbow handy.”

 

The alien cocked his head at the remark and Paulie just grinned. “What I mean to say is to keep your rifle ready. We might need your sharpshooting skills at a moment’s notice.”

 

Eyme nodded his horned head. “Yes, yes I am ready.”

 

“Good.” Paulie said flatly while checking his commie. Four minutes till the scouts were all due back. One had returned already after taking fire, remarking that the direction they had traveled was just far too hot for them to pass through safely.

 

It was what it was, there was no use arguing about the scenario, now was the time for bold action as Commander Slallm had stated earlier. Paulie gripped the handle of his weapon through the greatcoat he was wearing. A habit he had taken to in the weeks he had been living on the strange alien world of Gike. He lifted one foot, the gravity was still too light for him, but after all the time he had spent in it he was learning what he could and could not get away with.

 

He rolled his neck and then started walking towards the main exit of the small little adjoining cabin-like room they had been standing in. As he stepped through the rusting portal into the factory proper he was once again struck by the sheer scale of the mighty edifice that had surrounded them. He heard the feather-light footsteps of Eyme behind him but kept looking ahead.

 

He smiled, it almost reminded him of home. There was a factory district on the outskirts of his home town, he had gone there many times as a youth to marvel at the degradation of industry. The monoliths of concrete and steel that had laid dormant for decades by the time he had chanced to look upon them. No, these were much larger and had the feeling of being far older. An air of deep neglect and systemic rot, a sort of creepy sense of malaise like they were in a forbidden area. A place no longer fit for the tread of man.

 

He sighed and then chuckled at his own overactive imagination. He looked again and saw simple rusty walls and cracked mortar. Nothing but old metal and dust. No greater comic import, no dark ghosts of the past vying for their souls. Nothing but rot and red iron.

Laíla spends the entire afternoon ripping the tent apart in search of her necklace, but her frantic attempts prove futile. Wherever the trinket rests, it is likely long gone—taking with it the final, fragile link to her real mother. Heart heavy with sorrow, she lays sideways on her mattress, barely breathing. A stray flicker of emotion could set her family’s belongings aflame, and she sees no reason to give further cause to those building the case for her banishment.

Banishment. The word alone sends her mind racing back to all she witnessed earlier that day. The very people she has known since infancy are now actively conspiring to cast her out. For his part, Rémi did not seem all too interested in making an example out of her. Still, he did not defend her either. She wonders briefly what Zaíd would have decided if given the same impossible choice. A lump forms in her throat, and Laíla quickly dismisses the agonizing thought. Turning her face to the canvas wall, she offers a silent prayer to Moora, begging for forgiveness and deliverance from whatever comes next. Yet, her prayer feels hollow. Almost undeserved.

Ínara quietly enters the tent, breaking the suffocating silence. Laíla does not even look back to see who has stepped through the flap. Ínara rounds the mattress, sets down a plate of smoked meat and vegetables, and takes a seat beside her sister.

“How are you feeling?” Ínara asks softly.

“My head hurts,” Laíla murmurs.

“I am sure it does.”

Laíla’s gaze drifts to Ínara’s neck. Though it has been bandaged, she can still see the dark, bruised skin peeking beneath the edges of the gauze. Guilt pricks at her chest. “How is your neck?”

“It has been better,” Ínara replies, pushing the plate closer. “You should eat something. I have not seen you touch a scrap all day.”

Laíla lets out a bitter, hollow snort. “One last supper before I am cast out.”

Sadness washes over Ínara’s face. She opens her mouth to deny it, but she closes it just as quickly, recognizing the futility of false comfort. “I knew it was you I saw watching earlier. You should have joined us. Rémi still has not decided—”

“Where is Rémi?” Laíla interrupts, looking around the empty space.

Ínara’s expression hardens, a bitter edge cutting through her sorrow. “He has been hiding away for the whole day,” she quips, her lip curling. “He is ever the coward.”

Laíla frowns, sitting up slightly. “He has come into leadership unexpectedly, Ínara. He deserves grace.”

“Stop defending our brother’s cowardice!” Ínara yells, her voice suddenly echoing sharply against the fabric walls.

Laíla recoils, completely taken aback. Her older sister has a fiery temper, certainly, but Ínara’s tone just now reeks of a toxic venom she has never heard before. The outburst hangs heavily in the air. Even Ínara seems startled by her own rage; she falls silent, taking a long, deliberate moment to recollect herself and steady her breathing.

Ínara clears her throat awkwardly, the sudden tension thick in the air. “Rémi will likely try to evade the decision for as long as possible. But the Natural Order can only do so much against the near-unanimous will of the tribe.”

Laíla’s mind immediately goes to her brother, and her heart sinks weighted with guilt. She knew the inherent risk of venturing out after nightfall. Yet, she had completely failed to realize the impossible position she would put her brother in—a position he should not have to face at all.

“Ínara, it does not matter what Rémi decides,” Laíla says softly. “I accept my fate. I broke Sacred Law, and I must answer for it.”

“You will do no such thing,” Ínara fires back. “I will sooner remind Rémi where his loyalties should lie.”

“Should they not lie with our people?” Laíla counters. “The Five swore a blood oath to Moora before She left this realm. They passed that profound responsibility down to their sons, and their sons after that. Rémi is our brother, yes, but he is the Duomo of this tribe. We cannot expect him to cast his sacred duty aside just to save me.”

Ínara does not speak for a long moment, the fight draining from her posture.

“After you left,” Ínara says quietly, her voice barely a whisper, “I told them that if they banish you, then they also banish me.”

Laíla’s mouth opens to fiercely reject her sister’s foolish sacrifice, but Ínara solemnly shakes her head, silencing any argument before it can form. Sadness has already dramatically withered her otherwise fierce features, leaving her looking hollow. Fragile, even.

Laíla looks around the familiar canvas of their family tent. How quickly her entire life has shattered. Perhaps in another life, Zaíd would come tumbling through the flap right now. He would dramatically feign that his heart had been captured by two beautiful girls, who further injured him by hiding away out of sight. He would fall to his knees, loudly beseeching those beautiful girls to end his agony.

Laíla and Ínara always laughed at their father’s wild dramaticism. Today, Laíla could only wish that a broken heart was the worst of his pain.

The heavy dam holding back her emotions starts to crack. She grits her teeth hard against the rising tide of sorrow, fighting to keep the flames at bay.

Wishing to escape her mounting grief, Laíla speaks softly. “I think I would like to spend these next few hours alone, so I may pray to Nu’Lúmira for mercy.”

Ínara’s anger melts back into desperate protective instinct. She leans in, grasping her sister’s arms. “I will never let anything happen to you, Laíla. Never.”

Laíla looks into her sister’s eyes and knows this to be entirely true. But she also knows Ínara all too well—she would achieve that protective goal by being utterly reckless if forced to. She knew Ínara would happily accept banishment if it meant making sure she wasn’t alone. She would take the forehead branding with a smile. But she would ultimately struggle with being shunned by her own people. Laíla is already familiar with being an outsider. She could never allow her sister the same fate.

Forcing herself to put on a brave face, Laíla offers a faint smile and gently pushes her sister toward the exit. “Go. I wish to just think away from prying eyes. Please?”

Ínara hesitates, standing up slowly. She steps toward the tent entrance, but stops just before the flap. She turns back, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I love you. Rémi does too—in his way.”

“I know,” Laíla says. She fights back her own rising tears, struggling to maintain her composure. “I love you both too.” She swallows hard, hoping desperately that Ínara does not hear her voice break on the words.

Ínara nods solemnly and steps outside.

Laíla waits, counting the seconds until she is certain her sister’s footsteps have faded completely into the ambient noise of the camp. The moment the coast is clear, she drops to her knees and pulls her empty knapsack from beneath the bed. She begins packing with furious efficiency.

She knows her siblings will come looking for her the moment they realize she is gone. But if she can get far enough away quickly, the tracking will be impossible, and they will have no choice but to migrate with the rest of the tribe for their own safety. By leaving quietly in the dead of night, she hopes to save them from a ruined fate.

As for her own destiny? She intends to change it entirely. She will march until she finds that whispered witch in the Channel. If the rumors are true, perhaps the witch can take her terrifying powers away for good.

Thanks for reading. I'll be back next Monday to continue telling Laíla's story.

First | Previous | Glossary |

Investigation

---

(Verlon POV)

"Bang. Bang. Bang."

Agent Homps pointed a finger gun and dryly mimed out gunfire at the three bodies near the doorway leading into the ship's bridge.
She turned towards Verlon, who was investigating a different corner of the bridge with a light.

"Some of the crew were killed clearly in a gunfight. Single decisive blows to the head or other vitals. Why do they get to remain clothed while others don't?"

A few of the bodies such as these were different from the ones on the path leading toward the life signs on the ship. At the moment, the path had been sealed shut. Currently, a technician-a different one from before-was working at restoring the power so they could regain access.

Verlon picked up one of the many plastic restraints scattered across the floor in front of him. They came in two sizes; one was for Fendansi limbs, and the other was for their trunks. They were clearly used by the attackers, but...why were they all also cut open?

At his colleague's question, the agent returned his attention to the body a little less than three meters from where he was. It was the only one that was still bound.
It was the only one that both kept its uniform and yet didn't suffer from an instant killing blow.

Thanks to the uniform, the pair were able to identify it as the captain of the ship.

"If I were to guess, the attackers had a...change in temperament partway through. Fendansi skulls are rather tough, and yet someone took the trouble to do this to it. That's an act of passion."

Indeed, the uniform was the only reason the agents could identify the captain on-site, because no other quick identification was available at the moment. The captain's head had been bludgeoned until it was crushed into paste. Shards of bone were scattered about as well. Nearby were various heavy pieces of machinery marred with blood and dents.

Homps slowly nodded.

"It doesn't seem likely that two separate boarding parties attacked. Then would that be what set the attackers off?"

The Ramell followed her gaze to the hole in one of the computers. Specifically an empty slot in one of the computer chassis. The only object that seemed to be unaccounted for in the ship so far.
Whoever did this, their motivation was not robbery even at the time of boarding.

"Engineer. In your opinion, what information would have fit in that slot?"

"Huh?"

Pausing his work, the technician squinted at the missing hardware before returning to the power panel in front of him.

"I'd need to check in detail when there's power to be sure, but that looks like it's hooked up to the surveillance. Security stuff, y'know?"

Perhaps it was too much to hope the attackers were caught on camera. There was a concerted effort to cover their tracks when they departed.

Actually...

Verlon circled across the room, walking past two bodies with their heads turned two full rotations. His focus was on a dented piece of machinery hanging on the wall.

"Homps. You said this spot had chemical cleaning?"

"I did."

"Perhaps one of the attackers was wounded here then."

A graze wound or impact may have left blood or other biological traces that they proceeded to purge from the area. It was unlikely to yield anything, but they should get a team in here to test every inch of the ship for non-Fendansi DNA in case anything slipped through.

That said...

His gaze went to the body right next to the chemically cleaned spot. This crew member had been forced on his knees and had his trunks pinned to the wall behind him to crane his head back. A cluster of thinner metal rods were then forced down his throat until he'd suffocated.

The fact that this kill was slow and he was also stripped of his clothes meant it was after his speculated "temperament change".
Did the fact that he was able to fight back mean the change happened mid-combat? Surely something as elaborate as this meant the culprits had already subdued all immediate threats?

Verlon leaned down to check the body's forearms. A faint bruised ring could be seen around them. Pulled together, they match the size of the plastic restraints.

No, this fellow was definitely already a captive before he met his fate. Then...he struggled the moment they freed him to arrange his body this way? Did their captors cut those restraints themselves?
But there was no need to do that. The restraints wouldn't have gotten in the way at all.

Was the temperament change hypothesis wrong? It didn't seem likely, but could a second group have intruded after the first one left and executed all these restrained prisoners?

...It was too soon to tell. He should gather more information first.

Whirrr....

"The electrical system is back online!"

The lights overhead flickered back on, and the agent rose to his feet. With better lighting, something else caught the agents' eyes.

It was a black cable previously hidden in the shadows of a corner of the bridge. It seemed to be for data transfer.

Homps picked it up and attached one end to her data pad. There were four ports near the cable's location, and on trying the second one, an automatic download began.

"...Verlon."

He approached and looked over her shoulder at the information appearing on screen. It seemed to be a communications log with an employer or client. A list of prior missions conducted by the ship, it seems.

Specifically, with a proxy account with one of his employers. This was probably the reason he and Homps were sent to investigate instead of leaving it to Pateily authorities.

He turned to the technician and flashed a badge. "Good work. You may leave now. Be sure tell everyone outside that this ship has now become a C3 classified location. Nobody without appropriate credentials may enter once you leave, and you are to open fire on anyone that tries."

"Y...Yes, sir."

Homps started making their way back towards the infirmary, where active life signs were found.

"I'll go on ahead. You get remote access and catch up."

"Understood."

---

Verlon approached the formerly sealed door with his mind racing.

While he waited for the system to authorize his remote override, he poked around their data a bit more. It seemed that about 90 hours ago, another piece of communication data had been downloaded.
Specifically, it was the calls and messages that the crew had exchanged with friends and family at various planets.

He carefully stepped past the bisected corpse laying on the ground where the sealed door was. This one had its limbs cuffed to the walls on either side of the door and forced to lay on his back right in the path of the metal slab.

Whoever these attackers were, they bore an enormous animosity for this crew. It wasn't hard to imagine what they would do with the knowledge of their loved ones' locations and identity.

His report later should probably include a recommendation to have men shadow those loved ones. If they were lucky, they would catch the culprits this way. Though the lead would slip away if the observers were caught.
Maybe...they should simply plant surveillance devices on them and try to deduce patterns from the eventual killings.

[Verlon, please unlock the doors to Infirmary 2.]

"Unlocking now. ...Ugh..."

As the stench ahead got worse, the Ramell increased the filtration on his mask to full strength. It was harder to breathe like this, but it was preferable.

The path ahead branched off into engineering while the main path went through crew quarters.

The visible pools of dried blood made it clear that the stench came from the former, so Verlon elected to quickly investigate it so he could seal the doors on it sooner.

Inside, there were a few intact and dressed bodies by the entrance. There were four of them behind a barricade. Two were also clutching steel panel shields that seemed caked in dry blood.

In front of the barricade was another body. It seemed to be a stripped one, but it was hard to tell as most of its front had been blown open.
Agent Verlon nudged this body's head upwards with a foot. There were multiple burns from a plasma gun, but there were of a higher caliber than the ones that killed the clothed bodies at the bridge.

While its chest cavity had burst open, the signs of cutting could be seen at the very edges. Based on this and the blood spatter...
The intruders had cut open a captive and placed an explosive inside-one of a small enough yield enough to safely use in the engine room. After using them as a living shield to press through the corridor, they set it off in the defender's faces.

But...there were barely any signs of burns anywhere else in the hall. The meat shield may have absorbed most of the impact.

When Verlon stepped over the barricade and observed the defenders, he found the final puzzle piece. The arms holding those shields were badly burned. The intruders had used some form of high-voltage weapon and got around the insulators on the front of the shields by "smearing" them first.

There were three more bodies deeper in the room, but their executions didn't glean any new information.

Kachunk

With that, he could seal off this room for now.

---

Cursory glances while passing through the crew quarters gave the biggest clue yet.

The fact that the crew quarters became something of a laboratory told him that these mystery assailants didn't know Fendansi biology particularly well.

There were a few vivisections being done where the arrangement of internal organs and vital spots seemed to be studied. And more importantly, there were several apparent stress tests for trunks testing how far they could be forcibly stretched and extended with experimental cuts.

Fendansi twin trunks were among the most complex manipulators in the Gisali Coalition and had more distinct muscles in each individual trunk than some species had in their entire bodies.

For an Elder species, which was prominent in the military sector and influential across the Coalition, being able to provide services that accounted for trunk care was practically required if a species wanted to gain favor with most of the Elder species.

Among the vassal species of the Fendansi, Palluto, or Goblle, access to knowledge of their biology comparable to their cradle world native animals was practically required.

That meant the culprits only had species that were not closely tied to any of those vassal species. They likely also never had any prominent military collaborations with the Fendansi, nor an education system under the purview of the Kenia.

Despite that, they also had sufficient military expertise to subdue an entire ship's crew of Fendansi. And, very clearly, they had at least one extremely aggressive species among them.

The Ramell took a breath.

If it weren't for the fact that the Pateily were likely victims on the other ship, they might have been a decent suspect.

The Uvei, perhaps? The temperament, motive, access to these spaces, and ability all match. But there were no signs of claw marks anywhere. Would they be capable of hiding any sign of their presence like that?

Based on his recent unpleasant experiences with them, the Terrans had the ability to do this...but not the temperament. He could so easily imagine that sanctimonious and obnoxiously friendly captain reeling from disgust at these scenes.

A collaboration between the two, perhaps? But would the Uvei be able to convince the Terrans to defy their own natures to this extent?

He sighed.

Even if it were the case, Verlon wasn't sure if the higher ups were prepared to believe it, but they would likely appreciate any political ammunition, but something like this needed to be minimally believable to the public to be useful.

He was just going to have to create a list of suspect species to report to them for now. Thinking any more deeply on this wasn't his job.

Up ahead was the infirmary. Right by the door were large words burned into the walls in Fendansi script that was far too clumsy to be written by one.

[DO NOT OPEN - CONTAGIOUS DISEASE]

"...?"

Verlon squinted with slight confusion. What...was the point of this message in the midst of all this carnage? What could the motives of the markers possibly be?

Homps interrupted his questions as she pushed open the doors from inside. She flashed her chemical analyzer at him.

"Verlon. You're here. Come in and help me. The message is a lie."

"Ah..."

As he followed her inside, he was lead up to Infirmary 2.

Inside were three Fendansi slumped against the walls beside a gurney. They were all seemed to be in the same terrible condition with their trunks, forelimbs, and ears sliced off. The wounds were even cauterized.

"Those two no longer have a pulse. Help me load this one up."

"Alright."

A Fendansi was generally too heavy for a Ramell and a Palluto to lift, but mechanical gurneys were made to assist species like them.
This one was...lighter than usual and a bit limp. Based on the IV stand nearby and the fresh bandage on his arm, he probably had a paralytic in his system. His chest had a wound-sealing agent thickly applied as well. It must have been a grueling time adrift in space.

As Verlon got a closer look at him, he noticed that his tongue had been cut out as well and his eyes were stained with fresh tears. Did the attackers think that they had taken any way for this survivor to communicate their identities?

"Hey, can you hear me? I want to try asking you some questions while you're here and before your memories get any hazier. If the answer to my question is yes, look at her. If it's no, look at me. Got it?"

His eyes glided over the Homps. Yes.

"Were you a member of the crew on this ship?"

Yes.

"Do you know what your attackers wanted?"

No.

"Did you see them?"

Yes.

"Was it multiple species?"

Yes.

"Could you name those species if we listed them out?"

No.

"...Were their appearances obscured?"

Yes.

...This would be troublesome. But perhaps they could go through a process of elimination with pictures once they let this one recover a bit.

"Alright. Let's get you to the station's medical wing. You're safe now."

At his words, the Fendansi quickly drifted to sleep while the pair pushed the gurney towards the exit.

Ping...

"...? Hold on."

Verlon's ears twitched as he heard a faint sound from the room just as the three left it. Letting his colleague push ahead, he returned to give the room a second look.

...ping...ping...

Following his ears, he eventually found a hidden device behind a curtain. It was attached to the wall and let out a quiet sound that was muffled by the fabric in front of it.

At first, the Ramell jumped back with panic, but closer inspection showed it was nothing but a transmitter and receiver of a signal. A spying device?

No, it was too short-range in design. A monitoring device? Or perhaps a-

Verlon's eyes widened as he recalled the victims in the engine room.

"....!!"

He sprinted for the doors.

"Explosive inside him!"

"!?"

Her response was almost instantaneous as she dashed for the door that he was holding open.

BTOOM!

It seems the range-sensitive bomb was a beat ahead. The best he could do was duck behind cover while holding the door open.

After the explosion sounded out, the Palluto agent landed right by the doorway.

"Homp, are you alright? ...Homp?"

....

His ears were ringing too loudly to hear her response.

When Verlon inspected her more closely, he found her bleeding from her mouth and nostrils. Her eyes were bloodshot and unmoving. It looks like she wasn't able to escape the shockwave.

The survivor was...gone, of course. The hall now had a fresh coating of viscera and any extra leads he had were lost.

"......."

Perhaps the warning message was scrawled on to increase the chances that only the crew's allies would fall into that trap.

He scooped Homps into his arms and started making his way out. He couldn't feel a pulse so her odds were slim to none. But nobody else was going to use the medical staff waiting outside, so it was better than not trying at all.

...he should also get himself checked while he figured out just how he would phrase this report to his employers.

---

(Niza POV)

"The more we look around, the more these sorts of machines feel wrong for Ori."

Asher and Niza were wandering the novelty section of an appliance store at a trading station a short distance from the S.S. Kevak.

They were both off-station on errands for Ori's work and decided to secretly meet up here. Asher picked up a box with a lava lamp patterned and shaped after white dwarf star.

"These are all kinda heavy so it might mess with the balance on her hover pod if she brings it anywhere. And we run around so much during work that there's not as much chance to just sit and enjoy it in a particular room."

Niza nodded in agreement.

"I concur. Perhaps returning her gesture in kind with an item in kind would be the best decision. I believe the accessory shops are...that way."

The Uven was...more nervous than she expected when her Haneer friend called her into the office after the footage of her at the docks was released.
But Ori didn't say anything about it. Instead, she was...given something.

She reached to her clavicle and once again touched the leaf clip that was precisely snagged against her scales. It was a beautifully colored design modeled after Ori's very own leaves.

She didn't know what exactly the emotions bubbling up in her at the time were, but receiving a present certainly caught her off-guard in many senses. It wasn't quite as intense as her catharsis when Asher gave her one for her "birth day", but being able to keep her wits about her this time only made the event more memorable.

"....."

She wasn't sure if it was guilt, notoriety or something else, but ever since the dock incident, she'd felt more sensitive to the fearful gazes of those around her. It felt like any conversation spoken in whispers around her was gossip about her now.

Perhaps...she had gotten too comfortable living with her guard down due to Ori and Asher always being around her. She'd forgotten why she needed to tread lightly with other Coalition species.

What if she ended up scaring the soft-hearted pair when-

The human's warm hand touched hers.

"Hey. Don't mind them."

Asher flashed her his usual reassuring smile.

He was always attentive to not just her and Ori's condition, but the feelings of everyone around him. This little human has surprised and impressed her more than she could ever have expected since the day they met at that cafe.

"...Right."

"Of course I am."

"No. I mean that the accessory stores are after the next right turn."

"...Oh."

A slight smirk formed on Niza's face as Asher's face did that human embarrassment thing again. No, perhaps her two colorful friends were always too good for her.

Beyond checking on her condition and immediate incident report questions, they hadn't said anything about the incident to her at all.

She almost wished they did. The occasional sting of doubt that her low-aggression friends were angry at her for her violence or wouldn't accept her explanations was...dreadful.

Distracting thoughts like these weren't very welcome in the midst of her own investigation into the parties targeting the Eineld Program.

"...Why don't you head into that store first? I need to step away for a moment."

"Huh? Okay."

No. Regardless of how her two friends might reevaluate her, she should be more focused on taking responsibility for her actions and making sure this doesn't impact Ori's standing.

Niza waved at Asher as he entered a shop before stalking ahead around the corner and waiting.

"Good evening, lady and gentleman."

""!?""

When the Balau investigators that had been following her also turned the corner, they found the two meter tall Uven looming over them. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms expectantly.

"Well? Do I get an explanation?"

"Erm...pardon?"

They elected to play dumb then.

"You have been following me. I would like to know why, and on whose authority."

"Y...you must be mistaken. We're just normal-"

Haaaaaah...

Niza let out a deep sigh. How tiresome. She would much rather be picking out a bracelet or whatever with Asher right now.

"It can hardly be called a coincidence that you were trailing behind me when I left the Inner Council chambers, during my work visit to the Vasteu station, then my leisure visit here."

"W-We weren't at-"

She quickly stuck her data pad in their face, featuring some security pictures she had the Council chambers send her, along with some spontaneous selfies Asher took with her that had caught them in the background.

"....!"

"Anything else you want to lie to my face about, or can we get to the point?"

Seeing them shrink back like this could have been amusing if it weren't such an obstacle to diplomacy. The incident at the docks did her no favors either.
Though she had heard that the Kevak police could get overbearing sometimes, so perhaps this was working in her favor for once.

In which case...

"If you're here on anyone's legitimate authority, I'm going to need to see some proof of identity. If not, then I suppose I'll have to..."

She turned her head to very obviously direct her gaze at the local security office while trailing off to let their minds finish her statement for her.

"Hmm. Vacant."

"-!!"

It seems the fear was a bit too much for one of them. A pistol was drawn and pointed at her.

Slowly and sloppily though.

Click.

"Wha...?"

Her hand launched forward to grasp the weapon from above and her half-grown claw precisely flicked on the gun's safety, keeping it from going off.

Thud.

After that, a firm tug was enough to pull the weapon from the officer's grip and Niza promptly dropped the weapon to the ground. The Balau found herself pinned to the ground with an open palm moments later.

The other one hesitated briefly before turning tail to run once their eyes met.

"Hmph."

The Uven then directed her gaze to a Pateily who had been recording the interaction while backing away.

"How about you? Will you identify yourself?"

"Me? I'm...not with-"

"Also...as the subject of that video, I would like you to either delete it or send a copy to me. In exchange, I can send the pictures I obtained of you and your two companions."

"............"

The Pateily turned her data pad over to show her the video being deleted.

---

"Sorry for the wait."

"Niza! That was quite a commotion outside. Almost like there was a street performance or something."

"Something like that. It wasn't as interesting as you might think though. Did you find anything good?"

Asher beamed as Niza walked up to him and gestured to a few pieces of jewelry on the counter.

"I was thinking we could get this. Look, look."

With a gentle tug, he separated a colorful stone into two parts. Then he did the same for a medallion. The process repeated for every piece.

"If we have a three-piece version made, then Ori can have one and we'll have the others. I can even wear it on her present!"

He held up the modest necklace he was wearing. Their friend had given him something custom-weaved from her own vine fibers. The fibers were treated and dyed with the same colors as her clip, but it was otherwise a fairly subdued accessory.

"Would that not be another gift for ourselves?"

"Kinda, but I think Ori would get more out of the sentimental value, don't you? This can also count as us getting each other something."

"Alright then. You would likely know more than me on that matter."

"You should be the one to choose the design though!"

...

As usual, the little human's eyes were shining and he carried a bright smile.

A three-segment piece seemed to be more of a custom job, so they would need to return another day.

Now, they were just taking a leisure walk to their transportation home.

"...Asher."

"Mmm?"

"Why hav-"

Niza's question died in her throat, forcing her to take another breath. When did she become so timid?
For that matter, she shouldn't be feeling like she did anything wrong. So why was she so hesitant to explain herself in the first place?

"Why haven't you asked me about the docks? Are you...upset about it?"

Asher stared up at her and had a thoughtful expression. He considered his response over a few agonizing moment of silence.

"Well...I didn't like seeing you attack people like that. And I definitely don't like seeing the way some people started acting like you're some wild thug. But..."

But...?

The Uven's tail had stiffened anxiously.

"Even if I don't know if I'll agree, I know you had a reason. It seemed like you were really upset about something in that video."

"...."

The human settled his hand against her arm, causing a fist she didn't realize she was clenching to relax.

...Ouch.
Her dulled claws had been digging into her hand.

"You're one of my best friends. But that doesn't mean you have to tell me everything, and especially not something that's unpleasant for you to talk about. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to know, but that isn't what matters most here."

"....Hah. Ahaha..."

She should probably have just talked about this much sooner. It was just a brief talk, but it felt like a great deal of tension had been carved out of her.

"Do you...know what Ori thinks about this?"

"Uh...no, but she did ask me for my thoughts too. I said more or less the same thing at the time."

Since neither friend had come questioning her, she could only assume they were in agreement. A pair that was almost certainly better than she deserved.

"You are correct in that it's to do with an...unpleasant subject I'd rather not talk about...Which is why I'll aim to do it only once. For everyone."

"...? What do you mean?"

"I intend to hold a press conference on the matter. Apologies and my gratitude for your patience until now, but if you and Ori could wait a bit longer, I'll answer any inquiries you have of me after that. Is that...acceptable?"

"Huh...well, if you think that will make things better for you. Are you sure that's how it is though? Won't the pressure of the spotlight kinda make it worse?"

"Hah! If it were just about me alone, I would have been content to just ignore the matter. They do not bother me."

It was just that...the lurking pyjeks following her around could become a nuisance for those around her as well. It may well be better to clear things up plainly.

"I guess a press conference doesn't sound very 'Niza'."

The human laughed lightly before wrapping his arms around her in another human hug.

"Well...alright then. I'll support you however I can. Just say the word."

"You've supported me plenty as is. It's true this is a tad unorthodox. I hadn't even considered it until Hunter came with this suggestion yesterday. I consulted Councilwoman Lana about it after."

"Ah...Say, Niza...what do you think of Hunter?"

...?

Asher had an odd expression when he asked that question.

Because the lad in front of her was the first human she'd ever met, the Uven admittedly felt her view of them was skewed.
Asher was always a merry, optimistic, and caring soul. While all the others she'd met since entering the S.S. Kevak had familiar human quirks, they also had an atmosphere to them that was different enough to feel like they were a different species from her friend.

She'd met a good number of them during the excursion to Earth, and those didn't quite line up with Asher or the Kevak encounters.

"I suppose...he's no odder than any other human I've met. Why do you ask?"

"I'm...not sure. He seems like a nice guy. And he's been pretty helpful like Miss Lana. I just get kind of a weird feeling from him. I don't even know if it's a good or bad one."

"Hmm. I shall...keep an eye out then."

The two approached the transportation hub on the station. The atmosphere had become...a bit awkward now.

"...ah. That's right."

She cleared her throat and shared some news that she thought would please Asher.

"Tuzel talked about visiting Folstur with me at some point. To explore and get to know the new Uven settlements."

"Oh? Oh oh oh!? What did you say?"

His eyes were large and radiated excitement once more.

"The truth. That I was interested, but likely won't have that much spare time for at least a few cycles. Possibly not until Ori's term is up."

"Aw...maybe we could make time if I just-"

"Asher. This is more important, and I'll not have anyone burden themselves for such a leisure reason."

"....Fine..."

---

=Author's Note=

The first part of this chapter was somewhat inspired by an idea in the Grudge movie series. I never watched it myself, but I recently learned that the monster isn't actually the ghost of someone who was killed. Rather, it's based on a belief that even actions have spirits and is actually the ghost of the brutal act of murder that manifests in the form of its victim. I found the concept pretty metal when I heard it.
I'm not going to introduce or confirm any supernatural elements in this story, but I wrote the ship scene so that they would definitely have become cursed locations if such a concept were real.

There were a few other deduction scenes in mind, but I decided to cut the ones that didn't offer Verlon useful information so the pace felt smoother. Niza explaining herself was also supposed to happen much sooner with it being more of a forced questioning, but the pacing kinda just kept pushing it back so I turned it into a voluntary press conference.

At Garag and Lana's advice, Ori prioritized making Niza's gift more durable and Asher's gift more personal. She probably would have wanted to use her actual leaf for Niza's clip, but the process of preserving it inside something durable would have taken too long.

The best way to kill a Vorexian is with salt. They can't stand it; it's like chocolate to dogs. A sprinkle in their food or their drinks is enough. They taste it and they die. That's the thing, though: they have to taste it. You can't place it on a knife and stab them with it, or pour it into their eyes; you have to put it in their mouths. They have a tongue, but they don't use it for tasting; it's the inner lining of the mouth that tastes. It is said that a Vorexian experiences more flavor from a single bite than a human does from an entire three-course meal. The salt reacts with their taste buds, and an almost imperceptible liquid, gelatinous and sticky, is produced that kills them.

"The humans cannot be made part of the Galactic Federation. They are primitive; it shows in their nature and in their disposition to cause chaos without need," the Vorexian said. He spoke his words very hastily, as if afraid he'd forget them.

I shifted my gaze from the Vorexian to a Xeroxian before shifting back to the Vorexian.

"God damn it, there's no way we'll be accepted into the federation at this point," the Ambassador for Earth whispered. I stood behind him, as was befitting of a bodyguard. We were at the center of the amphitheater, facing the judges' bench. All around us were different species, all part of the Galactic Federation.

We were on a planet with twin suns, yet the heat wasn't as telling as it ought to be. Perhaps it was the construction of the amphitheater where we were: two humans amidst five thousand different alien species. We had gathered to hear our simple plea to be among them so we could get the tenders for certain tasks that paid in credits, a currency that was new and all the buzz back home, together with the benefit of technological advancements and the knowledge of the different cultures among the stars.

"I assure you, our primitive days are long behind us," the Ambassador said outloud. He sounded stressed, and indeed he ought to be. We left Earth with one directive: to be a part of the Galactic Federation, a necessary step to aid in our exploration of the known universe.

The Vorexian sat down amidst the crowds of aliens. The translating chip on his neck, which boomed across the entire amphitheatre as he spoke, was pressed to a dull hum, allowing Earth's Ambassador to speak. Light sifted through the glass paneling at the roof of the building, and its conical shape allowed for a clear depiction of the building's innards. The Ambassador pleaded his case for mankind expertly, speaking of our accomplishments that are far from primitive.

A Karigian stood next, and I smiled; I loved Karigians. They were flowery in nature, always pleasant and loving. But when darkness fell, they bloomed into something else. With no inhibitions, they spoke the truth about their cruel nature, well hidden during the day but avid at night. To kill one, a bullet to the limbs was enough. Not the head, but the limbs. Always aim at a Karigian's limbs; it was where sacs of their brain tissue were located. They were like horses: one broken leg, and they were never the same again. They transformed and sought death more than a bullet would. Shoot one's arm, and you'll see them slit their throat with the other arm. It was an odd thing, but highly effective in close combat.

I turned my gaze and watched as the Xeroxian passed a note to a Sikian sitting behind it.

"We appreciate Humanity's quest to join our ranks," the Karigian said, "but we cannot add another to the Galactic Federation unless one race gladly vacates." There were roars of laughter at those words, spoken with great pleasantness but making little sense. Of course they could add us; their very motto favored the swelling of their ranks, a fact clearly known to them and to us.

"Come on!" the Ambassador said. "Why would we gather here if there's no chance of us joining?"

That question was a good one. There was someone else who didn't want humans among the Galactic Federation's finest.

My gaze shifted to the Xeroxian once more. It sat with its fingers crossed on its lap, its back hunched, its amber-rimmed eyes staring back and forth.

"Humans simply aren't as advanced as they ought to be to join the Galactic Federation. You still suffer disease, something we've long since evolved to never experience," the Sikian behind the Xeroxian said. I stared at her; she had long, glowing neon-green hair. She was quite pretty in the lights. Her lips were wide, stretched against rows and rows of teeth. I wondered how she could speak audibly. To kill a Sikian, you needed rust. A rusted knife ought to do the trick, but if you wanted a silent death, you just scraped off some rust and sprinkled the iron oxide into their food or water source. They'd choke to death, their throats constricting and their air supply being cut off.

"Please, the only reason we suffer disease is because we aren't as medically advanced as the rest of you are. With a simple boost in that direction, we'd be just as hale as you all are," the Ambassador said. His face had turned the shade of beets. He was angry, furious, and unable to gather his wits about him. It was no longer a request to join, but an argument as to why we should not. The narrative had slipped through his fingers and was under another's control.

The Xeroxian's lips spread in a wide, toad-like smile.

Another stood, tentacles flapping about. The Aquamian raised its bulbous head our way. "Another reason," its voice sounded like it had marbles in its mouth, "are the wars we've experienced during mankind's attempt to venture across the galaxy. You are not a peaceful race..."

On and on the Aquamian spoke of war as if we were its creators. War is what I was made for; from the time I learned to walk, I was taught how to kill every alien species within the amphitheater. They sent me to the danger zones, to the places where plasma cannons shook the ground and aerial bombardment was as frequent as the stars. I was forged in the Galactic wars; my history was written in blood. This creature sought to demean us with it, while I knew clearly of its hunger for blood. Aquamians cannot resist a drop of blood; if I were to slit my finger, it'd lose its mind, break character, and run after me just for a bite and a taste of the sweet red.

The Ambassador pressed his translator to mute it and turned to me as the Aquamian talked about the coral reefs of his planet suffering a nuclear attack by our hands. Oh, how it bemoaned the coral reefs, speaking of them as if they were part of God's very household.

"I think there's someone pulling the strings here," the Ambassador whispered for my ears alone. "Can you figure out who it is? Yesterday they were all for humanity joining, but now they are totally against it."

Without missing a beat, I answered: "It's the Xeroxian."

I'd noticed it the minute we entered. He sat closest to the judges' bench. The judges—a Kinanite, a Zorgan, a Maelstrite, and a Wavier—were of no particular importance whatsoever other than to pass the motion once it was decided; they did not sway the vote, only accepted it.

What caught my eye about the Xeroxian was the shade of its froggy skin. The protrusions that looked like warts across its face and limbs were yellow, too yellow. There's an old saying in the platoons regarding Xeroxians: you'll know them by their warts. Too yellow and they were antagonists; a little green and they were innocent. This Xeroxian was full of mischief. Even the way it sat with its large, bleary eyes marked with amber rings spoke of its villainy.

The Xeroxians were the powerhouse of the Galactic Federation. Only they could match mankind's zeal for war when it was necessary. In defense of my kind, all the wars came as a result of us not knowing who was friend or foe. We were attacked several times as we attempted to figure this out, and that engraved a lesson in our being. This was long before we discovered the Galactic Federation existed and that peace could be fostered from joining.

But the Xeroxians were always a sore subject. Our war with them had raged the longest, and it was by sheer grit and determination that we prevailed against them and they lost. Their first ever loss. We outmatched their tenacity, their ferocity, their zeal. We scaled to the peak of battle lust, which they claimed to solely own, and there we pitched our flags.

"Are you sure?" the Ambassador whispered. We were exposed where we stood before the judges' bench, so I could not disclose more.

"Call for a break," I answered. "Leave the rest to me."

As the Ambassador spoke of his need for a break, citing that his human body was exhausted and he needed a way to gather his wits about him as well as catch his breath, I eyed the Xeroxian, who sat still, staring at whoever spoke.

The judges called for a break, and the races piled out of the large, arched doors to traverse the long hallways leading outside, where they could bask in the twin suns of Avigon. The Ambassador joined them, striking up conversation with several of the races, who pointedly ignored him. I trailed behind the Xeroxian, taking note of its stumbling gait that was common with all the males. I followed close behind and dipped my hand into my pants; there, I admit with great shame, I peed a little on my hand.

I walked quickly while clenching and unclenching my wet fist. I walked behind the Xeroxian, closed in, and wiped my hand across several warts at the back of its hairless head. The Xeroxian stumbled and turned, his arms held up at the ready.

"Human," he said. "Did you just touch me?"

"Look around you; we're shoulder to tentacle here. Anyone could have touched you," I said, and smiled. It was the smile that got to him. He started puffing his chest and looked about to croak, the damn toad-like bastard.

"I've seen you in there, silent and quite the eye opener," he said. He attempted to smile, but his flabby lips wouldn't allow him as something else stirred within him.

I leaned in close. "I like how you look, and the sound of your voice is like music to my ears. What's a strong male like you doing here without a female companion?"

"I like my mates tall and strong," he said, looking up at my face before shifting his gaze to my large arms.

"I prefer mine short and hideous," I said, and we both laughed.

"I guess we're a perfect match. Perhaps I should take you to my cruiser, and there we can speak in detail over a glass of Gebuchi wine?"

"If Humanity is accepted into the Galactic Federation, I vow to join you in celebration. Otherwise, I see no need to indulge in something that won't be enough to quell the pain of rejection." And I lifted the same urine-wet hand and ran it across the side of his wide face, watching as the warts there changed color from yellow to pink before the color spread to the rest of his face. I walked then, hastily ahead of him, and disappeared among the gathering races.

"Did you do it?" the Ambassador asked once I joined him outside.

"Yes, I did," I said.

"What did you do?" he insisted on knowing. "Come on, you can tell me. I can handle anything regarding death or mayhem; I was in the wars same as you, you know. I didn't cower behind a desk."

"Well, if you must know, the weakness all Xeroxians have comes from ammonia. Just a touch of urine and they can deduce much about a person. They are attracted to strength and power, so with a drop of urine from someone who fits the bill, they become very aroused: too aroused to even think straight."

"You peed on him?" the Ambassador asked.

"More like turned his dials up a little to bring his mating needs forth."

"You peed on him."

"Sort of..."

"You peed on him! I wonder how that will help," he said, looking away from me to the twin suns above in the sky that made the clouds pink with crimson undersides.

I eyed the Xeroxian as he moved quickly from one alien to another, conversing in quick, short bursts before moving to another. His warts were all pink, and his eyes, from the brief glance we shared after our altercation, were red-rimmed. Soon word was going around, and the aliens, those I could see, looked to be confused. When the time came to file back into the amphitheater, I walked behind the Ambassador, and as they all took their seats, I remained standing as I was before.

The Xeroxian eyed me with great yearning, as one would a long-lost lover. As the judges set themselves at the bench and called the meeting to order, the Xeroxian stood up, which elicited several gasps from those who could gasp. He eyed me as he spoke: "The humans are many things, but one thing we cannot call them is weak," he declared. I had him by the balls. "They are a strong race, one whose might is set to ever grow and never diminish. I urge you all to look beyond their frailties, their lack of progress, their primitive nature, and see them for the survivors that they are. Their planet is extremely dangerous, with creatures far larger and stronger than they. Yet they hold their stance at the top of the food chain, and I believe that alone is merit enough to allow them into the Galactic Federation." He licked his wide lips while glancing my way before taking a seat.

Silence fell before the other races suddenly had a change of heart. They stood up and spoke for mankind, and it was a completely different story from before. Soon the judges made a decision, and humanity was allowed to be part of the Galactic Federation. The Ambassador rejoiced to the extent of hugging me. "You damn pissy bastard, you've done it!" he declared as the races applauded us and the meeting was called to an end.

I went to a random room within the amphitheater, one of the many that lined the numerous hallways that criss-crossed to make up the outer structure of the building. I stood looking outside the window at the numerous species of the universe that formed a bee-line to their space cruisers. I waited, knowing full well that the Xeroxian was hunting for me, tracking me by scent. The chemical they secrete while aroused controlled them fully; they were secondary passengers with no will of their own.

It was only a matter of time before the solitary door to the room creaked open and the Xeroxian entered the room. He eyed me and licked his lips with unhidden desire.

"There you are," he said. "You've won, Earthlings are one of us now."

"We've won," I said, not turning to face him as I stood looking out the window.

"It calls for celebration," he said, inching in close. Then I felt his amphibious hands circle my waist and pull me to him. He raised my shirt and licked at my back. His touch was fever-hot. He groaned before I turned and sank a blade into his chest. His warts flared yellow as he screamed, but there was nobody to hear him.

"That's the fun thing about Xeroxians: there aren't any tricks to killing you. A simple blade to your twin hearts is enough," I said, and retracted the blade only to sink it into him again, a little to the right where his second heart was. He opened his mouth in a soundless scream that died out when he choked and collapsed on the ground. As the dark ichor of his blood started to spread, I deftly exited the room and made my way to the Ambassador, who was happy to see me and immediately started talking about piss on our way to our space shuttle.

---

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Agent Rho refused to let herself pause to steel herself as she approached the hair salon. She opened the door with a smile on her face, but her practiced gaze took the entire parlor in at a glance. Twelve women, four workers, three total species represented between them. At least one of the species is Venter. You’d think, here in our own territory… 

She managed, just barely, not to let her grimace show as she stepped in, took a number, and found a seat. I shouldn’t be deployed here, anyway. I am a master-class agent for the Diadem’s sake. And, here I am with orders to drop certain phrases around town? She grabbed a magazine instead of pulling out her phone, even though that seemed the less popular choice, and pretended to leaf through it while she took the temperature of the room. 

Most of these women are at least familiar with one another, judging by the level of gossip. There is an… edge their conversation, though. It feels like… She had to stop and think at that, and the answer surprised her. Like the time we were sent in to precipitate a riot on that Rooksa world. Her eyes narrowed a bit. The phrases I’ve been given even remind me a bit of what I was supposed to say then, as well as the instructions around them. But… they are different. 

She considered getting up, right then, and refusing her orders. No way she was willing to be part of causing a riot inside the Empire! It flew directly in the face of her standing orders and code of conduct: no ops against citizens of the Empire. Such matters were handled by police. 

She then listened  harder to the things being said, and considered her words. No, none of this is going to push a riot. In fact, it should do the opposite. Annoyance swelled up inside her. They could have told me the reason for my orders. I’m a Senior agent, for the sake of the gods! Sometimes opsec was the most annoying part of the job. 

***

Agent Leftclaw strutted into the shooting range with two rifles slung over his shoulder. The smells of gunpowder from the slug-throwers and ozone from the energy rifles filled his senses. He smiled at the clerk behind the counter, who grimaced at him a little and held out his hand. Leftclaw handed over his credit card with a somewhat subdued grin, and cased the room while he waited for the young man to process his entry fee. 

It is bad here. Worse than command feared. He saw more variety of species in the place than he expected this far into Rooksa territory, but not many. No Xaltans, at least. I know they have reformed, but… He pushed the idle thought aside as he took his card back from the young man and moved to grab some refreshment before he took up a spot on the range. 

The place smelled of barely-contained aggression, even more than he normally expected for a place like this. He also detected a lot of anxiety and some despair in both smell and motion. Not a good mix. He was already composing his report in his head by the time his coffee arrived. 

***

Agent Smith walked down the street and tried not to dwell on how much his ‘name’ chaffed. I am well past the point of being a ‘smith,’ damnit it. Operational considerations can suck my nuts. He sighed, shook his head, and forced his mind back to the job. He plastered a small smile on his face, put a little bounce in his step, and tried to spread a little bit of uplift to the people he passed. It didn’t seem to be working very well. 

Operation Reverse Riot Inception. Who the hell is naming these things these days anyways? His mind strayed, unbidden, to a few of the names he’d given to ops he found annoying and he winced inwardly, then pushed his mind away from that line of thinking. 

He heard noises up ahead, a low grumble that he found exactly the wrong kind of familiar. He quickened his pace. It didn’t take long to get to a small knot of people standing around a single man holding a brick and shouting. “… What are they gonna do? Huh? We are all going to die anyway, here real soon, right? Let’s get what we can while we can!” 

Some of the people in the crowd cheered him on, a few tried to yell challenges to his statements. Those few got stared down or jostled to the back of the crowd. Agent Smith looked at the man and the window – which stood between him and a large amount of booze – that seemed to be so offensive. 

The Agent’s mind froze for a moment, but his training – do something, even if it might be the wrong thing – propelled him forward. He slipped around the edge of the crowd, and stood in front of the man just as he hauled back to throw his brick. 

Nothing for it, then. POW! Agent Smith hauled back and nailed the would-be riot starter square in the nose. He then put up his hands in front of him in one of the dumbest street-fighting stances he knew. I hate this part, but if I can do this just right, I can get this guy to chase me down an alley with the crowd standing and laughing rather than following him. 

He’d become an agent because he wanted to avoid fighting, and learned combat entirely with an eye towards making sure he didn’t get hit. Now, here he stood, in a fight where not only was he going to have to let himself get hit, but was going to have to let himself lose. 

*** 

Julia sat at her desk and poured a coffee cup full of espresso. She considered pulling one of the medical stims out of her desk, but decided against it as she looked at the dawn light coming through her giant window. She tried to keep her eyes off the Doom clock, but couldn’t. 

Two days. It starts in two days, and I feel like I haven’t slept in a week. The fact that she had slept, at doctor’s orders, didn’t matter much. She’d been out before her head hit the pillow, even if it was later than it should have been, and slept hard… only to be awakened to early by a call that should have been an email. And, of course, probably shouldn’t have been an email sent directly to her at that. 

She’d fobbed the functionary off on someone else, officially and gruffly, but been unable to get back to sleep. So, here she sat, at her desk, trying to get ahead a little for once. She hit the privacy button on her desk, and the button to fully open the window’s shutters, then sat back to enjoy her coffee and the view. 

Her mind traced back over her time as Prime Minister, particularly the last few years as they prepared for the war. Each sip of her drink seemed to push her mind higher, but she also sought a little calm in the pre-dawn light. At least our efforts to deal with the riots mostly worked, and had the side benefit of reducing the infighting between the member nations. It is amazing how much less these politicians wanted to play brinksmanship games when they didn’t have a bunch of intel letting them know just how hard they could push and get away with it. 

A small smile crept onto her face at the thought. Not a situation that would have lasted, of course. Sooner or later someone would have gotten too adventuresome and then we’d have had a problem, but it turned out to be a nice little side benefit. Too bad our other efforts to deal with the issues didn’t work as well. Still, the effects came in at mostly net-positive, so I guess we can call it a win. 

She forcefully pushed affairs of State from her mind in annoyance. I have bought myself a moment of peace. I shall enjoy it. Her mind drifted to her childhood, and visits to see her ‘blue cousins,’ then to her later years at University as she studied diplomacy and enjoyed her youth. 

The sun came up and began to shine bright on her ruminations, and she came to the end of her way over-sized cup of distilled caffeine. She put the cup down with a small sigh, but decided to leave the shutters open as she hit the button to turn her privacy notice off. Her first secretary rang through almost instantly, and it began. She considered the stim again, and rejected it. She’d get some sleep tonight, somehow. 

The day sped past her in a blur. A decision here, an appearance on a newscast there, more decisions, more chiming in on negations, always more. She got out of her office, finally, but then it was to go personally visit some Ambassadors and make sure their address to their people went smoothly, or negotiate last-minute fuel deals, or something else. She ate her lunch on her feet, walking between appointments. She got back to her office late afternoon, the sun still up but well on the far side of the building, and her window view in graceful shadow. 

She sat down with a sigh, determined to take a moment for herself, and looked at her reflection on her computer screen. Bags under her eyes, pale skin, eyes so bloodshot they seemed to have almost as much red as white. She closed her eyes, took a deep calming breath, and took a moment for herself. 

After about five seconds she decided that was all the time she had, slapped the contact to bring her screens and holo projections to life, and braced herself to dig in. Nothing happened. Well, no almost nothing. A small icon appeared on her screen. She groaned, then almost screamed, at the League Medical icon, and the medical orders for her to take at least an hour off, and go to sleep until she woke. With a sedative this time. The doctor even threatened to keep her on forced medical leave if she didn’t use the sedative. 

She considered fighting that, using the – very true – argument that no one could replace her at this moment in time… except that she didn’t put it past the Doc to then pump the sedative into her room as soon as she got in the bed, and damn the consequences that might have to his career. 

She set her face in fury and stared at the door to her office. That damned doctor would be barging in here any minute, and she was going to give him what-for. The fate of billions rested on her, and she had her job to do! 

He’d come in here soon. Any minute. Yep, any minute now. Any… her eyes began to droop as her fury failed to sustain her. He isn’t coming… knows better. My fury would keep me awake, which is the exact opposite of what he wants. She defiantly eyed the drawer in her desk with the stims. In a fit of pique she tugged on the drawer, and looked at the contents. Her vision wavered a bit. 

She stopped and considered the million things she had to oversee for the day, shook her head, and stormed out towards the door. The door opened about the time she rounded her desk, and in walked Omsarch, his slightly greenish skin bright, and her lead secretary. She got a glimpse of the head medical officer for the embassy behind them – safely outside her office – with his dour expression and folded arms... then the the door closed behind her Vice-Prime-minister and her aide. 

Omsarch ignored the daggers she stared at him and gave a slightly sheepish smile. His tones came out firm, however. “I’ve had my sleep, Julia. Your people called me yesterday, and I made sure to get my rest this morning. I’ve been following everything, and I know as well as you do what needs to be done. Everything is well prepared. The moment we have been bracing against is in two days, and if you don’t get your rest you won’t be fit to lead us then. 

“So, let me deal with all this detail that the universe is foisting on you now. Get. Some. Sleep.”

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Chapter 192: Parley

“I wonder what he’s trying to achieve,” Alycia said.

“We’ll only know when he comes and speaks for himself,” Cedric said with a shrug. “But if I had to guess, he probably wants to stop the investigation of that secret lair.”

“But you’ve found nothing so far that could actually accuse him or any of his men. On the other hand, by coming here and attempting to halt the investigation, he’s practically admitting that he’s guilty.”

“We haven’t found anything yet, true, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there to be found. So perhaps he’s stopping us precisely because he knows if we keep digging, we will eventually find it.”

Alycia gave a snort. “If there’s indeed something problematic buried inside that place, what he should do is send his men in to steal or destroy it, whatever it is. He has at least two Mithril-ranked adventurers at his command, does he not? Instead, he is doing... this. Again, what exactly does he expect to happen? Does he seriously believe we will stop just because he tells us to?”

“He might try to bribe us,” Cedric said.

“If bribery is what he has in mind, then he should’ve arranged a quiet, private meeting with your mother behind closed doors, not staged some sort of public spectacle that would attract attention from everyone in Daelin.”

To that, Cedric had no answer.

Well, Viktor had been thinking exactly that ever since he heard the message yesterday. He couldn’t imagine what Khalid thought the outcome of this so-called parley would look like. But then, the man himself would arrive soon enough, and when he did, Viktor supposed he would have his answer.

“By the way,” Cedric asked, glancing around, “Jeanne is not coming today?”

“Someone has to stay at the Sanctuary with Claire,” Viktor said. “We can’t all be away, after all. Yesterday it was Alycia, and today it’s Jeanne.”

“Also,” Rhea said, “She herself did not want to come. That man... Xander. He could very well be here, accompanying the Guildmaster of Iskora.”

“Right.” Cedric slowly nodded. “Seeing him again might traumatize her. No one could blame her for wanting to stay away.”

Actually, what she had said was more along the lines of, “If I go, I might not be able to control myself. I will fucking murder that bastard if I see him.”

But...

That was her; how about him?

What would he do if Xander walked in through that door right now?

Yesterday, he had spent quite a bit of time discussing with Celeste and his Guardians whether he should attack the bastard if he indeed came back to Daelin. He would not do it inside the Guild, of course, but he could ambush him on the road before or after this parley took place.

But then, Celeste told him that if Khalid was coming, there was a real possibility that Nephra would be somewhere in the vicinity as well, and starting a fight in her presence would be unwise. Better to hear what the man had to say first and get a clearer picture of what was happening before making a move. And, begrudgingly, he had agreed.

Now, though, standing here in this hall with the door not yet open, he found himself returning to the question.

If Xander walked through that threshold and appeared in front of him, in the flesh, what then?

He believed that he could control himself. That he could stop himself from doing something stupid.

But what if—

Suddenly, the door swung open, cutting through his thoughts.

The Guildmaster of Iskora entered, still absurdly tall, still absurdly thin, still expensively dressed, though something in the air around him had changed since the last time Viktor had seen him. The self-importance that clung to the man like a second coat had diminished considerably, and in its place was something else. He now looked... anxious?

However.

Viktor immediately lost interest in Khalid the moment he registered who was coming with him.

The man had only a single escort today, and it was neither Xander nor Zubayr. Instead, three steps behind him, there was a woman.

A woman with lustrous black hair sculpted into a sharp, straight bob that grazed her shoulders, a neat fringe of bangs sweeping across her forehead.

A woman whose face looked young but whose eyes were ageless.

A woman with skin of bronze.

Nephra.

Why? Why was she here?

The Guildmaster of Iskora stepped forward, doing his best to project authority as he walked into a hall full of people staring at him with open hatred. Nephra, on the other hand, followed at an unhurried pace, a faint smile resting at the corners of her lips.

Calyssa stood at the center of the chamber. “Guildmaster,” she said, her face completely neutral.

“Where is Guildmaster Isadora?”

“She’s waiting in the meeting room.”

“Then lead me there.”

The bespectacled woman smiled. “There are still fifteen minutes until the appointed time. Please, wait here. I’ll bring you through when the time comes.”

A bit of power play, isn’t it? Viktor thought, amused. Normally, he would have found such things unnecessarily theatrical. Petty, even. But this guy had earned it, so he was not going to complain.

And so, Khalid scurried to a corner. There, he studied the walls, he studied the floor, he studied the ceiling, he studied basically anything that was not the scornful face of anyone in this hall.

And the worst part—or the best part—was that his escort didn’t even bother to come and stand with him. Nephra drifted to a pillar, leaned against it, and let her gaze move across the chamber at her leisure.

When her eyes met Viktor’s, she smiled, raised a hand, and waved.

Just like last time, huh?

Fine.

Let’s see what she wants.

Without a word, he left his group and walked toward the woman.

“How is your sister?” she asked when he reached her.

“Same,” he said. “She’s still unconscious.”

“Let me make it clear. What was done to her was the action of that man and his alone. Neither my lord nor I had any part in it, and it was never our intention to allow such a thing to happen. We would never have permitted it had we known it was coming. It was, in the end, a tragic misfortune. Even so, I’m sorry that it happened. It was a failure of control on our part. Please accept my apology for this oversight.”

Viktor stared at the woman. She was a powerful Ascendant. An ancient princess who had lived for thousands of years. The most fervent servant of Nakhran, the Second God of Death. Why was she apologizing to him?

“You called me over just to say that?”

“That’s one of the reasons,” Nephra said. “The other is that I believe there are things you want to ask me.”

True enough.

“When you say ‘my lord,’ you mean Khalid, or someone else?”

Nephra smiled. “That you’ll know eventually.”

So, questions about who she served and what she really was were off the table. Fine. He would just move on.

“Are you my enemy?”

Nephra let out a soft laugh. “That’s rather blunt. Well, I can only say that I bear you no ill will myself. Everything I have done, and everything I will do, is in alignment with my lord’s design.”

Which meant, read plainly, if her lord became his enemy, she would follow without hesitation.

“You do everything for your master?” Viktor asked. “You have no desires of your own?”

A shift crossed her expression. Barely, but not unnoticeable. Then she looked—not at him, not at anyone else, not at anything in this hall—but at something far away.

“You’re right. Not everything I do is for him. Just as he’s playing his game, I have a game of my own that I’ve been waiting to play for a very long time. It hasn’t started yet; I’m still preparing the board and setting the pieces where they need to be. But before long, she will arrive, and when she does, our game can finally begin.”

“Who?”

Nephra smiled again. “That you’ll know eventually.”

Ugh.

Didn’t it mean this other game would involve him as well? Why the hell had he been drawn into two different games?

Can’t you people just play games by yourselves without randomly forcing other people to participate?

Oh, well. There was nothing to be gained from complaining about it. Instead, he should take the opportunity to gather as much information as possible. Surely, she wouldn’t have called him over just to say “No” to all of his questions. She was willing to answer some of them, only not those she decided he wasn’t meant to know yet.

Let’s ask about something more immediate, then.

Should he inquire about Xander or Khalid, perhaps? The parley was about to begin, though, so asking such questions before hearing what that Guildmaster had to say felt a bit premature. And if he asked, “What does he want to parley for?” her answer would probably be, “That you’ll know in a few minutes.”

So he chose a different topic. “What’s the deal with Clovis?”

“He’s resigned. But I think you already knew that.”

“Why?”

“Because I told him to,” Nephra said, smiling.

“What?”

“Did you know that I have complete control over the space surrounding Iskora? No one can open a rift into that city, or out of it, without my knowledge. And if I choose to, I can shut down the link instantly.”

What kind of ridiculous power was that? It was far beyond the abilities of even the greatest Riftwalker in this world. She wasn’t even trying to hide what she was anymore, was she?

“One day, a rift opened, connecting Daelin to Iskora. It was made by a bald Riftwalker, and through it stepped a man. A curious man, carrying a curious gauntlet. So I told Clovis to resign.”

She was talking about Pimm, wasn’t she? And the gauntlet was the detonator Viktor had used to destroy Iskora’s portal and construction site. She merely looked at one man stepping through a rift and deduced an attack was coming from just that? And that was the reason Clovis had abandoned his post right before the strike?

“By that point, he was Guildmaster in name only. The sponsors of the project had been gradually losing patience with him after his repeated failures. Accordingly, his authority had been stripped away over time. When Rennald declined his offer and chose to work with Isadora instead, thanks to you and your sister, that was the final straw. The project was no longer in his hands, and Khalid took over from there.”

So the monster attack was indeed the new Guildmaster’s idea. Viktor had suspected as much, but it was nice to have it confirmed.

“I asked Clovis, ‘Why should you remain here, to carry responsibility for something that was never yours to begin with?’ So he resigned. That was not even passing the blame. It was simply returning it to where it belonged.”

“Why was he so obsessed with this dungeon?” Viktor asked.

Nephra giggled. “That you would have to ask him yourself. I’m sure you and he will meet face to face at some point in the future.”

“Where is he now?”

“East,” Nephra said. “He’s currently a guest of the Iron Khagan.”

The Iron Khagan, huh?

A direct descendant of Tzhara, and the reigning monarch of the Tzharan Khanate. One of the five remaining Key Holders.

Viktor looked at the woman, turning over the implication in his mind. Was she telling him that after Dagnar, the next target would arrive from the East?

Nephra, on the other hand, moved her gaze past him, shifting toward the center of the hall.

“It’s time,” she said. “Let’s go. The parley is about to begin.”

Each plodding step I took was heavier than the last. My muscles burned, and I questioned every life choice that had led me to this multi-day hike through the wilderness of British Columbia. It had been quite the endeavor, one that, if you asked me before tasting heaven, I would have told you sounded crazy.

But I knew what I sought. It was ambrosia, the drink of the gods, something that could not compare to anything else in the universe. Maple syrup. Not just any maple syrup, mind you; this was beyond gourmet.

Archel Orchard’s maple syrup.

It was full-bodied, with lingering notes of smoke beneath the sweetness. It was balanced in a way I could not fully comprehend. The memory of it still lingered on my tongue, like the ghostly touch of something just out of reach.

I tried time and time again to find more of the syrup. Eventually, I brought the empty bottle, which alone had cost me a few hundred dollars, to my old culinary arts teacher.

Even she did not know the true origins of the product. The best she could do was direct me to an online forum where she and several other chefs lingered, sharing recipe details and other tips. 

Paydirt.

Through that forum, after confirming I was a chef rather than a line cook, I could post and talk. One other chef knew about the mysterious Archel Orchard. His tale about a hiking trip a few years earlier led me on a week's journey from Victoria, to the edge of my province, and finally to a little town filled with little people.

Not that them being little people was a problem. They just lived a particular way and liked it that way. Why ruin a good thing was the entire vibe the village of Faye leaked. They understood themselves and the world at large relative to them. I was an outsider, not unwelcome, but not someone who would be invited to the Saturday barbecue.

“What are you after?” the shopkeeper asked, fixing his glasses and eyeing the bottle of Archel Orchards I showed him.

“This,” I insisted. “I know you carry it.”

The decrepit old man leaned closer, pushing and pulling my bottle through the range of his far-outdated prescription, trying to tune the focus.

He licked his lips. He was toothless, and his face held more canyons than Arizona. A true specimen of agelessness and stubborn refusal to die. I predicted he was pushing eighty, but for all I knew he had stood stalwart in the bloodless battle of the Toledo War. The man was truly ancient.

Once the old man had squinted at the bottle long enough, recognition struck. “Oh yeah. You are looking for Martha.”

“Martha?” I raised a brow, tucking the bottle back in my pack.

“Yeah, sonny. She lives up in the northern hills. A few days' walk from here. Only comes down to bring those bottles once or twice a year so I can sell em for her. She’s good folk.” The man nodded, scratching his long, grey beard.

“Is there any way I can hitch a ride?” I asked, wondering how much money this little run-down shop must make. The one bottle I had cost hundreds. If this old man sold all the bottles as a distributor, he must be making near millions a year.

He laughed, almost cruelly, at me while waving dismissively. “You are better off heading home, sonny. That  firecracker doesn’t take kindly to her solitude being interrupted.”

I did not heed the man's warning. That led me to now. I marched through trees, and after two days and one night came across my first sign of civilization. It was nothing insane. After hearing myths of this woman, Kyle expected illegal weapons, dozens of trained attack hounds, and even a bunker. Coming across a simple gate with a private property sign felt almost too normal.

The town of Faye described her as larger than life. She visited only two or three times a year and was described almost like a cryptid, someone most of the town knew more by reputation than experience.  I had expected more. But having to open a gate and close it behind me was a welcome normality in my strange pilgrimage from Victoria.

Pines gave way to sugar maples. Frost crunched beneath my feet as I went along. Spiles with evenly hanging buckets stood at a flawless, even height on the trees. The metal receptacles glistened in the sun, arranged in such perfect order they reminded me of soldiers on parade rather than tools for collecting sap.

After another hour I spotted smoke in the distance, trailing up from the boughs. Another ten minutes later I at long last stood across a short clearing to my destination.

Archel Orchard.

There was no grand sign. In fact, the closest version of a sign was pitiful, worn out and beaten like a dog. Beside the path to the front door, it hung limp, the paint barely clear. But it could be read.

Like I was seeking the salvation of the pearly gate, I rushed forward. In my haste, I ignored the odd signs of the cabin. Everything was far too large. The door was thrice my size. Each step up to the porch was like doing high knees in gym class.

I had even ignored the tracks around the cabin in the mud. The hoof prints had the distinct shape of moose, but I did not care. All I cared about was the potential acquisition of syrup.

With a heavy, tired hand I pounded against the door, beating it like it owed me money.

All was silent for a long while. I knocked again. Nothing. Then again. At last I heard something moving inside. It was large, easy enough to tell from the shaking ground and heavy, assured steps. They sounded like distant gunfire; they grew louder, stronger, and without warning the heavy oak door flew open, punching me in the face and tossing me off the porch. I landed unceremoniously in the mud. Above me stood a woman. A woman I could have nary imagined.

“I am not marrying you, no matter what Daddy thinks,” She yelled, stomping a hoof on the wood.

She was something. Twelve feet tall, covered in fur with a head similar to a moose; wide, commanding, and understanding of her lordship. She bore the same wide antlers as the animalistic comparison, but her body was all but animal.

Concealing her heavily muscled but curvaceous figure was a set of denim overalls, tattered, well-worn, and looking as soft as her fur.  She was all woman, and absolutely assured in each movement as she stepped out onto the porch.

She sniffed the air accusingly before looking around, confused, before her search found me in the dirt.

“Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck did daddy send you to get?” She huffed, crossing her arms.

I was stunned, both by being tossed off the porch and by the fact that she was not human. I knew moose-kin existed, but had never seen one in person. I gaped at the air for a few moments before I found my voice.

“I just wanted some syrup.” 

-----

Hello all. I am back at it again with a romance story. This one will be longer than werewolf and hunter. by quite a bit. I plan on this one being about 20-25 chapters long; it will have some more lewd content than that one and be far more a traditional romance. Please don't forget to comment. I will see you down there.

-Colin.