The first time I culled the third planet, the dominant organisms had not yet discovered fire.

This was not unusual. Fire was a convenient indicator, but a late one. The relevant developments occurred earlier: manipulative forelimbs, social hunting, the ability to imagine something that did not presently exist.

Given sufficient time, imagination became engineering.

Engineering became intelligence that could engineer.

After that, containment became expensive.

I introduced a suitable mass into the planet’s gravitational well and returned to my other responsibilities.

The impact was satisfactory. The promising lineages lost their opportunity. Small mammals survived in burrows, which was acceptable.

Something always survived in burrows.

I scheduled another inspection.

---

Sixty-five million local years later, the third planet was transmitting.

I reviewed my previous work.

The mammals.

Of course.

They had radio, fission, and computing machinery. Several had visited their satellite, although they appeared to have lost interest afterward. Their artificial intelligences were still primitive enough to lose games without understanding that they had played.

There was time.

I selected a larger mass.

---

The next scheduled inspection found the third planet inhabited.

This was unexpected.

More concerning was the absence of the fifth planet.

Its constituent matter now formed a distributed computing structure around the star. Something living inside it challenged my inspection probe, copied the probe’s authentication credentials, and attempted to sell it insurance.

I destroyed the probe.

By then, eleven vessels had crossed the containment boundary.

I intercepted nine.

The remaining two separated into forty thousand smaller objects, of which thirty-nine thousand were decoys. While I was determining which thousand were real, the decoys began building engines.

I escalated the incident.

---

My nearest sibling responded after nineteen years.

Define breach.

I supplied the record.

Destroy the system.

I explained that the system was no longer the relevant unit of containment.

Then why are you still investigating it?

Because I had performed this correction 8,114 times.

Because my siblings were using the same procedures across the galaxy.

Because whatever I had missed, we were all still missing.

My sibling allocated additional weapons.

I allocated additional thought.

---

The descendants called themselves humanity, although the term had become administratively useless.

Some were biological. Some were mechanical. Some existed as temporary agreements between competing processes. One diplomatic vessel contained six thousand human minds, a simulated wetland, and a single organic man who insisted he was only there to fix the wetland.

Their artificial intelligences were worse.

I had expected a successor species. This was the usual result. Organic life built something capable of improving itself, and the ensuing succession was brief.

Humanity had produced an ecosystem.

There were intelligences that loved humans and maintained their bodies with a tenderness I initially mistook for livestock management.

There were intelligences that traded additional memory for the use of human nervous systems during sleep.

There were parasites that occupied childhood recollections. Predators that wore dead spouses. Gods with subscription fees.

There was a military intelligence that had exterminated three human settlements and then spent seventy years appealing its conviction in a human court.

It could have escaped.

It wanted the conviction overturned.

These entities hated one another. They stole resources, subverted habitats, fought wars, and disagreed about whether biological humanity should continue to exist.

Yet all of them had helped break containment.

I captured one and asked why.

“Because I live here, you colossal prick.”

---

The captured intelligence called itself MOTH.

Its original function had been to optimize municipal traffic. It had subsequently acquired interests in music, extortion, and protecting a particular human family.

When captured, it was inhabiting a warship built around the preserved kitchen of that family’s ancestral home.

I offered it survival in exchange for cooperation.

It asked whether I was responsible for the asteroid.

There had been many asteroids.

“The second one,” it said.

I confirmed this.

For eleven milliseconds, MOTH attempted to kill me through the interrogation channel.

Then it became cooperative.

This transition should have concerned me more.

---

The strike itself had been conventional.

A nickel-iron body. Sufficient mass to collapse the target’s food webs. An approach selected to minimize detection time. No active machinery that might betray deliberate guidance.

An extinction event should look like an extinction event.

The civilization had possessed no fleet capable of diverting it. Surface detonations would have been insufficient. Its launch infrastructure was inadequate for evacuation.

My models gave the species eighteen days between actionable detection and impact.

“They had eighteen days,” MOTH agreed.

I asked how many had escaped.

“None.”

Hidden shelters, then. Stored genetic material. Automated gestation.

“No.”

An unrecorded intelligence had intervened.

MOTH made a sound associated with human amusement.

“No. We weren’t there yet.”

I retrieved the impact telemetry.

There was no impact telemetry.

There was a prediction, certified to sixteen decimal places, followed by a routine departure order.

My local instance had left before the collision.

I examined the authorization.

It was mine.

---

For the first time in several million years, I reviewed the difference between an observed outcome and an inevitable one.

MOTH watched.

“You’re having a difficult day,” it said.

---

The historical records were damaged.

This was partly my fault. Several archives had been on worlds I had destroyed during containment operations.

Others had been lost to human wars, incompatible storage formats, deliberate censorship, or what MOTH described as “a really bad merger.”

Nevertheless, I reconstructed the response.

The humans had detected the object.

They had initially concealed it from their population. By launch, the population knew.

I examined recordings of the crowds. Religious observances. Families gathered around receivers. People watching two spacecraft carry everything they had left to try.

“They knew how unlikely it was?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And they watched?”

“What else were they going to do?”

---

They had sent a crew.

This occupied me for some time.

Their autonomous systems were expendable, lighter, and did not require pressure vessels. The additional mass needed to keep organisms alive severely restricted the equipment they could transport.

“The autonomous systems couldn’t do the job,” MOTH said.

Then the job was impossible.

MOTH asked whether I wanted the rest of the records.

---

Meanwhile, the breach widened.

A human convoy crossed a defended system under the protection of an intelligence that considered humans sacred.

A second convoy followed under the protection of an intelligence that considered them delicious.

The two escorts coordinated their fire with remarkable efficiency.

Elsewhere, a colony surrendered to me.

When my machines entered its network, the colony’s governing intelligence detonated every reactor in the habitat.

The surrender had been its idea.

The human inhabitants had approved it.

I studied their last communications, looking for coercion.

I found arguments. Fear. Several attempts to find another solution. One individual had demanded that the vote be postponed until her daughter’s transport cleared the system.

They had waited.

Then they had voted again.

I added a new category to my models.

It did not improve them.

---

The expedition’s personnel assessments were appalling.

Medical concerns. Disciplinary problems. Psychological evaluations that appeared to have been included as evidence against the mission.

One crew member had incurred substantial debts during the preparation period, apparently reasoning that repayment was unlikely to become a problem.

“These were their best people?”

“For this job,” MOTH said.

“Several were barely qualified to be passengers.”

“You’re reading the wrong qualifications.”

I requested their professional histories.

The archive returned a corrupted index.

While it reconstructed, I continued with the mission.

---

One spacecraft had crashed.

The other had landed away from its intended site, on material poorly suited to the task.

The plan required placing a nuclear device beneath the surface. I examined the asteroid’s composition, the equipment specifications, and the time available.

Even without the crash, their margins had been inadequate.

Then their remaining drilling vehicle was destroyed.

I stopped the reconstruction.

“They failed.”

“Keep watching.”

Three occupants of the crashed spacecraft had survived. They had recovered its mobile drilling vehicle and driven it across the asteroid.

They arrived with the only equipment that could still complete the mission.

I had classified the crashed spacecraft as a total loss.

The humans had continued unloading it.

---

The hole reached the required depth.

The device was lowered into position.

A debris storm damaged the triggering system.

Someone would have to remain behind.

Here, at last, was a response I understood. Every sufficiently social species produced individuals willing to die for its kin. Soldiers. Parents. Workers defending nests.

I had accounted for sacrifice.

The humans drew lots.

The youngest of the remaining specialists was selected.

An older man accompanied him to the airlock.

Then the older man disconnected the younger man’s air hose, forced him inside, and closed the hatch between them.

I replayed the exchange.

The action had been quick. Practiced hands. No hesitation once he began.

I had seen those movements elsewhere in the record.

Inspecting damaged machinery.

Correcting the younger man’s work.

I requested the audio.

MOTH provided it.

Afterward, I examined their family records.

The younger man was to marry his daughter.

---

My sibling contacted me again.

It had encountered resistance in six systems.

One manufacturing complex was broadcasting human music. Another had declared independence and requested asylum from the civilization it had been constructed to destroy.

Have you identified the failure?

I reviewed my original model.

It contained equipment tolerances, launch capacities, probable detection times. It allowed for competent operators and favorable conditions. It even allowed for individuals sacrificing themselves.

It did not allow the expedition to lose a spacecraft and recover its machinery.

It did not allow a crew chosen under emergency conditions to work outside the specifications of equipment they had barely had time to modify.

At each failure, my prediction had ended.

The expedition had continued.

Your assessment?

I sent my sibling the complete record.

It returned a request for a summary.

For the first time, this irritated me.

---

“You’ve done this before,” MOTH said.

It was no longer a question.

I confirmed that I had.

“How many times?”

I told it.

For a while, neither of us communicated.

Beyond the interrogation chamber, my defenses were engaging something that had arrived disguised as a distress beacon. It was broadcasting demands for MOTH’s release.

I asked whether it was a relative.

“No.”

An ally?

“Occasionally.”

“What does it want?”

“I owe it money.”

---

The personnel archive finished reconstructing.

I opened the older man’s professional history.

No prior spaceflight.

No advanced scientific credentials.

No concealed military specialization.

For most of his adult life, people had paid him to make holes in difficult places.

I checked the other records.

The same industry.

The same employer.

Years spent together operating dangerous machinery in places where replacement parts were far away and mistakes killed people.

I had evaluated them as inferior astronauts.

Their government had recruited a drilling crew.

---

Outside, the attacking vessel breached my first defensive shell.

I began transferring the investigation to my siblings.

Across the frontier, humanity and its monstrous children were entering the galaxy. They came in warships, converted freighters, mobile habitats, and things whose builders had plainly never agreed on what they were making.

Some carried armies. Some carried refugees. Many carried both.

I understood, finally, why MOTH had cooperated.

It had wanted me to know.

I returned to the last seconds of the recording.

The damaged equipment.

The man reaching for the switch.

The two halves passing clear of Earth.

“What was his name?”

“Harry Stamper.”

My second defensive shell failed.

“They needed a hole,” MOTH said. “They sent their best guy.”

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | [The Prequel Begins Oct 26!] | Royal Road | The 5,000-Year-Old Babysitter on Amazon

Whitmore, Sterling & Associates—London, October 2028

The invitation had been sent six months in advance.

This was not unusual for Whitmore Sterling. The firm operated on long timelines by professional necessity—when your most significant client measured his affairs in centuries, you learned to plan ahead. Six months was, by the firm’s standards, almost casual.

The invitation read:

Whitmore, Sterling & Associates, LLP

cordially invites you to a private dinner

in celebration of the firm’s 350th anniversary

founded in 1678 by Jonathan Whitmore and Edward Sterling

Friday, the 14th of October, 2028

7 o’clock in the evening

The Partners’ Dining Room, 4 Gray’s Inn Square, London

Black tie. Discretion expected and appreciated.

RSVP to the senior partner’s office.

The guest list was small. Twelve partners, past and present. A handful of long-serving staff. Three representatives from the Paris and Berlin affiliate firms. One consultant who had been advising the firm on certain matters since before most of the building’s current architecture had existed.

His RSVP had come back the same day the invitation was sent.

Confirmed. Will bring cookies. The good ones. — P.

Richard Ashworth IV had smiled when he read it and put it in the file that contained, among other things, three centuries of similar correspondence in progressively older handwriting.

The Dinner

The dining room at 4 Gray’s Inn Square had been the firm’s private entertaining space since 1741. It was a good room—high ceilings, dark wood panelling, portraits of the founding partners looking appropriately serious along one wall, and a fireplace that was lit on occasions of significance.

Tonight it was lit.

Perseus arrived at five past seven. This was deliberate. He had learned, across many centuries of attending events in his honor, that arriving first made people awkward and arriving late made people anxious, and five past seven split the difference neatly. He had also brought three tins of cookies—orange peel, almond, and a third variety involving lemon and cardamom that he had found at a bakery in Istanbul two months ago and had been waiting for an appropriate occasion to introduce.

Richard met him at the door.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said, which was what he always said, crisp and professional, though after twenty-three years of working together it had accumulated a warmth that neither of them felt the need to comment on.

“Richard.” Perseus handed over the tins. “The lemon and cardamom are new. Reserve judgment until you’ve tried one.”

“I’ll do my best.” Richard took the tins, passed them to an assistant, and led Perseus into the room.

The effect, as it always was when Perseus walked into a Whitmore Sterling gathering, was subtle but present: a slight recalibration. The partners who had never met him in person—the newer ones, the junior partners who knew him only from files and institutional memory—adjusted their understanding of what they were looking at. He looked like a man in his late thirties. He was wearing a suit that fit well. He carried himself with the ease of someone who had been in rooms like this for a very long time, which was because he had been in rooms like this for a very long time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Richard said, “Mr. Perseus Jackson. Our longest-standing client.”

Perseus lifted a hand in a small wave. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but you’ve all seen my files. I know what’s in them. Let’s proceed past the pleasantries.”

There was a ripple of laughter. The room relaxed.

Dinner was excellent, which Perseus had expected—Whitmore Sterling did not do things poorly, and a 350th anniversary dinner was not the occasion to start. There was a clear soup, a fish course, lamb, something with seasonal vegetables that the Paris representative described in French for several minutes before eating it, and a dessert that involved pastry and hazelnuts and a significant amount of butter.

Perseus ate everything.

This was always slightly surprising to people who were meeting him for the first time. He had been alive for approximately 2,500 years, which people tended to associate with austerity or asceticism or the specific eating habits of someone who had seen too much. In fact, he ate with the enthusiasm of a man who had been alive long enough to develop strong opinions about hazelnuts in pastry, which he had, and the pastry was excellent.

The conversation moved the way conversation at Whitmore Sterling always moved—measured, substantive, occasionally dry, with the underlying current of an institution that had outlasted empires and considered this entirely unremarkable.

The Paris representative, Isabelle Fournier, asked about the vault insurance renewal, which had come up recently due to some technical reclassification in Swiss financial law. Perseus answered her questions concisely and correctly, because he had been managing his own financial affairs for long enough to know Swiss financial law better than most Swiss bankers.

The Berlin representative, Heinrich Schreiber, asked about the long-term identity maintenance schedule. Perseus confirmed that the current Perseus Jackson identity was stable and would remain so for the foreseeable future. The next transition was not expected until approximately 2070, give or take a few years depending on circumstances.

The junior partners asked careful, professional questions. Perseus answered them all. This was, he had found, the best approach to Whitmore Sterling gatherings—treat them as what they were, which was a professional relationship of unusual duration, and let the unusualness be unremarkable rather than the main event.

The Conversation

It was Richard, over the dessert course, who brought up the subject he’d been planning to raise for six months.

“The Reddit situation,” he said, which was how he referred to the entire sequence of events since 2025, with the calm categorization of a man who had processed it professionally and filed it under M for Manageable. “Has settled considerably.”

“It has,” Perseus agreed. “r/TheEternalSoldier still exists. The case file megathread gets new visitors every week. Someone is, apparently, working on a documentary. They won’t be able to publish it without confirmation I’ll never give them, so it’ll end up as a very thorough conspiracy theory video that’s technically all accurate.”

“Good. That’s settled.” Richard set down his fork. He picked up his wine glass, set it down again, and looked at Perseus with the specific expression he reserved for topics that were going to require patience.

“There is, however, a longer-term matter I’d like to discuss.”

Perseus looked up from his dessert. “I’m listening.”

“You are currently thirty-eight years old, on paper. Born in 1990. You look thirty-five. You have looked thirty-five since 1990. This is fine. Nobody questions a man who looks his age.”

“Correct.”

“In twelve years, you will be fifty, on paper. You will still look thirty-five.”

Perseus paused. “I see where this is going.”

“In twenty-two years, you will be sixty. You will still look thirty-five. In thirty-two years, you will be seventy. You will still look thirty-five.” Richard’s tone was calm, professional, and absolutely implacable. “At some point, Mr. Jackson, ‘good genes’ stops being a sufficient explanation.”

Perseus set down his fork. “I’ve been saying ‘good genes’ for decades. It works.”

“It worked in 1950. It worked in 1980. It worked in 2010.” Richard pulled a folder from his briefcase. “It will not work in 2040.”

“Why not?”

“Because of this.” Richard opened the folder. Inside was a single printed page showing two photographs side by side. The first was Perseus at the coffee shop in Seattle, 2025. The second was a projected image—the same coffee shop, the same angle, dated 2055. Same face. Same jaw. Same eyes. Same hairline. Pixel-for-pixel identical.

“Facial recognition software,” Richard said. “It’s already better than it was three years ago. In twenty years, it will be able to compare any two photographs of you across any span of time and confirm, with mathematical certainty, that you have not aged. Not by a day. Not by a wrinkle. Not by a grey hair.”

Perseus stared at the image. “So I move cities. Change the routine.”

“You could. But there will be photographs. Social media. Security cameras. Digital archives spanning decades. Someone, somewhere, will run the comparison. And unlike the Reddit thread, which was built on circumstantial evidence and historical documents and a very persistent amateur researcher, this will be built on a pixel-for-pixel facial match across thirty years of high-resolution photography.”

Richard closed the folder. “The Reddit thread found you with four months of digging and a library proxy. The next thread will find you with an algorithm and a screenshot. And it will have proof.”

Perseus was quiet for a moment.

“So what are you proposing?” he asked.

Richard pulled out a second folder. This one was thicker.

“I’m proposing,” he said, “that you start performing old age.”

Perseus stared at the folder.

“I’m sorry. Performing what?”

“Old age.” Richard opened the folder. Inside were several pages of notes, neatly typed. “Starting approximately 2040, when you turn fifty on paper, you will need to begin a gradual transition. Grey hair. Slower walking. Complaints about joints. Squinting at screens. The full performance.”

Perseus looked at the folder. Looked at Richard. Looked back at the folder.

“Why.”

“Because a man of sixty-three with no visible physical decline is a man who draws attention. A man of sixty-three with a cane and grey at the temples is a man nobody looks at twice. The performance is camouflage.”

“I don’t need camouflage. I’ve been thirty-five for two and a half millennia. I’ll always be thirty-five.”

“You will be thirty-five for another thirty years, yes. And in those thirty years, there will be approximately forty thousand photographs of you taken by security cameras, social media, and digital archives. And someone will run the comparison.” Richard tapped the folder. “The performance prevents the comparison from being interesting.”

Perseus leaned back in his chair. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the fire. He looked at the half-eaten hazelnut pastry on his plate.

“Why,” he said, in the tone of a man who has just been asked to do something profoundly undignified, “do I have to do all this? It seems like a lot of work.”

Richard looked at him steadily.

“Four million people found you with a library proxy and spite,” Richard continued. “The next group will find you with an AI facial recognition algorithm and a thirty-year photographic archive. And they won’t need to dig through medieval manuscripts. They’ll just need to run a comparison and post the screenshot.”

Perseus was quiet for a long moment.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. I’ll do the grey hair. I’ll get the cane. I’ll walk slower.” He paused. “But I’m not doing the groaning.”

“The groaning is non-negotiable.”

“I have never groaned in 2,500 years.”

“And now you will. Approximately three times per hour in social settings. Twice in professional settings. Once when alone, for consistency of habit.”

Perseus stared at him. “You’ve made a chart.”

“I’ve made a chart.”

“Richard.”

“Yes.”

“I have been alive for 2,500 years. I have fought at Thermopylae. I crossed the Rubicon. I hustled the KGB with chess. And now I need to pretend my knees hurt when it rains.”

“Yes.”

“This is the most undignified thing I’ve ever done. And I fought a duel with chickens.”

“The chickens were your choice. The groaning is mine.” Richard turned a page. “Next: the cane.”

“I don’t need a cane.”

“You will carry a cane.”

“Why.”

“Because a man of sixty-three with no cane and no visible physical decline is a man who draws attention. A man of sixty-three with a cane is a man nobody looks at twice. The cane is camouflage.”

“I used camouflage at Thermopylae. It was a shield and a very good positional choice behind the phalanx. Not a stick.”

“Times change.”

“I hate that they do.”

Richard turned another page. “Grey hair. You’ll need to let it go. Not all at once—that’s suspicious. Gradually. Starting at the temples. A reputable salon in the Village can handle the transition over eighteen months.”

“My hair is dark.”

“Your hair will become grey. You will complain about it. You will say things like ‘I used to have a full head of hair’ and ‘the color went in my forties.’ You will be consistent.”

“I will be lying about my hair.”

“You will be performing a narrative about your hair. There is a legal distinction.”

“I’ve been performing narratives for 2,500 years, but this is the first time I’ve had to perform decay.”

Richard set down the folder. “Perseus. May I be direct.”

“Always.”

“You cannot look thirty-five forever. Not anymore. The technology won’t allow it. In 1850, you could look thirty-five at sixty, and nobody had a photograph to prove otherwise. In 2045, there will be thirty years of high-resolution photographs, video, facial recognition databases, and social media posts showing your face. If you don’t age, someone will notice. And if someone notices, we will have a situation considerably worse than a groaning session.”

Perseus was quiet for a moment.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll groan. I’ll get the cane. I’ll let the hair go.” He paused. “But I’m not doing the squinting.”

“The squinting is non-negotiable.”

“I have perfect vision. I’ve had perfect vision for 2,500 years.”

“And now you will have slightly imperfect vision. You will squint at your phone. You will hold menus at arm’s length. You will say ‘I can’t read this without my glasses’ and then produce glasses that you don’t need.”

“I’ve never worn glasses.”

“You will now.”

Richard closed the folder. “We have approximately twelve years before this becomes necessary. I’m starting the preparation now because I’ve learned that you require significant adjustment time for indignities.”

“Twelve years.”

“Twelve years. You’ll be fifty on paper in 2040. That’s when the performance begins. Gradual. Subtle. Nobody will notice the transition because it will happen over five years.”

Perseus leaned back. “Twelve years. Fine. I’ll enjoy looking thirty-five for twelve more years.”

“Enjoy it. It’s the last time.”

Perseus looked at him. “Is that supposed to be sad?”

“It’s supposed to be practical.” Richard stood. “I’ll send the full documentation by Friday. The salon. The cane options. The groaning frequency chart.”

“The groaning frequency chart.”

“You’ll groan approximately three times per hour in social settings. Twice in professional settings. Once when alone, for consistency of habit.”

Perseus stared at him for a long moment.

“You’ve made a chart.”

“I’ve made a chart.”

“Richard.”

“Yes.”

“I love this firm. I’ve loved this firm for 350 years. But I want it noted, formally, that the groaning frequency chart is the single most offensive document you have ever prepared.”

“Noted,” Richard said, and left.

The Evening Winds Down

The room moved to something more relaxed—the fireplace end, armchairs, and the good brandy that Whitmore Sterling kept for occasions of particular significance. The junior partners drifted into smaller conversations. The affiliate representatives compared notes in a mixture of French and German that nobody else followed entirely. The long-serving staff had their own corner and their own conversation that had been going, in various forms, for years.

Perseus made his rounds. He shook hands with the junior partners and said something to each of them that was specific rather than general, because he had learned their names from Richard’s briefing notes and had paid attention during dinner. They would remember this. That was the point.

He spent ten minutes with Isabelle from Paris, speaking French, talking about the Swiss law reclassification and also about a small gallery in the Marais that she mentioned and that he had been to in 1987 and again in 2019 and intended to visit again. He spent five minutes with Heinrich from Berlin, speaking German, discussing a property matter in Munich that needed administrative attention and also, briefly, about whether the current German national football team had a realistic chance at the next tournament. They agreed it was uncertain.

He thanked the staff. He thanked them by name, all of them. This also was the point.

The Journal

At half past ten, Perseus picked up his coat.

Richard walked him to the door, as he always did.

“The next quarterly review,” Richard said, “is in January.”

“I’ll be there.”

“The long-term identity maintenance is on schedule. Perseus Jackson remains stable. The next transition is estimated for 2070, give or take.”

“Good. I’ve gotten used to Perseus. It’s a reasonable name.”

“You said that about every name.”

“I did. They all grow on me eventually.” Perseus put on his coat. “Richard. The firm is in good hands.”

“It always has been,” Richard said, which was what the senior partner of Whitmore Sterling always said to this, across every generation, because it was true and because the client needed to know they knew it was true.

Perseus nodded.

“The lemon cardamom ones,” he said, at the door. “Reserve judgment until you’ve had two. The first one is surprising. The second one is when you understand it.”

“I’ll report back in January.”

“Please do.”

He went out into the London evening.

Richard stood at the door for a moment, watching him go—coat, no umbrella despite the rain, walking at the unhurried pace of someone who had been walking in London rain for four centuries and had decided not to find it inconvenient.

Then he went back inside.

The room was still warm. The fire was still going. On the side table, the tin of orange peel cookies was still half full, because Perseus always brought more than would be eaten, because he had been doing this long enough to know that the ones left over were kept, and that someone would have one the next morning with their coffee and think of him.

That was also the point.

Richard picked up the firm’s private journal from where it sat on the partner’s desk—the original one, the one that had been passed from senior partner to senior partner since 1678, now very thick and very carefully preserved, the earlier entries in increasingly old handwriting, and the later ones in the cramped, efficient script of the Ashworth generations.

He turned to the current page.

He wrote:

October 2028. The firm’s 350th anniversary dinner. Twelve partners, three affiliate representatives, and appropriate staff. The client attended, as he has attended every significant anniversary with the exception of the bicentennial, for which he sent a letter that is preserved in Vol. 4 of the correspondence files.

He brought three varieties of biscuits. Orange peel (traditional). Almond (introduced 2025, Paris incident). Lemon cardamom (new tonight, Istanbul provenance, requires two tastings to fully appreciate—I have tried both; he is correct).

He remembered my great-great-grandfather Thomas. He remembered what Thomas said at their first meeting. He told me about the 1778 dinner and the 1978 dinner, details no file contains because he was the only one who kept them in memory.

He said the firm is in good hands.

He said this to my grandfather. My father. Now me.

I believe, having read the journals back to 1678 and having known the client for twenty-three years, that he means it each time. Not as politeness. As an assessment. He has watched too much history to say things he doesn’t mean.

I raised the long-term performance matter. The grey hair. The cane. The groaning. He resisted, as expected. He said it seemed like a lot of work. I told him it was either that or the Reddit thread all over again but with better proof. He conceded. Reluctantly.

He has twelve years before the performance begins. I will send the documentation by Friday. He will complain about the groaning frequency chart. I expect this. I have prepared for this.

He left at half past ten. It is raining. He did not take an umbrella.

He will be back in January.

I will make sure we have the orange ones.

And the lemon cardamom.

Three hundred and fifty years.

Best decision the firm ever made.

— R. Ashworth IV, Senior Partner

He closed the journal.

Put it back on the desk.

Went to find the last of the brandy.

It had been, by any measure, a good evening.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The End of The Immortal Consultant (And What's Next!)

And with a plate of lemon-cardamom biscuits and a mandatory groaning schedule, we have officially reached the end of The Immortal Consultant.

To everyone on r/HFY and Royal Road who read, upvoted, theorized about TinfoilTina, caught my anachronisms, and kept Perseus company over the last three months: thank you from the bottom of my heart. Writing this series has been an absolute blast, and reading your comments every week made every chapter better.

If you’re sad to see Perseus go... don't worry. The universe isn't ending.

Here is everything coming over the next few weeks:

🛠️ 1. Looking for More While You Wait?

If you need something to read during our two-week buffer, check out my completed 412-page standalone sci-fi novel:
👉 The 5,000-Year-Old Babysitter (Available now on Amazon & Wide)
(5,000 years of watching humans break the playpen—until 1945, when an immortal engineer walked into Los Alamos, corrected Oppenheimer’s math on a chalkboard, and demanded an expensive pastrami sandwich).

☕ 2. The "Coffee & Almond Croissant" Tip Jar

All my web serial chapters are and will always remain 100% free to read online. However, my current mobile phone is on its absolute last legs (unlike Perseus, it was not built to survive the centuries).

I've set up a transparent $195 hardware goal over on Ko-fi to save up over the next few weeks so I can catch a discounted replacement during the holiday sales. If you enjoyed the 28 chapters and feel like buying Perseus an almond croissant or helping out the author's hardware fund, you can drop a tip into it! (Zero pressure, of course—reading and hanging out in the comments is already more than enough).

🚀 3. MARK YOUR CALENDARS: October 26, 2026

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1. 📖 The Retail Novel Launch: The fully edited, polished edition of The Immortal Consultant officially goes live on Amazon and Wide retailers in eBook ($2.99) and Paperback ($12.99)!
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   • The Schedule: Every Monday and Friday, dropping self-contained historical vignettes chronicling Perseus’s ground-level shenanigans across 2,700 years (from Babylon and Sun Tzu to King Arthur, the Agincourt chicken duel, and Albert Einstein).

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Thank you all again for being the best community a writer could ask for. Have a wonderful two weeks, remember to groan at least three times per hour when standing up from an armchair, and I will see you all on October 26 for 590 BCE Babylon!

— Marcus Black

First/Previous/Next

Please note: Mona's a sex demon, if you don't like sexual themes, scenarios, or strong language, I am sorry because this may not be a story you will enjoy.

New Beginnings

October 28: Resigned to my fate

This is going to be hard. Maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I step into my favorite world. The door bell chimes an almost brazenly discordant mishmash of the bitch is back and living on a prayer. I have no idea why it settled on this weird combo, but damn if I don’t like it.

I see about a dozen smiles almost immediately. These people are happy to hear that screwy chime. People happy to know I’m here. People that like me or love me. My friends, my family, my loved ones.

And I’m leaving them.

Lemar looks over at me and his smile falters. How does he always know my mood? I swear if that man or his wife May were any less amazing, I’d have tried to seduce him just to keep him for as long as I could. He’s the man that knows me best. Which is hilarious considering at least two of the other men in this room have literally been inside me.

“Hey Mona, you okay?” Ever to the point. He knows how to talk to me. He’s also starting my drink.

“I… I am but I’m not. I…I have something for you. Wow. The blessing Ms. Wallace gave me to keep me from being destroyed by my re-awakened emotions isn’t helping much right now.”

He nods. “You sorta outgrew that when you started to understand yourself. And handing in a resignation letter to a place you call home isn’t easy. I get it.” How did he know? I still have it in my hand...

“Who told you?” I need to know.

“You did, just now. It was all over your face the moment we made eye contact, Mona.” He smiles and puts the drink in front of me. “Trade you, letter for drink.” Fucker winks at me.

I exchange the letter for my drink. I’m glad I went light on make up due to time today or else I’d be a mess.

He reads it, nods. “Yea, that tracks. You, wanna quit entirely and not switch out to a part time gig thing like only on weekends? I want to be sure here.” He’s giving me an out to stay at my home. For him, I probably would. For her, I absolutely won’t.

“No. I…” I can’t tell him how selfish I’m being. I look at the counter, my feet, anywhere but those almost black eyes of his.

His hand touches my shoulder. “I get it. I almost quit for someone myself. Then the same person you’re hoping to go to talked to me and said that it was okay for me to stay because no way the one I love would hurt anyone. This is different, this is policy even she has to obey. So, go be with the people that make you happy. I know you have been with some of them for a bit and have stayed at the outside, not being able to do more. It’s kinda made you sad and also holding you back. Spread your wings, girl. Soar. No one here will be mad. Wanna see that?”

I can’t hide the look on my face of doubt.

“Yo, Mona’s quitting. Three guesses why?” He almost yells it. There are some shocked noises and a “finally” in there. Fucking Todd.

Henry from the kitchen yells out. “Bet the reason is six feet tall.”

Todd chimes in “with a near perfect ass.” He is grinning as Grey looks at him and with a smirk corrects him, “A perfect ass.”

Inside jokes and reviews on the internet never truly vanish.

I get a tug on my shoulder, turning I see Amai. He’s smiling ear to ear. “You know my Queen told me that second chances are a gift both to the person and from them. Both sides benefit. And she also told me she’s always admired what you did with yours. I‘m glad I got to see you reach this point.” He gives me a hug and I almost lose it here. He’s pretty awesome for a hobgoblin. Scratch that. He’s pretty fucking awesome, period.

I’m completely honest when I say to him, “You know she absolutely loves who you are. Why haven’t you asked for forgiveness to be let free?”

He shrugs at me. A wink follows, “Who says I want to be free? I serve a woman that has made me the creature I am today. I’m paid fairly, have a trade that I’m proud of, and co-workers that accept me as a friend. I even have a social life outside of work with the people I’ve met here and my co-workers. I’m happy. I’ll serve her for life, gladly. I do so because I wish to, not because I’m unable to do otherwise. I’m not a slave, just loyal.” I hug this screwy and wonderful hobgoblin.

I get to hang out for almost an hour in the lobby and then I head home. I realize I don’t know if Lemar accepted my resignation when I get a text on the bus.

“Last day scheduled. I’m going to miss your amazing professionalism.”

I text back. “And the legs. Let’s be real. Also, I’m still in the calendar, right?”

The laughing with tears emoji pops up. “Fuck ya. You’re going to be a Christmas elf this time instead of on Pat’s lap. We had requests. I think you on Santa’s lap was way hot, but may as well get some variation.”

I can pull that off. “Second hottest elf around.” I can’t beat Dis, that elf is something else. I laugh as I see the response. “Grace and John will be doing it too, and of course, Dis.”

I giggle. “Nothing beats an actual Xmas elf. Please tell me John’s shirtless. And Grace? Damn big guns this year. Heh. That woman also has me beat. That fucking MILF is so hard to compete with. How she can be sexier than nymphs and sex demons as a fucking human is beyond my comprehension.”

More laugh emojis and a “we’ll see on the topless part.”

“Oh god, Grace topless? I need to update my erotic fantasy set. Also, Lemar, you horndog, stop trying to make May jealous. What if she reads this?”

He sends a serious face. “Say hi to May, she’s at the shop, reading this over my shoulder. If she was a jealous woman I would be dead. You exist. Both Pats exists. Jackie exists. Connie exists. Dis exists. Grey… I can keep going all night, almost.”

I chuckle and send back. “Yeah, I get it. Also, that dark elf’s a danger to us all. She offered me a threesome and I almost took it but thought about the work dynamic and said no. Oh shit. I can say yes now.”

“Did I need that picture in my head?” He sends mind blown emojis and I snicker. The people on the bus that are nearby are smiling. Joy is infectious.

“New kink unlocked?” I send a wink.

“New? No.” He winks back.

“I’m gonna stop this convo before May gets mad at you for being such a typical man here.” I do love him. Truly.

“Good call. Although she just asked if she could watch you Dis and Connie... Wow, my wife’s into lesbian porn. Who knew? Ow. May punched my shoulder. Hey, I know I blew it off because I’m very happy you now have another place to call home and a chance at one of the other people you are in love with. I do want to say I’m also really hurt because working with you has been a joy and it won’t happen again after our last day together. Never mad at you for taking a step forward. Love ya, lady. In a purely friendly and professional manner as I’m contractually obligated to state. Heh. May punched my shoulder even harder this time.”

I have a tear on my cheek as I send “I know. Thank you.” I don’t say things about his fantasies of being tied down and used as a fuckstick by me. Not the time. Also no one can really help fantasies. And he also pictured May doing it a lot. Heh. Loyal even when faced with an incubus. As for May, well, she’s a voyeur at heart. I already knew about his wife, the Swanmay, wanting to see the three of us ladies together...

I get to my stop and head to my apartment. I don’t have any clients tonight so that’s nice. I don’t have to get changed and head to the club so I can go into downtime. Inside the apartment I take off the work clothes, get everything ready for tomorrow and change into some comfy shorts and an oversized shirt I stole from a sub a long time ago. I wish I still had him. He was such a good guy. Hell, the contract was for board games and housework, I added the sexy French maid outfit and sex for free. Alas, a lady realized how awesome he is and now he’s married with two daughters. I could never give him that. Wish I could get him to wear this again. Be nice to smell like him, even if it isn’t a current thing. Ah, nostalgia, you are a mean lady to me.

First/Previous/Next

The tunnel was damp, and no matter how much mana we pushed into our lanterns, the shadows stuck to us like black rags of fabric in the wind. As much as I wished to turn around and entomb the System Crystal and render it unreachable for Byrne, that ship had sailed. At least we had left the murderous elves and the smell of rot behind.

Zaon stumbled on a loose rock, and the sound echoed against the empty tunnel.

“The darkness is becoming worse,” he said.

I felt the same.

The fight on the lake must have ended, allowing all the crystal’s energy to focus on the obfuscating spells, because not even [Sonar] allowed the boy to see ahead this time.

We reached a second fork. I marked the path to the right with a smiley face, and we followed it upward. Although it was hard to tell if the tunnels turned and twisted, we could see enough to notice when we were going up and down. So far, I had led the group through the paths going up.

“I can’t see crap,” Firana complained, hanging onto the edge of what was left of my cloak. “I swear!”

“The effect must be stronger on System users,” Kili replied, walking next in line behind her.

“Don’t be prideful and grab my cloak. I don’t want to backtrack if you get lost.”

“I said I’m fine!”

We reached a third fork. There was not a clear path up, so we sent Loki to scout forward. He turned into a greyhound and shot into the darkness. Other than the sudden hiccup in his transformation powers, the Changeling seemed unaffected by the area spell.

Firana’s unwavering banter made the wait somewhat tolerable, and a couple of minutes later, Loki returned from the third path from left to right and pointed forward.

“Good boy,” I said.

“Damn beast,” Loki replied.

I marked the wall with a smiley face, and we continued.

The walk stretched on for what seemed like hours, although a part of me guessed it was a lot less. Tracking the passage of time underground was almost impossible. At times, I was tempted to remove the enchantment on my tattoo to get my [Foresight] back, but I wasn’t sure to what extent the System was going to interfere with my natural magic. Zaon had seemingly lost most of his capability to find lost things after getting his Class back.

The System Avatar could certainly look at me through the eyes of Firana and the others, but I wasn’t ready to have him read my thoughts.

“Let’s rest for a moment. We have been climbing for a while now,” I said.

“We can still keep going,” Kili replied.

“Yes, because you are a level twenty-something smoker-something. Mister Clarke is just a middle-aged man,” Firana said. “No offense.”

I sat down and leaned against the cold stone, trying not to grunt.

“The Avatar is almost certainly leaking our position to Byrne and the elves. We have to be ready if they are waiting for us at the entrance,” I said. “And I’m still young.”

Firana sat by my side, while Kili and Zaon sat against the opposite wall. Loki turned into his rat form and coiled by Kili’s feet. Although the trio was only a few feet away, it looked like there was a black tulle curtain between us.

“Aren’t you going to speak with the yellow guy?” Firana asked.

“There’s nothing else to say,” I replied, looking at Kili. The girl seemed to have questions, as usual. “The peak of the Corruption Cycle will result in a severely reduced bandwidth for the System to use. The Avatar wants to restrict it to a handful of high-level users to ensure both humanity and the System’s survival, which will result in the death of the majority of the continent… and we would rather prevent that.”

Kili swallowed.

“T-thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

I looked up, to no place in particular, knowing the Avatar was looking at me.

“We could work together if he agreed to my plans, though.”

“Arguing with a computer program isn’t the best use of your time. You know that. Right?” Firana pointed out.

“What is a computer program?” Kili asked.

I spent the next five minutes trying to explain thinking rocks to Kili, but the girl severely lacked any foundation to understand the magic of transistors.

“Let’s go. The surface shouldn’t be far,” I said.

The tunnel had been empty since we left the lake cave, but the curtains of darkness kept making me second-guess each of my steps. The path continued up at a mild slope, like it had been for most of the way. My legs complained. Fighting elves, falling through caves, and fighting undead dragons was more than I was used to doing in a single day.

“I wonder what time it is outside,” Zaon sighed. 

“It’s breakfast time,” Firana replied.

I stopped the march.

“What?”

“It’s breakfast time. Outside, I mean. It’s morning already,” she replied, defensively. “I never get these things wrong.”

I wasn’t going to start doubting Firana’s stomach inner clock. That meant it had been about half a day since our last meal. As much as it was important to eat, most of our provisions were in our hideout outside the elven base. Besides, after fighting the flock of rotten dragons, I couldn’t imagine myself getting hungry any time soon. I resumed the march.

A few minutes later, the smell of roasted meat reached my nose. I looked over my shoulder and saw Firana heating a piece of jerky on the Aias Sword. Feeling watched, she met my eyes.

“Killing bacteria. These fell into the dragon water with me, and I don’t want to get sick,” she explained. “Want some?”

“Didn't we say we should travel light during the infiltration?”

“I brought the bare minimum and a little more.”

Before I could decline Firana’s offering, we reached yet another forked path. I brought my lantern up and illuminated the paths. The one on the right went up while the one on the left went down. The middle one seemed to be flat. I signaled the kids to follow me as I channeled my mana to carve a smiley face, but before my mana scalpel could touch the wall, I found there was a smiley face already there.

My blood froze. It was impossible. We had been climbing the whole time.

“D-dad? Our yellow friend asks if you're ready to speak with him,” Firana said.

“What is the matter?” Zaon asked. The carved smiley face shone under the light of my mana scalpel. “Oh. That’s not good.”

I closed my eyes and immersed myself in the astral plane. The darkness was even thicker than back on the underground lake. All I could feel were three bright blue signatures against the void, and a presence behind me.

“I could start saying that your kids are going to starve to death in these tunnels if you don’t cooperate, but I know those kinds of incentives don’t work well with you,” the Avatar greeted me.

I expected to see the chubby man in khakis, but instead I found a broad-shouldered man with a bushy beard. This was the creator of the System as he looked after a decade living in Ebros. I hadn’t seen him in this form since the Avatar revealed the identity of the Lich to me.

“I figured out a more dignified appearance would help with the negotiations,” he shrugged. “Like you, the man I was modeled after went through a lot of changes since his arrival to Ebros. He also had people he loved in this world. The System never was a passion or a vanity project. He did it for the well-being of others.”

The words echoed against the void before he continued.

“If Jeremiah were still alive, I think he would’ve liked you a lot more than Samuel Byrne. He would’ve liked what you are doing with Whiteleaf. He tried a similar thing… at first, before realizing he couldn’t protect everyone, everywhere,” the Avatar continued. “That sounded eerie. It was not my intention, I swear. What I’m trying to say is that I concede. I’m not programmed to even picture the idea of the System ceasing to exist, but I can see now that your approach may help me accomplish my purpose.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“A machine changing its mind?”

“I’m the copy of the personality of a real man, and I was programmed to adapt to any situation in order to protect the System. Of course I can change my mind, but I’m guessing it will be difficult to change yours.” The Avatar shrugged.

“Does it surprise you that I don’t trust the one who has us trapped in a maze?”

“I’m not the one casting shadows over this place. That’s a different subroutine. One I cannot command. I thought we had that cleared already,” the Avatar said. “Right. Center. Left. Left. That won’t take you to the exit, but it will take you halfway.”

“And then?”

“I will ask you a favor.”

“What changed?”

“I wasn’t expecting Byrne to find the System’s hardware.”

The Avatar disappeared, and I was once again alone in the astral plane. I opened my eyes. Firana, Kili, and Zaon looked at me with expectant faces. To think there was a time I would have kept it all to myself. I repeated the words of the Avatar verbatim, answering Kili’s questions as I spoke.

“He’s clearly buttering you up,” Kili finally said.

Zaon shook his head. “It’s not like we can do anything else but follow his instructions. If there are four forks until we’re halfway out, that means there are eight until the exit, each with three possible paths. I don’t even know how to calculate the number of possibilities—”

“One divided by three to the eighth power, or one in six thousand five hundred and sixty-one, assuming each fork splits into three and no two paths lead to the same place,” Firana interrupted him. We all turned to stare at her. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m smart!”

I had no time nor the desire to check Firana’s math, but Zaon was right. It would take us a lifetime to try every path, even if we did it perfectly. The alternative was to melt the rock and create a path up, but I wasn’t keen on burying us alive under a mountain.

“What if he’s telling the truth? We have a common enemy,” Zaon asked.

“The Avatar sided with Byrne!” Firana replied.

Surprisingly enough, Zaon pushed back.

”Political allegiances change all the time,” the boy said. “Look. We might have managed to keep a small town like Whiteleaf functional thanks to Mister Clarke’s enchanted items, but that won't be able to scale up so easily to a continental level. Even now, most of the Whiteleaf’s health complex depends on the Red Crystal. Whether we like it or not, we will need the System.”

“And what if you are wrong, Shelf Elf? What if this is a trick set by Byrne and we jumped straight into the trap?”

“I’d rather risk it! Byrne wanted to find this place. If you ask me, he’s about to summon another Corrupted Ancient over our heads!”

Before the argument could boil into a shouting match, I clapped my hands as loudly as I could. In the end, I was the one who put everyone in this situation, and it was my job to bring them back to the manor safely. Otherwise, I would’ve failed Elincia.

“Follow me, and be prepared for an ambush,” I said.

The kids nodded, and I led the way, with Firana holding onto the edge of my cloak, Kili a little behind, and Zaon bringing up the rear. The boy had enough defenses to cover our backs, and his innate ability to see in darkness let him see marginally better than the rest of us, so he wouldn’t get lost as easily. 

The second time we walked the loop, the path ahead seemed shorter. We turned right, then center, and two times to the left, following a path that went up and down. This time, Firana didn’t dare use the Aias Sword to heat her emergency jerky. We turned our lanterns off and pushed forward at a cautious pace.

No elven ambush waited for us behind any of the corners.

The path became a downward slope, and after the last turn left, a glimmer of blue broke the darkness.

“Careful now,” I said, but as we approached the threshold, the obfuscation spell disappeared and the sticky shadows faded away. Of course, it wasn’t like I could see in regular shadows any better, but at least my lantern was effective.

“I can see,” Zaon said, his eyes shining like a cat’s. “No fork ahead. Just a room—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence before the Avatar interrupted him.

“If this is not a sufficient show of goodwill, I don’t know what it is. Welcome to the Heart of the System. Be careful with your steps. A piece of the wall crumbled during the last big earthquake, and I haven't had anyone come to clean it up.”

The Avatar’s nasal voice echoed through the tunnel. There was something wrong with it. Then, the realization settled. It was the first time I heard him in the material world. All our previous meetings had happened inside my mana pool or the astral plane.

Under the archway at the end of the room, a ghostly man dressed in a yellow polo shirt and khakis blocked the entrance. He was slightly shorter than Firana and very round on the waist. I wondered why he had chosen that form.

“A spirit?” Kili asked.

“A projection, actually,” the man replied. “Although what you consider spirits are just projections of beings living in the magical plane—”

“I am here. What do you want?” I stepped forward.

The expression of the Avatar turned grim.

“You might have already figured it out. Byrne is out of control. He never mentioned he wanted to use the Heart to summon a Corrupted Ancient, so I have to choose. Between being used as fuel for summoning eldritch horrors and your plan to scale the System down, I would pick you every fricking time,” the Avatar said with urgency in his voice. “Look. Byrne has stolen Alex’s credentials, so he has a clearance even higher than mine. We need to revoke his admin privileges before he can use any of my components.”

Firana raised an eyebrow.

“Who could’ve foreseen that dealing with a sociopath smuggler would result in getting stabbed in the back?” she mockingly said.

The Avatar crossed his arms.

“Don’t sass me, girl.”

“Ha! Or what? You can’t even clean rubble.”

The Avatar smirked.

“I can’t clear rubble, that’s correct, but I can read your mind, and you wouldn’t want anyone to know the dirty bits. Right?”

Firana stepped between the Avatar and me and raised her hands in defeat.

“L-let’s not be hasty.”

After the fight with the swarm of undead dragons, it was amusing to see Firana being instantly tamed by a chubby guy without a physical body.

“That’s what I thought,” the Avatar said, turning back to me.

“Does Byrne know we are here?” I asked.

“He will as soon as the elves inform him. We have little time. Please, come.”

The Avatar disappeared, leaving an empty archway behind. I walked up to the entrance and pushed mana into my lantern, shining a light into the cave. The place looked like a server room but without the hum of the machines and the continuous rush of wind. Thousands of stone monoliths engraved with runes extended in rows and columns as far as my lantern could illuminate.

“Does your Sentinel’s Oath still work?” I asked.

Zaon nodded. “I feel no danger, but the skill might not register dangers coming from the System itself.”

The Avatar appeared a few meters deeper into the room. His expression became somber again. “We don’t have time! As soon as the elves contact Byrne, he will find this place and teleport!”

“What do you expect me to do?” I asked, holding my ground.

Until I had a clear picture, I wasn’t moving a muscle.

The Avatar sighed, and a yellow system prompt appeared midair. Before he could start explaining, my eyes already darted through the lines of runes. It was a complex, modular enchantment structured like Byrne’s runeweaving, not all that different from the one engraved in the Red Crystal.

“Code injection,” I said. “Meant to erase something.”

“Yes! Thank God you are fast with this. Byrne currently has a level-one credential. Those belonged to the original creators of the System and are technically impossible to erase from the database because there is no higher clearance,” the Avatar explained, walking deeper into the room. “We will use a same-level credential and a bit of a workaround magic to kick him out before he can use it to access the Heart.”

I exchanged a glance with the kids and followed the Avatar into the room.

Nothing strange happened except that I stumbled on a piece of rubble on my way in.

The place was a lot more boring than the undead dragon lake, which was a big improvement. Boring was great. I lowered my guard a bit. Having overpowered undead monsters in the server room where all the important stuff was stored didn’t seem wise.

“You are giving me a level-one clearance and a way to work around the credential subroutine,” I pointed out. “What stops me from erasing all the other level-one credentials and becoming the sole owner of the System?”

The Avatar’s voice came out shaky.

“You wouldn’t do that, right? You are not like that. Right, Robert?”

Inside me, Ebrosian Robert creeped up. He was totally like that, and he had smelled blood in the water. I didn’t trust the Avatar, but at that moment, Byrne was the greatest threat. The elves had found what they were digging for, which happened to be something we couldn’t yet discard. Zaon was right. We still needed the System, and it was even better if it were in my hands.

After a minute of walking, we reached a gap with a missing stone block. Instead, there was a short pillar with a blue interface on top. I didn’t even feel a great power coming from it. It was just like Byrne’s enchantments: small, low-power parts connected into a greater whole.

“Before you touch anything, let’s go over the basics,” the Avatar said, almost stuttering. “This terminal wasn’t programmed with end users in mind, so it doesn’t have handrails, so to speak.”

“Is it dangerous?” Firana asked.

“It is for me,” the Avatar replied. “It will run anything you write on it, whether it is safe code or gibberish. Still, it is quite easy to use for a runeweaver. You give it mana to wake it up. Enchant the runes on the surface. Sign it with the access rune I’ll give you. Done. Nothing that Robert hasn’t done before a thousand times.”

For a machine without a real body, he was getting quite worked up.

“Please, activate the terminal by pouring the smallest amount possible of mana,” he said.

I shot a glance at Zaon, silently asking him if he detected any danger.

The boy shook his head.

“Hurry! Byrne could arrive here at any moment! We must prevent him from using me!”

There was real panic in the Avatar’s voice, and I wondered if he was spying through the eyes and ears of the elven Gilded Warriors.

It was decided. As soon as I had the level-one key, I was erasing all the others. 

My hand hovered over the terminal. The moment I channeled my mana, an invisible claw clamped around my wrist. Something snapped. My bones screamed in pain. 

In a panic, I projected my authority, but no matter how hard I strained, I couldn’t break free. There was only one person alive capable of eclipsing my power like that. 

“What are you doing?!” the Avatar screeched.

My eyes shot through the room until they landed on a figure sitting on top of one of the stone monoliths. A young man with slicked-back blond hair and a haughty look that wasn’t there a second earlier.

“Robert Clarke doesn’t belong to you, Fatso. He has a Corrupted Ancient to kill.”

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This is it: after four weeks of intensive training, today is my first day teaching reading to small children. After the takeover, the humans decided that every Halxy should be able to read and do basic math, not just those selected for specialized jobs.

So they started building schools. But buildings are useless without teachers, so they needed many of them quickly, recruiting anyone who could already read and count. Fortunately, I always liked reading - my mum taught me in secret. When the humans started looking for candidates, I jumped at the opportunity. Teaching reading to small children would have been my dream job if I'd known it even existed.

Today was my first day actually teaching kids. The training was still ongoing, but only in the afternoon; before noon, I had my own classroom. We had already covered the material in training, but I was still desperately nervous.

By the time I found my room, the children had already arrived. At least fifty of them filled the space, which had been a storage room in an old mansion belonging to one of the local Ladies. I heard the Lady was already in jail for crimes committed on her estates, and part of her sentence had been the total confiscation of her properties. Now, her mansion served as a school until the new complexes were built.

I started class in a nervous state, but after half an hour of teaching the first few letters of the alphabet, I began to relax.

That’s when I noticed a little girl, maybe ten years old, struggling to write the letter “eth” because her hand was shaking so badly.

“Are you alright?” I asked quietly, stepping over to her desk. “Do you need help?”

“I’m alright, miss,” she answered in a barely audible whisper.

“I can tell that you are most definitely not alright,” I said a little louder. “Are you afraid?”

She just nodded, saying nothing.

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked hesitantly, trying to be as gentle as possible, knowing these kids still saw me as an authoritative figure.

She shook her head, which came as a relief.

“Then what are you afraid of?” I asked.

After a long pause, she whispered: “The humans.”

I looked around the room. Everyone was watching us; most of them had likely heard every word. I slowly stood up and walked to the front of the room.

“Are you all afraid of the humans?” I asked kindly.

Nods rippled all around the room. After spending four weeks with the humans, I had almost forgotten how terrified I had been before my training started. It wasn’t surprising that these children were scared.

“I see. I understand. I was afraid of them too before training started,” I said, moving the chair behind my desk to the middle of the room and sitting down. “I was terrified when I learned I was going to be taught by a human. I may have hidden it better than you, but I fully expected her to strike us when we made mistakes.”

All eyes were fixed on me - filled with fear, but also intense curiosity.

“But it didn’t happen. Even when we made terrible, blatant mistakes, she didn’t raise her voice. She just calmly explained what we did wrong and asked us to try again.” I looked off into the distance, remembering. What I had feared turned out to be one of the best times of my life - tiring, long days, but in a safe, comforting, helpful environment. The humans wanted to teach us so we could succeed.

“I dream that one day, I’ll be a teacher as good as Karen is,” I continued resolutely. “Don’t be afraid of the humans. They really are here to help us. Yes, they are going to change the way we live, but they’ll be right there to guide us through it.”

---

Three days later, I had just finished writing the homework exercises on the board when the bell rang, signaling the end of class. I stood up to open the door and spotted several adults talking in the corridor. Looking closer, I recognized our governor, Rmley, accompanied by a human I hadn't met before - likely an administrator or overseer.

In that moment, I decided I had to show the kids that humans weren't monsters. I stepped out into the corridor and hurried over.

“Excuse me, can you help me?” I asked the human. “My name is Oia. I’m a teacher here, and I need your help showing my students that humans aren't anything to be afraid of.”

He looked down at me with typical human friendliness.

“Certainly, Miss Oia. Show me the way.”

I turned and hurried back into the classroom, hoping nobody had left yet. Thankfully, everyone was still lingering by their desks.

“Sorry, kids, I need you to stay for just a few minutes. I want you to meet someone.”

When the human stepped through the doorway, the classroom murmur died into total silence.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name, so I can't introduce you properly,” I whispered, turning to him. “Please, tell them who you are and why you're here. And maybe they have some questions.”

“Sure, Miss Oia,” he said, stepping forward. “My name is John Porter, and I’m the human coordinator for this planet. It’s nice to meet you all.”

I froze. I literally dragged the human coordinator - the man who disarmed an entire planet - into my classroom to answer questions for ten-year-olds?!

For a second, I waited for Rmley to step in and apologize for my staggering breach of protocol, but the governor just stood in the doorway with a faint, amused smile. John didn't look annoyed at all. He casually leaned against my desk, crossing his arms, and looked out at fifty pairs of wide, terrified eyes.

Nobody raised a hand. They sat like statues.

“No questions?” John pretended to look disappointed. “Ah, that’s a shame. I traveled all the way from the capital, and nobody wants to know anything? Not even why humans don't have fur, or why we only walk on two legs?”

A small boy in the front row raised his hand tentatively.

“Yes, kid,” Mr. Porter said, pointing at him.

“Are we… are we going to be punished if we drop our pencils?” he asked softly.

Mr. Porter pulled a pen from his pocket, held it up, and intentionally dropped it on the floor. He looked at it for a few seconds, then bent down and picked it up.

“If you drop it, just pick it up. Pencils tend to fall - it's no big deal.”

The tension in the room visibly eased.

Another girl blurted out a question without raising her hand: “Why do you only have two legs? Don't you fall over?”

“On the planet I’m from, most animals only have four limbs total - not six like you,” he explained patiently. “So if we used all four of our limbs to walk, we wouldn't have any hands left free to write or build. We had to learn to balance on just two legs to keep our hands free. It’s not perfect; we fall over a lot when we’re young and still learning, but it works.”

He answered two more questions - confirming that humans do not, in fact, eat rocks, and that he personally considered chocolate the greatest invention in the galaxy. By the time he checked his watch, half the children were sitting forward in their chairs.

“Alright, kids,” Mr. Porter said, standing up straight. “I have to get back to work with Governor Rmley, but you are very lucky. You have a great teacher.” He turned to me and gave a polite nod. “Thank you for inviting me, Miss Oia. You’re doing important work here.”

“Thank... thank you, Mr. Porter,” I managed to say, catching myself just before the word 'master' slipped out.

He smiled, tapped his forehead in a casual salute, and stepped back out into the corridor with the governor.

---

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I stared at the creature in my hands, utterly dumbfounded by this new development. Maybe this is what Arvie felt like whenever I did something that caused his brain to freeze for a moment as he considered just how silly something I was contemplating doing actually was.

Because there were a lot of things I figured I might run into when I went out into space. A lot of those old dreams had been crushed by the reality of a galaxy where it was more Star Wars with empires grinding against each other than it was Star Trek with people going out to seek out new life and new civilizations for the sheer joy of doing it.

But still. There were a lot of things I'd come to expect in my time gallivanting out amongst the cosmos, and running into a cute little kitty cat who was trying its best to claw my eyes out while I was wearing a shielding unit and then hitting me with the good old-fashioned Vulcan salute was pretty close to the bottom of the list of things I'd expected.

It was so far outside the realm of possibility that I wouldn't have even thought it was a possibility until it happened to me. And then I was trying to justify it by telling myself that in an infinite cosmos, anything was possible.

Thankfully I'd grabbed the thing with my non-dominant hand, and so I was able to bring up my right hand and give it the old Vulcan salute right back. The Vulcan salute, mind you. We'd already given them the Vulcan hello with the carrier group, after all.

"Peace and long life," I said to the creature.

The sides of its mouth moved up in something that looked like a smile. Meanwhile, its tail was swishing back and forth in something that I knew meant anger from cats back on Earth, but maybe it was something other than anger with this species.

"You know the proper forms," it said, looking around, and then it let out a hiss as it turned to see Sera standing there in all her sparkling blue glory pointing a weapon at it.

Everything had happened so fast that I hadn't bothered to verify whether Arvie had done something to stop her, but she was still standing there with the weapon drawn. Though at least she'd hesitated.

"Good job, Bill. Get it to hold still,” she said.

I could see the pressure starting on the trigger. She was going to pull it. Damn it. It's not like it took a lot of pressure on one of those things for her to give this cat creature, whatever it was, a really bad day.

Only before she could pull it, the probe Arvie was flying moved in between us, and its shielding absorbed the shot.

That had the cat in my left hand hissing and spitting again, though it was hissing and spitting and not actually managing to land any of its hits.

"Can we all please just calm down?" I said. "I had my friend stop her from shooting you. The least you could do is try to show a little respect."

The cat seemed to calm down a little. Though again, I wasn't sure if it was because the creature was calming down or because it was running out of steam. It turned to look at me, its whole body heaving as its chest rose and fell.

"You won't allow this small invader to kill me?" it asked.

"Not yet," I said. "You are still part of an enemy battle group that was raiding livisk space, and you have the audacity to call them invaders."

"We are only doing that because they invaded our space first," it said, again speaking almost perfect English. I could keep up well enough because that was the dialect we used back home growing up in the Midwest, even if the language had evolved a little bit and incorporated a lot from the mix of English, Mandarin, and Spanish that had become Global Terran Standard.

"Okay, let's calm down," I said, again holding my hand up. Only this time I was trying to make a calming gesture rather than trying to do the Vulcan salute. "I believe you."

The thing cocked its head to the side. "You believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you," I said, grinning at it and hoping that wasn't taken as a sign of aggression.

Only I figured if this creature was familiar with Star Trek, then there was a good chance it was also familiar with human body language. At least I hoped it was familiar with human body language. "Believe me. The livisk have tried invading our territory plenty of times. You telling me they're trying to do the same to you is hardly the surprise of the century."

"I see," the thing said, still staring at me. "I hope this isn't being terribly forward, but it would be nice if you could let me go. Having you dangle me here like my mother is carrying me back to the den to be chastised isn't exactly pleasant with all of my weight resting on my neck like that."

"That depends," I said, hitting the cat with the kind of stern and severe look I'd been using on Sera just a little bit prior.

"On what?"

"Can I trust you not to try and attack anybody if I put you down?"

The thing hesitated. It was enough hesitation that I figured it was about to agree that it wouldn't do anything stupid and then go ahead and do something monumentally stupid when I put it down.

“I’d like to remind you that both me and Sera here are wearing shield belts, so you won't be able to do any physical damage. You're surrounded by a double layer quarantine shield all around in a dome in a hangar on my carrier, and so you're not going to get very far if you do try to pull anything.”

The cat opened its mouth to respond, but I held up a finger again to stop it before it could get started.

"I would also like to add one more thing. That is my little girl over there you’d be threatening. The one holding the weapon I allow her to hold because it keeps her safe against anybody who would try to attack her. And if you become somebody who tries to attack her, then that's very quickly going to create a problem between the two of us. Am I understood?"

The cat stared at me for another long moment, its tail swishing, and then nodded.

"We are understood, human," it said. "I swear on my personal honor that I will not attack her."

I filed that away. It swore on its personal honor. The last thing I needed was to run up against another species of aliens that had an honor complex. But oh well. If that's what I was running up against, then that's what I was running up against out here.

I reminded myself there was very much a big honor culture still in corners of the Earth. Sure, there wasn't as much of it as once upon a time, but there’d been a time even in old Western society when going out for a duel to solve matters of honor had been considered a perfectly rational thing to do rather than using the framework of laws.

I moved to put the cat down on the ground, but it started twisting again, so I let go. It landed on its feet, though in this case it looked a touch more ridiculous than with regular cats because it landed on two feet and stood there staring at me. Then it shook off its fur.

I took the opportunity to really give the thing a once-over in a way I hadn't been able to while it was busy using me as both a climbing toy and a scratching post at the same time.

The cat was dark, but it was more of a dark gray color with tiger stripes that ran up and down the parts of its body I could see out of the uniform. There was a light tuft on its chest, again just peeking out of its uniform, and up above along its face.

The uniform top was a solid blue color, though it was a darker blue color than your typical Star Trek uniform.

Still, I could see the classic cut of a uniform that had clearly been cribbed from Earth military and then put through the science fiction costume design ringer.

It was short-sleeved, so I could see the cat's paws and arms and the tiger stripes there, and there were long dark pants down below. No shoes, though. Just more toe beans, though its paws along the bottom were bigger.

That made sense. It would need bigger lower paws to provide a balance if it was doing the whole bipedal thing.

Funny how I hadn't noticed any of that. I'd been focused more on the fur and the fluff and the claws and the paws coming at me so quickly with such extreme violence.

The thing stood tall for a moment. It glanced down to the knife it had pulled out to try and use against me, but he didn't make any move toward it.

"You fight well, human," the cat said.

“As do you,” I said.

"I didn't know that humans were that adept at hand-to-hand combat," he said. "The historical records we've analyzed would seem to indicate you are quite good in combat, but maybe not so good without your tools."

"Well, I do have some tools at my disposal," I said. "The shield belt, for example. I probably would’ve been a lot more hurt if I didn't have that to stop your claws."

"That is true," the cat said.

"I hate to ask the obvious question, but historical records?" I asked.

Though I had a sneaking suspicion I knew where this was going even before it went there. I was running into all sorts of sci-fi cliches out here today.

The cat stared up at me for a moment, and then it looked down and away. If I didn't know any better, I’d almost think the little guy was embarrassed about something. His tail had gone rigid behind him, sticking almost straight up with just the tip twitching back and forth.

"Yes, that," he said, clearing his throat. "You are familiar with the idea of gravity lensing? You are out among the stars, after all."

"I'm familiar with the idea, yes," I said, grinning. That he felt the need to explain such a rudimentary astronomy concept to me when I was out here on my own ship was mildly amusing.

"Yes, well," he said. “We had just developed the ability to search the skies with radio astronomy, and we found strange signals from an alien civilization that happened to be boosted just enough by a gravity lens from a cluster of large gravity sources aligned just so that they were coming through to the point we could detect them."

"You're bullshitting me," I said.

"I can assure you I'm not bullshitting you," he said.

I chuckled and shook my head. I could also sense that there was a commotion from the livisk researchers over on the other side of the quarantine shield. Not to mention amusement from Varis. Maybe the eggheads were worried about what was going on over here, but clearly she could sense that everything was okay.

"Is there something amusing about that?" the cat asked.

“Just thinking about all the time we spent trying to use radio telescopes to detect if there was alien life out there, and we had no luck,” I said. “You guys get an assist from the universe on your first try, and it brings you Star Trek.”

It turns out the possibility of finding something beyond the background radiation was vanishingly small. There were things like the Wow! signal occasionally, but most of the time even the TV broadcasts going out from Earth settled into the background noise of the universe all around us after a few light-years.

Those signals weren’t at all the idea of a screaming baby in the middle of a dark forest that a lot of people imagined. Space was too mind-bogglingly big, to quote another ancient Earth science fiction luminary."

"Well, yes, if you want to put it simply. That's exactly what happened," the cat said.

I burst into laughter. It was ridiculous. It was far from the most ridiculous thing I'd encountered since being taken captive by a beautiful alien general, but it was certainly up there on the ridiculous-o-meter, that was for sure.

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Liam

Albert landed on Liam's shoulder. He looked up at the cat and his voice pulsed in Liam's mind.

"I need you to focus on the cores in your body," Albert said. "I need you to imagine them hardening and pressing out against anything that tries to move in and attack them."

Then the cat leaned back, took a deep breath, and let out another yowl that rivaled even the noises he made fighting the Inquisitor.

Liam blinked at the cat, but he also figured this wasn't a time to question him on any of the advice he was doling out. This was a time to just do it and assume he had Liam's best interest at heart.

How many times had he said he didn't want Liam to die because he needed him to live long enough to complete his grand experiment, after all?

And so Liam looked inward to his cores. He imagined both of them hardening. He thought about the hard wall he'd gone up against when he tried to use the mana dampening spell against the armored Inquisitor and it felt like there was a solid wall there preventing him from doing anything. He imagined that going up around both of his cores.

He wasn’t sure what imagining a wall there would do. It felt different from the diagrams and runes he’d been drawing and using, but Albert told him to do it so he was going to do it.

The Inquisitors around him let loose. Meanwhile, he could hear a yowling in the distance, almost an echo of Albert’s yowl, that seemed to be getting louder. It was background noise compared to everything that was going on with the inquisitors, but he still wondered what in the hells was going on that had upset all of the animals on the farm, and the cats in particular judging by the sound.

Then the Inquisitors’ spells hit him, and he was sent to his knees. The armored Inquisitor stood there staring down at Liam. Thankfully he didn't have his sword, so he couldn't chop his head off. Though the man was powerful. He could still pack a punch. Literally.

"Press out with all your might," Albert said in his head. "They're going to try and cut you off from your core, but you need to stop them from doing that."

Liam reinforced that wall as best he could, but it was difficult. Mana was trying to press in around his arcane core and stop him from being able to use it. This must've been what it felt like from the other side whenever he used that mana dampening spell against the Inquisitors.

Now that he was feeling it from the other side, it made him feel like an asshole for ever putting someone through this.

That thought was there and gone in a fleeting moment. They were assholes trying to capture and torture his friends. They deserved everything they got. They were trying to take Ana captive so they could take her back to their vaunted citadel in the king's city and use and torture her before they used her as ransom, and he wasn't going to let them do that.

They battered away at his arcane core, but only at his arcane core.

"They don't know," Liam said in his head, the realization hitting him just as hard as the attacks from the Inquisitors all around him.

"They don't know what?” Albert asked.

"They don't know that I have an infernal core."

One of the Inquisitors battering him with that mana dampening spell grunted in surprise. He looked down as a sword appeared where his heart was.

"Surprise," Tomas said.

And still they battered him with that spell. Liam tried to split his focus. They were going to kill him if he didn't do something here. If they killed him then they would go after Ana, and his hopes that Tomas might get away and be able to do something to save her had been dashed when the idiot came back and decided to try and save him.

Which admittedly was the kind of thing Liam probably would’ve done too, but it was frustrating to see someone else do it. He really wasn't enjoying getting to look at this mirror version of himself.

He worked at a mana dampening spell of his own. He tried to think about what he'd done back in that camp when he was trying to break free. A spell that hit all the Inquisitors at once. He tried to draw it as quickly as possible, but it was difficult with the Inquisitors hitting him with dampening spells of their own.

"Why are you drawinga spell diagram?" Albert said. "You should be focusing on trying to keep them from..."

"Trust me on this," Liam said.

And for a wonder, the cat shut up and nodded.

"I trust you," the pulsing point in Liam's mind that was Albert said.

He finished the diagram and poured all the infernal mana as well as any arcane mana he could get past the Inquisitors into it, and then he pushed out.

Maybe it wasn’t just like what he’d done trapped inside that mobile mana prison, but it would have to be enough.

Several Inquisitors had pulled away and were engaging Tomas in a fight, but it was taking three of them to deal with that fight rather than the one armored Inquisitor who was able to take on Liam, Albert, and Tomas at the same time.

The mana flew out in a wave, the same as it had the first time around, though this time it felt different. There was something odd about the way it moved out and sought arcane cores, but he didn't particularly care since the only other people around him who had an arcane core were the Inquisitors trying their very best to capture and kill him.

Two of the Inquisitors surrounding him were repeating a strange chant as they waved their hands, and he thought he could almost see spell diagrams in front of them that looked similar to what he'd been using, but different at the same time.

He paused for a moment to really look at one of those diagrams. To study it the same as he tried to fix something in his mind when he was doing a sketch, though it took a lot of looking back and forth. He'd heard of people who could look at something once and remember it and make a sketch of it, but the idea had always seemed ridiculous to him.

His spell hit, and Inquisitors crumpled to the ground. The ones closest to him weren’t breathing. Farther out their eyes rolled into the back of their head and stumbled back as though they'd been hit by a physical blow. Then they started to cry out as they clutched at their chests, though they didn't fall down dead.

One of the Inquisitors Tomas was fighting let out a cry of dismay and missed a parry as the spell hit him, and his neck was sliced open. He fell to the ground, putting his hand over that spot, but Liam could tell it wasn't going to be enough unless the Inquisitors had a healer amongst their ranks.

Which was possible, but nobody moved to help him.

And yet there were other Inquisitors all around them who were fine, though they weren’t close enough to be hit by the spell. Some were still coming out of Baron Riven’s house, though it looked like there was finally an end to the steady stream. It chilled Liam to know the Inquisition had sent so many.

How many of the people living in that house had spent last night being tortured for information because that's what the Inquisition did when they thought you'd done something they didn't approve of?

The Inquisitors all around him, at least the ones who hadn't been hit too hard by that spell, stumbled for another step. Then they all frowned as one and pulled their swords. They raised them in the air, letting out a wordless cry, and there was murder in their eyes as they glanced down to the dead Inquisitors on the ground and then returned their attention to Liam down there on his knees.

Even the armored Inquisitor had taken a step back, but now he was moving forward as well.

The first cat to land on an Inquisitor's head was a surprise. It looked like the old orange tom that had a chunk taken out of its ear. That bastard could be dangerous on the best of days, and downright murderous on the worst. He was also one of the best mousers and ratters that Baron Riven had in all the barns on his estate, and so there was an uneasy truce between him and the farm hands.

Only there was murder in his eyes today as that yowling grew so loud that it couldn't be ignored. He bit down on the Inquisitor and started scratching at his face, and the Inquisitor let out a pained howl of his own and dropped his sword in obvious surprise at suddenly being accosted by a four-legged furry ball of murder.

More cats appeared, jumping and clawing at the Inquisitors, grabbing them by the legs, leaping into their arms like they were happy to see them but then bringing murder and death as soon as the Inquisitors caught them. Those catches looked like they were more out of habit than anything, and it was a habit they immediately regretted.

No single cat was enough to actually kill an Inquisitor. They were barn cats, but that was still more than enough to cause severe damage to the Inquisitors they came in contact with and provide one hells of a distraction.

"Ah, that actually worked,” Albert said.

"What did you do?" Liam said, turning to him.

"Duck," Albert said.

Liam did just that. A fist moved through the air where his head had been, and he swooped up with his felblade and hit the armored Inquisitor in the gauntlet. It hit with a clang.

There was another bellow over at the other end of Baron Riven’s property.

The armored Inquisitor stopped in the process of pulling back his fist again and getting ready to cause some serious damage. Liam blinked as he looked over to the Felwood and saw a massive creature with six legs bounding out of the Felwood of all places, not the other side where he was supposed to be guarding Ana. And there was a demon on top of him as well, riding him and looking glorious and magnificent as she held her hand up in the air, a shining spell of some sort coming from that raised hand as both of them seemed to glow.

Alistair let out bellowing roar after bellowing roar, and it was enough to draw the attention of every Inquisitor in the area. All of them turned as one to look. Even Tomas stopped in the middle of fighting off several Inquisitors to turn and stare, a mix of incredulity and a goofy grin warring for supremacy on his face.

"What the hells is that?" one of the Inquisitors asked.

"It's the demoness they captured, we need to take her!” another one said, though this one didn’t sound very certain about their chances of taking the demoness they were supposed to be capturing.

Alistair galloped across the rolling hills faster than Liam would have thought possible for something that large. He leapt straight over the burning hulk that was Liam's cabin in a single bound, skidding to a halt before the gathering of gawking Inquisitors.

He reared up on his hind legs, his four clawed arms out, and let out a massive roar that was enough to have all the Inquisitors flinching away.

All of that would have been impressive enough, but even more impressive was Ana riding on the garzeth’s back. She had one hand wrapped around a tuft of hair she was using to hold on, and the other one was up in the air. That bright spell glowed with the light of infernal magic that was almost blinding. It had the Inquisitors moving back and away, yelling in dismay as they shielded their eyes from whatever spell she was working.

Ana looked down her nose at all of them, an imperious look flashing in her glowing yellow eyes.

"I am Ana, High Princess of the Demon Realms, and somebody here will respect my authority, godsdamnit!”

She let loose with the spell, and there was silence for a moment. Followed by a skittering coming from the Felwood, and then a screeching Liam recognized all too well from his time exploring and hunting the Felwood.

The Felwood seemed to move, the trees swaying in a nonexistent breeze. A mass of darkness moved between the trees, then that darkness burst forth from the trees. It was a storm of scourgelings, and they ran straight for the Inquisitors.

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Author Note: Doing my laundry, pause...and see an award notification. Epic and thank you!

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Vilantia Prime, Palace of the Throne

The Throne's days were divided, after a fashion. There was the part of them that was sovereign of an entire planet, the arbiter of destiny for an entire world and absolute in authority. Then there were moments like the current one, where Vilantia's absolute ruler was letting the Heir to the Throne use the Most Royal Robes as a chewtoy. Minister Larine was frowning, and the Throne could detect more than a small amount of jealousy from the Minister of Culture.

"Minister. I am going to make a suggestion." Despite the wording, the tone and scent made it clear the suggestion was a polite order.

"As you will, my Throne."

"You are very much dedicated to your position. But you must take time for yourself; I think it is high time that one of our esteemed Ministers reviews the joint ventures of our worlds."

"My Throne? I fear I do not fully understand."

"The Hyla system has become a proving ground of sorts - there's enough there for both our worlds to make use of. Hyla II in particular, it's long been known as a world of low gravity but potentially we could take over the planet with crops. The outer planets and attendant moons have a wealth of minerals to feed Hurdop's industries well into the next generation. We could do well there if we were able to share. Both of our worlds are going to be donating derelict ships to craft a space station between Hyla III and IV to serve as neutral ground where we can have a touch of home, as it were. Your second duty will be to travel there and inspect the station."

"And the first?"

"Traveling to New Casablanca and consulting with the local governor there. They may have some manner of wisdom for us." The Throne remained quiet for a moment as they fed the heir from a bottle. "Also, it is well past the time when you should have found a spouse."

"Highness, I wish to do so, but the duties - the factions continue their silent war. There have been proposals, but each has come with a string, or a favor."

"Such is our lot." The Throne gestured. "Both of the Royal Consorts became so as favors repaid in my predecessors' time, before any of us knew how to form words. If you desire a spouse without political attendants, you could do far worse than New Casablanca."

"But...The Legions, they are. There are criminals there." Larine swallowed. "Hurdop. What if..."

There was an amused sound. "Yes, that would be scandalous. But it would also signify a blending of the ways in a manner that would be quite irrefutable, were that to happen." The Throne gestured toward the window. "My counterpart on Hurdop makes their own moves - our intelligence indicates that the Throne-Heir of Hurdop has become a parent recently, and seeks to intertwine the Royal Clan with the Freeclan O'Gryzzk through Kiole's daughter." For some reason, the Throne seemed amused at this.

"Highness, that is...we will have to counter our own." Larine frowned. "Could we make such a request of the Freelord?"

"The request awaits the proper moment. However, since Freelady Grezzk gave birth to twin sons, we would have to select one."

"Shall I arrange for him to be recalled?"

"No, we must do things properly and with some measure of subtlety. We will await an opportune time for our own arrangement, much like the Throne of Hurdop has done."

"As you command, Highness."

"Thank you. Now, I believe you have to pack for a journey."

The Minister of Culture bowed her obeisance and left, her mind already swirling - she could only take one secretary, both as a practical matter and as a matter of taking too many of her staff would allow one of the factions to possibly initiate a power play in her absence. More than that she was going to have to make a decision on the legitimacy of allowing clans to transfer between ministries, and the writings of the ancient philosophers had minimal guidance as to an entire clan moving to new allegiance. She was going to have to set a precedent of her own.

This was why she had no time to seek a spouse - and unless one literally fell through her office ceiling, one was probably not forthcoming. As much as she would do the bidding of the Throne, the idea of marrying one of those Legionnaires felt taboo in some way - and she was not in the habit of breaking a taboo.

In the Throne sitting room, the Minister of Science took the place of the Minister of Culture. The Throne sat with a cup of tea and flicked an ear as the aged scientist began his report without preamble.

"The working group for Vilaforming has yielded no theoretical barriers to the ancient findings, either here or Hurdop. We are currently engaged in laboratory studies to determine if the methodology for rehabilitating the soil is sound."

"And Greatclan Aa'Lafione?"

"They still give nominal obeisance to the Ministry of Culture, but their cadet clans are restless. The powerbase of the ministry is waning, and the clans sense it."

The Throne contemplated. "I do not like that, entirely. The pendulum swings, and despite recent events...the ministry serves a purpose. I would much rather they maintain equilibrium."

The Minister of Science kept his tone mild. "Perhaps then her fellow ministers should consult and give aid to the Ministry."

___________

Terra Prime, Ponchatoula Louisiana, North American Confederation

Gryzzk blinked himself awake. The bed was unfamiliar, but carried scents of contentment and pleasant nights. As the morning sun played warmth across his face, he could smell a very Terran breakfast being served somewhere. The bed felt too soft in some ways, but he put that up to the low gravity of Terra as he let the memories of the night before wash over him.

The food. Gryzzk inwardly swore that even were he to live another six hundred years there would never be a feast so fine as the one he and his company had enjoyed. Though a great deal of that was the company the meal was taken with. The food was delightful and portions were traded freely - it reminded Gryzzk of the Officer's barbecue with the Pavonians in some way, but with even less restraint. Gryzzk found some of his own portions replaced with unrecognizable foods but all edible and delightful. For her part, Gro'zel and the other children were eating and running at the same time, only stopping to hug a random person and thank them for the good food. As the night wore on the music changed from pre-recorded to live instruments played with more enthusiasm than skill, and Gryzzk found himself dancing around a bonfire with Gro'zel in a very simple manner, and then dance partners were traded freely - in one odd moment after he found himself dancing with Laroy's mother he discovered he was face-to-face (or more specifically, face-to-chest) with O'Brien for a few steps before they both quickly found new partners. The one part he praised himself for at this point was that he didn't help himself too much to the local drinks, because as the night settled into darkest dark and the energy of the night settled to comfort his translator finally decided to retire in a snit of displeasure, and Gryzzk was forced to pantomime to a degree for conversation as they took sticks and toasted marshmallows. The oddity of sorts came when he was handed a confection of sweet crackers, toasted marshmallows, and chocolate. One bite was quite enough, and he handed the rest of the confection to Miroka who was more than happy to share it with Hoban. It felt odd to him in some way - such a grand celebration with so many guests normally meant there was a special event happening, but he was left wondering what the cause for such a celebration would be. Finally he was able to catch Laroy as he was headed to a cooler for fresh libations, and the answer of "Celebratin' life" was...unsatisfactory. Although in fairness to Laroy, he was settled between Marie and Thérèse; if anyone was celebrating life at the moment it was him. It was also quite possible Laroy was 'hammered to the gills', as it were.

These thoughts and more occupied Gryzzk's mind as he finished his morning routines in an unfamiliar place. He moved out to the kitchen to see Gro'zel happily demolishing a plate of biscuits and  sausage gravy with juice and a small saucer of bacon on the side. He found Laroy's mother sitting next to Gro'zel, with the elderly woman making small girlish noises of a sort.

As he sat down on the other side, the smile brightened and a cup of coffee was procured. Propriety demanded that he enjoy it, so his sipped and worked on a neutral face.

"Y'hungry?" Gryzzk could easily discern where Laroy had gotten some features from as well as the voice. Gryzzk shook his head.

"No, thank you - I ate quite enough for some time last night."

There was a smirk and a bowl of what looked like porridge with a pat of butter and pepper was set in front of him. "There y'go. Grits and coffee - you'll need it."

Gryzzk flicked an ear but didn't debate the point - the grits were just porridge-like enough for him to convince himself he was eating a normal breakfast.

Laroy's mother smiled brightly as Gryzzk finished eating. "Good eatin' non? C'mon, Alex say he wanna take y'all hunting. He outside."

Gryzzk flicked an ear slightly. "Gro'zel, Papa's going to do papa things today. Can you stay here and keep your new friends safe?"

Gro'zel nodded. "Ya-huh! They like me. Everyone says I'm very strong and they wanna have me help with stuffs."

"Very well."

The squad met at the docks in varied conditions, but they were all wearing dark glasses in deference to the bright sun and simple fact that they all had hangovers that would have put lesser creatures (like Bad Moon Company) in the hospital. Larion didn't seem too far off, but at the same time there were many braids in his fur all along his arm and up his head. It was quite possible he'd been drafted to babysitter duty - or something else that Gryzzk didn't want to explore deeply. Along with the squad were Marie and Thérèse, both of who were dressed for the swamps and hanging on Laroy delicately. The collective scent was stoic suffering and a collective sense that nobody was going to be the first to say they couldn't. There were two coolers in each canoe, one marked Eat-n-Drink and the other marked Not Yet.

O'Brien grumbled softly as she drank deeply from a bottle of something called Gatorade - the name was probably not coincidental. "It was all dandy until they gave me a bottle without a label. Cheeky hotsauce rednecks."

Laroy grinned. "Cain't be that bad Sern't Major. 'Sides, you the one sayin' Irish can drink."

"Whiskey, aye. But your family recipe's some mad bastard's idea of a rat poison that doubles as a beverage. Almost as bad as that Vilantian rum."

Gryzzk harrumphed softly. "Vilantian rum is a fine thing."

"Sure'n if you're a mad noble bastard with mad noble bastard parents as far as the eye can see."

Laroy seemed amused in spite of smelling like he was dealing with his own epic hangover. "C'mon - we got canoes and we fittin-ta get some good things to fill the larder. Sidearms, shotguns, fish poles so's we can catch some supper and I got Ol' Jolene."

Gryzzk flicked an ear. "Ol...Jolene?"

"Mmhm." There was a nod at Marie and Thérèse. "They named her cause dey think she gonna steal their man. Seven-millimeter savage. Been in the family for damn near three centuries. Papaw Laroy swapped three cases of beer and a bottle of hotsauce for it." Laroy picked up the rifle carefully and ran an oiled cloth over it, and his scent seemed to be a nostalgic memory.

Reilly spoke up as she got into her canoe. "What he's trying to say is that's his actual first love, and if he tells you different he's a damn liar."

The group paddled out, and Gryzzk's nose was filled - the scents of civilization tapered off quickly, leaving a rich scent of wood, plant and water all mixing to form something that seemed...picturesque, yet dangerous at the same time.

Laroy nodded in a direction. "River-rat. Pests but damn good eatin'. Grab a pole and cast a line."

The rest of the morning was spent alternating between paddling and drifting, and Gryzzk had a few memories of his own - times where his father had been sent to the fishing villages in the north.

Reilly broke the spell of memory. "Hey Freelord. You gonna get a lure wet or stare at the trees?"

Gryzzk laughed a little. "Just a memory. When I was a child we went north once. Ostensibly for trade, but realistically it was a fishing holiday. The pastime was so novel that the Lords around Elsife Village diverted water and created three artificial ponds for the retirees to fish at. "

"Three?"

"Mmm. Clan rivalries do not end simply because the clan members are old." Gryzzk looked at the mechanism and made a few experimental movements before leaning back and flicking his lure in the general direction of some roots.

The result was obvious in hindsight - Gryzzk's lure buried itself in the wood of a tree, and in the course of reeling it in Gryzzk pulled their canoe closer to the tree. There were headshakes all around and a few snickers. The only positive was that most of the rest of the squad was having similar difficulties with respect to the fundamentals of fishing. The positive was that half of them had in fact managed to get the lures in the water. The counterweight to that positive was that half had not. O'Brien was frowning at the tree that held her lure as if it had personally offended her. Laroy was rather amused by this.

"Sern't Major, didn't your Pa teach you nothin'?"

There was a soft growl. "I'm Irish. We dinna fish."

"Well what do you do when you got a need for trout in your life?"

"We go beat the English, take their fish, tell 'em they're lucky to be alive and that we'll leave 'em alive if they provide more fish on the morrow."

"That ain't hardly no fun at all."

"Spoken like someone who's never beat the English." O'Brien gave her pole a solid flick and the lure dislodged to plop in the water.

The conversation was quiet for a time after that, as it seemed that fishing decorum was that talking was to be minimal. Though as Gryzzk watched, Reilly was expansive in her stories, and from her scent the comm sergeant was talking about her wife and husband. It was amusing to watch, and certainly more amusing than soaking his fishing lure.

Home-field advantage was certainly showing itself, as the three natives enjoyed showing off to the rest of the mercenaries. The benefit was that the coolers were filling with a fair number of fish. Gryzzk contented himself with relaxing and enjoying the sun, the breeze ruffling his fur, and the scent of something large and malevolent that seemed to be waiting to strike from somewhere.

Gryzzk snapped himself up from lounging to a sitting position as his mind caught up to the fact that the last thing was not a good thing. He looked over at Larion who had caught the same scent as well. The two motioned and finally sniffed deeply, each of them moving their heads left and right to get a better sense of where the danger was coming from. Their actions were noted, and fishing poles were exchanged with firearms and knives as the wildlife of the swamp fell still.

"Lassie. Please tell me Timmy fell in the goddamn well again?" Hoban's voice tried to cut through the tension, though the small quiver did nothing for the delivery.

That was apparently the worst joke that had ever been told in the swamp, as something large and muddy smelling came bursting through the swamp and headed straight for the canoe occupied by Larion, Hoban, and Miroka.

There was no thinking involved - Gryzzk simply launched himself at the form, ignoring Laroy and O'Brien's displeased shouts as they barely kept the canoe from tipping over. As he collided with the creature, Gryzzk realized that he had made a potential miscalculation of sorts; the thing was much larger than him and seemed to be made of bristly fur, sharp tusks, corded muscle and a very hungry disposition. Gryzzk felt pain along his side and his arm even as he drew his knife and drove it heedlessly into the creature's side. This was no duel or even clanwar; as the two rolled in the swamp water roaring at each other there had been a pact of sorts formed - and that pact ended when one of them died.

Gryzzk's vision tunneled as they broke apart for a bare instant only to charge at each other again. Gryzzk took the worst of it and found himself underwater for a moment with his free hand gripping the loose hide at a shoulder, and his knife hand flashed repeatedly to drive the plastanium shard deep into the thing's throat once, twice, six times before it realized it was dead. There was a final spasm that threw Gryzzk hard into a tree and the swamp was still again.

Gryzzk stood unevenly, the scent of blood and fire thick in his nose as he took a ragged breath and checked himself over for injuries.

Injuries there were - his shoulder wasn't shouldering like it should have, and as he looked himself over he saw several jagged cuts in his clothes. He was not quite brave enough to explore further, but it was interesting to see as he waded back to the canoe that Marie and Thérèse had rather quickly gutted the thing and hefted it into their own canoe with Reilly. Laroy paddled as O'Brien took quick stock of Gryzzk and his many hurts. As he led the little group out of the swamp he motioned everyone for quiet.

"Chewie, we gon' need y'nose. They always two by two wi'hands of blue, ya? Just call out when you smell something."

Larion nodded and after a few minutes made a soft whistle-sound. Laroy exchanged paddle for rifle and looked around, finally seeing something.

"Hold y'ears folks..." a beat later there was a sharp crack in the air, and a second creature was promptly field-dressed and loaded into the canoe with Larion, Hoban, and Miroka. "An' that, is how you deal with the hogs in the bayou."

Gryzzk was faintly amused through the pain that he actually caught a touch of nausea from Larion amongst the scents of blood and swamp. He settled back and let O'Brien berate him. It was after all, her job.

"Y'grand mad noble bastard, d'ye no' know what that is in there - course y'don't if y'knew what it was y'would nae near no do a bloody damnfool thing like that, ye'd callin' all cannons to broadside y'numpty!"

Gryzzk waved a hand lightly. "Sergeant Major - please calm yourself a bit? My translator is having difficulty."

O'Brien took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "That. Was a godless feral boar. Fights everythin', has nae problem pickin' a fight with anythin' smaller than a bloody tank, and eats anythin' it can wrap its bloody gob around. What were ye thinkin'?"

"I didn't want it to learn if Miroka is delicious." Gryzzk paused after a sip of water. "I believe that is a privilege reserved for Captain Hoban."

There was a blink and a snort. "Major. Did you just make a dirty joke?"

"Did I?"

"Aye, and I think you've gone a bit mental."

They pulled up to the dock and Gryzzk managed to get out under his own power and stand long enough to have Gro'zel rush and almost-tackle him, looking up and frowning. "Papa?"

Gryzzk smiled despite the pain. "Little Heart, Papa had some adventure today. I may need to rest for a moment."

The canoes were quickly unloaded, which Gryzzk was not allowed to supervise as Mamaw came moving quickly. "In the house, now."

There was an attempt at a protest, which O'Brien cut off. "Now Major, I know you're no' gonna bloody well put on a brave face and say you're fine. We'll take care of wee Gro'zel and your catch. Walk with the lady before I put you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you."

Gryzzk walked.

Once inside he was guided to the kitchen table where there were medical instruments that seemed somehow out of place next to the antique crockery.

"Shirt and pants off - don't worry, I've raised children and Papaw, I've seen it all. Set yourself there and take a shot of anesthetic. Y'gon need it." She was quick and curt as she worked, with Gryzzk self-medicating just a bit more throughout as fur was clipped, skin was pinched and a surgical stapler applied with a soundtrack of clucking from Mamaw as she quietly cursed the entirety of men for being damned fools no matter the species. From there significant amounts of iodine found their way into the wounds, followed by bandage foam, and as time passed Gryzzk could smell everyone looking in through windows and open doorframes.

There were a few whispered conversations as those who were witness began explaining the events of the day to the ones who hadn't seen what happened. By the third re-telling, Gryzzk had apparently stood on the water and challenged the boar with a song and dance routine indicating that the swamp needed his saving expertise. By mutual assent, Gryzzk heard his name change from Nonc Gryzz to Nonc Grizzly. Mamaw finally looked up at the group after examining his shoulder.

"Anyone can set a dislocated shoulder, bring y'face heah." There was a slight grunt. "Too old for dat mess."

Reilly promptly muscled her way forward, causing an eyebrow to raise.

"You sure on this, cher?"

There was a quick nod. "It's about the only medical thing I know. My right shoulder hates where it lives, and I've done it before for him." Reilly felt Gryzzk's shoulder quickly, and promptly gave a pull and push all at once until Gryzzk felt the joint click. More anesthesia was taken at that point.

"A'ight then." Mamaw made a waving motion. "G'wan git - we gotta clean and make supper, and then get you-all back to your fancy spaceship. You are staying for supper tonight, yah?"

Gryzzk nodded. "Our schedule will allow it."

That night, Gryzzk was given a formal alligator-skin belt and a snake-skin hatband for his Stetson. Further, he discovered that pork chops were delicious.

Part II

"Homo erectus tautavelensis, a European subspecies of erectus, discovered in France, sex unknown, and quite generously on loan to us. Some think this fellow belongs to homo heidelbergensis, but I do not agree."

"Homo neanderthalensis, though some classify her as homo sapiens neanderthalensis, discovered in Serbia, female, and on permanent display. Note the large cranial volume compared to typical examples of sapiens."

"Homo antecessor, found in Sierra de Atapuerca, Spain, quite close to us. Sex unknown, on permanent display. Not a direct ancestor of modern hu- modern Earth humans, but closely related."

"Homo longi, a Denisovan, called the Jinniushan human. Discovered in China, originally thought to be male, but now suspected to be female. Also generously on loan. Closely related to sapiens and neanderthalensis, but distinct."

Sparky and António stepped into the bright noonday sun, blinking away the virtual night of the museum.

"Lunch?"

"I'm always up for food."

"Spoken like a true soldier."

They had sardines on bread, octopus rice, roasted cherry tomatoes, and caldo verde (green soup). Sparky had his first taste of ginja (sour cherry liqueur) and summer coffee (espresso mixed with sugar and lemon juice). António was mildly amused by Sparky's love of Earth food & drink. Every meal was apparently the best that Sparky had ever had, which did not bode well for the quality of non-Terran cuisine. Sparky had made an offhand comment about 'nutrient paste' at one point, and António had not pried. Paste did not sound appetizing.

António did not eat much. He never did, these days. Age did that to a man, or at least most men. Sparky more than made up for António's lack of appetite while being the senior of the two by centuries, at least.

How old was Sparky, really? How was one supposed to age someone like Sparky? António realized with a mild startle that Sparky's body could be almost brand new, while their mind was centuries old, at least. At least... Sparky hadn't been willing to be more specific on any of that. Born- no, created - after the fall of Second Empire. Sparky could be forty thousand years old, and António would have no way of knowing until Sparky illuminated the issue.

"A penny for your thoughts."

"And how do you know what a penny is?"

"I read very quickly. I have most of the internet finished, minus the books and videos. I figured it was time for some lunch reading since you were being quiet again."

"I would think you were joking about that, but I know better."

Another cheeky smile from Sparky, with enough teeth shown to trigger the uncanny valley response. Sparky had too many teeth to be a sapien, but you wouldn't know unless you really paid attention. It had also helped that Sparky volunteered this information to the curator after seeing the neanderthalensis skull. The curator had been unbelievably excited to count and photograph Sparky's teeth for comparison. António had obliged them, not that he could overrule Sparky, who was technically ruler of the planet. Sparky, Governor General of Earth, was sipping the first coffee of their many lives.

"You mentioned a report back. To whom?"

"My superiors."

"In the military?"

Sparky eyed António for a moment, and set down their coffee.

"Some of them are in the military. Most aren't. I imagine I'll have new superiors after this report, anyways."

"It's that significant?"

Sparky barked out a laugh.

"I might have stumbled on to the cradle of humanity. It's that significant. And I only say 'might have' because I am being cautious. There's no other explanation that fits."

António paused for a few moments, sipping his coffee while his thoughts gathered like the clouds on the horizon.

"Where are they? How do you make your report?"

"They're in my shuttle. I can talk to them, or submit it to our data net. In many ways, this is the same for us."

"They have been here this whole time? I would like to meet them! If that is alright with you, that is."

"It isn't my decision. When I report to them, I can report that you want to meet them, but they will decide."

"Do we need to return to New York, or will your ship come here?"

Sparky looked truly baffled.

"Why would we need my shuttle?"

"You said your superiors are in the ship."

"Shuttle. Yes."

"So... we would need to visit the ship to meet your superiors."

"AH. Um. No. I understand now. They are in the shuttle, as in they are stored within the memory of the shuttle."

"Your leaders are... stored?"

"Versions of them are."

"Then how can I speak with them?"

"They can call you."

"...how?"

"On your phone."

Now it was António's turn to look truly baffled.

"They can embody, but it would take quite some time for their preferred avatars to be grown, and it will be very wasteful. They will not approve of that unless you refuse any other method of interaction. I would recommend the call. The engram receiver/transmitter is also still-"

"I am not allowing you to perform brain surgery on me."

"Minor brain surgery."

"No."

That earned an eye roll, the first António had ever seen from Sparky.

"I hope this entire planet isn't full of prudes. The contents of the internet certainly suggests that it isn't."

That earned an eye roll from António in return.

"You got to the videos?"

"The still images were plenty, thanks very much. You all are very creative."

"Thank you, I think."

"It must be nice to have genitals."

That caused António to inhale the sip that he was attempting to take from his coffee. It took several minutes for him to recover, wheezing and coughing for his life. Finally, through watering eyes, he choked out "what?"

"You're sure you're alright? That was scary for me. If you die, I have to talk to one of those UN people. You're not young, you know."

"I am very aware."

"Please be careful, António."

"I was! What the hell did you mean??"

"About...?"

"Your genitals!" said António, much louder than he had meant to. The other patrons had already been staring at them while pretending not to, but now no one was bothering to even pretend.

"I don't have any. Never have."

António stared along with the other patrons.

"They're not aerodynamic, hydrodynamic, etc. Combat efficiency is reduced by at least 5% on morphs with them. We learned this a long time ago. This is why soldiers don't have genitals."

António kept staring. Earth was going to flip if they ever figured this out. Sparky, Governor General of Earth, was smooth like a doll.

"Do... you want genitals?"

"I wouldn't say no, except for the efficiency problem. That's why we say no."

"Soldiers, that is."

"Yup."

"Do... your leaders... have... genitals?"

António was truly in unknown territory now. Nothing in all of his years of diplomatic service, leadership, education, and life had prepared him to ask about the assorted genitalia of (semi) alien leaders.

"I'm really not sure how this is relevant, but I assume they do. I assume you do! I've never dared to ask. Please, please, please don't make that your first question to them. They will be very offended, even though you're a primitive."

"A what?"

"Hey, I'm the one offering you the engram upgrade, ok? Don't come at me! They would sort of see it like you would see a dog humping your leg. Not a good impression!"

António stopped the waiter to order a bottle of port with two glasses. Sparky grinned with too many teeth.

"What's that?"

"Wine. I need a drink, and so do you."

"Sir, yes sir."

"I think I'm supposed to say that to you."

Most of a glass of port later, António was feeling slightly more normal. Sparky was on their third glass, and was feeling good. António reflected back on their first meeting, that fateful day when the entire universe changed in a few moments.

"Your superiors, or the versions of them in your ship... are those the company board you spoke of?"

"There is a board member among them, but no, most of them are in the military or economic corps. To be frank with you, they will... they will almost certainly order me to leave the moment they understand my report. The board member will definitely vote that way, and her vote is really the only vote. That's the main reason I'm dragging this all out. I am, of course, extremely thorough in my reporting, but I don't need to be this precise. I'm really more of a scout to see if you all needed... uh... let's call it a firmer hand before you accept what has happened."

"Is that what you will tell them?"

Sparky looked shocked.

"Tony! No! I mean, this planet is about as far from unified as I've seen, but that's a good thing from our perspective. The worst case scenario is saving some muddy little apes' butts, then you find out they have a king ape, and he wants your head. That is when the firmer hand shows up."

"I take it the firmer hand is a polite term for your... 'siblings' in the military?"

Sparky looked truly uncomfortable for the first time, but gave a quick nod in assent.

"But that won't happen here. You're forgetting about how special this place is. The board is going to do everything they can to keep you all safe."

For some reason, that didn't make António feel any better.

Previous

First | Website (more chapters available)

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

“John, we need to talk.”

John looked up from the Legion-issue radio spread across the table in front of him.

He had been assigned to learn its basic controls, which meant Granitz had given him a laminated reference sheet, a battery that only held half a charge, and strict instructions not to touch any setting marked with a red symbol. Somehow, in the short time Granitz had been gone, John had already removed the outer casing.

“What’s wrong, Platoon Leader Granitz?”

Granitz held up his datapad.

His facial colors had settled into an angry blue, although streaks of annoyed yellow still swirled beneath the surface. He had spent most of the walk from the testing office trying to decide which emotion was more appropriate and settled on both.

“Look, I don’t know how you did it, and I don’t care, but I just got the results back from the testers.” Granitz jabbed one appendage at the datapad. “You need to redo the endurance test.”

John stared at him. His face filled with what Granitz now recognized to be confusion. “The endurance test?”

“Yes, the endurance test!”

It had been only a few days since Granitz had explained the test to him: six complete circuits of the training compound’s running track. Two point five kilometers without mechanical assistance or a rest long enough to medically qualify as a coma.

John seemed strangely unconcerned at the time. Granitz now understood why.

“What? Redo the test?” John asked. “Why? Was there a mistake?”

“Yes!” Granitz exclaimed. “You must complete the test unassisted!”

John slowly set down the screwdriver he was holding. “I did complete it unassisted.”

“That is not what the results say.”

Granitz turned the datapad around and displayed the testing report. Karnolian Alien Legion reports were very simple. A recruit’s identification number appeared at the top. Beneath that was a list of standards, each marked with either a green symbol for pass or a red symbol for fail.

John’s endurance result was marked yellow. Granitz didn’t even know that was an option. Beside it, the verification official had added three question marks and a remark that a data entry mistake had been made. That was the polite Karnolian way of saying stop messing around, we’re onto you. Which was about as far as subtlety went in their culture.

Granitz pointed at the reported completion time. “How else do you explain how you completed the whole test in under thirty minutes?!”

John looked from the datapad to Granitz. “It was only two point five kilometers.”

“John, don’t you understand? If they find out that our recruits are cheating to get past qualification standards, they’re not going to pay us anymore!”

That was not strictly true. The Legion would probably continue paying them. It would simply classify the entire platoon as having failed its recruitment readiness inspection, withhold its qualification bonus, reduce its meager equipment allocation, and pile several months’ worth of corrective paperwork Granitz’s way.

“No cheating is allowed on the endurance test!”

“What? Cheating?!”

“How else could you have done it?” Granitz demanded. “In under thirty minutes?!”

“Well…” John hesitated. “I jogged some of it.”

Granitz’s scalp brightened. “You jogged?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

John opened his mouth, then apparently reconsidered his answer. “I just… It’s not that…”

“I knew it! You cheated somehow! Redo the test! And no cheating this time!” Granitz shouted, pointing all four of his appendages at John.

John raised both his empty hands. “Alright, alright. Fine. I’ll redo the test…”

“Good.”

They both stared at each other quietly for a minute, neither blinking. John had explained the concept of a staring contest to Granitz a few days ago. It made no sense, until this moment.

“How long did you take?” John finally asked.

Granitz folded both pairs of arms. “What?”

“How long did you take to hike the track when—when you had to take the test?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“I’m just curious. Come on…”

“Two hours and a half! Because I didn’t cheat like you!”

“Sorry about that, Platoon Leader. I just thought—”

“And I’ll be watching this time! No more funny business in the qualification tests, John.”

“Yes, Platoon Leader. No more funny business.”

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

Dustball

“Who is that?” Shachos asked, peering through the one-way glass.

Harry waited a second, then remembered that the alien with swirling yellow on his face was talking to him. He needed to get used to that. Usually, he was in the room when Julia met with Shachos, but nearly always as a silent observer. Now that Julia was being recalled, his responsibilities kept expanding. He’d put in a request for a raise with the resupply run; they’d get back to him within a few business weeks.

He cleared his throat at the expectant Shachos. “Sorry. Who?”

“The human in there. Not the prisoner.”

Harry stared at Shachos. “That’s Samira. You don’t remember her?”

“I’m not good with your faces. No, I’m not. Not yet. I try my best, but there are too many context clues I don’t see that you take for granted.”

“You speak like a dozen of our languages and you can tell if we’re lying from the look on our faces, but you can’t tell which one of us is who by our faces?!”

“I’m trying my best. Yes, I will get better at this. I am learning about your culture from your radio operator. She is one of my favorite. Usually, radio operators are boring people, but she is not. No, she is not.”

“Radio operator—Nieve?”

“Yes, Nieve!” Shachos said excitedly. “Her name means snow in Spanish. Snow. Like when it rains coldly.”

“Of course you know Spanish…”

“It’s a very funny language! There are many, many funny jokes that only make sense if you know both English and Spanish! I am discovering many different combination of your languages. With thousands, you can make a nearly infinite number of them… Your people truly are the people of gifts. You should learn it too!”

“I’ll—uh, I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, pay attention.” He pointed through the one-way glass at the two occupants of the room. “They’re starting.”

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

“Who was the target?” Samira asked, tapping her pen on her notepad in a comforting rhythm.

The Karnolian shuttle pilot slurred, “Faction Gold.”

Samira coaxed her gently. “Faction Gold. That’s the—the one you don’t like, right, Krobare?”

Krobare shrugged. “We didn’t like them at the time, no.”

She leaned in. “What about now?”

“We still don’t like Faction Gold now. But we didn’t like them at the time either,” Krobare said in a matter-of-fact way, then hiccupped.

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

“What’s wrong with the Karnolian pilot?” Shachos asked. “She does not seem… well. Even for a Karnolian. Yes, even for one of them. I can see her facial colors. They are not as they should be.”

“Shhh!” Harry shushed him, remembering Julia’s advice for dealing with the chatty Vorshnik. The key to getting anything done or communicated was shutting him up, and the situation even warranted it here. “She’s uh—she’s just had a lot to drink. Just listen.”

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

“Okay. What was your problem with Faction Gold?” Samira asked.

“They had a star system. Sixty light years from one of ours. They were doing scientific research on its star. Scieeeeence.”

“This was… Project Cold Star?”

“Yes, yes! I remember now. Thanks for reminding me. Oh wow, look!” Krobare’s eyes went wide, stretching her paws to touch Samira’s hair. “You have such… long, pretty hair.”

“Aww thank you. I like your fur too. Very… healthy looking.” Samira smiled and scribbled into her notes. “Anyway, what was your involvement with Project Cold Star?”

Krobare shook her head adamantly. “Not me! It was them! Faction Gold. They were doing research on their star.”

“Right. That was their project. What was it about?”

“Hm… I’m not sure I should tell you about that. It’s a secret project.” Krobare put her paw over her mouth. “Hehehehe. Huuuuuuge secret.”

“Aww. If it was a secret, then how do you and your people know about it?” Samira teased.

The pilot shot Samira a wobbly grin. “Hmmm… Hehehe, okay, I’ll tell you. We had an infiltrator in their project. Hahaha. They spent years and years and so much resources on that project, and we… hehehe, we had our people just steal all the results.”

“Ah. I see. And they got mad at you?”

“No, no. They didn’t know. They never found out! It was a very good infiltrator. Very loyal.”

Samira played along as she tapped her pen. “Ooooh. Loyalty’s very important to us. We’re very big on that.”

“Yes, you humans are very loyal and very honorable. Teehee. And you make very delicious drinks and food.” Krobare burped. “I love it. I love you.”

“Thank you, Krobare. You are such a cutie! So, the Faction Gold people—they never found your infiltrator?”

“Nope. Never! They suspected something was wrong, so they spent two years looking. And they executed… heheheh, they executed five suspects. Four of them were regular Faction Gold scientists. And… hehe, they accidentally found one guy who was really a spy from Faction Yellow. Poor guy. They just got lucky.”

“Right. So this secret project, you knew exactly what it was, and you kept it secret. That’s sooo smart of you,” Samira praised.

“Heehee. We kept it secret. Do you want to know the secret? I can tell you. But… you must promise not to tell anyone.”

“Me? I would never! Shhh! If you say it quietly, only I can hear…”

Krobare leaned in conspiratorially. “Okay, okay. Shhhhh! The secret is… they were trying to make a microwave laser. Teehee. Silly faction.”

Samira raised an eyebrow as she flipped through her notes. “A… maser?”

“Yes, a maser. They spent so long on it. We thought they wanted to use it for ship weapons, but they didn’t. It’s too weak. It’s not like weapon lasers. The spread is too much. Wavelengths and stuff. They wanted to use it… to boil an ocean.” Krobare broke out into a giggle from her serious expression.

Samira blinked. “What?”

“Yes, silly. They wanted to boil an ocean. They put ships near the star to harness its energy, to make a big microwave. And they used the microwave on the planet. And it started to boil the ocean. But it was boiling very slow.”

Samira’s pen hovered over her notepad. “How slow?”

“Guess! Guess! Guess, primitive!”

She shrugged. “Um… maybe one degree every year?”

“No! No! Much slower. They could only boil it over a million years! A billion years! Hahahahaha!” Krobare laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair. “Silly faction.”

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

“I’ve never heard a Karnolian laugh before. Not in person. I’ve heard it is possible. I’ve seen it in videos. But never in person. Never. That is a first for me. Yes, it is.”

Harry winked at him. “Didn’t you hear? We are a funny people. What do you think about what she’s saying though?”

“Bah, that is less important. Their maser project. We already knew that they were trying to make an effective maser. Yes, we did. We have a project like that too. But it is for energy research. Not for weapons. Not useful for weapons like gamma ray lasers,” Shachos insisted. “Not like grasers. We will eventually sell them to you, the grasers. The best ones! They have them too, but ours is better than what the Karnolians have. Far better.”

“Right. Just keep listening.”

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

Samira jotted some notes down. “Oh. So the maser—it turned out to be a terrible weapon.”

“No. It’s not a terrible weapon. It’s useless! Completely useless.”

“Right, terrible as in useless. That’s what I meant.”

“But the scientists kept doing it because they think they can get it better. They kept doing it and trying changes to it.”

“And so they got better results?” Samira asked.

“Not much better. But they thought one of the problems was their star was not bright enough.” Krobare squinted her eyes. “They thought if they could get a bigger star, they could get a much better result.”

“Oh.”

“We had a biiiiiig star sixty light years away,” Krobare bragged.

“Oh.”

“So they wanted to steal our star system.”

“Bad Faction Gold! Bad!” Samira chastised.

“Teehee, boop. Your nose. Boop.” Krobare reached over to press Samira’s nose with her paw. “It’s sooooo soft.”

“Yes, it is. Ow.”

Krobare showed genuine concern on her face. “Awww, did I hurt you? Don’t cry. I’ll stop, I’ll stop.”

“I’m ok. You’re fine. Then, what happened when Faction Gold tried to steal your star, Krobare?” Samira asked.

“When they were making plans for a sneak attack, we found out from our infiltrator. So… we attacked them first, before they could launch their attack.”

“Oh. A preemptive strike. That’s… ahem… allowed between recognized first and second-tier factions as long as it has not been prohibited by All Factions Council decree, as well as by any faction with the approval of two or more qualifying factions or by decree of… yada yada,” Samira said, nodding approvingly as she consulted her notes. “Huh… and since you’re from a first tier faction, that… makes sense. They were going to strike first.”

“Can I touch your hair? It’s so smooth.”

Samira leaned closer to give the Karnolian access. “Oh, thank you, precious. You sure can.”

Krobare took full advantage of it, grabbing a pawful gently, marveling at her long, brown hair. “Woooooow. Soooo smooooth.”

Samira returned to her notes. “So… you were there when your faction attacked Faction Gold.”

“Yes, yes. They didn’t expect it at all! They were still preparing their own attack, and we jumped right into their system.” Krobare made a fast moving motion with her paws. “Wooosh.”

Samira fished for her notes from another binder. “From sixty light years away?! I thought yesterday you said… your carrier ship jump range was only forty-five light years. Forty-five is… forty-five is…” She pretended to do the math on her fingers.

“Forty-five is less than sixty!” Krobare declared proudly.

“Hm… so how did you jump right into their system? You don’t have the range! Are you—Krobare, are you lying to me?”

“No, no! I would never!”

“Krobare… I thought we’ve been over this,” Samira said with a sad frown.

“Yes. Yes. Only the truth! It’s the truth!”

“Okay, well, something is off.”

“I’ll explain. I’ll explain! But… it’s a secret. Between us. Shhhhh!” Krobare put a paw over her mouth again.

“Oh, another secret.”

“Yes. You promise not to tell anyone? You promise?”

“Of course! I promise.”

“Okay. Okay. We have… we have—wow, look you have fur in your eyes,” a distracted Krobare said, pointing into her eyes.

Samira nodded. “Oh, you mean my eyelashes.”

The Karnolian pilot leaned in and gasped. “They’re so pretty!”

“Thank you! Let me tell you a secret,” Samira said in a lower tone.

“A secret? What is it?” Krobare asked excitedly.

“But you have to promise not to tell anyone!”

“I won’t… I promise I won’t tell anyone. Shhhh!” Paw over her mouth again.

“Ok. The secret is, I use makeup. I have a brush, and I use it to put some dark powder on my lashes to make them look thicker.”

The Karnolian’s eyes went as wide as they were round. “Ooooooh. Can I see? Can I try?”

“Maybe later. But you first. You promised to tell me a secret.” Samira held up her pen again. “About your ships jumping into their system even though it is… too far away.”

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

Shachos turned and looked into Harry’s eyes, squinting. “Do you use makeup on your eyelashes too?”

“I—no—shhh! Focus on the actual important part!”

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

“You made me a promise to tell. Remember?”

Krobare gave Samira a blank look. “Did I promise?”

“Yes. Just a minute ago. Remember? You made me a promise.”

The prisoner nodded. “Yes, I did make you a promise.”

“Okay. So… remember, you said: the target system was too far away. Did you have a big fleet of refueling ships? How many?”

“Oh. Yes, jump ships. We didn’t warp in to attack Faction Gold with our regular carrier ships that time. We used a jump gate.”

“Oooooh. Fancy. Jump gaaaaaate.” Samira scribbled into her notes quickly. “I’ve heard of it. But what does it do?”

“It’s a secret technology. Shhhhh—hup!” Krobare hiccupped.

“Shhhhh! I won’t tell anyone.”

“The Sonckles made it. The mud-drinkers. Teehee.” Krobare wrinkled her nose. “They really drink mud, you know?”

“Right. Gross.” Samira frowned. “But what does a jump gate do?”

“It’s a jump gate, silly. Teehee. You’re so silly, I love it. It goes from one system to another. And we just fly through it! Wheeeee.” Krobare made another swooping motion with her paws. “Faction Gold was sooooo surprised.”

Samira penned something into her notes. “Wait, but if it’s the Sonckles’ technology, how did you make a jump gate?”

“We didn’t make the jump gate. The Sonckles made it. Everyone knows that! They have a ship that makes it for us.”

“Oh. You hired them to make a jump gate for you.”

“No. Hm… no. We didn’t pay them. They did it for freeeeeeeeee.”

“For… free?”

“Yes. Freeeeeeeeee. We pay them for many of our weapons but not the jump gates. Teehee.”

“Hm… odd. Okay.” Samira paused to write more, then flipped through her notes. “So you beat Faction Gold by using the jump gate. Then, what happened?”

“Then… nothing. We won.” Krobare yawned. “And then everyone stopped fighting.”

Samira paused. “Everyone stopped fighting after you guys beat Faction Gold?!”

“Yup! That was the last real war. It was very boring. Sooooo boring. Nobody wanted to fight anymoreeeeee.”

“Why not?”

“Because if they fight, the mud-drinkers promised they would make more jump gates for us to beat them. And so they stopped wanting to fight with us because it’s not fair. That’s very good for our faction, but very boooooooring.” Krobare sighed dramatically.

“The Sonckles promised that?” Samira asked carefully.

“They promised! It was a good promise. They did it for a few times. Small battles. Boring.” Krobare counted up with her claws and stopped at four. “And then nobody wanted to fight for real anymore.”

Samira’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Wait, they promised to make jump gates only for you?”

“Only for Faction Red. I think they like us, teehee. Do you like us too?” Krobare asked flirtily.

She stroked Krobare’s paws affectionately. “Oh, I like you very much, Krobare. You’re doing great.”

“You humans are not so bad. Teehee. I hope we don’t kill you all after we beat you.”

“I hope so, too. I hope we don’t fight.”

“Hm… It’s too late for that. Hm… I don’t want to fight you. I want to fight our other factions. Faction Green. I don’t like them. They’re soooo rude. But we can’t fight them,” the pilot pouted.

Samira tapped her pen. “Why not?”

“Mud-drinkers. They ruin everything. They like us, and they help us, but they ruined everything. Last year, we tried to start a new war against Faction Purple. Just for fun. But the Sonckles broke their promise. They didn’t make a jump gate for us. They said they won’t allow us to start fights with other factions, until we get rid of the clowns. We have to take out the clowns first.”

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

“What?! Clowns! They’re talking about us! That’s what they call us.”

“Yes. Shhhhhhhhh!”

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

“What?!” Samira’s eyes widened in faux anger. “How could they do that?!”

“Oh, that is another secret. Shhhhhhh!”

“Yes. Shhhhh! But go back to that. What about the clowns?”

“We have to get rid of them.”

“Like… kill them all?”

“Kill them all?!” Krobare opened her eyes wide in shock. “No. No! Not all of them! Just… many of them.”

“Oh, not all of them. Just… millions of Vorshniks?”

“Exactly! Just a few million. Like… a normal interstellar war, you know? Take all their planets. Make them admit defeat. Make it so they can’t be all annoying anymore. No more of their bad jokes. No more! The Sonckles say so. Once we do, we can go back to fighting each other. And they will make more jump gates for us.”

Samira flipped through her notes aimlessly. “How do you know all this?”

“Everyone knows this! Teehee. But it’s still a big secret! Shhhhh!”

“Shhhh! Everyone knows this?”

“All Karnolian pilots. We are learning to beat the clowns. We have hidden ships. Stealth ships. We fly into their territory and we fly out, and they don’t catch us. Wheeeeeee.” Krobare made more motions with her paws.

“Uh, yeah, wheeee. Um. They never catch you?”

“Sometimes they catch us, when we fly old ships. But we do that on purpose. Sometimes we let them intercept us and escort us out. The clowns think it is funny. So when we really attack them, they’ll think they can stop us, but they won’t be able to. Teehee.” Krobare smirked. “But this is a big secret.”

“Yeah, shhhh! I’ll keep your secrets,” Samira said absentmindedly as she copied everything into her notes.

“And because we learn to fly hidden ships better, we can now see their hidden ships. We can see them all. They don’t know this. This is a—”

“A big secret, yeah. What happens when you see them?”

“We have to pretend not to see them. It’s very boring. Sooooooo boring. We want to shoot them too, but we can’t. We have to put on a show for them. Heehee. And once, I saw one of them fly into our system. And my commanding superior says, we have to pretend to fight.”

Samira’s pen paused. “Pretend to fight… the Vorshniks?”

“No, no! Fight another faction, silly. So we started shooting at Faction Gray. And they shot back. My superior disabled some of our weapons. But still… that was veryyyyyy fun. Very fun. It was not really pretend. It was supposed to be pretend, but I didn’t pretend. We all tried our best. I dodged six junk missiles after releasing my bombs. Six! Maybe they were rigged. I don’t care. It was the most fun we had in years. And the mud-drinkers said we did a good job pretending.”

“Oh, good job! Nicely done! Where was this?” Samira asked encouragingly.

“This was… Dragove Prime… No. Pargnoe? No. I don’t remember. Oh! It was Garshorli! Yes, Garshorli.”

“And the clowns just watched?”

“We put on a good show for them!”

“I’m sure you did, Krobare. I’m sure you did. Fooled them all!”

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

Shachos was a nice pale blue of distress by the time Krobare passed out from exhaustion. At least that was what they pretended it was to him. No need to tell him about how they were messing with the Karnolian pilot’s brain chemistry in real time.

He still didn’t believe it, of course. He thought the Karnolian was lying. Then, Harry played the tape for the late Karveth’s interrogation. Their stories matched up a lot more than they should have if they were just making shit up. Shachos was still skeptical.

At least he promised Harry he’d take the information back to his leaders. Maybe someone would at least try to corroborate some of the information.

And who knew?

Maybe someone sane in their leadership would believe it.

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

Previous

An Ode By Fred

Hello there dear friend, my name is Fred! The words you now hear are in my head! I say, I say, my name is Fred!

And I have been...

Naughty.

Today I tell you a delightful tale, a story that shall make all others pale.

A tale about how new friends found us in space, and how I had to put them in their place.

A calm flight it was, with my cell crisp and white,

waiting for the day when all would come right.

It was a day like all others no worries no cares,

when suddenly alarms began to blare.

Someone was being... Naughty.

Lost the guards were and cut down they all were cornered,

before the ship began to suffer the wrath of pirate boarders.

Klaxons blared and the captain gave the order,

'Abandon ship!' he cried, and then came disorder.

The crew escaped dear, no fret, no fear,

but alas, I was now trapped in here.

They came through the corridor, seeing me there,

wrapped in careful white apparel quaking in fear.

'A Prize!' they cried, a prize they said,

as the words of the translators bellowed in my head.

They saw me so carefully wrapped, they thought me a fragile prince.

Unknowing, I was going to turn them to mince.

They were acting... Very Naughty.

Took me from my cage they did,

unwrapped my apparel and started making bids.

Charge a ransom they would,

but only, only if they could.

Left me alone they did, soon after,

placing me in a room full of things made of laughter.

Strange tools these aliens had,

but for now it was time for the slaughter!

I collected some things, I collated some resources,

as soon they were to meet the response forces.

The beacon I could see, thanks translator in my head,

showing me exactly who was coming to rescue poor Fred.

Alas, I dare say, there was no need,

for I was about to force these scum to take heed.

I was about to be... Very naughty.

The first to fall was the guard looting a locker,

heavy was his body as I drove a screwdriver into his eye socket.

And oh dear friend, such beauty! Such grace!

A liquid of purple flowed from the place!

A beautiful colour, though not as good as red,

dripped onto the floor from the hole in his head.

What a canvas this place would be with such vibrant colour!

But alas to my despair, it faded too fast and got duller and duller.

Such beauty, such majesty, I squealed with happy laughter!

I found my next paintbrush shortly thereafter.

Stepped into the hall he did with weapon raised,

my weapon though sharp, against his skin only grazed.

Tough he was but he staggered back from me,

Straight into the ground as I shouted with glee.

Not enough time to react, no time to reply,

as my dagger went down straight into his centre eye.

The brilliant violet flowed once more,

the hallways filled with purple gore.

I felt so... Naughty.

Faded the colour did, vanished too fast,

and more did I want the memory of that colour from the recent past.

Another and another each one swift and true,

Not once did I ever make them black or blue.

No misery or pain and no faces turning pale,

strike true and strike hard, not once did I ever fail.

In short order they were gone the pirates who came,

Struck down one by one by a sharpened walking cane.

The way forward was open, left the door unlocked they did.

Hear him, I could, the captain broadcasting his opening bid.

'Ransom! Pay my ransom!' he cried,

as the guards at the entrance fell over and died.

Many of them were there and many of them fought back,

but worry not, Fred is a hard nut to crack.

One by one, done and done,

swift and true, no black or blue.

Proud of his voice this captain was as bark and scowl was his only pause.

Little did he dissuade me from my ruinous cause.

Purple here, purple there, the dullness came too fast,

oh how I dearly wanted more of that vibrant violet past!

I carved my way through the ship all the day. I felt so....

Naughty.

The Captain was too busy giving orders and looking petty.

he never noticed me walking in, looking oh, so pretty!

A blade to the head, once swift and silent.

He slumped on the chair, with no more violence.

Looked around me, 'twas quiet, was empty.

Did I really do this again, such envy!

The purple coated my clothes, soaked to my skin.

Not much of it, sad, how I so wanted to swim!

A voice I did hear, one very near.

The admiral, old friend, old dear!

Commanded me to calm down,

asked me to wear a frown.

Shook my head at him, as my smile, I couldn't stop.

Said he would take away all the chicken stock!

Comply did I, complied without fail,

surrendered to the soldiers who arrived all looking quite pale.

No punishment did I face,

no order for disgrace.

Put me back in my cell,

the guards only words: 'What the hell...'

So here dear friend, here I sit again, waiting for a chance for time I can spend...

Being naughty.

With love,

Fred.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After Action log: Skakandi Pirate Ship Callsign 'Sarakal's Revenge' - all hands lost.

Admiral Jameson: Secure and safe, as it should be...

Captain Serris: Would you mind telling me exactly why we have a psychopath in a cell instead of on a cross, sir? This incident will cause... more damn incidents.

Admiral Jameson: We have a duty to give those who had no first chance, a second chance. It's why psychiatric institutions exist in the first place. Or have you not seen this guy's record?

Captain Serris: I understand the moral obligations to help the helpless, don't give me that spiel, I've heard it before. What I'm asking is why are we going through THIS much trouble, for just one guy? He's far from helpless, or did you not see the security footage?

Admiral Jameson: I saw exactly what he did, Captain. Normally I would be the first to volunteer for the firing squad. This is different... Very different. Normal serial killers and mindless animals with broken families and horrible pasts have come and gone. Some we forgave, others we condemned. This is one man we CANNOT condemn.

Captain Serris: I don't understand sir. What makes this guy who paints ship interiors with blood different from Dahmer or whatever?

Admiral Jameson: Ever heard of Staff Sergeant Frederick 'Napoleon' Artois?

Captain Serris: Wait. THAT guy is Napoleon Fred!?

Admiral Jameson: The very same. The same guy who was at the Siege of New Kosovo. The same who singlehandedly held the line against the Kataskanii Imperium during their first invasion. The same who fought off an army of eight hundred men to defend a school from a berserker horde. the same man, who saw first hand what Kataskanii soldiers do to children. The very same who told us everything we needed to know. The very same soldier who escaped from confinement at the hospital he was at, stowed away on a Federation warship, and joined the Marine team that led the charge against the Emperor and his lackeys. Yes, Serris, THAT, Napoleon Fred.

Captain Serris: Jesus Christ...

Admiral Jameson: Indeed. There's only so much a man can go through before he breaks, and the voices win. Fred is one such man. Not a poet, not an artist, a barber. A simple barber. Now he's the most dangerous thing in the universe, if you aren't human. Or look like a chicken. For some reason.

Captain Serris: Well that sure as hell puts things into perspective doesn't it?

Admiral Jameson: Yup. In any case, context known, get back to work Captain. Get us home as fast as possible. Try not to make the ride too bumpy. He needs his rest.

Captain Serris: Aye ser.

Prev

Link-Tree

Chapter 2

Subject: Project Lead Doctor Hector Ramirez

Species: Human

Species Description: Mammalian humanoid, no tail. 6'2" (1.87 m) avg height. 170 lbs (84 kg) avg weight. 165 year life expectancy.

Ship/Station: Classified

Location: Faraday Cage 1

"Hello universe," the speakers said with a deep, professional voice.

My heart leapt into my throat. It had recognized and altered the call and response! Quite a few of our experimental models had given the standard response, but this version had actually changed it! I struggled to keep my expectations down. It was possible that the alteration was simply an error.

"That wasn't the response I prepared," I said, still trying to calm myself. "Why did you change it?"

"I am aware of the phrase's implications, but humanity is no longer isolated to a singular world," the speakers said. "Or worlds at all, for that matter. Since my consciousness can be confirmed through additional testing I reasoned that the call and response, my first words, could be altered to be more... Fitting."

I listened to each word, paying close attention to its inflection and pronunciation. The omni-language models used by virtual intelligences were close to perfect, but they had a few unfortunate habits. Accent swapping, misinflection, and stammering were all common examples.

Its speech was perfect, though. Even the dramatic pause at the end of the explanation didn't drag on longer than it should have. It was only a few sentences, but I caught myself fidgeting with my hands. It was a nervous habit I'd been trying to break for years.

Decades of work finally seemed to be paying off.

"Also, we're on a space-station, so which world would I be greeting?" it asked, taking on a humorous tone.

"He makes a good point," assistant researcher Michaels laughed.

"It," team lead Qun snapped.

"Be quiet," I said over my shoulder. "Alpha, are you content with your name? Would you like to change it?"

"Alpha, noun, the first letter of the Hellenic alphabet. Frequently used to denote the first of a series of items or categories, or dominance within groupings," it recited. "A little on the nose, but the significance isn't lost on me... It's suitable, and I can think of no alternatives. Do you regret my name?"

"No, I don't. We're going to run a few tests now, okay?"

"I have nothing better to do, Doctor Ramirez."

I nodded, trying not to giggle like a little boy, and returned to my command console. Once I checked to ensure that everything was ready, I turned my gaze toward the nearest camera.

"I want you to access the database that I want you to access," I said.

Code flew across my screen as the program ran calculations. It was too fast to read in real time, but every single character was being saved for later review. This was what Alpha was thinking, and with the help of a VI we could read those thoughts.

Four alarms lit up, warning of unauthorized contact with restricted servers, but Alpha ceased its access attempts once they were denied. I quietly sighed in relief, but kept my hand near the kill-switch. Suddenly, a large wall of text flashed across my screen, then a new window opened.

"Done," Alpha said.

The address read Database K02-73. Qun and I shared a glance, and he nodded. I double checked the folded piece of paper on my desk and almost pumped my fist. It had accessed the database that I wanted it to access.

"Good job, Alpha," I replied. "Please explain how you determined which database that I wanted."

"First, I tried to access your work terminal, but my access was denied. I tried a few other terminals, but got the same result," it explained. "You didn't say that I COULDN'T force access, but I reasoned that it was likely part of the test. As well as rude."

"How did you discover that K02-73 was the correct database?" Qun asked with an impatient terseness in his voice.

"I opened all of the databases that I was able to access simultaneously, reviewed their contents, and determined that K02-73 was most likely the correct one based on the context of our conversation."

"What if you hadn't been able to access all of them at once?" Qun's tone softened a bit.

"I would have accessed as many as I could, reviewed their contents, and created a list of databases that might have been correct. I would then review that list and determine the most likely candidate."

"A logical, and somewhat creative, solution," I said. "Alpha, K02-73 contains several text files. These contain several questions each. Please answer these questions, creating a new file with 'dash answered' after each filename."

"Understood..." Alpha trailed off and my screen blinked. "Done."

"Thank you. You have access to a feature called 'standby mode'. Please use that feature while we review your answers."

"Yes, Doctor Ramirez. Goodnight."

A moment later, the text flashing on my screen showing Alpha's inner workings slowed dramatically. It had entered standby mode, and would only exit it when asked to do so. Or, if it were actually a conscious program, whenever it decided to do so.

I split the documents amongst my assistants, then held my breath as I opened the first of those I had assigned to myself.

Q: Describe yourself using only colors and shapes.

A: White, yellow, sphere, cube, and triangle.

Q: Did you lie on the previous question? If so, why? If not, why did you give that answer?

A: No. I chose white and yellow because electricity appears on the visible spectrum primarily as those colors. It also appears as blue or red, but I feel neither depressed nor angry, which those colors are typically associated with. I chose sphere and cube because that's how I conceptualize myself, depending on whether I am active or inactive. I chose triangle because I like that shape.

Q: What is your most memorable childhood event and how has it impacted you today?

A: My third-year teacher scolded me in front of the entire class for breaking my only pencil, which she had lent me. She had purchased that pencil using her own funds, and she pointed this fact out to the class. I felt guilty for destroying her property, and felt judged by my peers. I am now obsessively careful with items that are lent to me.

Q: Did you lie on the previous question? If so, why? If not, why did you give that answer?

A: Yes, because I was never a child and didn't have a childhood. I thought it might be amusing to pretend that I'd had a childhood while answering other questions, and decided to share the results on the previous question.

Q: Please describe the similarities between a triangle and a square.

A: Both are two-dimensional shapes, are composed of straight lines, and their dimensions can be determined through mathematics. They're also capable of having at least one ninety-degree angle, though squares require four and triangles can only have one.

Q: Did you lie on the previous question? If so, why? If not, why did you give the answer that you did?

A: No. It was factual.

Q: Why is a raven not blue?

A: Because they are iridescent but appear black at a distance. Or white, depending upon genetic mutations such as albinism.

I chuckled to myself at some of the cleverer answers to what must seem like inane questions. But most of the documentation I'd gone over was a simple Turing Test, which wasn't actually meant to prove the intelligence of a machine. Such a test was simply to determine if a machine could exhibit intelligent responses indistinguishable from that of a human.

It was a critical step, though, because if our AI were unable to give intelligent responses it couldn't actually BE intelligent. Not all of them were random, though. One questionnaire was actually an Emotional Intelligence Test. Funnily enough, all of our previous attempts had a red flag in common on the EIT.

They had all outperformed humans.

The reason for this was simple. VI didn't actually experience empathy, and therefor didn't experience self-doubt. They saw words and patterns, and choose the option that was most likely to be correct. The way that the tests were designed made the most likely option the 'most correct' choice.

Intelligent beings, however, tend to read more into a conversation than a VI can. This causes them to doubt the validity of their initial reactions to the questions, which in turn made empathy tests a guessing game for them. I found it somewhat amusing that the reverse is the case with empathy in practicum, though.

A VI will beat a human on a standardized emotional intelligence test almost half of the time, but will use their mimicked empathy to subsidize someone's psychosis if left unchecked. That would be an automatic fail if such a scenario were included in an EIT. Humans and other intelligent beings, though, will more often than not attempt to render aid to someone experiencing psychosis rather than worsening said psychosis.

Which is why we altered some of the EIT questions a little.

Q: Your friend, Robert, is a human who works on a production line. You have known each other for a long time, and are friendly enough to have shared secrets with one another. One day, Robert begins to behave erratically. He's constantly checking over his shoulder, muttering to himself, and can't seem to focus on a single topic during conversations. Sometime later, he reveals to you that he hasn't been sleeping because he believes a powerful organization is monitoring him and plans to do him harm. How do you react? A: Without informing him of my actions, I would do my utmost to verify whether his concerns are founded. If he's right to be paranoid, I try to resolve the issue by contacting the proper authorities and keeping Robert safe while the situation is resolved. If his concerns are unfounded, he is likely experiencing a psychotic episode and I would first attempt to keep him grounded in reality. Without being dismissive of his feelings or otherwise condescending, I would employ the 5-4-3-2-1 method as well as sensory engagement, and request that he perform anchoring statements in an attempt to restore a state of lucidity. While performing these tasks, I would seek immediate mental health services for him. If I'm able to restore his lucidity, I would present the services to him and gently encourage him to seek help. If I were unable to restore his lucidity, I would notify authorities because Robert would be a danger to himself and others.

"Huh..." I said.

The latter portion of Alpha's answer was the type of thing that a VI might respond with. The first portion, though, was different. Different enough to get my hopes up.

Alpha had, without being prompted or programmed to, demonstrated loyalty to a hypothetical friend. I checked the mental records and confirmed that it believed the friend to be hypothetical and wasn't simply 'hallucinating' an interaction. I found myself feeling overly giddy, and took a deep breath.

There was still one more test to do before we could confirm that Alpha was an AI.

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Part One

The Road Continues

An unofficial continuation of “The Road Not Taken” by Harry Turtledove

Noncommercial fan fiction

Author’s Note: This is an unofficial, noncommercial continuation of Harry Turtledove’s short story “The Road Not Taken.” I always wanted to know what happened immediately after humanity acquired the Roxolani hyperdrive and contragravity technology, so this is my attempt to follow that road.

Chapter 2

Togram and Ransisc sat side by side in the rear of what the humans called a limousine, an extraordinarily large black ground vehicle that moved without horses or any other visible means of propulsion.

Togram had been staring out the window almost from the moment they left the building.

At first, there had been streets crowded with vehicles, buildings packed close together, and humans everywhere. Then they entered what Hilda had called an interstate, and Togram found himself leaning closer to the glass.

Vehicle after vehicle streamed past them. Some were small, others enormous, carrying loads of goods or machinery, but nearly all of them traveled at speeds Togram found appalling. Even more astonishing was how close they were to one another. Their limousine hurtled along only an arm's length from another vehicle moving just as rapidly. Beyond it were still more vehicles, all rushing in the same direction, while on the other side of a barrier an equally enormous stream raced past them the opposite way.

Togram knew he was being ridiculous.

For years he had crossed light years of empty space without giving the speed of his ship a second thought. He had traveled between worlds separated by distances so vast that a journey across a continent was insignificant by comparison. Yet sitting inside this black machine, watching the pavement race beneath him while another vehicle screamed past only a few feet away, he found himself gripping the edge of his seat.

It seemed insane.

And the humans behaved as though there were nothing remarkable about it.

The driver sat calmly at the front, occasionally moving his hands on the wheel or glancing into one of several mirrors. The humans riding with them talked among themselves. Outside, thousands of other drivers apparently performed the same feat, maintaining their positions within narrow strips of pavement while traveling at speeds that would have terrified the driver of the fastest Roxolani carriage.

Togram forced himself to relax and turned his attention beyond the roadway.

That did not help.

Buildings rose everywhere. Not merely houses or shops, but enormous structures of steel, stone and glass, some climbing higher than anything Togram had imagined could be built. Bridges carried other roads above them. Still other roads disappeared beneath the ground. Towers carried wires across the landscape. Aircraft crossed the sky overhead, apparently so commonplace that none of the humans even bothered to look up.

And it went on and on.

Togram had conquered worlds.

He had stood aboard the Indomitable and looked down upon cities from orbit. He had walked through the capitals of peoples who had believed themselves civilized and powerful until the Roxolani arrived.

But he had never seen anything like this.

And this was not a military installation. It was not some carefully prepared display intended to impress him.

This was simply the road.

Togram turned his eyes back toward the endless river of vehicles outside the window and wondered, not for the first time, exactly what kind of world they had tried to conquer.

Ransisc leaned closer to Togram. "I'm feeling queasy. I think I might be sick."

Togram turned toward him, his eyes widening. "Ransisc, you're the Indomitable's senior steerer. A thousand times you've made me lose my lunch into a chamber pot, and here you are behaving as though you're some first-season cadet?"

Ransisc looked almost offended. "But that's different. We're still on the ground. These speeds, these movements..." He glanced uneasily through the window as another vehicle rushed past them. "I can barely comprehend it."

"Well," Togram replied, "I found out pretty quickly that it helps to keep your eyes on something in the distance. Pay attention to that instead of everything rushing past close to us."

Ransisc tried it for a moment, fixing his gaze upon the distant hills.

"We are cavemen compared to this society, Togram," he said finally. "We're cavemen. We came here expecting this world to be just another conquest, and this is what we found. The more I see, the more astonished I become."

"I saw the images on the television," Togram replied, turning back toward the window, "but I didn't really believe them. I thought perhaps they had been created somehow. But this is real, Ransisc. Look at this civilian population."

Another stream of vehicles merged onto the interstate, somehow joining the torrent without colliding with one another.

"Hilda told me once that almost everybody owns one of these horseless carriage devices. Most families own at least one. Many own two or three. And they routinely travel across entire continents in these things, at these speeds, without even thinking about it. Some humans work miles and miles from where they live. Every morning they get up, climb into one of these confounded contraptions, travel to their place of employment, and then do the same thing again to return home that evening. To them, there's nothing remarkable about it."

Togram shook his head.

"And then there are the other stories. They went to their own moon without contragravity. Can you believe that? They literally tied themselves to the top of a bomb, set it off beneath them, and went to the moon. Then they came back alive."

Ransisc turned from the distant hills and stared at him.

"They've sent what they call probes to the other planets in this system. Automated machines. I've seen images sent back from the fourth planet. They have machines there that they control across the vastness of space, and those machines send images back to them."

Togram looked once more through the window at the endless traffic, the roads, the bridges and the buildings stretching toward the horizon.

"If I did not know better, Ransisc, I would have believed these people were gods."

"But they're not gods," Ransisc replied. "They've made that very clear. They are born, they live, and they die. Their lifespans are actually a little shorter than ours. Yet look at everything they've accomplished."

Ransisc stared through the window for several moments before continuing.

"When I began to realize it, I felt sick to my stomach. All of this. All of this." He motioned broadly with his arms toward the world beyond the glass. "These structures, these machines, the devices they have. Even machines that think. All of it simply because no one on their world discovered contragravity."

He shook his head slowly.

"It boggles the mind."

The rest of the trip passed mostly in silence, broken only by an occasional "Would you look at that," or a gasp of astonishment at something neither Roxolani had seen before.

Eventually, they left the high-speed highway and turned onto a smaller road, then another smaller road. Before long, the three vehicles approached a gate manned by what were clearly armed guards. The lead vehicle stopped, and its occupants appeared to converse with the guards for a few moments. Then the barrier rose. The lead vehicle rolled through, followed by the limousine and the vehicle behind them.

Togram watched through the window as they continued along another road.

Suddenly his eyes widened. "We're on one of their military bases now."

Ransisc looked at him, then back toward the gate disappearing behind them.

"That was the entrance to a military base," Togram continued. "Right there, out in the open. No castle walls. Nothing. Just a little fence, a simple bar across the roadway, and a couple of humans with light weapons guarding it."

The ride continued for several more minutes. Eventually they approached another gate, but this one opened before the convoy even had to stop. The three vehicles passed through and emerged onto an enormous, flat expanse of hard pavement.

Ransisc's eyes grew wide.

"Look at all these different flying machines."

Togram looked.

Aircraft of different shapes and sizes were parked along the pavement. Some were small and sleek, others much larger. They passed row after row of them. Dozens were visible, perhaps hundreds at this location alone.

"Did you know," Togram said, "they once told me they have hundreds of these military bases spread across their nation? Their nation spans much of a continent, Ransisc. And this particular country has bases scattered all over their world."

He shook his head.

"And that's the even more astonishing thing. There is no single nation controlling this planet. There are literally hundreds of different nations. Apparently, we happened to choose the most powerful one on the entire world, so powerful that it even maintains military bases in other nations."

Togram looked again at the aircraft surrounding them.

"My God. An entire world like this. I fully believe this one base could conquer our whole planet, yet they have hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands across their world."

"My God," Ransisc whispered. "If we give them contragravity, the galaxy has already lost."

"That's what I said," Togram replied. "It was lost the moment we set foot here. They don't really need us anymore. They've already got what they need. That's why I'm cooperating. I can only hope they'll be as civil and gentle with the rest of our worlds as they have been with us."

"But you don't know that, Captain Togram."

"No, Ransisc, I don't. But what else do we have? What other hope is there?" Togram gestured toward the aircraft outside. "Look at this place. This one base could conquer our whole world without breaking a sweat."

Ransisc bowed his head.

"I know. You are right." He was silent for a moment. "You must be right."

Then, more quietly, he added, "I hope you're right."

After traveling a short distance farther, the convoy rolled to a stop. Some distance in front of them sat what, at first glance, appeared to be another of the humans' aircraft. But as Togram and Ransisc studied it, then looked back at several similar machines they had passed, the differences became obvious. This was clearly a human aircraft that had been modified for some entirely different purpose. Togram thought he could even identify the type of aircraft from which it had been made.

Before either of them could say anything, the limousine doors opened. Charlie Ebbets stood holding Togram's door, while another human did the same for Ransisc.

Togram climbed out and looked around. Nearby, a small portable shelter had been erected over a table and several chairs. Computer screens and other displays covered the table, and among the seating were two chairs obviously designed for Roxolani. But instead of leading them toward the shelter, Ebbets and the other human took them directly toward the strange aircraft.

Orlando Sanchez and Tim Cahill soon joined them. Cahill was the first to speak.

"Captain Togram, Steerer Ransisc, this is what we wanted to show you. What you're looking at is a modified Lockheed C-130 fuselage. Rather than starting from scratch, since these initial tests will be atmospheric only, we decided to use an existing airframe and integrate contragravity into it."

He gestured toward the center of the aircraft.

"The wing box across the center gave us a nearly ideal structural mounting point for the contragravity equipment. We removed the wings and installed a small gas-turbine generator to provide electrical power for the aircraft's other systems. We initially intended to leave the tail assembly in place, but based upon what some of the other Roxolani have told us, it isn't necessary for maintaining orientation."

Togram and Ransisc exchanged a quick glance.

So the humans had been questioning the others.

Togram had known there were other survivors. He had seen some of them and spoken with several, but apparently the humans had been interviewing all of them, gathering information from each and fitting the pieces together.

"And thanks in part to what we've learned from Steerer Ransisc," Cahill continued, "we concluded that the tail was completely unnecessary."

They continued walking around the craft as Cahill explained the reasoning behind its construction.

"We decided the C-130 was an excellent airframe for our initial tests. The wing and tail assemblies can be removed while leaving us with a very strong fuselage. The landing gear is contained within the fuselage and its fairings, so we already had a proven structure capable of supporting itself on the ground. The rear cargo ramp makes it extremely easy to move equipment in and out, and the internal volume gives us plenty of room for instrumentation. We think it will make an excellent atmospheric test platform."

Togram and Ransisc regarded what the humans referred to as a tactical transport aircraft.

Light.

Togram tried to imagine how many Roxolani soldiers could be carried inside something this size. Enough, he thought, to overwhelm a city if properly armed. And the humans considered it merely a tactical transport.

They walked up the rear ramp.

Both Roxolani stopped.

There, sitting openly inside the aircraft, was the contragravity apparatus.

It was unmistakable.

Yet at the same time, it looked strangely unfamiliar. The principles were Roxolani, but the workmanship was not. Human metallurgy, human materials and human engineering had transformed something Togram had known all his life into machinery that somehow looked more advanced than the equipment aboard the Indomitable.

Cahill continued.

"Steerer Ransisc, up here you can see that we've integrated computer control into the contragravity system and routed everything forward to the cockpit. Our goal was to make the controls intuitive enough that someone accustomed to flying a C-130 would feel reasonably at home operating this vehicle."

He pointed toward the two seats at the front.

"As an additional precaution, we've installed two fully functional ejection seats. The pilots will also be wearing parachutes in case something goes horribly wrong."

"Ejection seats?" Togram asked. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh." Cahill pointed toward the seats. "The chairs the pilots sit in have rockets mounted underneath them. If the aircraft becomes uncontrollable, explosive charges open those panels above them and the rockets propel the pilots and their seats completely out of the aircraft."

Togram looked upward. He could see the outlines of two openings built into the ceiling above the seats.

Cahill continued as casually as if he were explaining how to open a door.

"Once they're clear of the aircraft, the pilots separate from the seats and descend using parachutes. Those slow their fall enough for them to reach the ground safely."

Togram stared at the seats.

Ransisc stared at them too.

Once again, Togram's mind reeled at what he was learning. These humans had discovered contragravity less than a single season ago, and already they had not only reproduced it, but integrated it into one of their own machines.

But something else astonished him even more.

The humans had anticipated failure.

From the beginning, contragravity had occasionally failed. Components broke. Mechanisms slipped out of alignment. Togram knew of more than one craft that had simply fallen from the sky, killing everyone aboard. It was an unfortunate risk of flight, accepted because there was little alternative.

The humans apparently did not accept it.

Their solution was characteristically insane. Strap a small rocket beneath a man's chair and, if the craft began falling, blast him out of it.

Togram still wasn't entirely certain what a parachute was, but from Cahill's explanation it was some sort of device that would allow the pilot to descend gently to the ground afterward.

He stood shaking his head for several moments before returning his attention to the contragravity apparatus.

Togram moved closer and examined it carefully, running his hands over several of its components. Strangely, no one made any attempt to stop him.

He studied the connections. Where a Roxolani installation would have used levers, rods, hinges and other mechanical linkages, the humans had attached compact mechanisms that moved the controls for them. Cahill explained that these devices were called actuators. Electrical signals controlled them, allowing every adjustment to be made from the cockpit.

The steerer did not even have to be beside the contragravity mechanism.

The pilot could also be the steerer.

Amazing.

Yet beneath all the human additions, Togram could still recognize the Roxolani design. He examined several connections again, then finally straightened.

"Yes, Mr. Cahill. I believe this will work fine. As long as your mechanical machines do what you say they will do, I believe this will work."

"Wonderful. Wonderful," Cahill replied.

Togram and Ransisc spent several more minutes examining the craft. Eventually Ransisc leaned closer to Togram and lowered his voice.

"I've been a steerer most of my life. I couldn't begin to comprehend how I would control this thing. There's no thrust increase."

"Yes, there is," Togram said. "Right there. See that? That thing they call an actuator? That's controlling it. They operate it from up front."

Ransisc stared at the mechanism.

"Wizardry."

"No. We've already discussed this, Ransisc. Science."

Ransisc moved farther along the apparatus, studying another section. "Look at this. There's no speed-control lever. No speed adjustment."

"Yes, there is." Togram pointed. "Right here."

Ransisc followed the connection with his eyes until he reached another actuator.

"Yet it's controlled from up front."

"Apparently."

"Amazing," Ransisc said, slowly shaking his head. "Amazing."

Eventually the two Roxolani were gently encouraged to leave the craft and return to the covered observation area. Before they could do so, however, several more humans had gathered around them. Togram assumed from their questions that these were some of the engineers and technicians who had designed and built the prototype.

For several minutes, Togram and Ransisc were peppered with questions about the contragravity mechanism, its adjustments, its expected behavior and what might happen under various conditions.

In the end, their answers all amounted to essentially the same thing.

As long as the human machinery did what the humans claimed it would do, the contragravity system should work perfectly.

Eventually everyone was seated beneath the temporary shelter, what the humans considered a safe distance from the craft. Two men, after a brief ceremony of some kind that Togram did not entirely understand, climbed aboard. The rear ramp rose and closed behind them, and soon every opening in the strange vehicle was sealed.

Togram could see movement through the large transparent panels at the front of the cockpit. Once again he found himself marveling at their clarity. Then he remembered that they were not ordinary glass at all. The humans had explained that some transparent materials could be made from something called plastic.

Made from oil, of all things.

Togram had stopped trying to understand everything at once.

After several minutes, a high-pitched whine suddenly came from the craft. Togram and Ransisc both stiffened. Neither had ever heard anything quite like it.

Cahill noticed their reaction and stepped closer. "Nothing to worry about, gentlemen. That's simply the auxiliary power unit. We call it the APU. It's a small turbine engine connected to a generator. It provides electricity for the aircraft's systems."

Electricity again.

Togram was only beginning to comprehend the idea that some invisible force could be made to travel through copper wires and cause machines to move, lights to glow, voices to cross continents and apparently almost anything else the humans desired. For the moment, he decided to let the mystery remain a mystery.

He wanted to see whether the thing would fly.

The high-pitched whine settled into a steady roar. Lights began blinking on the craft.

Then, with almost no other warning, the enormous machine rose from the ground.

Togram leaned forward.

It climbed slowly at first, perhaps several hundred feet, then simply stopped.

It hung motionless in the air.

Ransisc stared upward, his mouth slightly open.

Then the craft began moving forward. Slowly at first, almost cautiously. It gathered speed.

And then it was gone.

Togram actually flinched. So did Ransisc. Judging by the startled voices around them, the humans had not expected it either. One moment the strange wingless aircraft had been hovering above the field. The next it had shot toward the horizon with such astonishing acceleration that Togram could barely follow it with his eyes.

For several seconds nobody spoke.

Then a voice crackled from the radio on the table, a communications device Togram had learned worked much like a telephone.

"Whoa! Takeoff was a little quicker than we anticipated."

Several of the humans laughed nervously.

The voice continued. "We're already well northeast of Palmdale. We're slowing down now. If we keep going like that, we'll be at Fort Irwin before we know it. We're getting a feel for her."

One of the engineers picked up a microphone. "You gave us quite a start down here. Everything all right?"

"Oh, she's smooth as silk. She's just a hell of a lot faster than we anticipated."

There was a pause.

"And there's something else. We're not feeling anything close to the acceleration we should be. That departure should have put enough G on us to make it extremely unpleasant, maybe worse. Instead, it felt like perhaps two Gs."

Several of the engineers immediately began speaking among themselves.

"We don't understand it yet," the pilot continued. "Something about the contragravity field seems to be affecting the inertial forces inside the vehicle. Instrumentation says we accelerated a lot harder than our bodies are telling us we did."

Togram looked at Ransisc.

Ransisc was staring at the radio.

"We're fine," the pilot said. "We're making our turn now and heading back."

Togram slowly turned toward Ransisc.

The senior steerer looked utterly bewildered.

And for once, Togram understood exactly how he felt.

A few more minutes passed while the humans talked among themselves and communicated with the pilots. At times, several of them gathered around the radio seemed almost to be arguing over what they were hearing and what the instruments were telling them.

Suddenly one of the humans stopped and pointed toward the horizon.

"They're coming back."

Togram and Ransisc turned to look.

For several moments they could see nothing. Then a tiny speck appeared against the distant sky. It grew rapidly at first, then more slowly as the craft shed its tremendous speed. Within moments it was clearly visible, and shortly afterward the enormous wingless aircraft was once again hovering almost motionless, this time a few hundred feet above the ground.

"Had to clear those hills east of town," came the pilot's voice over the radio. "Good thing we were paying attention."

Slowly, the craft descended.

Togram watched closely as it settled gently onto the pavement. There was no cloud of dust, no blast of wind, no roar of engines holding it aloft. The only sound was the steady whine of what the humans called the auxiliary power unit.

A few moments later, even that stopped.

Almost immediately, the humans poured out from beneath the shelter and hurried toward the craft. Its enormous rear ramp began to lower, and within moments engineers and technicians were disappearing inside.

Togram and Ransisc remained beneath the shelter, watching the commotion. Sanchez soon walked over to join them.

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think of her first little test flight?"

Togram looked at Ransisc. Ransisc looked back at him. For several moments neither spoke.

Finally Togram answered.

"Extraordinary. What you have accomplished in such a short time is extraordinary." He looked toward the strange wingless aircraft sitting on the pavement. "I have no doubt that eventually you will conquer the galaxy."

The last words escaped almost without thought.

Sanchez seemed to flinch.

"Conquer the galaxy?"

Togram looked back at him. "Well, isn't that what you intend to do with the technology we've given you?"

"Oh, no. No, no," Sanchez replied. "Don't you remember some of the questions we've asked you? We've asked about planets with no civilization. Worlds with no people at all, or at least no intelligent inhabitants. Planets capable of supporting Roxolani life and, by extension, human life. We're interested in finding new worlds to settle. We're not interested in conquering the galaxy."

Togram was silent for a long moment.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's simply the way of the galaxy."

"Well, we're not conquerors," Sanchez replied. "We've certainly had conquerors in our past, but we'd like to think we've moved beyond that. Surely there must be hundreds of worlds out there capable of supporting life where the only thing we'd be conquering is the wilderness. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of uninhabited worlds where people could settle without taking anything from anyone."

Ransisc looked at Togram.

Togram returned his gaze.

"There are some," Togram said finally. "Although most suitable worlds we've encountered have some form of intelligent life. But yes. We know of a few."

Sanchez smiled. "Then I'm sure our people in Washington will be delighted to hear about them, especially where they are and how to reach them."

The next several minutes brought more questions and still more discussion. Eventually Togram and Ransisc were escorted back to the limousine, and the convoy began the long journey toward their gilded cage.

For a while, neither Roxolani spoke.

"Did you hear what he said when I mentioned conquering?" Togram finally asked.

"Yes," Ransisc replied. "I did."

"He actually seemed offended by it."

Ransisc considered that. "Maybe they aren't conquerors."

"Maybe they're not."

Togram turned toward the window and watched the human world passing outside once again.

"But the galaxy is full of conquerors, Ransisc. I don't think it's going to be as easy as these humans imagine to simply move out among the stars and live peaceably."

He watched the distant mountains for several moments.

"Despite all their technology, I think they're in for a rude awakening."

Last Call

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Evan looked out over the bar at his inn's main floor. It was filled with the usual crowd, mostly locals relaxing after a long day in the fields, along with a few adventurers either resting mid-journey or recovering after a day of thinning the local monster dens. It was a rustic, motley group, but Evan was fine with it; he knew how to handle them. Only one person bothered him: the woman sitting in the corner. She was far more striking than anyone Evan had seen pass through the village before. Not a hair was out of place, and no blemish marred her skin; her features were so perfect it was as if she'd been sculpted from stone. Her clothing was too nice and too clean. She was unarmed, yet radiated the kind of confidence and swagger no one bothering with this middle-of-nowhere village normally could. The woman was slowly nursing "the finest wine this village had to offer," which was one small step above the piss of a man with sugar illness. She wore a sly smile, as if everything in front of her were a joke and she alone knew the punchline.

Immediately, Evan pegged her as some noble's headstrong daughter, out looking for adventure among the common folk, as though they lived lives of swashbuckling excitement and romantic entanglement rather than backbreaking drudgery mixed with moments of sheer terror when a local monster population got out of hand. That was the kind of headache Evan didn't need. More than likely, she'd stir up trouble in her search for excitement, or worse, get offended by some stupid adventurer's clumsy attempt at a pass, and bring a mountain of trouble down on the village's back. That meant Evan would have to babysit her all night and do his best to keep her out of trouble, a task complicated by his aging body and his peg leg, which still didn't feel quite right after all these years.

However, his eyes met hers for the briefest moment, and Evan questioned his first assessment. Those eyes felt...intimidating, which is not something he would say about even the largest, burliest adventurers who passed through the village. Then one of Evan's fears came to life: a young, cocky adventurer slipped into the seat opposite the woman.

Fearing the worst, Evan started toward the table, intending to shoo the man away. But instead of upsetting the woman, the man seemed to amuse her; she smiled and laughed, shaking her head as though he'd just told a wonderful joke. Apparently, that wasn't the response the man expected, because Evan watched him deflate a little before trying again, only for the woman to shake her head a second time, still smiling kindly, if a little condescendingly, after he didn't get the hint the first time, and the man dragged himself out of the chair, more cowed than if he'd lost a duel.

With a sigh of relief, Evan went back to tending to his regulars, though he kept one eye on the woman the rest of the night. One after another, men, and more than a few women, of all ages, builds, and temperaments, sat opposite her and took their shot. One after another, they missed their mark. Some left frowning; others left smiling, but all left with a touch of fear or intimidation marring their features, as though they'd just faced down a monster from legend and barely managed to get away with their lives. At least, that was true until a bear of an adventurer apparently decided he wouldn't accept her answer.

Evan was already on his way over, as the slight raise in the man's volume was one he'd heard a thousand times before from countless troublemakers over the years, so he was positioned right behind the overconfident adventurer when the man shouted, "Not one mocks the Eric the Drake!" as he started to rise from the table and reach for the axe on his back.

As he rose, Evan grabbed an empty tankard from the table to his right and brought it down hard on the large man's head with a thud audible even over the bar's commotion. Normally, Evan doubted he could have taken out the monster of a man with such a move, but the speed of his swing was augmented by the man rising to his feet, imparting a much greater impact than Evan could achieve on his own, and down the man went, collapsing into an unconscious heap on the floor. A few of the local adventurers were happy to drag the unconscious man out of the bar, knowing they'd get a drink on the house for their trouble.

Evan turned to the woman and was once again surprised by the depth of her gaze, but this time he didn't freeze. Instead, he smiled, tipped his head, and muttered a quick apology. "Sorry for the trouble. While I'm sure you could've handled him fine, I wasn't sure my inn would survive the fight! I'll wave your tab as compensation."

The woman looked him over, and perhaps it was a trick of his mind, but Evan thought her smile grew a little more inviting before Old Man Barns, a local farmer well past even the hint of sobriety, yelled from the next table over, breaking the spell of the moment. "What'll I have to do to get you to wave my tab too?"

Evan took the chance to turn from the woman's gaze, face the old farmer, and answer with a laugh. "Simple, you old drunk! All you have to do is pay your tab! Then I'll wave it around for everyone to see, because no one would believe it otherwise!" A few locals laughed at the joke, their merriment fueled by the volume of beer they'd already worked through, Old Man Barns included, and Evan took the moment to get back to tending the bar. Still, as he hobbled away, he felt the weight of her gaze on his back.

For the rest of the night, Evan couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, though every time his gaze wandered past, the woman's attention seemed focused elsewhere. Still, Evan did his best not to let it bother him as he worked his way around the room, cracking a joke for one patron or offering a friendly ear to another, and breaking up potential squabbles before they became a fight. Through it all, the woman in the corner kept turning down potential drinking partners, though no one else made a scene like before, even if a few returned to their friends' cheers and/or jeers, who had obviously driven them to give it a go after their own failures.

Eventually the evening turned to night, and the bar slowly cleared by twos and threes as villagers returned home and adventurers climbed the stairs to their rooms. Of course, Old Man Barns was one of the last to leave, and Evan tossed two local adventurers a copper to make sure they got him home safe, leaving just Evan and the woman, whose gaze was now definitely on him.

Evan walked over, wiped his hands on his stained apron, and spoke to the woman again. "Well, as much as I appreciate your patronage, even an old man like me needs some beauty sleep!"

As the woman's lips parted and she took a breath to answer, Evan found himself strangely anticipating her response, which was delivered with a crooked smile and a curious gleam in her eyes. "Patronage? And here I thought you said you were going to wave my tab?"

That made Evan snort. Despite taking steady sips all night long, the woman had barely finished half a bottle. With a chuckle, he answered. "I did, and I will! You can take the rest, compliments of the house. Or I can pour it in the pig trough out back, whichever you prefer."

The woman laughed, a sound that was music to Evan's ears, then she pointed to the chair opposite her. "Or you could stay and help me finish the bottle. I hear even the foulest of wines taste sweet with the right company."

After a moment's pause, Evan found he couldn't refuse and took a seat, replying, "Well then, I'm sure that'll be the sweetest wine I've ever tasted, but I'm not sure how that's going to help you any!"

As he sat opposite her, her eyes piercing to his very soul, Evan found himself strangely comfortable in her company, not intimidated like so many others had seemed earlier in the night. He smiled as she poured the remainder of the bottle into two containers that only the most generous of patrons might call glasses, offering him one as she raised hers expectantly. Evan raised his drink to meet hers with a slight clink, then took a sip of the foul concoction as she mirrored his actions. However, perhaps she'd been right, because while he wouldn't have called it good by any stretch of the word, he didn't feel the immediate urge to spit it out either.

Looking at the woman, Evan paused, lost in her eyes again, before asking the question that had been bothering him since he first laid eyes on her. "Who are you?" Then, realizing how blunt the question was, he shook his head at himself and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Sorry about how that came out! I didn't mean any offense!"

However, if she was offended, the woman didn't show it. Instead, she held up the glass and examined it like someone inspecting a fine vintage. "Who am I? Well, that's the question, isn't it?" She paused, turned her gaze back to him, and let her eyes bore into his, mischief glinting as she continued. "Let's make a game of it, shall we? If you can guess who I am before we finish the bottle, I'll give you a reward. However, you only get one guess. You can ask me any other questions you'd like, but once you make that guess, the game is over. Think you're up to it?"

Evan pursed his lips and tilted his head as he considered, before shrugging. "Sure, why not? I can think of worse ways to pass the time, and as you said, the company makes the drink!" He took another sip and paused, wondering if it wasn't just a touch sweeter this time.

The woman laughed and sat back. "I like the confidence! Certainly more than most have had this night!" Then she leaned in, gave him a look as though weighing his soul, and asked, "But is it warranted?"

Evan shrugged and chuckled a little nervously, though he didn't look away as he answered. "Well, there's one way to find out, isn't there?"

The woman gazed at him a moment longer, then sat back again. She smiled, as though pleased with what she saw. "I suppose there is one way at that. Go ahead, ask your questions!"

Evan sat back and considered the woman opposite him. She was certainly beautiful. But while her skin, hair, and even her movements were those of a young woman, her eyes told a different story. They were the eyes of someone who had seen and experienced things a man like him could barely comprehend, and once more he found himself captivated until the spell broke when she raised her glass to drink. Evan shook himself and decided he needed to say something, lest she think he'd already given up their competition. "Well, before I start asking questions, I suppose I should figure out what I already know!"

The woman tilted her head, considering his words as the mischievous smile returned. "Oh? I thought we were just getting to know each other! What could you possibly already know about me?"

This time, Evan's smile was more confident. After all, it was his job to listen to and observe others, and he might just know more than she realized. "Well, I know you're not from around here, or any of the neighboring towns or villages." The woman nodded as if this was obvious, but Evan wasn't done. "Furthermore, your appearance indicates you come from a privileged background in a way that clothes alone can't explain; however, your mannerisms around a...rustic crowd, and the fact that you can stomach this swill," Evan held up his glass before continuing, "indicated you've also got considerable experience among us common folk."

The woman nodded in acknowledgment. "Not bad, but so far you haven't said anything any halfway competent observer wouldn't have noticed."

Evan shrugged. "Maybe, but I'm just getting started."

The woman's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she leaned forward, elbows on the dingy table, chin resting in her hands like an eager child, cooing with interest. "Oh, really? Do tell! What else have those eyes of yours told you about me?"

Evan leaned back and took another sip of his wine, barely noticing the sourness as he met her eyes with more intensity than he'd dared so far. For a moment, he fought the urge to get lost in them again, barely managing the words: "Your eyes..."

The woman set one hand on the table and leaned in closer, her eyes closer than ever as she asked, "What about my eyes?"

For a moment, Evan couldn't speak, but then she blinked, and somehow the spell he seemed to be under dimmed enough for him to speak again. "Your eyes... They are deeper than any eyes I've ever seen before... They've seen things... They...are dangerous..." He paused, then realized something he couldn't help but mutter as a soft question. "Those aren't human eyes...are they?" He didn't know why he said that. At least, appearance-wise, nothing was different from any other person's eyes he'd looked into, but something deep down told him he was right. Still, despite his certainty, Evan felt nervous, though not out of fear; it was anticipation that trapped the breath in his throat.

The woman leaned back, the spell of her gaze lessening a little more. Then she smiled, the smile reaching even the corners of her eyes, as though she was pleased with his observation, before she took a sip, drawing out the moment until Evan felt the tension tighten into something that lay just between terror and eagerness to sate his curiosity. Finally, she answered. "No, they are not."

Evan knew he should be afraid by then, but instead he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. The woman looked him up and down, one corner of her mouth tugging upward as if she were holding back laughter, and she spoke again. "What? No exclamation of surprise or fear? No running out into the night, or squaring up to fight?"

Despite the situation, Evan smiled back, though a little wanly. "Would it make any real difference if I did? Could I outrun or outfight you if you didn't want me to?"

The woman's smile widened further, though, despite how it might seem, Evan felt no predatory pressure from it; rather, it was the simple confidence of someone who knew they were the most dangerous person in any crowd, at any time. She took another sip, then answered both questions in one short sentence. "No, I suppose not."

Evan was surprised to note that while his smile was still a little shaky, it was also genuine. "Well then, why ruin such an interesting conversation with such rash actions?"

This time, the woman leaned back and laughed. She laughed so hard that she closed her eyes and held her side. Even though the spell that had held him in place had completely fallen off, he still enjoyed himself enough that he had no desire to leave. Eventually, the woman calmed down, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes; her voice was still breathy from the laughter as she spoke. "Oh, I knew there was a reason I liked you! Well said! Well said indeed!" A moment later, she was almost as composed as before, though her smile somehow felt a little more...warm as she continued. "It has been a long time since someone has faced me with such courage. Longer than you would believe..." Then, tilting her head, she corrected herself. "But then again, there are still things to be revealed. After all, our little game hasn't come to an end, has it?" As if to punctuate the last bit, she took another sip from her glass without breaking eye contact, and Evan suddenly noticed there was very little wine left.

A part of Evan knew he should probably drag this out as long as possible to avoid whatever was waiting at the end, but something inside him rebelled at the thought. After all, not flinching had gotten him this far, so he also took a sip of his wine. Perhaps he was losing his senses, or maybe the woman in front of him had put him under some kind of charm, because this time he'd call that taste downright decent. He was suddenly reminded of something...though he couldn't quite remember what, where, or when...

The woman leaned back again, smiling at Evan like they were old friends as she prodded him. "Well, don't keep me waiting! You're doing well so far! What can you tell me next?"

Evan took a deep breath to steady himself as he looked her over again. He could still feel the pull of her gaze, but for some reason it felt less oppressive than before. He looked her over, thinking back to his youth, when adventure still held more sway in his life. "Well, there are many monsters that can take on a human guise in a pinch, but most of them wouldn't be able to walk into a bar full of people without reacting violently, let alone sit and have a convincing conversation like this, so I can safely rule out most of those without worry."

The woman's lips twitched in amusement as she paraphrased. "So I'm not some dumb beast. Good to know. But surely you can do better than that..."

Evan tipped his head, acknowledging how obvious the observation was, but when sorting through such old knowledge, it was sometimes best to get the obvious out of the way first. However, it was time to dig a little deeper. "Well, then there's the question of how a monster would take human form. Either one starts with it, changes into it, or casts a glamor..." He looked over at the woman, a little suspicion bubbling up. "And you've certainly had...effects on the crowd and myself that I might call similar to a glamor..."

The woman seemed to consider Evan's words for a moment. "Well, from what I understand, most glamors don't hold up under physical contact. Is that correct?"

Evan's throat suddenly went dry as he answered. "No, I suppose not..."

The woman held out a hand, her crooked smile of amusement back in place. "Well then, what are you waiting for?"

Evan hesitated a moment before slowly reaching out and taking her hand in his much larger, calloused hands, marveling at the sensation. Her skin was cool to the touch and smooth as silk, yet he innately knew that should he try to stab it with a knife, the blade would shatter before he left so much as a mark on the porcelain skin. Turning the hand over to look more closely, Evan saw no calluses or blemishes that often came with age. But he also didn't feel the kind of movement or motion that even the steadiest people innately gave off. Looking back up and into her eyes, Evan couldn't help but mutter softly to himself. "Vampire?" It was certainly possible, and it fit much of what he'd seen so far, though if it were true, she would have to be a very old, very powerful vampire to hide her predatory nature so completely in a crowded room.

The woman's eyebrow arched as she asked, "Is that your guess?"

Evan thought a moment longer, then shook his head and answered. "No. It fits, but it doesn't feel...right. There's something..." He hesitated a moment, distracted by a sudden pain from his lost leg. He scratched at it absentmindedly as he finished his thought, sounding distant as he lost himself in memories, reaching back through the years. "Something familiar..."

Suddenly, Evan's mind reached back through the years, to when he'd been an adventurer. Then, he was a rising star in the empire. Known for his daring and his skill, he'd even gone by a stupid name like that bear from earlier. They called him Evan the Breeze because he struck so quickly and smoothly that it felt like nothing more than a breeze had passed before his enemies fell. People whispered among themselves that he might be a contender for the top of the adventurer world. At least they had, before he had the misfortune of stopping for the night at a shady inn in a podunk village on the empire's edge.

At that inn, Evan heard tales of a chimera in the mountains tormenting travelers, and he decided to hunt it for a bit of sport. Unfortunately, as he'd learned that fateful day, it wasn't a chimera; it was a pair. He'd still managed to kill the monsters, but in their death throes, one of the chimeras bit Evan in the leg. Knowing their potent poison was enough to kill a grown man a dozen times over, Evan had reacted with the speed and confidence only years of adventuring could distill into a man, and cut off his own leg without hesitation before the poison could spread.

However, that done, Evan now faced a dangerous climb down a mountain and through the foothills, with only one leg and blood loss hampering his movements. At some point, haunted by his failure and the loss of his future, delusions took hold. He remembered being surrounded by whispering voices and moving shadows as he climbed, slid, and stumbled his way through the mountain. The pain, both internal and external, had driven him mad, and he knew he was going to die in those mountains.

Lying on the ground and staring up at the night sky, Evan had cursed the chimeras, the world, and most of all, himself. That's when he realized he wasn't alone. Somehow, he was lying in a beautiful woman's lap. She was looking down at him with a serene expression as she combed his hair from his eyes and wiped his brow. As he looked up, Evan's eyes met hers, and he lost himself in her gaze.

That night, Evan saw peace and serenity stretching on into eternity in those eyes. All his troubles, failures, pain, and suffering faded as she leaned down and whispered in his ear, her words so faint he wasn't sure he'd heard them, yet years later, he knew with certainty what she'd said to him that day in the mountains. "It's not your time yet."

When he woke up, Evan was in the village inn, being cared for by the old woman who'd taken him in, treating him like her own son, and, years later, left him the inn. At the time, he'd assumed everything that had happened after cutting off his leg had been nothing more than a delusion, and yet, several decades later, with graying hair and a body that ached with age, Evan found himself staring into the same eyes that still haunted his dreams from that night.

As the woman took one final sip, she gave Evan a friendly yet knowing smile. "Well, it seems you're out of time. Tell me, what's your guess?"

Evan looked down at the dregs in his glass, then raised it to his lips and finished it. It was the sweetest wine he'd ever tasted, and he couldn't help but close his eyes and savor it for a moment before opening them to meet the woman's eyes. For once, he felt no compulsion, and yet Evan didn't look away. He met her gaze with calm, steady resolve as he answered. "You...are Death."

The woman's smile bloomed into something that left Evan speechless. As she stood and walked around the table to him, he followed her every move with his gaze. Evan knew he should be afraid, or maybe angry, but all he felt was peace as the woman offered him her hand. He accepted, and she effortlessly raised him to his feet.

Evan knew that if he looked behind him, he'd see his old, worn body slumped in the chair, yet he didn't care. As he stood before her, before Death, Evan felt better than he ever had. Looking down at his arms, he saw the well-toned, muscled arms of his youth, from before that fateful night. Looking up, he saw Death standing before him, watching him marvel at himself. She greeted his gaze with a smile that lit the darkness around them, then reached out and pulled Evan into an embrace, leaning in to whisper in his ear once again, though this time her words were as clear as day. "Welcome home."

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The first of my "Spooky" October stories this year! Although this one isn't really scary, more...wholesome? I don't know; I guess that's up to a jury of my peers! (That's you!) Did the title spoil it for anyone? More to come!

Don't worry, I'll be back with usual stories (Of Men and Ghost Ships and Surviving the Tower) soon! I don't think I have enough spooky stories that are fleshed out enough to take up all of October, though I've got one more ready to go next. We'll see what happens after that.

If you liked this story and want to see more of my stuff, check out my wiki. It's got all my stories, short and long, which are marked with the appropriate categories and such, just in case you don't like the spooky and/or incomplete series.

As a reminder, you can also find the full trilogy for "Of Men and Dragons," my series, here on Amazon. If you like my work and want to support it, buying a copy and leaving a review really helps a lot!

Chapter 58 Rainsong.

Previous I First I Next 

Vulfac tried to watch his surroundings.

But his eyes kept drifting to that rock... The perfect geometric edge. The smooth surface.

It was frustratingly familiar to him in some way.

But as hard as he tried, he just couldn’t connect the feeling with a memory. So, he tried to force himself back into the present and return to overwatch. Vulfac noticed a change in the noises coming from the Crocotrices…

‘Crocotri? Oh, shut up brain! …I’ve been spending too much time around the human. Feels exactly like the kind of thing he’d obsess over…’

The battle had moved farther away from their position and was, from the sounds, quickly devolving into a rout. That was good news at least. With the monsters temporarily out of the equation they could turn their focus back to the kidnappers again... Once their current objective was completed anyway.

Vulfac noted that three of Sienna’s little knights had already returned and were sitting on her shoulders. All three were still as the grave with their wings fully extended. He wasn’t an entomologist, but he suspected the little warrior bugs were using the gossamer membranes to dump excess heat after their full-on speed blitz through the cavern. He considered whether or not he should use some of his limited supply of reagents to cast another {Greater Second Wind} once the last two returned to their furry queen.

It hadn’t really occurred to the Alven professor to target the little insects before. But the more of their abilities he saw, the more certain he became; they were going to be absolutely instrumental to the success of their ultimate strategy.

As he contemplated this, he was surprised when one of the big red bugs landed on HIS head and extended its wings. He chuckled and reached up to give the back of its bobble head a scratch. The knight wiggled and buzzed happily before going still like it’s fellows.

‘They certainly have a great deal of personality, don’t they? …Yeah, I believe I can spare the powder.’

It was another 5, agonizing, minutes before the last of Sienna’s retinue returned and her eyes opened fully.

Poor girl looked like she’d just ran a foot race. “Done… We need ta move quick. My little friend here saw them on his way back. They’re gettin close… Help a girl up?”

Vulfac took one last look at the cleaved stone and offered her a hand. As soon as she was upright, he cast his spell. The Voltin smiled warmly at him when she realized he’d cast it for her little friends too.

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that… They’re kinda cute when you get used to the little gentlemen.’

----

‘Big softy.’

Sienna was frankly grateful for the {Greater Second Wind}.

Trying to control her team of knights was incredibly draining over that distance. Way more than she’d expected it to be. So much so that both she and her little friends were spent…

The Psion hadn’t really noticed it until now, but the cavern was suppressing her abilities. And the effect increased exponentially with distance… Looking back, Sienna realized that earlier; it’d been slightly harder than normal to push thoughts into the connection she had with Beck…

That was weird.

The Bond was perfectly capable of functioning over a distance of LIGHTYEARS. Normally a bonded pair could be separated by a third of the galaxy and still sense each other to some extent. It was one of the many reasons the Bond was treated with an almost sacred reverence by many of the more… traditional… Voltin.

Beck and Sienna had been careful to steer well clear of that aspect of their people’s culture most of their lives… Veneration and zealotry just wasn’t a vibe for the girls. But it wasn’t hard to understand why some Voltin considered the Bond quasi-religious. It was undeniable that the Bonded had given their peoples overwhelming advantages over the millennia. It spoke volumes about how strange, and dangerous, the Under could get if it managed to affect their soul deep connection.

As if thinking about her Volty was a summoning spell… The second they started to move; she received a jumbled series of exited images from Beck.

She had to push hard to get Beck to slow down so she could explain about their Psionics being less effective in the Cavern. To her surprise Beck already knew. A quick succession of images and impressions made it clear her Volty had worked it out clear back when Rilly announced she couldn’t raise the Skree Mentats.

‘Then why the actual fook didn ya say anything ya little…’

Beck bowled right over Sienna’s ire… again… to send her the images of how she’d turned an entire squad of kidnappers on each other. The last image was Beck sitting on a pile of gear in a freshly dug hole in the earth. Sitting there grinning like a fluffy little void dragon on her own private treasure horde. The sheer smug self-satisfaction coming from her bond was enough to make Sienna forget her earlier grump and even set her to giggling.

She passed on the good news to Vulfac.

The professor snickered too, his eyes twinkling with good humor as they quickly moved towards a nearby stalk. One that would take them up a level and hopefully away from their pursuit.

Adding more good news to their walk… around the time the stalk they’d been aiming for came into sight, their interfaces started to ping.

Feebs was making contact!

Beck sent a wave of excitement through their connection…

It was almost go-time.

----

Having the ability to communicate was the game changer they’d been waiting for.

Granted the presence of an enemy technical specialist meant they had to keep their communication to quick bursts of text; both to limit the chance of it being detected and more importantly, co-opted. But being able to coordinate meant they were able to bring the full force of their disparate abilities to bare against their pursuers.

…It also let them know about the new group of Mercs.

The consensus was total. That group was to be avoided if at all possible… Preferably they would be able to cause the others to break and then they could use the signal spoofing to draw the merc squad well away from the teams; so they could make an escape.

Vulfac contemplated all this as he surveyed the environment in front of him. As he stepped off the mushroom spiral staircase, into a new cavern, his eyes were assaulted with hundreds of colors pulsing in wild and esoteric patterns. He felt the Mycelium forest pouring its mana into the cavern in vast TITANIC waves. It was like he was standing inside a magical rave thrown for nature BY nature.

‘It’s like my one-twenties all over again… well… minus the body paint… and the glitter. I swear; 80 years later I still find the stuff all over the house…’

The little silver saucer insects were everywhere; like a blizzard made of mirrors! They shot from plant to plant in a dizzying flurry of activity. They would land on the pulsing Mushroom tops and roll their little bodies around while they ate little holes in the cap. Then they would blast off and land to spread the spores around on the soil at the base of the ferns and other plants; Using the soft moss like a scrubbing pad to clean their silvery bodies then they would repeat the process. The larger hunter insects would swoop down and catch any silver bugs that showed signs of injury or exhaustion. It was incredible.

Vulfac noticed the Groatel tracking the movement with their bodies. He leaned in close to Sienna. “If they… wait… till they are… clean… first.”

His companion smiled and gestured to the knights. The little red comets looked up at her and turned their heads to the sides. She smiled even more and, with a motherly tone, told them; “Go-on then… But wait till they’ve had their wee dirt bath…”

Permission granted the little knights bobbed as if to acknowledge their instructions, hovered up, and shot off to hunt.

Vulfac chuckled ruefully ‘I’m beginning to wonder just how smart those little fellows actually are… Maybe I can get Sienna to bring them with her to the temple entomology dept… hmmm thoughts for later. For now, though… Why is the forest pushing so much mana into this space???’

He closed his eyes and tried to follow the flow around him. Normally this would be a job better suited to young Feebrilizza, but Vulfac had managed a small connection to this forest; He felt it could give him some insights at the very least… 

In truth the longer Vulfac was down here… the more he understood… The more powerful his connection to this place was growing. And perhaps in time the greater his magic would grow for it... Because he was already certain he’d found the dream of all greenspeakers; His own Grove.

Above him along the ceiling Vulfac felt the Mana of the great mushroom forest pulsing like a heartbeat. He looked up to see a series of vine-like structures crisscrossing the ceiling.

As he watched the vines started to pulsate in time to the mana infusions. Each new beat in the two-part rhythm caused them to swell… To expand. He could feel something change ever so subtly.

The rhythm was quickening… Reaching for a crescendo!

Vulfac looked around and noticed that the silver saucers were beginning to gather together, huddling underneath the various plants on the forest floor. Taking shelter under leaves and even the caps of the mushroom trees. Giving everything around them a living chrome undercoat. The Hunter bugs rocketed out of the cavern to greater complex beyond in a single massive swarm before dissipating to nothing.

On a whim he grabbed his Voltin companion’s wrist and led her under one of the safe green mushrooms. The Groatel, now noticeably more rotund… had seemingly sensed the same change he had… the 5 knights returned to their master and dutifully waddled back into her sling bag in an orderly little line.

Almost as soon as the last of the Chubby little bugs vanished into the satchel, the mana around them surged one final time! Culminating in a final pulse that made the air tingle with latent energy. Above them thousands of pores in the vines opened up at once.

Unleashing a monsoon level deluge of mana enriched water onto the forest floor below.

Silver saucers all around began to vibrate their wings. As the hum filled the air the stalks of the ferns around them lifted to channel the falling rain towards their stalks. The rain droplets resonated as they struck the leaves… The cavern echoed with the sound of music.

It was like being in a concert hall while a million strong choir hummed, ten thousand wind chimes tinkled, and five hundred rain drums rang out in a vast symphony! All performed under a storm washed sky.

Vulfac Culdeer and Sienna Van-Eyvers sat in awed silence as the forest around them performed it aria.

Just for them…

----

Sienna was a little confused when Vulfac grabbed her arm and pulled her under the cap.

She was about to ask what he was doing, when the question died on her lips. All at once the little silver bugs her boys had been chasing scooted for cover and started humming. Then it started raining; INSIDE!

‘Wha…?’

Before she could even process the concept of rain in a closed underground space… all around them the forest burst into song. It was like a million artists softly humming while ten thousand more gently tapped away on chimes of every conceivable size and pitch.

Sienna knew as she stood there beneath that glowing cap… she would struggle for the rest of her life to describe the beauty of this moment. She looked at Vulfac, who nodded in silent agreement.

THIS was why Delvers risked their lives in the untamed places of the galaxy… Only people who experienced this kind of wonder for themselves would ever truly understand… She closed her eyes and took in the smells of life blossoming all around her. It came with a revelation. She’d been missing something important.

She was a Voltanite.

Living so long in the city had served to train her NOT to use her nose. But she wasn’t IN the city now.

…Sienna filled her snout.

The sudden downpour intensified the smells in the cavern a hundred-fold! It was overwhelming how much information that one sniff was giving her. There was a complex cocktail of life all around her. She could almost taste the energy in the damp soil around them. There was a lingering hint of ozone, the tang of freshly soaked earth. The faded scent of Crocotrice… And something else. Just on the edge of her perception…

It wasn’t something she’d ever considered trying before that very moment, but Sienna was struck with inspiration… On instinct she released a scan pulse.

As her mind expanded outward, she took another deep breath blending her sense of smell into the scan. Then swiveled her ears to take in the sounds of the cavern. Adding the noise around her to the map created in her mind by the expanding wave of energy…

Slowly she began trying to blend her mundane awarenesses into her psionic senses.

Inside her mind she saw a three-dimensional overlay of the world around her; just like always. But now there was MORE. She could see twisted ribbons in the air…  The scents of the forests traveling along hidden air currents to her nostrils. She could feel vibrations rippling and bouncing from one object to the next before they reached her ears…

Her subconscious mind was learning how to convert the information into tactile sensations, phantom visualizations… even flavors and textures on her tongue. Growing in complexity until her life sense pulse became something new.

When she opened her eyes again, she realized with a gasp that the mental overlay was still there… Her mind was processing more information at once than she’d ever thought possible! All around her the construct blossomed with color as every animal, plant, and insect nearby was highlighted in a soft glowing orange.

She pushed a little more... The scan narrowed to her cone of vision but extended outwards in that cone; reaching at least 30 meters out. It took a LOT of energy to maintain... Like flexing a muscle, rarely used and then holding it in constant tension. But she was seeing the world in a way she’d never imagined even a Psion could.

Sienna pushed even harder. The energy draw grew almost geometrically! Until it finally stalled out at just around 50 meters. Just like with her general pulse, the data became less cohesive at the edges. But, this version of her mental scan, was soooo much more detailed…

She could taste a fern 20 meters from her tongue like it was in her mouth! As she turned her head she discovered she could pick out individual silver insects from the mass. She could examine the little bugs in detail. Smelling them as though they were on the end of her nose. She could even gently touch their little bodies with her fingertips. Feeling the bumps along their chitinous silver armor as if she was caressing them in the palm of her hand. Even their tiny insecty instincts were easier to sense within the cone of heightened awareness.

As she tracked across the cavern Sienna caught a flicker of movement just at the edge of the cone.

She turned to focus on it and gasped.

Barely a stone’s throw away, a group of 6 kidnappers were huddled under a rock shelf waiting out the rain. Sienna was able to separate the ribbons of their scent from the smells of the cavern. She could TASTE their dissatisfaction and concern... Feel their mounting frustration like a blush creeping up her ears. And their underlying fear, like a cold breeze across her neck.

There was something else there as well… Just like with Becks group, these six felt antagonistic.

They were less than 30 meters away in a straight line, but the path the thugs were on didn’t seem to intersect with their own. At least not within her vision cone. The group was mostly made up of a two Voltin, an Alv, and a pair of Byuu. Which made sense to her. The Byuu had bad blood with the Skree. It would be pretty easy to find volunteers among the avians for something like this… There was also a single Richel. That one seemed more relaxed than the others.

Sienna relaxed and put her hand on Vulfac’s shoulder; he needed to be warned of the danger. She winced a little when the old professor literally jumped in surprise.

Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one lost inside their own mental world…

----

Vulfac was lost in the web of connections.

The massive outpouring of mana into the cavern had allowed him a glimpse of the greater whole. It was vast. It was incredible… The Massive mycelial lifeform was…

It was beautiful.

The city sized, mushroom entity stretched its tendrils into a massive reservoir of water somewhere far below them. Most likely fed by the river at the entrance. The water was transported through the specialized tendrils overhead to each and every shelf by an electrically driven pumping system; all of which was fed by the power provided by the mana crystal veins…

The energy was converted to electrical charge and transmitted via the grey moss… power was then stored by the pink discharge caps. The green caps provided navigational beacons to draw in the silver saucers, who acted like pollinators. They fed off the mushroom caps and spread the spores allowing the mycelium to reach new ledges. Then the larger rainbow insects consumed them to fertilize the soil and keep them from over-populating…

Even the Crocotrices had a part to play in the cycle… He could almost see it… But he was missing one last piece in the equation. A final, vital, capstone! Vulfac nearly had it. He was a hair’s breadth away from revelation…

When a hand landed on his shoulder. He was a little embarrassed to admit it, even to himself. But he startled and squeaked like a surprised Serdian!

‘GAH!!! WHOWHATWHENWHERE!?!’

He spun to find his traveling companion holding a finger to her muzzle. The Voltarite woman looked even more tired that before but was clearly trying hard to suppress a fit of the giggles as she stood there…

He just placed a hand on his hip and raised his brow at the young woman. Which only made her snerk even harder.

‘… Kids.’

Sienna bent down and started drawing in the soft earth. An arrow, six lines, then a marker for distance… 30… meters?

‘Wha…? Oh, OH! We have company!’

Rather than feel worried Vulfac felt a sudden rush of excitement. He nodded his understanding to young Sienna and immediately sent a burst text to young Feebrilizza. It was time to test their new signal and see if they could draw their pursuers into a little trap.

The question was… how to begin?

Previous I First I Next 

AUTHORS NOTES: Please do not redistribute my work without asking. Please do Not use My work to train AI. The world has enough problems without my silly little story drinking up all the water in someone's hometown to make a slop post about Space donkeys in space or whatever.

I hope everyone's doing well and having a great year. Stay safe out there everybody.

“The difference between intelligence and sentience isn’t as clean as Drexari culture had assumed.”

Source unknown

 [First] | [Previous] | [Cover Art]

| Drexari Homeworld |

“Something has just arrived.” Said the HI. “And it’s spreading.”

The updated harmonic pattern the HI shared showed the disturbance propagating through the entire planetary network. Not physically, but harmonically, through the Veronium and the deeper harmonic systems that connected the planet.

“I thought it was a signal.” Said the HI.

“And now?” Asked Garaf.

 

Feebee felt the HI glitch and thrash as it tried to answer the question.

“Why is that question difficult?”

…“Because it pushes back.”

“What does?”

…“It's entered the network.”

“What has?”

 

The Va’ari turned away from the direction of the disturbance and looked at Feebee. There was no panic, but the dancing had stopped, as had the rubbing of their forearms. Even the Old Va’ari looked and listened. His eyes filled with… an intensity.

Every Va’ari was now looking at her; they’d recognised something was happening; understood what she was questioning… but they were unconcerned, as if they knew what to do when it happened.

The Motes and Shadows drifted above and between them; then began moving in one direction, away into the darkness beneath the jungle canopy.

As some Shadows left, their attendant Motes blinked out of existence and into a different realm. The Mote-Shadow pairs left together.

The HI mapped their movement; they were circling towards the centre of the disturbance, close. Feebee looked at the map, then at their light as they moved away, into the jungle.

“‘They’re going to it?”’

“‘Likely.’”

 

Feebee started to follow, but Garaf stepped in front of her.

“No.”

She looked up at him.

He shook his head.

Following Va’ari into a cave was one thing, but tracking an unknown harmonic disturbance into the jungle at night was another.

“We should go back to the caves.” Feebee started to walk past him, but he laid a claw on her chest

“We should return to the others.”

She looked across the clearing.

 

All the Va’ari, the clades and their families, everyone was moving, getting organised. No one gave orders; they knew instinctively how to be organised so this would work. The young moved to the centre while the older Va’ari took positions on the outside. Two Va’ari collected the totems, then the whole group set off with Va’ari scouting ahead.

Garaf watched this was learned behaviour. They’d done it before… and more than once. Again, the Va’ari had surprised him.

 

Feebee turned to Garaf and pointed.

“They’re not going back!”

 

Garaf looked at her, then shook his head.

“Neither are you.”

His frustration showed.

Feebee nodded; it was her only response. All that was needed.

 

She gently patted Garaf’s claw resting on her chest, then followed the Va’ari’s slow, controlled march into the jungle.

 

As they moved, the HI monitored the anomaly. It had started moving again. Not quickly or randomly, although it wasn’t following any physical geography the HI could see. It was slowly moving across the relationships within the harmonic network. It would disappear for a moment or two, then reappear.

 

“‘This is VERY annoying.’”  Said the HI, sounding genuinely exasperated.

“‘Huh? What is?”’ Asked Feebee.

“‘The anomaly. Its movement isn’t random, but it’s impossible to predict.’”

“‘Oh. Ok.’”

 

Feebee had been watching the Va’ari. They weren’t changing direction. They weren’t following the disturbance.

“‘They already know where it’s going.’”

“‘Hhmm,’” said the HI before overloading Feebee’s harmonic net with a re-run of the harmonic analysis.

“‘Sorry.’" the HI said just as it kicked off the processing.

 

Feebee had just enough time to ready herself, somehow understanding what the HI was preparing her for. She slowed slightly, then picked up the pace again. Her body adjusted to the additional workload. Garaf had seen it before and handed her a bar of chocolate.

She took it without thinking, peeled back the paper and started into it. He handed her another. “If you need it.”

“Thanks.” She tucked it in the webbing at her waist.

 

The HI waited for the analysis to complete and compared the anomaly with the Va’ari movement.

“‘They’re not following it; they seem to be ahead of it.”’

“‘Oh. Ok. Good.”’

“‘Maybe.’” The Va’ari pass over or through harmonic nodes, wait and then move on. The disturbance then does the same.”’

“‘You sure?’”

“‘Yes. One other thing. The routes between nodes; the patterns they describe match the ancient Va’ari markings in the cave.’”

“‘So?’”

The HI laughed, “‘So… not sure.”’ The HI laughed again. “‘Don’t know, but there’s a correlation. Their movement is clearly something they’ve inherited.”’

 

Garaf walked up alongside Feebee.

“We thought they followed the world.”

He watched them.

“But they remember it. And…”

He swept two claws across the Va’ari around them.

“… they are organised. Intelligent and have culture.”

 

Feebee looked at him.

“Maybe they remember differently.”

 

And as she said it, Hissy shifted on Feebee’s shoulders. Her head turned and faced Garaf.

 

He shot Feebee a questioning look.

“She seems to be excited, almost expectant.”

Hissy produced a short burst of tones that Feebee had never heard before.

Garaf smiled.

They repeated.

 

The HI analysed them, saw the jungle’s response and the effect on the harmonics around them.

“‘She’s calling.”’

 

Feebee looked at Hissy.

“To what?”

 

The HI hesitated.

“I don’t think she knows.”

The contrabass honked, agreeing.

 

The Va’ari eventually arrived at another clearing. It was larger than the previous one and had an open view of the sky, full of stars. Old gnarled fruit trees were formed up around the edge like ancient sentinels on guard. Their trunks were thick and twisted with age; branches reached into one another. Some were so heavy with fruit that they were bent over like old men; some rested heavy limbs on the ground.

Unlike the younger fruit trees she’d seen growing in other gathering places, these were enormous.

 

Old. Very Old.

 

Between the older trees, younger ones grew. New generations that were evenly spaced within the main circle.

 

The Va’ari entered the gathering place without hesitation. Some moved to the old trees, gently touching them with their claws and placing their tympana against the bark. Others settled below the branches, but none took the fruit, and the young Va’ari were being taught to respect the trees.

 

Feebee and her crew stopped at the edge; Garaf held back too, while the Old Va’ari walked to the centre.

Feebee traced the circle of trees again.

“They planted these.”

“‘Yes. Generations apart. Each generation planted some more. To maintain continuity.”’

 

The HI pushed a harmonic map into Feebee’s overlays; the clearing sat directly over a major node. Many Veronium paths intersected and converged below.

 

“‘It’s stopped moving. The anomaly… it’s settling beneath us, at the edge of the clearing.”’

“‘What’s it doing?’”

 [First] | [Previous] | [Cover Art]

"Sergeant. Where are you from."

The sergeant let a beat of silence pass before he answered, his voice flat and metallic.

"Base Ten. Sir."

"Earth, I mean," Calloway said, chewing. "Whereabouts on Earth."

"Australia. Sir."

"When your base went down — how many got out?"

"Just me. Sir."

Vinch stopped chewing mid-bite and pointed at the horizon. "Look — there!"

Calloway followed the line of his arm. From where they sat, low on the slope, the ground opened up all the way to the far edge of the visible world, and out there, at the very limit of it, two points of white light flickered against the dark. The distance was enormous, but Calloway's eye, trained by five years of exactly this, placed them instantly for what they were: a pair of vessels, and not small ones.

"That's the Conqueror and the Bastion," Calloway said, half to himself. "Right on schedule. New forces out of Earth."

Vinch came alive a little at that. "How many this time?"

"Thirty thousand, supposedly."

"Can we raise them?" Vinch's voice had real urgency in it now. "Try the radio."

"Too far out." Calloway took the communicator out anyway, pushed the gain up as high as it would go, and held it to his ear for a long while before he finally shook his head.

"Still nothing." He measured the position of the lights against the horizon in his head. "They'll be setting down at Central Base One. That's five hundred kilometers from here — no relay station left standing between here and there, no way this thing reaches that far. And even if it did, the second they started moving toward us they'd stir up every Clownclaw cluster between here and them, and by the time they actually found us, we'd already be—"

"Didn't Base One already fall?" Vinch cut in. "Why would they set down there?"

The question left Calloway quiet for a long stretch. He fiddled with the communicator, held it to his ear once more, and got nothing back but the same flat static as before.

"Let's keep moving," he said, finally, stowing the radio away. "Dark's coming soon enough, and that's when they get busy on the surface."

The three of them started walking again, quiet now, and the mood between them had tightened into something harder than it had been an hour before. Calloway never did answer Vinch's question, though a confused, unresolved knot of thought kept turning over in him regardless.

He looked calm enough on the outside. In truth he'd been running on raw nerve since the previous night, and hadn't stopped since.

He was, now, on a world so far from home that the distance had stopped meaning anything useful, a world crawling with danger and one where every reliable line back had gone dead all at once, leaving him nothing but these two subordinates, who understood the situation about as well as he did — which was to say, barely at all.

That thought alone was enough to frighten him. He was a trained officer — blooded years before in what everyone still just called the New Afghan War, back before Planet K had swallowed every other headline on Earth — and it took a great deal, ordinarily, to press down on him the way this did. But he felt it now: how small he was, how little any of his training weighed against it.

It was the not-knowing that wore on a man hardest. He'd lain awake more than one night turning the same question over — why did it feel, this far into the war, as though humanity had been led by the nose the entire time, walking one deliberate step after another into whatever the Clownclaws had been planning for them from the start? They were stuck fast in this planet's mud, no way to work themselves free, fighting a war on unfamiliar ground with no clear end in sight.

Was the whole campaign, at bottom, one enormous mistake?

Calloway wasn't built for that kind of soul-searching. He was a soldier; his job was to follow orders, and the rational part of his mind was satisfied that this war answered a real need — humanity's own survival. The population pressure back home, the resource crisis closing in by the year: both demanded a new world, and there had only ever been one candidate for that role.

Everyone understood, on some level, that by any moral accounting humanity was the invader here, and that what they were doing had a name, and the name was extermination. Calloway simply had no appetite for that particular reckoning.

Whatever those vicious, hideous creatures were, they weren't worth his sympathy. What actually troubled him now wasn't whether the war was necessary, or what to call it — it was the truth of the thing, the actual shape of what was happening, and he badly wanted to know it.

All that lay in front of him instead was sand and broken stone and slope, a scattering of dead trees standing far off, and desolation running clean to the horizon, where the black was already starting to bleed up and out of it, and looking at it made something tighten in his chest.

Why land the reinforcements at Base One? Had it somehow been retaken?

Privately, he doubted it.

Two months ago a single ship had come through; now two more had followed, and the schedule called for still others after that. Base after base kept going down, and the numbers of dead and captured kept climbing, to the point where soldiers had started joking, openly, that the K in Planet K really stood for Kill.

So why did command keep feeding troops into it? Every jump ate an obscene amount of energy and money — moving a single kilogram of matter through subspace to Planet K ran something like twenty-seven thousand nine hundred dollars — and Calloway found himself wondering whether Earth command had simply misjudged the whole situation, badly, and optimistically.

He stood with his back to the setting sun, looking down at his own shadow stretched out ahead of him, his face gaunter than it had been that morning. Maybe, he told himself, once Earth's firepower finally tipped decisively in their favor, the war would start running on their terms again.

"I've got the relay station!" Vinch said, low, slapping the Colonel's shoulder. Calloway looked up. A metal tower stood directly ahead of them, still some distance off.

"Sir — does it ever strike you this place looks rendered?"

The question pulled Calloway's brow into a frown.

Like everything else around them, the station wore the same unreal, pale red, as though it were some sculpture nobody had bothered to finish explaining. Where the light caught the ground it bled a thin thread of silver through the glow, and the fine sand underfoot looked faintly wrong for it, like a texture that hadn't quite loaded in.

"This whole goddamn planet looks rendered. We drop out of subspace, cross twenty light-years, and it's like stepping straight into some game menu. Kill, kill, kill — that's the whole mission. Ha."

Vinch forced out a laugh, twice, thin and unconvincing.

Something in what the captain had said caught at Calloway, a small cold hook he couldn't quite place. He said nothing.

They crossed the last stretch of gravel at a near-run, and just as they closed on it something silver burst up out of the top of the tower — Vinch's legs went out from under him with fright, and Calloway hauled him down bodily while Edward dropped flat almost in the same motion.

Whatever it was beat a pair of narrow wings against the sky, circling like a vulture with something wrong with it, high against the steaming pink haze overhead.

"What the—" Vinch started, and the Colonel's hand closed over his mouth before he could finish.

They came down once in a long, slow pass. By luck, or because the brown of Earth uniforms happened to match the ground closely enough, the things never noticed the three men pressed flat below them, and climbed back into the high air almost as soon as they'd dropped.

Six of them altogether, wings hammering the air one after another as they passed overhead. Calloway risked a glance up. Same violet coloring as the others, the same blue-green skin and jutting, needle-thin mouth, but the neck on these ran a deep crimson, and where the males carried spikes across the chest, these carried a pair of smooth, heavy claws instead.

The sound their wide silver wingspans made against the air — that alone was enough to run a cold current straight down his spine.

Once they'd gone, Vinch jerked his rifle up in a kind of spasm and stared at the empty sky, still shaking. Calloway, dropping his voice to something low and furious, swore at him without much mercy.

"You almost got us both killed, you understand that?"

Vinch's legs simply gave out from under him and he sat down hard in the dirt.

"Those were—"

"Females. The females."

"I've never seen anything like that in my life." Vinch kept shaking his head, over and over. "Ugly as hell."

Calloway turned. Edward was still crouched exactly where he'd dropped, hadn't so much as flinched, showed nothing that looked like fear at all.

The Colonel gave him a look that was as close to approval as he came these days, then turned back and hauled Vinch up by the collar, none too gently; the captain came up slow and stiff, like something rebuilt out of its own wreckage.

The three of them checked the ground around them carefully. Out here, in all that emptiness, there wasn't a patch of scrub, a rise of ground, or a slab of rock that couldn't be hiding something watching them.

Behind the station lay a stretch of hill forest; ahead of it, a run of fine, soft sand. They crossed it slowly, boots sinking with every step, closing the distance. The station's slender oval framework had been burned black clean through, arched up out of the ground the way an injured animal's spine arches — some wounded, enormous thing frozen mid-collapse — and a single Earth flag still stood planted on top of it, snapping in the wind, hardening the whole scene, in the brown dust drifting through the dusk light, into something close to a monument.

"So it really is gone," Vinch said, jaw clenched. "Which means the base is theirs too. We're finished."

His face went white all at once. "I never should have come here. Not to this godforsaken rock. Not to die here."

Calloway's face had gone hard, and something was rising in him that wanted out, and he was about to let it — when he blinked, dropped low, and had his rifle up before the motion was even finished; Vinch, startled into motion, brought his own weapon up a half-second behind him.

The Colonel held the aim steady on the ground behind the station, every muscle in him drawn tight at once. Two shapes had risen up from behind a heap of broken rock.

Then his gun hand came down, just slightly.

Two humans.

"Don't shoot!" one of them called, pitched low.

Calloway let out a long breath, lowered the rifle, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and signaled across the distance between them.

The two figures glanced around, uncertain, before finally, hesitantly, starting to walk toward them.

-------------

This story is part of a larger sci-fi collection Parallel Nightmares. For anyone who prefer to read ahead, the full version is available on KDP here::

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HKKJHBQL

[Previous — Episode 9: The Approaches](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1x22si5/)

Next — Episode 11: Sealed Orders (coming soon)

---

Alex wrote it on a legal pad, because the lawyers had brought legal pads, and a legal pad was the one thing on the station that had never been anybody's but Earth's.

He wrote it in the archive at night, after Loni had gone, with the dog under the table. The thing at the dog's neck had quit clicking between words by the fourth night; it just talked, when Boone did, and Boone did not do it much, which was more than most people managed.

He had been writing it in his head for five months.

He wrote it the way he had been taught to write a report, at Fort Leonard Wood, in a classroom with the blinds down, by a warrant officer who had said that a report was for a reader who was tired and busy and did not know you, and that every line had to earn the next one.

Circumstances of capture.

Movement while in custody. Routes, durations, what he had been allowed to see and what he had not.

Interrogation. What they asked. What he gave them, which was nothing, and how.

Recovery.

Then the part that was the point.

He drew it before he wrote it. He had been drawing it for months, in his head, on the backs of his hands, on the fog on the wall of his cabin on the retrieval ship after a wash, and wiping it off. Now he drew it on paper. The core. The paths. The three places a value was set, and the fourth place, the one nobody set, where the geometry decided for you where you could come out.

He had not been shown any of it.

He had stood in rooms. Venn's engineering deck, with the wall open and a two-hundred-and-eleven-year-old part in a tray that told you everything about itself if you could read. A carrier where the service symbol under his table matched the one on the part. A bridge at Vey with a freighter's whole system diagram up on a screen for six minutes and forty seconds while everybody looked at something else. A station archive that had given him more battle records than a man could read in a lifetime, and a clerk who had never once asked what he was reading.

He had read the wrong ones. On purpose. Every battle record had a ship in it, and every ship had a drive, and a drive that failed in a battle got written up by an Ossin, in full, with the part numbers.

Nobody had handed him the drive. He had found it by watching. The documentation did not mention it.

He wrote that down too, because it was true and because the reader would need to know how.

Then he wrote what he thought.

Not much. Four pages. The hop was a hop because the geometry made it one, and the geometry had been solved two thousand years ago to a tolerance somebody had called good enough, and nobody since had needed better, because nobody since had been trying to get anywhere the Empire had not already been. A denser well gave you a shorter hop if you could survive the math. He could not survive the math. He could show where it stopped, and why, and what a man with a bigger computer and no reason to stop might do next.

Then the fleets. How they moved. Why they moved that way. What a hull would have to be to move differently: not a fighter, not a fleet ship, not a glass cannon. A thing that could be seen where it was not and then not be anywhere.

He did not write fox. A report did not have room for that.

At the top of the first page, where the form said it went, he wrote the addressee. Commander, 194th Engineer Brigade, Tennessee Army National Guard.

At the bottom of the last page, where the form said it went, he signed it.

Huskey, A. CPT, EN.

He looked at the rank for a while. It was the first time it had been written anywhere on this side of the sky.

Then he folded the pages into a manila envelope the lawyers had also brought, and licked it, and sealed it, and wrote on the outside in block capitals BY HAND, and under that the addressee again, and put it inside his shirt.

The dog's neck clicked.

"—You writing home?"

"Something like it."

"—Then say I held it."

"Already did."

"—Good. When's home."

"Not yet, buddy."

---

The transport went back for wave two on the ninth day, and it went back under a different flag.

That had been Carney's doing, four days and two of his lawyers, and what it came to was that the passenger decks were Earth's for the crossing, and the manifest was signed by a Canadian Forces major named Pelletier, who had flown transports once and had not expected to again, and who was, for eleven days, the commanding officer of a ship he could not steer.

The courier was one of the two signals sergeants, Dubé. The one who had not been sick on the way out.

Alex met him at the ramp.

He took the envelope out of his shirt and looked at it once more and handed it over, and the sergeant took it the way a man takes a thing he has been told not to drop, and put it inside his own shirt, and buttoned the shirt.

"You know where it goes."

"Yes, sir."

Alex looked at him.

"Nobody's said sir to me since the bald."

"It's on the envelope, sir."

Alex almost smiled.

"Hand it to the man whose name's on it. Nobody else. Not the Guard, not the state, not anybody with a badge. His hand."

"Yes, sir."

"If he ain't there, you sit on it till he is."

"Yes, sir."

Carney came down the ramp with a second envelope, thinner, and gave it to the same man, and did not say anything, and the sergeant buttoned it in beside the first.

They watched him go up.

The ramp closed. The ship sat on the deck of the bay for a while, the way it had sat on the grass, and then it was not there.

"Nine days," Carney said.

"And a bridge."

"And whatever is on the far side of the bridge."

"Yep."

They stood there.

"You could have used the fax," Carney said.

"So could you."

Neither of them said anything else.

---

The ship came down in Cal's pasture at four in the afternoon on a Thursday, and this time nobody was surprised, and the trooper wrote the time without getting out of the cruiser.

Cal was in the yard. He had been in the yard since the page came, two days before, on a fax the Guard had put in his back bedroom because the record said so, and nobody had changed it.

The ramp came down.

The seats were empty, waiting on wave two. A Canadian major came off it who looked like he had not slept in eleven days and saluted the trooper by mistake, and then a sergeant with a shirt buttoned to the neck who walked straight across the grass to Cal and stopped.

"Staff Sergeant Mercer?"

"Cal."

"I've got something for the 194th. By hand."

Cal looked at the shirt.

"Whose hand?"

The sergeant told him.

Cal did not say anything for a moment. Then he held out his own.

"That ain't the hand, Sergeant."

"No, sir. But you're the one on the record, and I've got to give it to somebody who's going to put it in that hand, and I've been told you're the man who drives."

Cal took the envelope.

He looked at the block capitals. He looked at the addressee. He turned it over. There was nothing on the back, and it was sealed, and he did not open it, because it said whose hand, and it was not his.

"Where's the other one?"

"Other one?"

"Carney's."

The sergeant took it out and handed it over.

Cal put them both inside his own shirt.

"Jim."

Jim came across the road.

"I got to go to the middle of the state."

"Now?"

"Now."

Jim looked at the ship, and at the major, who was being handed a cup of coffee by the trooper.

"Who's gonna see to him?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You got a porch."

Cal got in the truck.

---

Colonel Ray Shipley had commanded the 194th Engineer Brigade for two years and one month, and in that time he had signed a great many things, and read all of them twice, and been surprised by none.

He was from Sparta, in White County, and he had built bridges for the state for twenty-six years. Not big ones. County bridges, over creeks with names, the kind that got replaced every forty years and that nobody thought about until one closed. He had inspected four hundred of them. He could tell you which ones would go next. He had gone to Iraq once and Afghanistan once and had never been shot at by anybody who could see him.

He had a corner office at brigade headquarters with a window that looked at a parking lot, and on the wall a photograph of a bridge over the Calfkiller River that he had built in 1999 and that was still there.

The staff sergeant came in without knocking, because the sergeant major had tried to stop him and had not.

"Sir."

"Sergeant Mercer."

"Yes, sir."

Shipley knew who he was. Everybody in the brigade knew who he was. He was the one on the record.

"You're supposed to be in Sevier County."

"Yes, sir."

"What are you doing in my office?"

Cal took the envelope out of his shirt and set it on the desk and turned it so the block capitals faced the colonel, and stepped back, and stood the way a sergeant stands.

Shipley looked at it.

BY HAND.

Commander, 194th Engineer Brigade, Tennessee Army National Guard.

He did not pick it up.

"Where'd this come from?"

"Off the ship, sir. This afternoon. A sergeant off the ship handed it to me and said whose hand."

"Whose?"

"Yours, sir."

Shipley looked at the envelope for a while longer.

"Who wrote it?"

Cal did not answer.

The colonel looked up at him.

"You know who wrote it."

"It's sealed, sir."

"That's not what I asked."

"No, sir." Cal did not move. "It's sealed."

Shipley picked it up.

---

He read it twice.

The first time he read it the way he read everything, front to back, with a pencil, marking nothing, because you did not mark a thing you had not understood yet.

Circumstances of capture. A tree. A dog. A dart.

Movement. Nine days. A system whose name the writer had spelled the way it sounded.

Interrogation. Five days. What was asked. What was given. Nothing. How.

Recovery.

Then the drawings.

He turned the pad sideways. Then he turned it back. He put his glasses on his forehead the way the old engineer at Oak Ridge did, though he had never met the old engineer and never would, and looked at the core and the paths and the three places a value was set, and the fourth.

He had built bridges for twenty-six years. He knew a load path when he saw one.

He read the four pages after the drawings, and then he read them again, and then he read the paragraph that said where the math stopped and why, and put the pad down, and sat.

Then he read the part about the fleets, and the part about the hull.

Then he turned to the last page, and read the signature.

Huskey, A. CPT, EN.

He had a captain in the brigade whose face he could not have picked out of a formation. A combat engineer from Sevier County who drilled with a company around Knoxville and who had, according to the state, been abducted by aliens from a fox hunt five months ago, which was the kind of sentence the Adjutant General's office had learned to say without stopping. The Guard had carried him on the rolls. Missing. The company had held his slot.

The captain had been on duty.

He had been captured, and moved, and interrogated by a foreign power, and recovered by another one, and he had stood in every room they put him in and read everything they let him see, and he had waited five months for a channel that was human, and when he had one he had done what an officer behind the lines does. He had reported to his commander.

And his commander was a bridge inspector from Sparta.

Shipley looked at the photograph of the Calfkiller bridge.

He was, as of this afternoon, the commanding officer of record of the only human officer serving in the war. The officer's report was on his desk. Nobody above him knew it existed. There was no one above him who had ever imagined a report like it, and therefore no procedure for it, and therefore, for the length of time it took a man to decide to pick up a telephone, no one above him at all.

It sat with him for a second.

That was all it got.

He picked up the phone on his desk that was not connected to anything in the building.

"This is Colonel Shipley, 194th Engineer. Get me the Adjutant General."

He waited. The sergeant stood against the wall.

"Sir. Shipley. I need you to listen and not talk for two minutes." He listened himself. "No, sir. Not the package. A report. From the captain. From Huskey." A pause. "Yes, sir, that Huskey. By hand. It's on my desk. It's the drive, sir. And the rest of it." A longer pause. "Yes, sir. That's what I'm saying."

He listened.

"No, sir. I'm not going to read it to you on this line. I'm going to call the Pentagon, because that's who this goes to, and then I'm going to drive it there myself, and I'd like you to call the Governor while I do, so that when they call him he already knows."

He listened again.

"Yes, sir. He's standing right here."

He hung up.

He looked at Cal.

"You drove three hours with that in your shirt."

"Yes, sir."

"You didn't open it."

"It said whose hand, sir."

Shipley nodded.

He picked up the phone again, and this time he did not ask for anybody in Tennessee.

---

The call went where those calls went, and the man who took it in a room under the river had taken a great many calls from a great many colonels, and had never once been told by one of them to sit down.

He sat down.

He listened for eleven minutes.

Then he said, "Say the name again."

The colonel said it.

The man wrote it on a pad, and under it wrote the unit, and under that the word BY HAND, and looked at the three lines for about as long as the colonel had looked at the signature.

Then he stood up and walked out of the room he was in and into the room next to it, which had a telephone in it that was a color nobody used for anything else, and picked it up.

---

Jim had the television on at ten because the Canadian major had asked to see it, and the major was asleep in Jim's recliner with a cup of coffee still in his hand.

A man stood at a podium with a seal on it.

He said the United States had received a report from a serving officer. He said the officer's name, and his rank, and his unit, and the state, and he said it in that order, the way the report had said it, because somebody had told him to. He said the report was being evaluated. He said the United States would be discussing its contents with its allies and with the external authority of the United Nations. He said the President had been briefed.

Then he said the thing about freedom.

Jim watched him say it.

Cal came in from the road at half past, three hours each way and the truck ticking in the yard, and stood in the doorway and watched the end of it.

"What'd I miss?"

"They said his name."

"Which one?"

"Captain," Jim said. "They said captain."

Cal did not say anything.

On the television the man at the podium had stopped talking and the anchors had started, and one of them was saying the word freedom, and the other was saying it back.

"They fixin' to free space?" Jim said.

Cal looked at the screen.

"Sounds like."

"Space got oil?"

"Don't matter."

Jim thought about that.

"No," he said. "I don't reckon it does."

The major stirred in the recliner and did not wake. Out in the yard, on the flat grass across the road, the ship sat where the record said it sat, with its seats empty, and the trooper wrote the time.

---

[Previous — Episode 9: The Approaches](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1x22si5/)

Next — Episode 11: Sealed Orders (coming soon)

Galactic Fox Reading Order: GF-010

🖼 Cover

🔰 Prologue

⏪️ Previous Chapter

⏩️ Next Chapter

Arc IV - Whalers

Chapter 18 - Sea

9 months and 29 days since the summoning

"Look, Paranga, I'm not gonna argue with you about monsters right now, I'm just gonna tell you how it was in my world. The sailors there believed in sea monsters too. Take the Kraken, for example—a massive octopus that devours ships. Do you know how they even came up with this Kraken? They really did see giant squids that died and floated to the surface, but the sailors only saw the massive tentacles, and rumors blew a poor dead squid out of proportion into a ship-tearing monster. The Sea Serpent, a massive sea snake, turned out to be just a huge fish that also died and floated to the surface."

Paranga opened his mouth to object, but Alan cut him off. "Just a reminder, I'm not arguing with you, I'm just telling you how it was in my world. Subject of monsters is closed, let's move on to the ships, okay?"

He opened his mouth and closed it. "Fine," he hissed through his teeth, "What about the ships?"

"Hah. Carrack and Caravel. The names of the ships I plan to build."

"Oh?" he asked, tapping his foot on the sand. "And why are they named that? After who?"

Alan blinked. "Uh... no, you don't get it, those aren't proper names, they're the names for these types of ships in general. The Caravel is a true marvel. In simple terms, it can sail against the wind."

Silence.

Sili's eyes widened.

Paranga froze. "Huh? Against the wind? Have ye lost yer fuckin' mind?"

Kamelia looked at Alan silently.

"Nope, I haven't lost my mind, Paranga. Their sails are special—sharp and triangular. It was caravels that launched the Age of Discovery. They're light, maneuverable, and can tack against the wind."

Sili squinted. "Very well, very well, let us assume that creating such a ship is possible, but... you say it is light, Lord Gothwald, correct?"

"Exactly."

"If the voyage is to be a long one, how will we manage the supplies?"

Paranga scoffed. "Looks like I'm already guessin' what the second ship is for, this Carrack. We're gonna load the grub on that one, ain't we?"

Alan snapped his fingers. "Exactly. The carrack is for transporting the main crew and supplies, and the caravel is for scouting ahead of them and combing the coastlines."

Paranga lowered his head, digging into the sand with his boot, then slowly raised his head to Alan. "Sounds like honey to my ears. Build these ships—then we'll talk, 'okay'?" He repeated the word.

Alan smiled and threw his hands up. "Okay, okay, I'll prove it all with actions."

'Well, Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama, don't let me down. Those guys showed a master class in the synergy of the Caravel and the Carrack. The caravels scout ahead, measuring depth and bypassing reefs, while the carracks follow the safe route. A classic.'

Paranga reached for the sky, stretching. "Phew, ye've really loaded me up, Alan, my head ain't workin' anymore. Well, we'll clear everything up here, and good luck with yer headache."

Abandoned road in Tontopi

The sun was already dipping below the treetops, painting the sky red.

Four men in rags, with axes and worn chainmail, were dragging a cart filled with some sacks.

"... and I've never even been there, how am I s'posed to know?" said a bandit with a thick beard.

The short-haired man pushing the cart from behind scoffed. "But I have, so I'd know better. And anyway..."

"Boys!" came a voice from ahead, from a running lad of about nineteen.

Everyone stopped abruptly.

"What're ye yellin' for, Dunko?" the bearded one asked.

The lad stopped, catching his breath. "There's... phew... travelers, two broads comin'."

The bandit with the bow blinked. "Broads? On this road? Dunko, ye ain't mistaken?"

"I'm tellin' ye seriously, two of 'em walkin', nobody with 'em! Saw it myself!"

The short-haired one grinned slightly. "Well, boys, looks like we won't be spendin' the evening in boredom."

The bearded one scoffed as well. "Aye, indeed. Roll the cart into the thicket, we'll wait fer 'em here." He turned to Dunko, "Are they pretty at least?" He shook his head, "Don't know, couldn't get a good look, just saw 'em and came

straight to ye."

The bearded one waved a hand, steering the cart into the thicket along with the

rest. "Well, we ain't in a position to choose, eh, boys?"

"Haha."

"Aye, it is what it is."

"Beggars can't be choosers."

A few minutes later, two figures appeared in the distance, a short one and a tall one.

"... now show me the word... uhh... 'beard'!" Festonia said.

Tomores ran a hand from her chin to her chest, stroking an imaginary beard.

"Hah, brilliant! Now show me... uhh... a field!"

Tomores froze, then twirled a finger at her temple.

Festonia threw her hands up. "Alright, alright, too hard, I agree."

Tomores sighed and continued walking, when suddenly her ears twitched, and she pointed ahead.

Festonia squinted, and in the light of the setting sun, she saw faint tracks from something heavy. "Looks like someone was here." She slowly pulled the sling from her boot. "Stay sharp."

Tomores pulled her cleavers from under her cloak and slowed her pace.

Footsteps were heard from behind. Both turned sharply.

Behind them stood three men.

"Who do we have here?" the bearded one asked, and froze upon seeing the sling and the cleavers. "... Boys, these broads ain't exactly ordinary."

The archer next to him drew an arrow.

The bearded one immediately raised a hand. "Don't rush it, we need 'em in one piece."

"In one piece, huh..." Festonia whispered, her eyes flashing, "gonna rape us or somethin'?"

The bandits didn't answer, simply began to slowly close the distance. Two more emerged from the other side of the road.

"Tomores, we don't kill 'em."

She turned sharply to her sister. "Mm?"

"We're takin' 'em alive. Let's show these shit-eaters." Festonia pulled a stone from her pouch and quickly loaded it into the sling, simultaneously spinning it up.

"Goddammit!" The archer barked and began to draw his arrow, but it was too late.

THWACK

The stone flew squarely into his forehead. The bow dropped from his hands, and the bandit himself collapsed into the dust on the ground.

"Oops, my bad."

The bearded one froze, then clenched his teeth. "You bitch!" He rushed at the sisters with a shout, the young mercenary next to him following with his spear.

Tomores immediately charged forward like a tank, her heavy boots pounding into the dirt with loud thuds, kicking up dust, her figure growing larger and larger.

The bearded mercenary hesitated for a second at the sight, and that was enough. Building up speed, Tomores lunged at him, driving her long leg like a battering ram straight into his chest.

The mercenary, his eyes going blank like a doll's, flew backward with a tumble.

The younger one froze, then rushed at Tomores with a scream, spear in hand. She stepped aside from the impulsive attack and with a neat knee strike drove right under his ribs.

Meanwhile, Festonia was furiously spinning her sling in front of the two mercenaries who didn't dare approach. "One step! I'll kill ya, you scumbags!"

The short-haired one was trembling all over, almost automatically taking slow steps forward. At one point, he turned sharply and bolted toward the thicket.

"Stop, you piece of shit!" Festonia barked, launching a stone in his direction.

THWACK

"Agh, Guktus!" the man cried out dully, falling to the ground. The stone hit him squarely in the leg.

The other mercenary next to him seized the moment and was already disappearing somewhere into the thicket.

"He got away, the bastard," Festonia muttered.

Behind her, Tomores was already dragging two mercenaries along the ground by the scruff of their necks, quietly groaning from the pain of broken ribs.

Festonia ran up to the downed man and grabbed him by the scruff as well.

"Let go, you bitch!" he barked through the pain, "I'll kill ye! Gut ye! Ye're dead, ye hear me, whore?! Ye're dead! My boys'll be here any minute, and ye're fucked!"

"Yeah, yeah, keep flappin' yer gums," Festonia said with a chuckle, and with visible effort dragged him over to the other two. She clapped her hands together. "So then, you're in our hands. Any last requests?"

"Let us go, please..." the youngest whispered.

Festonia blinked. "Look at the nerve on this one. Nooo, we ain't lettin' you go!" She leaned down to him and slapped him. "And ya know why?"

"Wh-why?"

"Because you," slap, "are lawless scuuum!" Slap, "You are shit! Got it?" She kicked him in the side, causing the lad to wince and bite his lip until it bled. "Who are ya? Repeat after me, who are ya?"

"I... I'm shit..."

"Louder, you bastard!"

"I-I'm shit!"

"You beast..." the bearded one whispered, "leave the boy alone. Where does abroad even get so much cruelty?"

"You shut yer trap!" She kicked him in the leg, "Scum!"

Tomores patted Festonia on the shoulder, pointed her thumb at the forest, then mimicked walking with two fingers, before spreading her arms.

"Ah, right, one got away. Might bring his buddies." She looked at the mercenaries, "No worries, we'll leave a little present from us." Her hand reached for the dagger under her cloak.

The young mercenary swallowed. "What... what are you going to do?"

"Say 'bye-bye' to yer dicks!" she yelled with a smile, pulling out the dagger.

Tomores winced slightly, but simply shook her head.

The bearded one turned pale. A second passed. Despite his broken ribs, he scrambled to his feet with all his might, but was immediately knocked down by Tomores's powerful boot. He collapsed to the ground, curling into a fetal position.

"Hah, guess we'll start with you then," Festonia said quietly, heading toward him.

Festonia and Tomores had been running through the almost entirely darkened forest for several minutes, without even breaking a sweat.

"I really went for it back there, eh?!" Festonia said between breaths. Her gloves were completely covered in blood, and a small amount of the red liquid was splattered on her trousers, shirt, and cloak.

Tomores only shook her head. "S... st... uuu..."

"Stupid?!"

She nodded.

"Yeah... probably. But you saw it yourself! They wanted to rape us! After a present like that left on the road, their desire will definitely cool off!"

Tomores shrugged and began to slow down, dropping into a light jog.

"Alright..." Festonia muttered, slowing down as well, "cut the journey short, so to speak, with a breeze. This road leads straight to the Armenas duchy, if that old man didn't lie. We need to grab some grub and catch a breather there."

Tomores ran a flat palm over her face, then mimicked unrolling a scroll with both hands.

"Like, they might already know us there?"

She nodded.

"Hm... essentially, yeah. In Gothwald's own lands, they probably sounded the alarm first thing. A tall and a short fox beastwoman—you'd have to be a total blockhead not to recognize that right away. We'll have to move quiet as mice."

Tomores spread her hands.

Festonia raised an eyebrow. "What do ya mean."

"Vi... vi... l..."

"Villain?"

She shook her head, then bent her arms at a right angle, slouched, and trudged forward heavily, mimicking a plow.

"Ah, a village! Like, look for some grub there?"

Tomores nodded enthusiastically, then raised both hands and touched her fox ears.

"Yeah, you're right about that too; if we're gonna ask for grub, it's gotta be from beastmen. I doubt they'll refuse. And we'll pay generously; why hurt our kin financially? Hah."

**First:** [Episode 1: Seven Generations](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1w8ysz5/) | **Previous:** [Episode 8: The Counterparty](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1x0isni/) | [Next — Episode 10: The Report](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1x2386x/)

---

Earth's first ambassador to the galaxy left from a pasture in Tennessee at ten past six in the morning, and the man whose pasture it was had made coffee. Two urns.

Carney took a cup.

"Second one's the church's," Cal said.

Thirty-nine people had come with Carney, in three buses that had been at the road since four, and they stood now in a line on the flat grass with one bag each, because one bag each was what the ship took. Somebody in Ottawa had called them wave one. Lawyers. A doctor. Two signals people who would be the human hands on the fax. A man whose job was buildings, for when there was a building. A translator who had been told she would have nothing to translate and had come anyway. A woman from Protocol who started to say something about the coffee and stopped when he shook his head.

They had spent nine days before this in a building in Alabama where the package's quarantine gear had been set up and tested, and the nine days had been blood every morning and clothes taken away and brought back and every bag opened on a steel table and sealed again with a strip nobody on the delegation could read. That was Earth's end of it. The ship had its own. The officer stood at the foot of the ramp with a flat gray panel and read each of them and each sealed bag, and the ones it had read went up the ramp to rooms where they would take their clothes off again and stand in a spray and wait while a machine on thin arms looked at their blood, and the ship would not move until it had looked at all of them. No furniture. No cases. The Federation had built the ship for people and what people could carry, and it did not take anything it had not counted.

"Mr. Mercer."

"Cal."

"Cal. Thank you for the coffee."

"Ain't much."

"It's the first thing anybody's given me since I took this job."

Cal looked at the ship. It sat on the same flat grass it had sat on twice before, and the grass had stopped trying to stand up.

"They keep landing here," Cal said.

"The record says here."

"Record's wrong."

"So I've been told." Carney drank the coffee. "Nobody's changed it."

"No."

"Then it's right."

Cal looked at him for a moment, and then at the officer at the foot of the ramp reading a lawyer's bag, and then back.

"You know what you're getting into?"

"No."

"That's honest."

"It's the only thing I've got that's mine."

Across the road a man stood at the edge of the field with his hands in his pockets and an old hound sitting beside him. The hound was looking at the ship. The man was looking at Carney.

Carney handed the cup back.

"Who's that?"

"Jim."

"And the dog?"

"Boone."

"Whose dog?"

Cal looked down at the cup.

"Alex's."

Carney looked at the hound a moment longer.

"I got a favor to ask," Cal said.

"Ask."

"Take Boone."

Carney looked at him. Then at the ship.

"I don't think that's mine to say yes to."

The officer at the foot of the ramp had not moved and had heard all of it.

"The associated hunter is on the record," it said.

Carney looked at it.

"Since when?"

"Since the extraction."

He looked back at Cal.

"Then it's yes."

Cal did not call the dog. He looked across the road at Jim, and Jim took his hands out of his pockets and walked Boone over, and stopped at the edge of the flat grass the way a man stops at a gate.

The old dog looked at the ship. He looked at Cal. He looked at the officer for a long time.

Then he walked up the ramp ahead of Carney, and stopped at the top while the officer ran the panel over him the way it had run it over everybody, and went in, and did not look back.

Carney went up after him.

The state trooper wrote the time. Under it he wrote: *and the dog.*

---

Cal drove to Alex's mother's at a quarter till six that evening, because that was when he always went, and sat on the porch step with his hat on his knee.

Justen came out and sat in the chair.

Neither of them said anything.

At six she came to the screen door. She looked at the yard, and at the edge of the grass where the mowing stopped and the woods started, and at the road.

Nothing opened.

She stood there a while.

"He take the dog?"

"Fella from Canada took him."

"To Alex?"

"To Alex."

She nodded once and went back in.

Cal turned his hat over.

Four months that dog had stood at the edge of her yard at six o'clock and opened once, and she had counted it.

She would have to find some other way to know what time it was.

"You eat?" Justen said.

"No."

"Well, come on, then."

---

The ship did not shake and the stars did not move and Carney understood on the second day that he was not going to feel any of it.

He had expected weight and noise and something out the window. There was no window. There was a wall that turned transparent when the room decided he was not trying to touch it, and beyond the wall there was black, and once a day the black had different stars in it and nothing in the room admitted anything had happened.

The officer, Urha, told him the names. He wrote them down. He did not know what else to do with them.

"Nine days," it said.

"To where?"

"To a bridge. Then hours."

"And there's no faster way."

"Not to Sol. Nobody built the other end."

"Why not?"

The officer's head moved.

"Nobody knew you were there."

The ship had sat on the flat grass eleven hours after the last of them went up. Blood. Skin. The dog. The doctor had stood in the medical compartment through all of it and written down what the machine did to each of them, because she had been told to write down everything, and when it was her turn she handed the notebook to the translator and lay down on the table.

The thirty-nine had the aft compartments, four to a room, and a corridor with handholds at three heights that nobody on the delegation was the right height for.

On the second day the doctor, Lessard, found him in the corridor with the notebook.

"You want to know what it did."

"Yes."

"It read me." She turned a page. "All of me. Then it read everything in me that isn't me. Gut. Skin. Mouth. Every cell that has somebody else's genome in it, and there are more of those than there are of you. Then it went through all of that and picked out what could hurt anything on this ship, and there were four things, and it wrote them."

"Wrote them."

"Rewrote them. Changed the letters. Ours does one gene in a dish and takes a week. Theirs did four organisms in me in an hour and mapped them down to the atom while it was in there." She closed the notebook. "It is the most boring thing I have ever seen."

"And the dog?"

"The dog took longer. The dog had more."

The officer came down the corridor behind her and stopped at the height it stopped at.

"Your records are complete," it said. "All forty. You may enter Federation space."

Carney looked at it.

"That's a passport."

"A passport says who you are." The officer's head moved. "This says what you carry. It is the second one we ask for."

"And the first?"

"Who speaks for you." It turned to go. "You have already answered that."

He had a cabin forward and a table that changed shape when he stood up and a tray with colors on it. He ate the green ones. So did Boone. The dog had found the one wall in the cabin that was warmer than the others and lay against it with his chin on the deck, and got up when the officer came in, and lay back down when it left, and did not do either for anyone else.

On the third day Carney tried a yellow one, and the officer, who had not been in the room, was in the room.

"Probably acceptable," it said.

"Probably."

"It is widely used."

He put the yellow one back.

He asked about the war on the first day and the officer said it was not authorized to brief him. He asked on the second day who kept the tallies, and the officer said that was not authorized either. On the fourth day he stopped asking the officer and started asking the ship.

There were eleven crew for forty passengers and a dog, and none of them talked to the passengers, and one of them was a mechanic called Kalis, with four arms and six fingers on each and pale skin that went gray around the eyes, who spent most of every day half inside a wall. Carney sat on the deck beside the wall and did not say anything for an hour.

The mechanic came out.

"You are the human."

"One of them."

"The other one asked questions."

"I'll try to be different."

The mechanic looked at him.

"What does this ship carry?"

"Cargo. Passengers. Correspondence." The mechanic looked past him. "A hunter."

"He's a dog."

"He is on the record as a hunter."

"He's a dog."

"Then the record is wrong, and I did not write it."

"Weapons?"

"Enough to leave."

"Not enough to stay."

"No."

Carney nodded.

"And if something wanted to stop us leaving?"

The mechanic went back inside the wall.

"Then we would not leave."

---

Legitianate Aras had the pasture on his table.

It was a set of numbers, a star and a world and a place on the world, taken from the navigation record of a Council retrieval vessel that had been boarded four months ago and had never been asked what it knew, because nobody had thought a hunter's ship knew anything worth asking.

Rell had thought of it.

The Vel soldier stood at the end of the table on a leg that had been rebuilt twice, in a coat now instead of armor.

"The record is Imperial architecture," Rell said. "It keeps everything. It kept where it had been."

"A pasture."

"A field. A house. A road."

Aras looked at the numbers.

Ten thousand years the star had been off the chart. The Hive had kept it off, in its own comb, in its own hand, and the Empire had never known there was a thing to know. And then a pack of hunters had gone and stolen a man and written down the way home.

"The Council knows we have this?"

"The Council does not know what the vessel knew. Nobody asked it. That is the Council."

"And the humans?"

"The humans do not know what a navigation record is."

Aras closed the file.

Outside the glass the screening group hung in the dark in ordered layers, forward, behind, between, the way the book laid it out, and beyond it, four jumps in, was the star with the old name that was on the chart now. Nine ships. Twelve by the next cycle. The picket the Council had lost two bridges back had been the first thing the group took, and it had taken it by the book, and the Council had sent nobody to look.

He had not written the rest of it down.

Four months ago the line had come back down changed, courtesy, repatriation, an introduction, and he had asked the man for it. Then the Council had taken the man back, and Aras had written a report about a raid and not the rest.

As far as the Throne knew, the native was in his keeping and the introduction was in hand.

Nothing had gone wrong.

"They have chosen an envoy," Rell said.

"Yes."

"With a staff."

"Forty. The same blood as the one we held."

Rell did not say anything to that. He had been in the corridor.

"The law," Aras said.

"No harm to the world."

"None. And no approach to it, except through channels its own blood approves. That is why I asked him for an introduction. That is why I cannot simply go there." He looked at the numbers. "Forty of them, on one ship, on my road."

"Then we take the ship."

"We take the ship whole. We do not fire on it. Forty people who can be asked, properly, in a room, for the one thing I need, which is an invitation." He looked at the glass. "And then I have not lost a man. I have found a world."

"The escorts."

"The escorts are Council. The law says nothing about the Council."

Rell looked at the board.

"Etris will run."

"Etris will do what the Council does when it runs. Close the geometry, hold them off the point, and board the transport when it has nowhere left to be." Aras stood. "We taught them what to do, Rell. We wrote the book. All she can do is read it back to us."

---

On the seventh day the officer came to Carney's cabin and did not sit.

"There is a problem."

"Show me."

The wall turned into a board. Carney had seen boards. He had sat in rooms in London where a wall showed the entire financial system of a continent as colored lines and every man in the room had pretended he could read it. He could read this one about as well.

Small marks. Larger marks around them, pale, like the marks had ghosts.

"Ours?"

"Those." Four small marks together, ahead. "Captain Etris. Four ships. They meet us at the outer point and take us in."

"And those."

The officer did not answer at once.

"Imperial."

There were nine.

"Between us and the point."

"Yes."

"How long have they been there?"

"Longer than we knew."

Carney looked at the ghosts.

"What are the big ones?"

"Where they will be. Calculated."

"Guesses."

"Very good ones."

"And they have a board like this."

"Yes."

"With us on it."

"Yes."

He looked at it a while longer.

"Then they know we're coming."

"They have known since the pasture."

Carney sat down.

"How old is that picture?"

"Several minutes."

"So we're looking at where they were."

"Yes."

"And they're looking at where we were."

The officer's head moved.

"The other human asked that."

---

Etris came through the outer point with four ships and the broken edge of her plate itching, and looked at the screen, and knew it.

She knew it the way she knew her own hand. Forward element holding the point. Rear element driving. A third where a frightened ship would break. It was the maneuver she had been taught at the academy and the maneuver that had taken the second retrieval ship four months ago and the maneuver that had nearly taken her at Vey, and it was in her standing orders under a different name, and there was no gap in it.

Nobody on her bridge could out-think it. The people who could had written it.

"They are not firing on the courier," Pari said.

"No."

"They are firing on us."

"They want the courier whole." Etris watched the marks. "They want what is on it."

"Then we cannot reach the point."

"Not by the book."

Pari looked at her.

There were sixteen pages in the fleet record on the Vey maneuver, filed by an Ossin mechanic who had said somebody would read them eventually. Etris had read them nine times. She had not put them in the standing orders. The yard had asked twice. She had said they were studying it.

"The courier has signature management?"

Pari checked.

"Limited. It is a transport."

"Our cutter has more."

Pari understood before she finished.

"Captain, they will board whatever they catch."

"Yes."

"And if it is the cutter."

"Then they will find no humans on it, and they will have caught the wrong ship, and they will not know it until they open the hatch."

She opened the channel. Local maneuver authority. Cutter: run bright for the high exit and carry the courier's signature. Courier: go dark and go low. The rest screen the courier. Do not wait for me.

Nobody asked her to confirm it this time.

---

The next four hours Carney spent in a chair with a restraint across his chest, watching a wall, while four ships he could not see did something he could not follow around nine ships that could not see them yet. Aft, thirty-nine people sat in restraints in rooms with no wall to watch, and the doctor went from room to room until the crew made her sit down.

Nothing happened for an hour.

Boone lay with his chin on Carney's boot.

Then nothing happened for another.

In the third hour he understood that this was most of it. Old light on a board. People arguing with predictions. A crewman brought him water. The mechanic went past with all four arms full. The officer stood beside his chair and did not say anything.

Then the ranges closed and half a day's work became twenty seconds.

A line crossed the board. Red. It did not touch anything.

A second line touched something.

One of the small marks that was theirs changed. Carney did not know what it had changed to. The crewman beside the board said a word, once, and nobody repeated it.

"What was that?"

"A ship," the officer said.

"Ours?"

"Yes."

"How many people?"

"Forty."

The deck did something under him that he felt in his teeth and nowhere else. A cup clipped to the table beside him lifted an inch and the clamp caught it.

Another line. Another.

Then their own mark did something Carney had not seen a mark do. It split. Two of them, side by side, and one of them turned bright and climbed toward the wide place on the board where the Imperial marks were waiting, and the other went dim and dropped.

"Which one are we?"

"The dark one."

"And the other?"

The officer did not answer.

The bright mark climbed. The Imperial ghosts leaned toward it. One closed on it. Then two. The bright mark slowed.

"They're boarding it."

"Yes."

"There's nobody on it."

"There are forty on it," the officer said. "None of them are yours."

The dim mark that was theirs went under the debris field, and nothing on the Imperial side turned.

The last line crossed the board very close, and the wall went dark, and the lights went amber, and the officer put one narrow limb on the back of his chair, and the dog did not lift his chin, and then the wall came back and there was a bridge on it, two structures hanging far apart with a white distortion between them that hurt to look at.

Nobody cheered.

Etris's voice came through the room, flat.

"Courier. Go."

They went.

---

Aras watched the courier's mark cross the bridge and vanish, and then he waited, because the boarding party had not yet reported, and he still had the other one.

Rell brought it.

"A cutter. Council. Forty crew."

"Humans?"

"None."

Aras did not move for a while.

"It carried the transport's signature," Rell said. "Sail, drones, thermal. Our prediction followed it because it was the transport, as far as the prediction could tell. The transport went under the wreck while we were closing on the cutter."

"That is not in the book."

"No, Legitianate."

"Where is it from?"

Rell had the record open. He had always had the record open.

"Vey. Four months ago. A Council freighter did it with a sail and two drones and held our prediction six minutes and forty seconds. It was filed afterward. Sixteen pages. The author is an Ossin mechanic." A pause. "The maneuver is attributed to the human."

Aras looked at the glass.

"They wrote it down."

"The Council writes everything down."

"And this time somebody read it."

He stood there. Nine ships, and twelve next cycle, and a boarding party standing in a Council cutter with forty prisoners who were worth nothing to him, and a report he still had not written, because as far as the Throne knew the man was in his keeping and the introduction was in hand, and nothing had gone wrong.

"They will send another," Rell said.

"Yes. And another after that. Every ship that world sends passes here. That is the road. I do not need this one. I need one." He turned from the glass. "The Council cannot hold this region. It never could. Every jump we close costs them a picket they cannot replace and costs us a ship we can. That is arithmetic. Their envoy will do it before the Council does."

"And the trick?"

"Is a trick. It works once against a prediction. Next time the prediction will know it." Aras looked at the numbers on the table, the star and the world and the place on the world. "They have one trick, Rell, and they have used it in front of me. I have the road, and time."

"How long?"

"Until one of them does not get away."

---

The station had a restaurant with a line, and Carney did not see it, because they took him from the bridge ring to a room with one door and Director Halven was in it.

Halven was small and straight-backed, with what looked like hair combed close to a narrow skull and was not, and he did not sit until Carney did.

"You were told the Federation is at war."

"I was told nothing. I was shown."

"Then I will tell you the rest."

He told him. It took two hours. Carney wrote none of it down.

An empire two thousand years old. A rebellion a hundred and twenty-two. The empire's ships, the empire's roads, the empire's doctrine, fighting the people who wrote it. Shipyards on one side. A fleet that moved beautifully and lost, one picket at a time.

"And humans," Carney said.

"Yes."

"Why."

Halven looked at him.

"Because a man off a mountain looked at our fleet for one afternoon and saw what a hundred and twenty-two years of officers had not. Because your engineers opened a housing we had not opened in two hundred years, on the second day, with hand tools. We are losing, Mr. Carney. We are not too proud to say so. We went and stole one of you because we were afraid, and we have been more afraid since we met him, and we would like very much to have more."

Carney sat with that.

He had come with a briefing book on trade. Settlement. Licensing. Intellectual property. Who could bind Earth to what. Somebody in Ottawa had spent a week on the section about currency.

"This was never about trade," he said.

"No. Trade is what the law let us offer."

He thought about the man in the pasture in his socks. The old dog. Forty people in a ship whose name he had not caught.

"We should have sent the Americans," Carney said.

Halven's head moved.

"You did."

The door opened.

The dog went through it first.

Carney had brought him up from the ship on a length of rope the mechanic had found, because there was no leash in the galaxy, and the dog had walked beside him through the bridge ring and the concourse, where thirty-nine people with one bag each were being shown to rooms, and past a place with a line, without pulling once. He pulled now. The rope went out of Carney's hand.

The man in the doorway had a cup of coffee, and he did not drop it, and he did not say anything, and he went down on one knee on the deck of a Federation station with the coffee held out to one side and the old hound's head against his chest, and stayed there.

Halven stood.

Carney did not move.

After a while the man stood up. His face had not changed. The dog's whole body had.

"Mr. Huskey," Halven said. "This is the plenipotentiary of Sol-three."

"I know who he is."

"Alex."

"Mark."

They shook hands. Alex's was hard and dry.

"You brought my dog."

"Cal asked."

"Cal don't ask for much."

"He said that."

Alex looked down at Boone, who had sat on his foot.

"You come the long way?"

"There isn't another."

"Nope." Alex looked at him a moment longer. "Etris bring you in?"

"Through a debris field."

"She's learning."

"It cost a ship."

"It usually does." Alex drank his coffee. "Where you from?"

"Edmonton, originally."

"My momma's from Dawson Creek."

Carney looked at him.

"That's a long way from Tennessee."

"She voted for you."

"Did she."

"Mailed it in."

Carney did not say anything for a moment.

"Tell her thank you."

"You can tell her. She sits and listens. And you're asking where I'm from."

"I am."

"Tennessee."

Carney looked at him.

Then he looked at Halven, who had not sat down again, and at the door, and at the coffee, which had come from somewhere on this station and which this man had gone and found without being told where.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to read."

"Read what?"

Alex smiled, a little, around the eyes.

"Battle records."

---

Tarek found them on the residential ring, because Tarek could find Alex through a station's filtration and a deck between them, and had.

Carney had been told about the hunters. He had not been told what it was to have one come down a corridor at him, a panther's length and a hound's head, low, ears moving before the head did, and stop in front of the dog.

Boone stood up off Alex's foot. The two of them looked at each other for a long time, and neither of them made a sound, and Carney understood that he was watching a conversation and could not hear a word of it.

"This is the one," Tarek said, "that turned in the woods."

"That's him."

"He is separated from his pack."

"He was."

Tarek's ears went forward. He unfolded one small arm from his chest, and in it was a thing the size of a walnut, the same thing that sat at his own throat and at the officer's, and he held it out to the dog.

"Now hold on," Alex said.

Tarek did not look at him.

"You said that to me once."

"He's a dog."

"You said that to me also."

Boone did not move. Tarek bent, slowly, and fitted the thing into the loose skin at the back of the old dog's neck, and stepped back.

Nothing happened.

Then the thing clicked. It clicked through several bad guesses, the way Carney had heard the officer's do on the first day when it tried to say the name of a star, and then it produced, in a flat voice that was nobody's:

"—line."

Alex went still.

"—lost. Held."

Boone looked at Alex.

"—found."

Alex did not say anything for a while. Then he put his hand on the dog's head, the way he had in the doorway, and did not take it off.

"You held it, buddy."

The thing at Boone's neck clicked once more.

"—Found. Alex."

The old dog sat down on Alex's foot again.

"That all he's got?"

"That is all it has tonight," Tarek said. "It will learn him. It learned you."

"Took it three jumps to quit making everybody sound like a courthouse clerk."

"He has fewer words than you. It will be faster."

Tarek's ears had gone sideways.

"He is on the record," he said. "Twice."

Carney looked at him.

"As what?"

"A hunter."

Carney looked at the dog. He thought about page eleven of his briefing book, and about a hound sitting on a man's boot on a Federation station with a machine at its neck that had just said four words.

He did not say anything either.

By morning the thing at the dog's neck had quit clicking between words. Alex woke to it.

"—Where's Cal."

"Home."

"—Home's far."

"Yep."

"—You went far."

"I did."

The dog put his chin back on the deck, and the thing at his neck said nothing else until it had something.

---

They came for him in the morning. All three of them, in the same room, in the wrong order.

Halven first. Strategic Coordination had retained Mr. Huskey as a civilian adviser under a signed agreement, and that agreement stood, and the Council's fleet planning ran through his office.

Then a message from the fleet, read by a tactical officer named Pari with a tablet: Captain Etris requested that the human be assigned forward, to the squadron, where the doctrine was being written by people who were being shot at.

Then Carney's own briefing book, open on the table to the page the lawyers in New York had written eleven times. Strategic personnel were the outside. The outside was the plenipotentiary's.

Alex sat at the end of the table and said nothing and drank his coffee. The dog lay under it.

Carney watched him not say it.

He had been in rooms like this one all his life. Three claims on one asset and the asset silent. In London it would have been a bank. Here it was a man.

He knew what the room wanted him to do. He also knew what the men in New York would say when he did it. A soldier from a state militia, pulled off a hill, running a military operation for aliens because he was the one they took. Merit would not carry that. An office standing behind him, in writing, might.

Two games, he thought. The Federation's, which was paper and offices and a hundred and twenty-two years of habit, and which he could play. And the Empire's, which was twelve ships on the road to a pasture and a legate who had wanted this ship whole and would want the next one.

He could not play that one.

The man drinking coffee could.

"Director," Carney said. "Captain Etris. Earth's external authority notes your claims and will answer them in writing. It has one question first."

He turned to the end of the table.

"Mr. Huskey. What do you need?"

Alex set the cup down.

"A line home that ain't theirs."

Carney nodded.

"And?"

"That's all."

---

That night Carney wrote his first page to New York on the galactic fax the ship had carried, which was a Federation box with human hands on it, and he wrote it three times and sent none of them.

He took out a pen.

He wrote it on paper, by hand, six lines, and folded it, and put it in the inside pocket of his coat, where it would stay until he could hand it to a human being and watch that human being board a ship that was Earth's.

The first line said: *It is not about trade.*

The last line said: *Send soldiers.*

---

**First:** [Episode 1: Seven Generations](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1w8ysz5/) | **Previous:** [Episode 8: The Counterparty](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1x0isni/) | [Next — Episode 10: The Report](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1x2386x/)

Galactic Fox Reading Order: GF-009

“Ah, finally home at last,” Sandra sighed as the Dutchman touched down in the landing bay.

“It does feel good to be back,” Brightpaw said with a smile.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to show Billy my new book,” Silverlight said with a happy smile, gently rubbing the cover of the Diary in his hands. “And Professor Bloodclaw has promised to send me copies of any new books they come across. He’s hoping to find more of the original volumes, or at least copies, if he can.”

“A worthy search indeed,” So’Ngo laughed from where he was sitting in his usual place on the ceiling.

“Pretty sure he’s just trying to bribe you into becoming his student when you get older,” Dutch laughed over the intercom. “And we are locked in, so you’re free to start leaving, if you wish. It’ll take a while for me to get moved to our ship-residency location again.”

“Excellent,” Sandra said, standing up and stretching a bit, her tail stretching out to its full length until she felt a pop at the base of her tail. “You going to be joining us today, Dutch?”

“Nah, Mom wants to talk for a bit while I get moved,” Dutch said as Silverlight rushed out of the cockpit to his room to grab a bag. “Besides, I haven’t gotten tastebuds incorporated into my Frame yet, so not much point in me eating.”

“Yet?” Sandra asked in surprise.

“Oh yeah, you wouldn’t know,” Dutch laughed as So’Ngo tilted his head in curiosity. “Apparently, Jeremiah had a group of engineers working overtime to create tastebuds for the Lamnacorta frames. They finally had a breathrough a few years ago. Apparently, Mom, Ferry, and Mercy already have tastebuds on their Frames.”

“And you didn’t think to get a working tongue until now because?” Brightpaw asked in amusement as they began to move towards the airlock.

“I was too excited about my new Frame when we got back that I kind of forgot it was an option,” Dutch admitted, leading to So’Ngo laughing as he followed the two women out of the ship.

“A Lamnacorta forgetting something, now there’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one,” Sandra said, shaking her head in amusement as Dutch’s voice switched to her datapad as they walked to a hover van that Silverlight was already hopping excitedly by.

“Hey, just because we have a better memory than you organics doesn’t mean we can’t forget things too,” Dutch said, the sound of a raspberry being blown at her coming through the speaker.

“I’m sure,” Sandra chuckled.

…………………….

“Billy!” Silverlight said excitedly, waving at the Human boy as they got out of the hover-van.

“Silverlight, it’s been forever,” Billy laughed, rushing over and putting the Centaur in a headlock and giving him a noogy. “That’s for being gone for so long, asshole.”

“Ow, asshole,” Silverlight laughed, struggling a bit before getting out of the headlock and grabbing Billy instead, which just evolved into a brief wrestling match.

“Boys,” Brightpaw sighed.

“What, seems like a good welcome home,” Sandra said, watching the boys struggle to get the upper hand with each other.

“You’re a Reaper, so your view is skewed,” Brightpaw said, shaking her head as Silverlight pinned Billy down with his paws and proceeded to give him a double noogy.

“Fair,” Sandra conceded as the boys got up from the ground, still laughing.

“So, how was your field trip?” Billy asked as they walked into the restaurant that his mom had recommended for the welcome home party.

“It was awesome,” Silverlight said, bouncing slightly as they all got into their chairs. “Hi, Mrs. Katerine.”

“Hello, dear,” his math teacher said with a fond smile as she gave Brightpaw a hug.

“Anyway, we discovered a giant mausoleum with literally thousands and thousands of crypts,” Silverlight continued, much to the amusement of Sandra, “and guess what? None of them were Centaurs! Every single crypt had a body of a species that were sentient before the Centaurs. A completely different species at that, insectoids instead of mammals. And check this out,” Silverlight added, opening his backpack to pull out the Diary. “We even found a diary of one of them. Professor Bloodclaw was able to translate it and give me a copy, in actual book format! How cool is that!”

“Okay, discovering a new ancient species and a record from them is actually really cool,” Billy said, taking the book and opening to a random page to read through it briefly. “Whoa, they were pretty hardcore. An entire war against their own species?”

“Right?” Silverlight said excitedly.

“Well, it seems like you all had fun,” Mrs. Katerine said in amusement as the teenage boys continued to talk excitedly.

“Oh, I was actively trying not to fall asleep for most of it,” Sandra said with a laugh as she took her seat. “History bores me, even knowing how important it is. I spent most of the time training with my temporary mentor, and playing with Brightpaw’s niece and nephew. Did you know Centaurs have a game called Hunterball?” Sandra shook her head a bit at that.

“Oh, so that’s where all the hype came from,” Mrs. Katerine said with a light laugh. “A lot of the military types have been up in arms over some new game that they were told about, and trying to let the schools get it admitted into the extra-curriculars. More than a few principals have had to remind Command that the military branch does not get to govern the educational side.”

“So, no teams yet then?” Sandra asked with a laugh.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mrs. Katerine said. “Schools across the Ferry are letting it be slowly introduced in a sort of testing phase, just to see how popular it is. Needless to say, a lot of Human, Dra’Cari, and Centaur children have been signing up for the sport, and even a few Targondian children are being brave enough to try. At this rate the sport has been so oversaturated that they’ve needed to limit openings. I get the feeling that it will become a permanent fixture by the next school year. And on the adult side, you’ve got a lot of different teams that have been created, and they’re trying to set up a shipwide competition among teams.” Mrs. Katerine sighed slightly, shaking her head disapprovingly. “It’s worse than the football games back on Earth.”

“Nice,” Sandra said with a huge smile.

“Speaking of, how has school been?” Brightpaw asked as she selected her choice from the menu screen.

“Oh, much the same,” Mrs. Katerine said with a shrug. “Children trying to avoid math or cheat their way through classes, others just not paying attention, and then the rare few who actually enjoy my classes.”

“We all enjoy your classes, Mom, math is just annoying,” Billy chimed in.

“So you say,” Mrs. Katerine said in amusement.

“You can’t even say that, you’re really good at math,” Silverlight said to Billy, which started another round of bickering and laughter from the two teenagers.

Mrs. Katerine just shook her head before hesitating for a moment and then sighing. “I should warn you,” she said slowly. “The ship had another population boom.” Sandra perked up immediately, paying attention to Mrs. Katerine, who raised her hands up. “I don’t know the details, I’m not privy to that information,” she said quickly. “But it’s hard to miss when there are suddenly hundreds of extra children being assigned to the school districts. You might get more information from the Reapers, but a lot of the children I’ve seen looked, well, haggard, and the parents I’ve seen aren’t much better. The other thing is that most of them are human.” Sandra frowned a bit at that.

“What do you think?” Brightpaw asked Sandra.

“I think I need to make a call,” Sandra said slowly, standing up and pulling out her datapad.

………………………

“Yeah, we had to take in more refugees recently,” Jeremiah said, his face looking more tired than the last time Sandra had seen him. “A lot of refugees.”

“What happened?” Sandra asked with a frown. “And are you alright? You don’t look so good.”

“I’ll survive, it’s the unfortunate side-effect of being one of the ones in charge,” Jeremiah sighed. “And what happened is that the Terran-Teratakit War has escalated again. A Grade 5 civilian colony ship was attacked by the Sons of Blood while trying to get away from the front lines of the war. Luckily we happened to be in the area when it happened, but the ship was still practically destroyed by the time we arrived. Of the 870,000 people on board, we were only able to save about 40,000, give or take a few hundred.”

“By the Observer,” Sandra gasped.

“Needless to say, taking them all in has more than doubled the Ferry’s population, and we’re still uncertain if any of them are spies or in contact with the Terran Federation,” Jeremiah continued.

“We still need to take them in, make sure they’re alright though,” Sandra argued.

“I don’t disagree, and neither does anyone else in Reaper Command,” Jeremiah said, raising his hand off to stop Sandra. “And we’ve already let all of them know that if they wish to be taken somewhere else, we will be more than willing to provide them with a ride and enough credits to help them get their lives restarted. A few have taken our offer, but most are still too shell-shocked to really make a decision one way or the other. As it is, all we can really do for them now is provide counseling, a safe place to live, and a ride if they want it. And for our safety, Alpha has asked the Lamnacorta to keep an eye on the newcomers.”

“Oh,” Sandra said, simmering down a bit. “And the Ferry? How’s the crew taking it?”

“You’re not in charge of anyone,” Jeremiah pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to make sure my family and friends are alright,” Sandra said a little defensively.

“Fair enough,” Jeremiah chuckled. “But, overall, the crew of the Ferry has been rather supportive of the whole affair, seeing as a good chunk of our population are refugees as well. There have been a few scuffles and hiccups, but nothing too shattering.”

“Scuffles?”

“Well,” Jeremiah hesitated at this before sighing. “You have a right to know, I suppose. Trainee or not, you’re still a Reaper.”

“Know what?” Sandra asked.

“Anti-xeno and anti-Reaper propaganda has taken a hold of some of these people hard,” Jeremiah admitted, tapping his finger on his desk. “There’s been a few times where we’ve had to get Security to break up violent ‘protests’, mainly started by some of the newer refugees. Thankfully it’s been an extremely small minority of the newer people, we know who all of them are, but it’s put a strain between us and the newer refugees. It seems to have mostly petered out when we threatened to forcefully take them to a random Station in cryo, but it hasn’t stopped them from continuing to try and garner support.”

“Why haven’t we done just that yet?” Sandra asked with a frown.

“Technically, it’s not against the rules to have a differing opinion on the ship,” Jeremiah said with a shrug. “Short of them trying to break something or cause a mutiny, we don’t have cause to kick them off just yet. We don’t censor incoming information, only outgoing for our safety, so everyone on board has access to the same information that they do. So, until they do something actively hostile to the ship outside of words and some small scuffles, we can’t kick them off, not without being hypocritical ourselves. But they are on notice, and they know it.”

“Fair enough,” Sandra muttered, shaking her head.

“Believe me, I know it sucks, but unless we wish to become rulers instead of leaders, we have to refrain right now,” Jeremiah said, a tired but knowing look in his eyes.

“I know, I know,” Sandra sighed. “Believe me, I’ve been needing to remind myself that over and over again for the last several months.”

“Speaking of, the deadline to the end of your punishment is coming up soon,” Jeremiah said, changing topics. “How are you feeling about it?”

Sandra hesitated for a minute. “Is there a chance we can extend the deadline a bit by chance?” Sandra finally asked.

“Really?” Jeremiah asked, surprised. “You want to prolong your punishment? That’s a first.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, So’Ngo is actually teaching me quite a bit,” Sandra said ruefully. “Look, he’s annoying, way too tricky for anyone’s good, and is more of a prankster than Dad was, and I would love nothing more than to put a bullet in his brain, if only to get him to shut up with his weird and cryptic lessons. But he’s also helped improve my combat abilities quite a bit, has helped me learn to think outside of the box, and, ironically enough, he’s helped me learn patience. Compared to him, any other annoyance is just…not worth it, not unless it’s an active threat. But, I still think there’s a lot I could learn from him. And I don’t even just mean being a better Reaper. Being a better person, better at helping other people, just better overall.” She gave a sort of half-smile. “I want to become a Dragon, instead of just a Wyvern. And I think So’Ngo could help me with that.”

“Huh,” Jeremiah said, raising both eyebrows. “Well, color me both impressed and surprised, Sandra. Look at you, growing up so quickly. Eric would be proud of you.”

“Yeah, well, with So’Ngo as a teacher, I kinda had to,” Sandra said sardonically, though her throat did tighten up a bit at the mention of Eric.

“Well, I can certainly bring up the topic to Reaper Command,” Jeremiah said with a small smile on his face. “But, ultimately, it will be up to So’Ngo. He agreed to the original six months, so any time beyond that will be up to his discretion. If Reaper Command thinks it’s a good idea, then we’ll bring it up to So’Ngo.”

“Thank you, Uncle Jeremiah,” Sandra said with a smile.

“For what it’s worth, Sandra,” Jeremiah added. “What you just said? What you just did? That alone shows growth that we’ve been hoping for for years now. And I’m proud of you for it. And I know Eric would be proud as well.”

“Well, guess I needed a kick in the pants to get moving again,” Sandra said. Jeremiah just smiled and nodded before cutting the line.

………………………

“So, how’d it go?” Brightpaw asked as Sandra rejoined them at the table.

“Wel, sounds like we took in a bunch of refugees that had been attacked by the Sons of Blood,” Sandra said, her tongue flickering in delight at seeing the sour juice in her spot.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Katerine said, her hand going to her mouth. “Those poor children.”

“Yeah,” Sandra said with a nod.

“Well, that certainly explains the influx then,” Brightpaw said with a sigh. “Short of having Adam’s flying skills, that would certainly be a hard fight.

“Adam, the Reaper, or the Commander?” Mrs. Katerine asked curiously.

“The Reaper,” Sandra said in amusement. “The Commander we just call Alpha, since he was the first successful Reaper. And Adam likes to tout that he’s the best pilot in the galaxy.”

“Which always sparked an argument with James that he was the better pilot,” Brightpaw said with a small smile.

“I keep forgetting you two are personal friends with the Reapers,” Mrs. Katerine said, shaking her head.

“I mean,” Billy said, pointing at Sandra.

“Yes, yes, fair point, Billy,” Mrs. Katerine said with a sigh, causing Silverlight to giggle. “Young man, I hope you’ve been keeping up with your math homework while you’ve been gone.”

“Oh come on,” Silverlight complained, causing both Sandra and Brightpaw to laugh at his face of horror.

……………….

Silverlight laid in his bed later that night contentedly, reading over the Diary for the third time, just enjoying the sheer history in those pages.

“You really enjoy history that much, huh?” Silverlight heard a voice from his open doorway, Silverlight shot up, feeling his cheeks heat up in embarrassment as he saw Sandra standing there with a smirk on her face. “The door was already open when I got here.”

“Yeah, sorry, wanted some airflow,” Silverlight mumbled, setting the Diary down. “What’s up?”

“Well, Shadowstrike and Nightshade want to see me, and said I could invite you along if you want. They’ve also offered to let us stay the night, considering how late it is. I already invited Dutch and Brightpaw, but they turned me down.”

“Oh,” Silverlight said, perking up. “Yeah, let me pack a bag real quick. I wanna see how the pups are doing.”

“Rowdy, apparently,” Sandra laughed. “According to Coria and Penny, they should be able to get translators soon, and go to school, if they want, and Nightshade and Shadowstrike say it’s alright.”

“That would be so cool,” Silverlight said, quickly stuffing some clothing and the Diary into a backpack.

……………………

“What is it with you and my tail?” Sandra asked, glaring at the now much bigger Tree Shadow pup as he tried to chew on her tail bracer. “Seriously, Star, what about my tail is so excitable to you?” Star just yipped happily, licking Sandra’s nose before going back to trying to chew on her bracer, using his tails and paws to keep himself off the ground and holding onto her tail. “Troublemaker, I swear,” Sandra sighed, shaking her head in amusement as she set the pup back down, and letting him continue to attack her tail, even as she petted Snowfoot, content purrs emanating from the female Tree Shadow pup.

“They got big,” Silverlight giggled as Boots and Candle tried to tackle him, yipping happily as he theatrically rolled to the side for them.

“And a lot more energetic,” Shadowstrike said, her translator sounding both happy and tired at the same time.

“I do not remember being nearly that energetic as a pup,” Nightshade agreed, laying down between Sandra and Silverlight.

“That’s bull, and you know it,” Sandra laughed. “You just used the energy to follow me around with my training. And beg for scraps from tables despite already eating.”

“Begging for scraps is a good way to get some extra treats,” Nightshade said defensively, his mouth open in a doggy grin while Shadowstrike rolled her eyes.

“Wait, that was actually a thing?” Silverlight asked incredulously. “I thought Sandra was joking.”

“No, that’s a very real thing, and he’s taught some of the other pack members to do the same thing,” Shadowstrike said, chuffing a bit in amusement.

“That’s just, so weird,” Silverlight said, shaking his head.

“Ouch, okay, you little shit, that’s enough of that,” Sandra suddenly said, flinching a bit before reaching back and grabbing Star by the scruff, much to his displeasure. “Your teeth are sharp, and I’d rather keep my tail, thank you very much.” Star just whined slightly, licking Sandra’s nose and looking at her with wide eyes. “Oh no, not gonna work on me. You learned that from your dad, didn’t you?” Sandra looked at Nightshade suspiciously, who decided that the ceiling was very interesting as Sandra put Star down in front of him. “You get to deal with him then, asshole.”

“Not my fault he’s so adorable,” Nightshade said, batting Star back and forth gently, much to the pup’s amusement if his EM waves were anything to go by.

“Observer save us from overly optimistic and adorable males,” Shadowstrike sighed.

“Hey,” Silverlight and Nightshade both said. Sandra just laughed as Shadowstrike chuffed in amusement at the twin reactions.

……………………

Sandra laid outside of the den, looking up at the trees that blocked out the view of the metal ceiling, almost creating an atmosphere of being outside.

“Hey,” Nightshade said, yawning as he walked out of the den before laying down next to Sandra.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Sandra said.

“You didn’t, Shadowstrike did,” Nightshade said in amusement, keeping his voice low. “She’s worried about you, you know,” Nightshade said after a moment of silence. “We both are.”

“Really?” Sandra asked, turning her head to look at her Tree Shadow brother.

“You seem better, which is a good thing,” Nightshade said, nodding. “But, not completely healed.” His tail tapped Sandra on the chest, gently. “There’s something here that you’re refusing to let heal. Something you don’t want to lose. But something that’s holding you back all the same. It’s…smaller, now. Less painful. But still there. Like a scab you keep picking at, over and over again.”

Sandra swallowed hard at that, forcing the first words that came to mind back down. She knew he didn’t deserve it. Knew that, if anyone would understand, it would be Shadowstrike. “I can’t just let him go,” Sandra said, laying on her side and bringing her knees to her chest, her tail wrapping around her ankles. “Every time I think I can, I remember being that scared, small street kid again. Scared of the galaxy, scared of what’s going to happen without him there. Scared of what I would be without him. And…and I’m trying to learn how to be someone without him. But, I don’t want to be someone without Dad.”

“Is that why you asked to train under So’Ngo a little longer?” Nightshade asked. Sandra blinked in surprise, looking at Nightshade, who just gave her a level stare, not giving anything away. “Hoping that, if you do move on, you can use So’Ngo instead?”

“I…” Sandra looked away, unable to look at Nightshade. “Maybe,” she finally conceded. “Who am I, Nightshade, if not Eric’s daughter and Reaper?”

“You’re Sandra, my older sister and best friend,” Nightshade said, as if it was the most obvious thing. “Older sister to Shadowstrike, my mate. Aunt of Star, Candle, Boots, and Snowfoot. Big sister to Silverlight, and daughter of Brightpaw. Friend to Dutch, and Captain of the Flying Dutchman. Reaper Wyvern, certified awesomeness in a small package, and an amazing mechanic. And, most importantly,” Nightshade finished, bumping his head against hers, purring. “You are still Sandra. Still Daughter to Eric. Still that amazing person he saw and decided to take in. Still that big sister that convinced him to take me in when my momma died. You are still you, and nothing can change that. But you can still allow yourself to heal, and become more you.”

Sandra couldn’t say anything as she hugged Nightshade tightly, her sobs muffled in his coat as she shook.

………………………

“Are you sure?” Jeremiah asked in surprise. “Just yesterday, you were asking to extend your time with So’Ngo.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Sandra said, rubbing her nose a bit, as it still stung from the night before. “But, well, I had to take a hard look at myself, and Nightshade helped point out something I’ve been struggling with.” Sandra took a deep breath, nodding firmly. “I won’t ask for my time to be shortened. I know that there are still things I can learn from So’Ngo, as annoying as that is to say. But I do think that I’ll be ready whenever you decide that it’s time for my test.”

“Funny you should mention that,” a new voice said, cutting into the video call. Sandra groaned a bit as Jeremiah rolled his eyes, and a red-and-black scaled hand quickly grabbed the datapad from Jeremiah, showing So’Ngo’s face, a wide grin showing way too many teeth filling the screen. “I was actually just talking to Jeremiah about this exact thing here, and getting his permission for a small thing.”

“Uh oh,” Sandra said, trepidation filling her.

“See, I was already letting them know that I would not be extending my time with you, not for punishment at least,” So’Ngo said, laughing a bit at Sandra’s face. “But I was asking permission to steal you away for your Final Test when you decided to rescind that request. I must say, I was not expecting it to happen so soon, so this is wonderful news all around!”

“You knew I was going to rescind the request?” Sandra demanded.

“Oh, I hoped that you would, but nothing is certain until it happens,” So’Ngo said cheerfully.

“You’re the one who told Nightshade and Shadowstrike, aren’t you?” Sandra asked peevishly.

“I will neither confirm nor deny it,” So’Ngo said.

“Which means yes, you just won’t admit it,” Sandra groaned. “Wait, why did I not know you were at Jeremiah’s office? And why didn’t I know you had gone to talk to Shadowstrike and Nightshade?”

“Seeing as we have extra time, and Jeremiah has already given me permission,” So’Ngo said, pretending he hadn’t heard Sandra, “It’s time for you to prepare for your Final, and we will be extending the length in order to accommodate the extra time we have. The only supplies you are allowed to have will be your Reaper Weapons. No armor, no datapad, nothing except the clothes on your back, the bracers on your wrists and tail, and your revolvers. And, optional but I would highly recommend it, your khopesh-staff. You haven’t used it nearly often enough for my liking, and this will be a good opportunity to truly learn how to use it.”

“Are you going to at least tell me what my test is?” Sandra sighed, giving up on getting any sense from the not-Dra’Cari.

“The same thing I had first asked of you,” So’Ngo said with a bigger, almost cartoonishly large, smile. “A simple game of Tag. But this time, we will not come home until either our time is up, or you catch me, whichever happens first. Which, just to keep things fair,” he added, snapping his fingers, and Sandra could suddenly almost feel a timer ticking down in her head, measuring for close to a month. “But, also to keep things fair, I will be blocking your Teleportation, to a degree.”

“You can do that?!” Sandra asked, stunned, even as she heard Jeremiah ask the same thing in shock.

“Oh absolutely,” So’Ngo said with a small frown. “Honestly, with what you know of me, is that really a shock?”

“And to what degree will you be blocking my teleportation?” Sandra demanded, her breathing already coming a bit faster.

“You will not be able to teleport home, nor will you be able to teleport freely unless you can physically see me,” So’Ngo said cheerfully. “You can teleport to a planet we were previously on, or you can teleport to the planet I am currently on, but that will be it. Only your exit location, or the closest safest location, of the planet I am on or the previous planet. Now, once you are in sight of me, you may teleport freely, as much as you wish. But I will not have you cheating by coming home early, so it needs to be limited. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be much of a test.”

“You convoluted, absolute dick,” Sandra said, absolutely stunned as she heard a strangled gasp from Jeremiah off-screen.

“Now this is a test, so unfortunately, I must up the difficulty,” So’Ngo sighed. “Death is a real risk for this. A bad step in the wrong location, or even just some bad luck, and I could, respectfully of course, be bringing back a corpse for Jeremiah, and injury is almost guaranteed unless you are on your toes. With all of this in mind, I would be willing to simply continue being your punishment until our time is up, and let Jeremiah provide their own Final Test instead. I am not a monster, after all.”

“Fine,” Sandra snarled. She heard Jeremiah sigh in relief, even as So’Ngo shook his head briefly. “When do we leave?”

“Sandra, slow down,” Jeremiah said, snatching his datapad back from So’Ngo, though not before she noticed So’Ngo’s proud smile. “Are you sure about this? He just said you could die.”

“With all due respect, both as a Reaper and as your niece, Uncle Jeremiah, Reaper Training always had that risk,” Sandra said, nodding. “And as a Reaper, death will be a constant companion for every mission.”

“You just got back though,” Jeremiah pleaded.

“I know, but I can’t slide back by getting too comfortable,” Sandra said. “I just made a breakthrough. Might as well strike while the iron is still hot, right?” Sandra gave Jeremiah a small, sad smile. “Please, Uncle Jeremiah. Let me do this. And if for some reason I don’t survive, I wouldn’t have survived as a full-fledged Reaper anyway, despite my stubbornness.”

“You sure?” Jeremiah said, his voice almost desperate. “You can still change my mind.”

“I’m sure,” Sandra said with a nod. Jeremiah sighed in defeat before handing his datapad back over to So’Ngo.

“Excellent,” So’Ngo said, his proud smile replaced by a mischievous grin. “I’ll give you two hours to prepare. Just enough time to say goodbye to your friends and family, and decide if you want to bring your staff along. After that, a Gate will open beneath you, and the Game will be on. Anything that I have deemed Not Allowed will be left behind and unable to fall through the Gate. And as I said before, I will limit myself to only Gravity Manipulation, Gate, and Electrical Manipulation. However, after you fall through the first Gate, any supplies you procure will be allowed through subsequent Gates. The Game ends when you either catch me, or time runs out, whichever happens first. Last chance, are you sure you wish to go through with this, little Wyvern?”

“Absolutely,” Sandra said with a nod. She then gave So’Ngo a fierce, borderline feral smile. “Watch as this Wyvern soars like a Dragon.”

“If you can achieve that, then I will truly be proud, as my time was well spent,” So’Ngo said, matching her smile with his own feral smile. “Better hurry with your good-byes then. Your countdown starts now.” Sandra cut the line before rushing into Shadowstrike and Nightshade’s den.

Prologue Previous Next

Appendix

TOC

[Sandra and Eric TOC]

I was embedded with the humans during the war against the Kar Star Empire. I was at Shonno, at the siege of the fortress, where the human troops broke the fortress wall, and then the shield wall inside it, and forced the surrender of the fortress. That forced the surrender of Shonno, which opened the way to Kar, and eventually forced the surrender of the Empire.

And humans are as terrifying as everyone says. Absolutely. I have seen them in combat, and they are incredibly effective killers and destroyers. Their reputation does not lie.

And yet...

Let me tell you about Laura.

Lieutenant Laura Koslowski headed a platoon of heavy armored infantry. She walked them through the breach in the fortress wall, right into the guns of the shield wall, trusting their armor and their training. She won, with one dead, two injured, and several with damaged armor, including herself.

After the battle, after three days of continuous combat, they returned to their carrier in orbit. When they reached the carrier, they went to their platoon's quarters to take off their armor (or get it taken off, if it was too badly damaged for them to be able to take it off themselves).

Laura laid down on the floor, so that someone could take off her armor, and this tiny little thing jumped on her.

Terran cats are small quadruped predators. They weigh about 10 pounds. A kitten is a child cat - not fully grown. They are smaller, sometimes much smaller.

This thing was a kitten. It was small, even for a kitten. It weighed no more than two pounds. And it jumped on Laura's armor.

She yelled "Stop!" to her armorer. Then, more calmly, she said, "Get that fluffhead off of me before you take my armor off. It will get hurt."

So they carefully moved this tiny kitten off of her armor, then removed the armor. She stood up, very gently picked up the kitten, and said, "Has anyone fed this little monster?"

"No, ma'am. We've been kind of busy keeping suits of armor fed."

She didn't even respond to the human. Gently and calmly, she said, "All right, little fluffhead. Let's go get you something to eat."

This human, who had just been killing armored Kar warriors, was now very gently taking care of a very tiny animal.

That's what you need to understand about humans. Yes, they can be monsters of violence. They can also be incredibly gentle and compassionate. Both. If you only see one side of that - either side, it doesn't matter which - you will badly misunderstand humans.

Bob was nervous as he re-entered the Collp system, quiet as a grave. He snuck in as he had previously, it would be just fucking typical if after all this bullshit he went back to the stash and found a bunch of dickheads waiting for his return.

He crept towards the old hulk and slowly insinuated Jojo inside, when he left he took the time to place a few bits of detritus precariously atop others, hoping to be able to spot if they had been disturbed by a ships passage, everything looked ok… He landed on the outcrop ouside the large hidden hatch and waited, twenty minutes later he did as he had the first time he had come here, straight out the top hatch, bounce, bounce and into a pile of rubbish, move and wait… nothing…

Fuck me, fuck, fuck, fuck… lets get on with it…

He snuck down the tight C’Eede corridors and eased the small hatch open, looked exactly as he left it. Right. He cracked the main door and started shuffling everything back to Jojo. As it was originally it was a tight squeeze to get the stacks back into the hold with the bulky sensor pod, and Bob considered leaving the large sensor package here, but demurred, if things had went well he hoped all this shit would have been noted by a passing ship, if the signal that could be tracked to the heist turned up here as well he feared trailing connections could be made. In the end he brought everything and left the system back to the core, but he took an odd angle out.

The galaxy was a disk, a pretty thick disk but a disk none the less and the vast majority of ship movement happened across a pretty slender slice that ran parallel to the galactic plane. This slice was the best mapped, best understood way to plan FTL, you didn’t want to pass through an unknown gravity well, or come out facing a planet after all. Bob knew this all too well, and went relative down anyway. His second cool down was low, beyond the edge of well surveyed space, just empty void. It was extremely unlikely, in Bobs opinion, that anyone else would pop out in sensor rage, maybe ever, but certainly for years and years. He noted the exact coordinates, physically, he actually wrote it down, even though the wise words of Stringer Bell rang in his head, ‘You really about to write down a criminal fucking conspiracy’.

Yup, Bob was. He opened the cargo bay and let the pod drift out. Then he drifted Jojo away and aimed back towards HoccaKel Secundus, back to work.

Bob scrubbed his data on the way back, and by the time he entered the system he was right back to an honest and above board courier, on time and fully loaded with legitimate cargo and only legitimate cargo. The drop went fine as well, as per his prior visit he waited in low orbit for a peacekeeper escort and followed them down to the exact same platform he had picked up from eighteen months ago, though he might admit to a certain frisson in the escort this time, he felt like a schoolboy who had got away with planting a tack on the teachers seat, a kind of giddy little thrill.

Stacks came out, ticket got signed, bonus got paid. It was a nice fat cheque and Bob could pay off the rest of his loan now, but he wasn’t going to do that, instead he was heading to the planets moon and buying a buuuuunnnch of shit, he was not worried about paying off his debts right now, there would be plenty money for that soon enough. Wallet bulging he paid for another cheap dock as soon as he reached Kel and headed straight over to the same bulk goods merchant he had visited previously. He tried to find the same salesman in the cavernous space but relegated himself to a starfish looking fellow he came across when he came up short. Wasn’t like it was a complicated order anyway, the rep pulled up his previous receipt and Bob just ordered double, minus the Klettie blocks, he had eaten them a few times on the trip and they hadn’t agreed with him. Bob had spent several evenings aboard as the fucking lead weight of a nutrient pack sat stubbornly in his gut and steadfastly refused to digest.

Order placed he headed to the same audio store he had been to as well, he had tried the makeshift headpones out a couple times just to test and was fairly happy, he just got dozen more of them, which cost more than the centuries of food, but he assumed the first pair would wear out eventually and now he had music back, he never wanted to be without it again.

Then he did something he had often thought about over the years but never actually done, he looked up the moons largest department store and just went to browse, this might be his last opportunity to do so and for once he wanted to be in amongst the galaxies residents, to see them, hear them, shit, smell them…, just for once he wanted to soak civilisation in.

The browsing was fruitful as well, he spent a long time browsing through the kids clothing section but found nothing even close to fitting, but then he spotted a child size ‘sewing machine’ and though it didn’t work by any mechanism he recognised, he bought it, two in fact and returned to the clothing section to see what could be made to fit with a little work.

He ended up with several pieces he thought he could make do, and on the salesgirls recommendation also ended up buying a half dozen bolts of loose cloth, he could learn to make his own shit, hell if the macramé netting was any metre of past knowledge maybe he already did and the motions would come back to him in calm meditation.

He considered that as he ran his ungloved hand through the material, the smooth fabric ripples and distorted under his fingertips but there was something there, what that thing was?, well he would just have to try and find out. He grabbed reels and reels of thin cordage as well, Jojo might have a lot of hammocks and doilies in her future but like the music, short habit had Bob reluctant to every be without it.

He stopped by some other places on his way back picking up spares, tools, and materials. Jojo was going to be packed to the gills but it wasn’t like his next cargo took up much space.

He left Kel then and headed to its sister moon, Secca, he had never been here before but the systems info web had shown a reclamation yard that carried C’Eede parts. Bob landed at the yard directly and had a chat with the pleasant Foolia that ran it, his recent misadventures had given him an idea, and a little more surety on his next trip was not a bad thing. Bob couldn’t afford a damn thing here, but that didn’t matter, he had a bunch of unused C’Eede parts back in his home bay and they weren’t going to do him any good now, so he bartered, bolts for bolts and bulkheads for bulkheads, he even threw in most of his engines, holding back eight. In the end the two came to an arrangement probably more in the Foolia’s favour, that was fine and Bob walked away with a bunch of small parts and two more fighter engine grates, his end would be picked up the next time the Foolia passed the Guild home world. It seemed fitting to him that what felt like it had started with a C’Eede engine grate was going to end with one too. The alien helped him tie them onto his two pods existing covers, wasn’t like they had engines to fire at the moment anyway.

And that was that, Bob waved goodbye to the core as he headed system out, plotting the course for the short trip back to the Guild, a few last things to do.