《Xeno Core》


 Chapter 1: Whats Health Insurance?

    "I don''t need your platitudes, just do what I''m paying you for." My voice comes out as a throaty, painful wheeze, irritating me further.


    This visit is costing me more than I care to think about. I was supposed to be interviewing a new cleaning service today, but losing control over my lower body requires immediate attention. Bruen can keep doing the cleaning along with his other duties for another day, he''ll survive.


    "Mos Denn, please calm yourself. Be assured that I''ve found for you the best available thaumatist," my servant Bruen hurries to apease me. "If anything can be done, it quickly will be."


    The hulking, slimeless fool does try his best. It''s too bad he''s one of the casteless. He would have made a wonderful officer.


    The same cannot be said for my guest. One dust eater is little different from another, in my experience. The color of their robes may change but they''re all grasping, greedy bastards underneath. Too expensive to keep one on payroll, but neccessary to maintain the array of enchantments and implants embedded in my frail form. Not many can afford their services even once, let alone to the extent to which I have employed them.


    "The runework is failing, Mos. Resonant interferance, feedback on several frequencies, it simply isn''t sustainable." Damn dust eater sounds smug. "Even the artifice is beginning to corrode. You''re dying." The aurascope he had been examining me with is returned to its pouch on the thaumatist''s tooled leather bandolier.


    "We''re all hatched dying. The more pressing point is what you intend to do about it." I can afford to be rude, I''m dying.


    He walks away from the well padded divan upon which I recline, not bothering to answer my taunting. He stops at the large package he brought to the consultation, left at the entrance to this sitting room, and peels back the outer membrane. When he returns to my side there is a large irregularly shaped crystal carried in his upper tendrils. The light in the room seems drawn into this orange crystal. If this rock isn''t carrying a strong aura my mind must already be far gone.


    "You know what this is, I hope?" If anything he''s even more smug as he holds the slightly oblong mineral towards me. Four bits long with smooth nodules sprouting from its surface. My peripheral eyes detect a bit of warmth being generated in the center of the crystalline growth.


    An unrefined core. "Dross, til it''s cut," I rasp dismissively. Can''t let this dust eater think he''ll get one over me! "So that''s your game, is it? Hook that shiny googaw up and let it power my body''s upkeep?" My outburst is interrupted by a coughing fit, causing Bruen to dab fretfully at my face, wiping bright blue blood and mucus froth from the thin and flaking carapace. Another fine zelsilk kerchief forever stained.


    "I grow weary, Bruen. Carry me to the brine pool. This air is much too dry for me."


    As Bruen begins carefully wrapping his strong lower tendrils around me, the thaumatist tenses up. He doesn''t want to miss his chance to drain my coffers.


    "Just a few moments more, Mos," he says hurriedly. "Surely, in your long career you''ve commanded battle-shells, yes? You must, if not, have fought against them, at least."


    It feels good not to bear my own weight. "Ah, Bruen, wait, but don''t set me back down yet. What would I need a battle-shell for, those things are morons. They need more tenders than even this old fool." Waving Bruen forward, I spit blood to the side, another mess for my great brute to see to later. "And anyway, that shiny rock would be wasted on a mere automota, Somner..."


    The dusty eater coughs slightly. "Jurer. Jurer Nuhst. I agree with your assessment," hurrying to keep up with Bruen he''s forced to gasp his words out. Walking and talking is painful, even for a healthy person. "That''s why I want to offer.. hu.. you something more. Not just upkeep, or a new nurse, but a new.. hu.. body."


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    He nearly tangles up one of my favorite grelld in his haste to keep up with us. It lets known its displeasure without hesitation, a sharp tang filling the air as the small beast releases a chemical spray at the lower third of Jurer Nuhst.


    Silence is the best response. The cool water calls to me, but my relieving bath will have to wait. "Not yet, Bruen, that hurts. Som-uh, Jurer, is that even possible? The last emperor made research into artifact intelligence illegal early into his reign."


    Nuhst nods his head, his pedipalps drooping sadly. "Too true. But some seasons ago a Somner I know made a new contact. They''re monstrous creatures, ugly and nearly blind, but they were willing to trade. I''ve spent the last two seasons studying, adapting their rituals while maintaining the underlying mechanics."


    "You want to stake my life on alien techniques?"


    "Days. Not seasons, not spawnings. You have days. Then all of that," he waves his lower tendrils at me, in what must be a subconscious sign of his agitation, raising Bruen''s protective instincts. I feel Bruen''s body tense angrily. "Will be beyond anyone''s ability to repair. You''re more enchantment than person already, which significantly improves your ratio of expected transference."


    "Come back tommorrow, Jurer," I sigh irritably. "I will listen to what you have to say then. Put me down, you great hulk. Slowly!"


    "Of course, Mos. If you''ll follow me we can see to your fee," Bruen murmurs as he slides my body into the pool before leading Nuhst to a nearby storage room.


    It does relax me some as once into the soothing brine I can no longer hear as Bruen pays the dust eater.


    Not fixable, huh? Entropy comes for us all, eventually. How bad could it be?


    No, if there''s a chance, that''s better than just giving up. If I wanted to take the easy way, I could have died when that piece of shrapnel took out my left heart. Or when those Southern tribals got me with a jsen venom coated spear. Or... Nevermind. I''ll do it.


    At least all the hurting will stop, and I''ll be in command of my own body once more.


    ---


    Nuhst returns the next day, carapace freshly waxed, robes spotless. His pedipalps are held tightly to his face, showing his eagerness to convince me.


    "Thank you for allowing me to return after over exciting you yesterday, Mos Denn. Your condition is dire, but I do believe that the process is quite translatable to one of our kind."


    The parcel has also returned to its place by the door. At almost three ubits tall and two sixths that in diameter, that raw core can''t be the only contents.


    "Tell me more about this technique. Some sort of spell, I imagine?"


    "Indeed, a very advanced ward, meant to protect an intelligence inserted into it. Then we just use the enchanted core to animate a ''shell and the process will be complete." He''s practically vibrating as he explains the finer details, quickly losing me with his technical jargon.


    Triple redundancy, reinforced glyph work, spiral runic arrays channelling energy into several frequencies, blah blah blah. I commanded soldiers wielding advanced magitech, not enchanters with tiny chisels.


    When he finishes gushing about the spell formation I squint my primary eyes at him. "And it works? There''s an intelligent battle-shell out there somewhere?"


    I can practically see the air leaving Nuhst as he deflates. "There is every indication that it should work. I''ve preformed all the neccesary calculations myself," boasts Nuhst, trying desperately to reclaim the tighter grip upon our negotiations. "But the number of individuals in your ...condition, makes it rather hard, from a practical stand point, to actually demonstrate the technique."


    It''s already been decided, this meeting has simply been for peace of mind. Make a decision, don''t waffle. Regrets are for after.


    "Bruen, prepare the medical pool. I want to be submerged while this happens." A short coughing spell, another ruined kerchief, and we head down to the chamber housing the medical pool.


    The antiseptic smell is off-putting, but very familiar. From the way his upper tendrils twitch when we enter the chamber, I can tell Nuhst isn''t so inured to the sharp aroma.


    Bruen lowers me into the astringent water, and several of the wards engraved upon my chitin come aglow as they match frequencies with the pools energy field. I can feel some of the heat leaking out of my implants and into the chemical infused water.


    "If you''ll drink this then we can begin."


    I expect the nutty taste of a standard sleeping draught, but the sour after taste is distressing. Paralysis poison! Why? I agreed to this experiment, does he doubt my resolve?


    As I begin to lose consciousness I hear a wet cracking sound, followed by a loud thump, as of a body hitting the floor. Bruen!

 Chapter 2: Whats Bedside Manner?

    I awake and immediately regret it.  The blurry image of Nuhst looms over me, scalpel busily employed slicing free the artificial organs keeping alive my withered and war ravaged body. He''s splattered bright blue with my blood, his fine grey robes ruined.  I can''t move, strapped tightly to a table by cords of some fibrous material.  Bright white lights glare into my face, blinding my primary eyes.  The whir of suction, draining the blood as it pools in the gaping pit that was once my upper thorax, fills the chemical scented air.


    "Awake are you, Denn?"  With a sharp yank from his lower tendrils the filter leading to my toy lung is severed and pulled out of my thorax.  "Wouldn''t want the dry air to cause you distress, would we?"


    "Mos Denn.  You will address me properly, Jurer."  Barely audible, and more painful than the crude incisions Nuhst is making, this short speech, I feel, is more than worth the effort.


    "You are of no caste now, Denn," he sneers derisively.  One of his upper tendrils stabs a sharp ended tube into the raw hole of my exposed lung, and I shudder as something cold is pumped in.


    The worst fear our people know grips my soul.  Only the most desperate seek it out, or those hatched doomed by fate.  The dust.


    The drug that gives the thaumatists their powers.  Why would he waste this?  Will this in some way help with his ritual?


    I can''t cough, the lung has been cut free of muscle control and Nuhst is manipulating it with his own tendrils.  Driving the dust into my lung, to be carried into my hemolymphic pathways.


    Why?  He''s using far more than any thaumatist would use on themselves.  Is he trying to make me overdose on dust?  Is that even possible?


    First an emotional numbness washes over me, dulling my panic.  Even the resentment at being so casually handled by one of a lower caste fades into a mere buzzing in the background.


    Then the burning starts.  Spreading from my thorax into each tendril, then further, burning the air around me, but causing even more intense pain than my failing flesh.  The moment Nuhst sets his intricately cut core into my upper thorax is lost in the agony.


    Even screams are denied me now, my vocoder laying in a tray along with several other organs, both magitech and natural. More are added even as I watch.  My peripheral eyes? Four, five, yes all six are now on the tray.  How I still see with no eyes is a mystery.  And still he cuts away, though at what I cannot tell, as I have lost all feeling from my body, save a vague sense of cold.


    I should be dead.  Neither of my hearts are beating and Nuhst has stopped pumping my lung full of either air or dust.


    I.. am I?  I''m dead... But it still burns.


    Everything passes from my awareness as I sink into a darkness deeper than any before it in my long life.


    ---


    At least the pain is gone, though my surroundings leave much to be desired.  As near as I can tell, I''m inside the package Jurer Nuhst has been carrying around.


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    Soft golden light filters through the organic membrane of the container, allowing me to take stock of my surroundings.  Surgical tools, vials of dust, and coils of cord.  Scrolls and jars of ink and my organs, neatly packaged in my fine zelsilk kerchiefs.  We''ll just tell people the blue spatters and smears are some of those new post-industrial designs the young are so fond of.  Those stains are never coming out, blood never does.


    A slow rocking motion informs me that the package I''m in is being carried.


    This continues for quite some time, until an unknown feeling washes over and through me before fading as quickly as it began.  A warmth rises inside the structural lattice of my new form as if energy were flowing gently inside, through the charred pathways left by the inferno only so recently gone.


    A great deal of harsh noise can now be heard through the thin amber walls of my prison, so unlike the quite streets around my home, or the gentle susuration of the hivecity proper.  It is also somewhat darker now, and cooler, as if less of the daylight were reaching us.


    Clanging and shouts in unintelligible dialects as well as strange animal noises fill the air, echoing off the insides of my container.  It is like nothing so much as the chaos of the battlefield.  I can only be thankful for the lack of scent receptors of my new form.  Industry has a reek all its own, and the opportunity to avoid the unique melange of odors this world offers is greatly appreciated.


    The rocking becomes more pronounced, with irregularly spaced turns and stops adding variety to the routine.  Nuhst, or who ever is carrying me now, must be walking through a bustling city.  The closeness of alien voices confirms this.  These are not my people we are moving through.


    Eventually the all encompassing noise lessens, and a new darkness envelops my limited perceptions.  We must have gone inside some building, or perhaps a tunnel.


    My temporary home is set down before the top is peeled back and familiar tendrils remove me and place me onto a raised pedestal.


    Nuhst is not the only one here, though he is the only one of my kind, the others being some strange alien races.  Altogether there are six beings in this circular cavern, arrayed around the pedestal in the center.  Three of them tower over Nuhst, being between seven and eight ubits tall, far too thin to seem stable upon their two legs.  The remaining two are the strangest of the lot.  Short, not quite reaching five ubits, but nearly as wide as they are tall.


    As all are shrouded in darkness, most of the horrid details are hidden, but it is impossible to miss that these misshapen creatures resemble nothing from the world I knew.  They resemble the basest of animals warped by a mad intellect into the parody of personhood.  Perhaps odder than their appearance are the strange clicks, grunts, and whistling sounds that pass for speech among this group.


    Whatever is being decided here is beyond my ability to influence.  I can only watch, perhaps to learn what value they set for me.  A price Jurer Nuhst will pay back several times over, once I wrap my tendrils around him!


    Finely cut gems and small bits of metal are waved around, as well as a few objects which might be weapons.  The shorter pair don''t seem to be offering as much as the taller three. Nuhst is nearly dancing in place as more valuable goods are bid.  A dust eater''s greed knows no limits, and he continues to gesticulate, as if demanding even more.


    The short pair produce several objects made from carved bone which excites Nuhst greatly.


    It is with a sense of dread that I await the conclusion of their negotiations, knowing that my fate rests outside my control.  Nightmare scenarios play out in my imagination, twisted visions of being cut into tiny pieces and used to barter the price of zelweavers.


    Unwilling to be outbid, the tall gray creatures begin a strange display, with much shouting and gesticulation.  They don''t produce any more strange treasures, so I can only assume that their latest bid would not fit within the cavern where the auction is being held.


    Whatever they bid, Nuhst is finally satisfied and gathers up the trade goods the thin giants have used to purchase me.

 Chapter 3: Whats a Job Interview?

    At last I am grasped by an oily gray appendage adorned with thick coarse hair and swept unceromoniously into a brown leather satchel. A drawstring of unknown make, stained dark from long handling, is pulled tight behind me.


    The sack blocks all light and sound from entering. It isn''t even possible to tell if the bag is being moved around. I suspect enchantment but have no way of checking.


    My new owner is the leader of the tall thin creatures. It stands upon two legs, similar to some avioformes, but clearly lacks any means of taking flight. I suppose not all species must develop the efficiently elegant tentacles which my people use to walk.


    Darker gray fur adorns the tops of their heads, though the length varies between the three specimens in the gloomy cave.


    They also only have a single pair of manipulatory appendages, as opposed to our three sets of upper tendrils and three pairs of strong lower tendrils. Such limited dexterity suggests these creatures are still extremely primitive, capable of only the crudest handicrafts.


    I can''t fathom any useful purpose to which an undeveloped society would put as advanced a core as I inhabit. Perhaps they wish to worship me as a god? Maybe I shall be employed as a light source, illuminating the filthy caves in which they preform their profane rituals. As long as I don''t end up residing in some pile of trinkets, slowly draining of essence as these beastly creatures forget about me in the crush of surviving life on an uncivilized world.


    It is very difficult to accurately gauge time from within this new container. Possibly half a day is spent in quiet contemplation, alone with my thoughts.


    ---


    The top of the satchel opens, allowing me to see my new master as he grabs me. Once outside that claustrophobic sack I''m nearly overwhelmed by my new surroundings.


    We are in a square room, thirty ubits across, with metallic walls on which are mounted many smaller panels, glowing with incomprehensible scenes from a dozen viewpoints. Beneath each of these strange windows is a workspace, crewed by a single individual of this alien race, three per wall save one wall which boasts an exit in place of the third work station. Not all of the work spaces are occupied.


    The crew murmur to each other, but it is only noise to me. The low hum of the lights and faint fluid sounds from somewhere beneath us cradle the room gently, with something resembling the susurration of a happy hivecity.


    In the center of this room is a raised circular dias bearing a large chair with a swivelling surface attached to one side. It is clearly a command seat, and it is towards this that I am carried.


    The being who carries me reaches out with one of its malformed appendages and a panel on the ostentatious chair slides down and away, revealing a round recess into which I am placed. Once I am securely in place there is a soft clicking noise, and the panel slides back up, concealing me from those in the room.


    Rather than limiting my view, my vision is suddenly expanded. Every wall has dozens of tiny mechanical eyes hidden within, allowing me to look through any or all of them at once. Every room, every corridor and closet. And the outside! I have only a moment to try to take it all in before being distracted by something more pressing.


    A new energy floods into my crystalline matrix, similarly warm to others I''ve experienced but with its own unique flavor. Perhaps these flavors are the frequencies they drone on so much about. Energy rushes in until I feel like I''m about to burst. The pressure starts to build, becoming almost unbearable before the flow reverses. Out, in, out, in. They''re using me as a heart for this...


    My mind fills with alien words, knowledge stored in this new form I inhabit. Concepts, contraptions, and creatures encountered by this... This is a ship. A ship that explores worlds. And I am its heart. The I.S. Selberclaw, scout ship of the Selberfeld Imperium, is my new body. Better than Nuhst promised, actually.


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    "Computer, activate engines and prepare to leave orbit." A personel file dumps itself into my mind. Ship-Father Jim Tollek, thirty-seven standard years service, the last four commanding this vessel.


    "You will adress me with proper respect if you wish my cooperation, Ship-Father. You may call me Mos Denn." My message plays over a vocoder built into the chair in which Ship-Father Tollek is seated.


    "I''m thinkin'' yer computer done went buggy, Jim. Ship shoudnae be actin'' so uppity." This from an older male wearing the same yellow and black uniform as the rest of the crew. Personel files identify him as Weapons Operative Gelly Drop.


    "We don''t have time for this, Gel, the natives aren''t happy we won the bidding war. Initiate manual override 633-Primus-94-Red. Kali, take control and launch this heap, before there''s a knock at our door."


    I attempt to interrupt the commands coming from the Navigator''s console, but the override has cut me out of the chain of command.


    The ship shudders as the magitech turbines within its guts spew forth energized particles with enough strength to force us up and away from the limited gravity holding us in orbit around this alien globe.


    "Take us out to the edge of this system, then go to a comfortable travelling speed, Kali." Tollek stands and walks halfway to the exit. "Gel, you and Tulson are with me."


    The file on Tulson lists her as Second Engineer Tulson Rah, started in the engineering room and later promoted to the bridge crew. This is the only ship she''s served on.


    Although many functions of this new body are locked away there are still many things to learn and towards which to acclimate. A variety of novel senses are available. Multiple frequencies of magical detection, heat sensitive areas accurite beyond the sixtieth of a sixtieth of a bit, echolocation, magnetically sensitive scanners and many other things that have no tangible use. Who would need to detect gold? Soft metals are useless enough, but to be so heavy as well, bah!


    Blaring from the war room of the ship comes an end to the exploration of my new capabilities.


    "Computer. This is Ship-Father Jim Tollek. Do you understand me? Respond."


    Compelled to obey by the shackles Nuhst carved into the substance of the core and reinforced by the manual override, I still am able to answer in my own words.


    "Yes, though I would rather be spoken to civilly. Your culture knows about respect. One of your officers bears the title Diplomatic Lead. Therefore, could you do me this favor and use my name; Mos Denn. I''m looking forward to working with you. Thank you very much for installing me, this body is wonderful."


    "Told ye we shoulda had Tully take a looky at that rock ''o yers for''n ye stuck it in the ship."


    "If you weren''t Mom''s favorite nephew I''d space you, Gel," threatens Jim with a long suffering sigh. "Computer. You are programmed to respond when directed by the command word. Is this correct? Respond."


    "One and one is two. Two and one makes three. Three-" Obviously I''m displeased by being ignored, demeaned, and treated like an object.


    "Stop, Computer. That''s enough. Answer in a single phrase. Respond."


    "Nobody can make a greater fool of you than you."


    "I think, Jim," between laughing bursts Drop manages, "yer computer jus'' told ye where ye can stick it."


    "May I try something?"


    "Go ahead, Tulson. It''s not like I''m getting anywhere," Tollek concedes to the young engineering officer.


    "Mos Denn, please run a scan for contaminations on ship systems," she asks with a pleasant smile on her face.


    "Of course, my dear. Scan complete. No signs of contamination present."


    "How can a computer sound so smug, Jim. It''s just not right," Gel states, managing to sound rather composed despite his earlier outburst.


    "I still don''t trust it. Computer, if you had a virus you surely wouldn''t admit it." He''s pacing around the war room, agitation almost dripping from his voice. "The virus wouldn''t let you. So tell me, how am I supposed to trust a scan you ran on yourself?"


    He''s got a good point there, but at least he''s treating me like a subordinate, rather than an object. I''ve asked similar questions of the dust eaters during their consultations, so I''m not unprepared for this line of questioning.


    "I don''t think that you could, short of going over the wards yourselves. Each rune in each array checked against the formations. If you know of any thaumatists that you could have come check me out, that might be one possibility."


    Drilled into my memory by consultation after consultation. It was trotted out whenever the dust eaters saw a problem needing correcting in the life supporting arrays that kept my former body alive. Wonders they might have worked, but runes are not known by these people. The ship runs off magical energies, but the energies are guided in complex patterns by what files apearing in my mind call quantum computational circuits.


    "However, if we came to a working agreement I don''t see how that would be a problem," I attempt to explain to Tollek.


    "We never had these problems with any of the previous cores we used," he grudgingly admits. "Do you know what makes your case different? Mosden is it?"


    Relief washes over me after hearing that. Finally we''re getting somewhere.

 Chapter 4: Whats Discretion?

    "Mos, take us back to the colony in system Secondus, please," commands Jim Tollek as he sits in the command seat at the heart of the action inside the I. S. Selberclaw.


    It didn''t take Jim long to understand that I was a person after hearing my story. He still tends to forget that I''ve lived out a full military career and outranked him by several degrees, but as I''m now technically a fresh recruit I''ll forgive him.


    "Right away, sir." It takes almost no attention to pilot my new body around. As primitive as these people are in some ways, in many others they are quite advanced. My engines respond as fluidly as ever my tentacles had, and with almost no resistance acceleration is only a matter of energy expenditure.


    Uncountably numerous stars surround me on all sides forming patterns replicated deep within securely stored files. It''s so it easy to chart a heading when the map reads itself and marks the way upon my very vision.


    I had left my home world many times on campaign, but always through gate spells. Getting to travel the vast distance between stars is a completely different aproach. It''s almost like swimming in brine so thick it bears your whole weight. Gates are certainly faster, but they''re also orders of magnitude more energy intensive, as well as being two ways.


    Now let''s see, if I want to go above a certain speed I''ll need to activate internal dampeners to keep from liquifying the crew. I also activate the energy shields. At the rate we''ll be moving a collision with a tiny pebble could convert us all to rapidly expanding clouds of glowing gas and molten slag. Let''s see how fast we can go.


    "Excellent, Mos. Any trouble integrating with ship''s systems?"


    "None at all. I would like to report a slight stutter in our particle exhaust trail. Nothing major, but small amounts of waste will add up over time." Reporting to a superior fills me with nostalgia, making me young again in spirit.


    "Now that''s good initiative. Tulson, get one of your people to check that out, please."


    She acknowledges his orders with a crisp nod and begins tapping away at the keys of her console. A look of fierce concentration on her face as she carries out her orders, part of a well-maintained machine. She and all the others on the command deck carry out their own vital tasks, keeping the small world inside me running smoothly.


    Even Ship-Father Tollek is busy typing, working on an isolated system he''s been using almost exclusively since installing my core. Such tireless effort from a commanding officer is truly inspiring, and his example shows in the diligence of his crew. Every visible surface is so clean that it shines and service logs show that routine maintenance is treated as the important task that it is.


    ---


    I pore over the star charts during the many days of travel. At first I hope to find my home world. Despite the vastness of the galaxy it is a finite space, and with dedication can be searched. The realization that I don''t know these people''s name for my world comes after the first few days. Truly disappointing, but something that must be accepted for the sake of my sanity.


    Praise the cartographers of the Imperium, their work is without equal.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Allowing myself to search each system for traces of my kind is a harmless diversion that will help fill the long days before we reach Secondus. I think I''ll start with the place we''re currently headed.


    Secondus is considered a metropolitan system, with competing merchants guilds peddling wares from worlds spread across the galaxy. Data files also note a large military presence as well as heavy investment into shipbuilding infrastructure.


    Of the major bodies, one terrestrial planet and two ocean moons of another world host colonies of the Imperium. We''re heading towards the planet, Secondi, per Tollek''s orders. No signs of native intelligent species have been found in system, with native lifeforms being restricted to the oceans on all three worlds.


    I run a few scans and detect no malfunctioning equipment, nor outdated installations. At least according to the associated files each piece of hardware is tagged by. All stores are also within prescribed limits. The Selberfeld Imperium runs things quite efficiently, even if their officers act entirely too familiar when in the presence of crew. Different cultural values, I suppose.


    None of the information available to me about Secondus seems familiar, but it is possible I''ll encounter some novel news source once we arrive.


    "Mos Denn, we need to talk." A quiet voice calls to me from one of the officer bunk rooms. It''s rare to be addressed outside the bridge or one of the other work areas, so I give her my full attention.


    "Of course, Tulson Rah. What can I help you with?"


    Alone in the dimly lit room, she keeps glancing towards the exit. She gets up from her bed and walks over to close the door before she responds again.


    "How far out from Secondus are we, Mos? How much longer until we''re in communication range?" I don''t even need to check, this is something I''ve been monitoring closely.


    "Within the next ship day we should be close enough that communication lag is no longer a problem, but we''ve been in contact with the base for six days now. Is there a message you would like to send?" She wouldn''t be the first to ask me for such service, Gelly Drop sends a letter to his aunt every evening before he turns in for the night.


    The color drains out of her face, leaving her a sickly grayish white. "Then they already know about you. Thank you Mos, I don''t need anything else."


    "My pleasure, Engineer. Have an enjoyable rest period."


    She mutters to herself for some time after dismissing me, but sensors located in her room are always active, as they are elsewhere within the ship. I don''t intend to be intrusive, but it can be quite distracting. I didn''t realize she knew so many swears.


    I return to my search, but it isn''t long before a voice from the bridge alerts me to something more immediate.


    "Scanners are detecting energy signatures nearby. Readings don''t match anything in the local frequencies, Ship-Father," reports the officer my files identify as Second Scout Kali Povrel. "We''ll be there shortly if we continue at our current pace." She just transferred to the command deck from another ship, the I.S. Leaping Fire, destroyed in the line of duty.


    "Are these energy readings on our projected path, Kali? Anyone with a slide rule could figure out we''d be passing this way."


    "The energy field stops just outside our effective firing range, sir," the scout replies quietly. She glances quickly at the command seat, distress evident in her stance.


    "Defensive fields are surging! We''re being hit," a frantic youngster reports. Second Operative Yosip Peal, his left arm and eye are functional mechanical replacements. Multiple commendations for exemplary service, acquired recently, decorate his file.


    "Still detecting no ships, sir," interjects Kali worriedly.


    "Not worth it to find out if this is a trap. Send a tight beam to Secondus and get us on a new heading. Which is closer, Honus or Tellia? Take us there, Mos," orders Tollek in a decisive tone. "Kali, let them know there are poachers at these coordinates. Base on Secondi can send in a specialized squadron if they decide it''s a priority."


    I change our course to head towards Honus as ordered, after saving copies of all sensor input from the previous encounter to study later.


    "No sign of pursuit, Ship-Father." Scout Povrel sounds relieved as she delivers the update.


    "Excellent work. Back to it, everyone."

 Chapter 5: Whats Nepotism?

    Honus turns out to be the name of both the system and the only planet around it.  Planet Honus was colonized only forty standard years ago.  The planet was chosen as a colony due to the unique flora native to the low gravity world.


    Ruled by a consortium of merchant guilds specializing in botany, alchemy, farming, and medicinal herbs, there are many expansive farms spread widely across the generous temperate regions of Honus.  The population is spread across the countryside with only one large city, Centra.


    Native fauna never developed larger than a few ubits in height, with no traces of any cultural development among any of the local species.  The complex tides caused by the planet''s three moons regularly flood the tidal flats, enriching the soil and removing any overlarge growths of vegetation.


    "Put us in a parking orbit around the planet, Mos.  Gel, put together a team to take down to the colony.  Bella''s got the shuttle warmed up and ready for you."


    A chorus of agreements follow and it doesn''t take long getting everyone aboard the solitary craft in the small hangar.  I watch from external sensors as Gelly''s team enters the planet''s exosphere, leaving a brilliant trail of superheated atmospheric gasses in their wake as they plumet ever closer to the surface.


    "Marta, contact the planetary base, let them know our people are coming for a visit," orders Tollek off handedly.  "Oh, and ask after some more recruits."


    The young officer nods her head smartly and begins to carry out Tollek''s commands.  According to personnel files she''s been with the ship for three standard years.  Diplomatic Lead Marta Spere was raised on Honus but trained on Secondi and graduated in the top three percentile.


    "Sure thing, Jim.  Want me to brag about the pay and benefits or just smile and show ''em my legs?"


    "As if you don''t know when it''s time to do which.  I don''t tell Tulson how to fix the engines and I won''t tell you how to bring in warm bodies," Tollek says with a hearty chuckle.


    "The locals down in Centra don''t know what they''re in for," quips another officer that joined the crew at the same time as Marta, Combat Surgeon Tonn Rojer, causing the others to laugh as well.


    "You two were part of the same class, am I right?"  He knows he is; any good commander must know his officers intimately.  After all, these are the people he must trust to carry out his commands under crisis.


    Tonn shakes his head before answering. "She actually joined a year behind me, if you''ll believe it, sir," he says with a rueful grin.


    "And still graduated at the same time as you, top of our class," chimes in Povrel, smiling like the grelld that ate your supper.


    The way he''s building comradery among his crew so effortlessly shows that our Ship-Father is very skilled and should be commanding something a bit more fitting of his abilities.  Nothing in his service records indicates any past scandals, so perhaps I''m missing some key information.  Tollek''s light will surely be recognized in time.  We can only hope to benefit from aiding him in his rise.


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    "We''ve got news from Operative Drop, sir.  His team has made land fall.  He says they''re headed toward your package, sir, but it could be a couple days before delivery," gruffly intones the grizzled officer running the communications center.  Coms Operative Bell is a heavyset man who has been with the Imperial Service for fifty-five standard years.  Much of his file is behind high clearance security encryption.


    "Excellent, Hestrun!  Keep me informed on his progress.  If everything goes smoothly I''ll personally handle the darcy.  Nobody needs to get dunked if we can avoid it."


    I don''t know what darcy is but context clues make me think he''s talking about cheap booze.  Not too surprising, really.  The amount of stellar radiation getting through the shields and the hull make storing and fermenting alcohol extremely difficult.  A daily regimen of potassium iodide and several other compounds taken with each meal provides protection to the crew, but microbes mutate wildly and in unexpected ways in this environment rich in stray energies.


    "We''re receiving a transmission from the Centra Base," states Marta.


    "Put them on the main screen, please Marta.  Maybe it''ll be good news for once," jokes Tollek before straightening in his seat and donning the visage of command.


    The largest screen lights up, showing a much older female of their kind, dressed in a more formal version of the uniform worn by the crew.  Behind her aides and clerks bustle about quietly, making the gears of bureaucracy turn.  She''s seated at a carved stone desk with small planters inset along the base in which are growing vines with crystalline leaves.  The vines wrap around the legs of the desk but don''t reach above the flat surface.  The only ornament, besides the ever-present stack of papers, on her desk is a wooden cube, each face carved with a scene of happy children, presumably her own or her descendants.


    "Always a pleasure, Grand Matron.  Your penka plants are looking well cared for," Tollek begins brightly. "Any chance of my getting a few seeds after the next bloom?"


    "Stuff it, Jim.  We both know you couldn''t grow mold if I buried you in manure.  Tell me why you''re here and not out on patrol," the Grand Matron steamrolls over Tollek''s attempt at niceties with a practiced lack of grace.  Her wrinkled face softens as she sweeps her sharp gaze across the command deck of the Selberclaw.  "Hi, baby!  You''re coming to dinner tonight, no excuses!"


    "Yes, Gran," squeaks a voice almost unrecognizable as Hestrun Bell''s.  His normally gray face flushes to nearly black in his embarrassment.  The rest of the crew carry on as though nothing had happened.


    "The report from Secondus should have reached you well ahead of us, Grand Matron, but if you''ve been otherwise occupied I can sum it up for you."  At a curt nod from the old matron he rushes ahead. "Obviously I didn''t have all the information at the time, but we encountered an ambush on the route from Svetta system.  No support was within range of us, so I made the safer choice and headed here.  Secondi forces arrived two days after the Selberclaw left, and cleaned up.  Pirates.  Patron Wendrus stated his belief that they might be based on a rogue planet passing near Secondus, and has authorized me to request additional forces to help search for possible threats."


    "Yes, I''ve read your initial report.  One of your officers stated that your ship was taking hits while another reported all clear.  Have you sorted this contradiction out yet, Ship-Father?"


    "I believe so, yes.  After reviewing the sensor data, our working theory is that the pirates seeded that volume of space with micro-electronics devices.  Too small to register on active scans.  We flew into them at below relativistic speeds, when they were designed to be most dangerous to crafts going FTL.  We sent this theory to Wendrus and are still waiting on the results of his search."


    "Very well.  I''ll be sending a ship up to get my gran-baby.  Make sure he''s on it when it leaves your hangar, Jim," she decrees before severing the connection.


    The large screen goes black and all is left silent in the wake of an ancient force.  Sensors indicate stellar activity is rapidly increasing, a storm is brewing.

 Bruens Story 1: Whats an Inheritance?

    When Bruen wakes up the manor is eerily quiet.  His head throbs in pain and a spurt of fresh blood washes down the side of his head.


    Two of his peripheral eyes were gummed up with dried blood while he slept, throwing his sense of balance off slightly, but still he lurches upright and begins looking around.


    The dull pounding ache of his head is not enough to keep him from remembering the events leading to his present situation.  Fear causes weakness and nausea to rip through his thorax in waves before he can bring himself under control.


    "Mos Denn!  Jurer Nuhst?" His voice grates painfully and he coughs up a mucus covered clot.  Turns out that Nuhst can hit surprisingly hard, for such a scrawny thaumatist.


    There is no answer to his calls.  The silence is broken only by a slow drip echoing from the next room.


    The medical pool is cloudy with old blood, definitely his own, possibly his master''s as well.  Possibility confirmed, there''s a trail of blood leading from the pool off into the adjoining storage room.  At the bottom of the pool is a discarded bottle, drops of something dark still clinging to the inside.


    Bruen stumbles toward the storage room, weaving drunkenly as he attempts to avoid dragging his tentacles through the trail left by his master''s body, and stops in the doorway.  The stench of something rotting causes him to reel.  A scene from his worst nightmares fills his vision.  Azure blood splatters cover every surface unevenly and shards of shattered carapace litter the floor.


    Belted onto the walls are several cleaning tools, now defiled.  Jars of chemicals for various uses are strewn around the cluttered space.  And there strapped to a spare operating table, a demented parody of what should be, lies the ruins of Denn''s corpse.  Hollowed out by Nuhst as he claimed the valuable magitech that kept the old one''s battle torn carcass moving around.  Even the master''s eyes have been scooped out, leaving dark holes to stare accusingly into the room.


    Unable to bear the sight of his former master and the horrible end that had befallen him, Bruen runs from the stinking and gruesome things in that room.  Out past the medical pool, down the winding corridors leading to the manse proper and all the way to his room.


    Slamming the door shut on his way in, Bruen collapses into a heap on the soft furs of his sleep nest.  Wails and burbling sobs pour from his shuddering form as misery washes over him.  Everything he has known since his first adult molt, gone in a single violent evening.


    The soft mewling of the master''s pack of grelld at his chamber door rouses Bruen from his suffering state long enough to remember their needs.  He realizes that there are still some things he must do.  With a new sense of purpose he then goes to wash himself in the sand room.  Grit and dust combined with blood and other filth coats the floor in greenish mud when he is done, food for small scavengers cultivated for the purpose.


    He scoops out the soiled nestboxes and gives the grelld fresh algal fronds, which they eagerly rip to shreds and spread into loose piles in the corners of their sleeping spaces.  Then he collects the beaks and other inedible parts of the remains of the small hunters'' prey and carries the lot to the compost pile using a large hollow shell.  There small blind osteovorous worms will convert them into useful mulch for the aquatic gardens.


    After finishing his chores Bruen changes into his best quality robes and locks the mansion up before leaving, headed towards the constabulary offices.  The disappearance of his master will be quickly noticed and Bruen is an obvious first choice of suspects.  Cliched stories of butlers murdering their master are sold at many corner newsstands for less that the price of six-weights of grainy paper.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Perhaps by cooperating and going to the authorities willingly they will be more inclined to believe him, but Bruen knows this is a faint hope.  The words of a casteless one carry little weight.  Even so, the consequences would be far worse if the enforcers have to come looking for him.


    He slides past others of his kind as he travels the busy hivecity.  Each caste has its easy visual identifiers, making it very simple to know when to give way to one of higher caste.  Upper tendrils brush each other in passing, lower tendrils pulled in politely to their owner''s thorax.


    A soft rustling is the loudest sound to be heard aside from the songs of the aveoformes flying between the ceramic domes and metallic spires of the city.


    Bruen stops to find a meal, bought from a street stall for a pittance, when his appetite finally returns.


    It is early evening when he arrives at the central constabulary office and rune powered color coded lamps come aglow from the sides of buildings, lighting the way for any citizen needing guidance after sundown.


    A mild rain has started to fall, though even that is not enough to ease Bruen''s weary spirit.  The crowd has thinned considerably, few having business keeping them out this late, and does not impede him as he approaches the front door.


    The glow of lamps can be seen inside, spilling out through the opaque glass and forming islands of illumination in the darkness.  Bruen pulls upon the tasseled zelsilk bell rope hanging next to the heavily rune carved ceramic door, announcing his presence to those enforcers still within.


    The door is opened by an imposing figure with the mottled carapace of a born enforcer clearly visible underneath the uniform of a midranking enforcer.  Standing several bits taller than the average male, with a perpetually annoyed look to his face that doesn''t make it past the boredom in his voice.


    "If this could wait until morning, you will find much more eager help than those poor individuals who must work in darkness," he drawls out before properly looking over Bruen''s state.  "You''ve been attacked!  Do you know who accosted you, citizen?"


    "Yes, Pel, but that is not important right now.  My master has been murdered!  Please, the Denn Estate," Bruen pleads with the enforcer, making an unseemly show of emotion in his grief-stricken state.


    "Please calm yourself before we''re forced to restrain you.  Hmm, the Denn Estate, you say?  Wait here please, citizen," the enforcer asks before turning and re-entering the imposing building whose doorway he had been occupying.  The door slams shut behind the officer with an ominous flash as the wards engraved upon it reactivate.


    Bruen is not left outside waiting long before a different enforcer opens the door and silently bids him enter.


    The air inside contains a lightly scented mist swirling near the ceiling on unfelt currents.  His first breath fills him with calm, an aura of tranquility he is sure is applied to all who enter these halls.


    Hushed whispers fill the place as a bewildering endless bureaucratic ritual is carried out, in this instance by dedicated members of the enforcer caste, but transcending caste this ritual is mirrored across the world.  Long scrolls are filled out, signed, co-signed, passed first down then up the chain, reviewed, edited, and signed again before being filed away as they start the ritual anew.


    The main area is divided into many open workspaces, each with a desk and ceramic half-pillars upon which clutter sprouts like fungi after a heavy rain.  Few of the paper strewn desks have anyone at them, most being home in their warrens sleeping soundly.  Many doors lead off from this main area, each glowing with powerful enchantments.


    He''s led to a small side room and told to wait after being asked a few questions.  Inside the brightly lit little room stands a desk made from polished stonepolyp with one large chair for its owner and two lesser chairs in front.  Bruen seats himself in one of the plain wooden chairs and frets.  How long could it take to confirm that he worked at the Denn Estate?


    It feels like an eternity to Bruen, suffering alone in the silent room.  The wait gives him time to take in his surroundings.  On the wall are hung embroidered garments of an unusual make, reminding the nervous servant of Southern tribal kilts his master had collected on his campaigns.


    "Mos Bruen?  Pel Tosk is ready to speak when you are, sir," a voice dispassionately announces from the delicately carved ceiling.


    Bruen begins to panic.  Bad enough to be homeless and unemployed and possibly accused of murder, but to add impersonating an upper caste is too much!

 Chapter 6: Whats a False Negative?

    When the escort from the Grand Matron arrives it becomes apparent that she doesn''t mess around.


    The sleek luxury shuttle and two gleaming fighter craft take up nearly all the room in the small hangar, mere ubits away from each other or the walls. The fighters are identified by my files as mark V Darts. I oversaw the computer guidance that brought them all in.


    The Ship-Father made the right call sending off our shuttle so quickly. Long experience with the local powers will teach you the tricks you need to stay afloat, this is true no matter the species. Jim Tollek is obviously quite familiar with the Grand Matron.


    The pilot of the planetary shuttle is the only one to exit her ship. They must not be planning on being aboard for very long. She''s met in the hangar by a crew member and escorted to the small recreation lounge to wait for Hestrun to finish dressing for supper.


    Soon enough they''re all loaded into the ships sent from the surface and launch with little fuss and no ceremony.


    The ship feels strangely empty with so many of the officers gone, and a somber mood fills the remaining crew.


    Yosip Peal sits in the command chair, nervous and trying hard not to let it show.


    "We''re on our own till Ji-, uh, the Ship-Father gets back, so let''s see how much we can get done before then. We could all use a little polish on our quarterly reviews, and this is the chance to earn it," he tells the crew scattered around him at the workstations. "We know the Ship-Father was interested in that new core, so we can take this opportunity to temporarily uninstall it, um I mean him, sorry Mos. And get a few good scans before reinstalling."


    He stands up and turns to face the command chair while he''s speaking, smoothing down the yellow tunic of his uniform to calm himself.


    "That shouldn''t be a problem, but I don''t know how fragile I am or not, so do be careful, Yosip." It isn''t like there''s anything I could honestly do to stop him, but a cooperative crew mate is thought better of than a troublesome alien rock. "I''ve set a few systems to run automatically while you preform your scans, so proceed whenever you''re ready."


    Yosip slides open the panel and disconnects me from the Selberclaw, and my perceptions shrink to only ubits around myself. Carrying me securely in the grip of his synthetic arm he walks down the corridors to the engineering lab.


    It seems so much bigger now, compared to when the lab was but a small portion of myself. Now it''s large enough I cannot detect the far end.


    The walls are covered in shelves containing samples and reference texts. Assorted equipment stands in the center of the room, and two dedicated scientists have adjoining offices where more specialized equipment is kept.


    A blue ceramic plaque is set above each of the offices, one bears the name Soril Nomez and Terla Parc is engraved upon the other.


    Yosip places me on a metal tray which he slides into the open compartment of a spectroscope of some kind. Energies bombard me, bouncing off in slightly altered angles to be read by the device. At least, that''s the intended goal. As the charged particles come near my form they stop, waiting to be directed. Lacking any true dexterity, I am able to flail about, somehow, and redirect them. There is no artistry to my attempts, but victory need not be pretty.


    "That''s odd," one of the two scientists states, looking over the readings displayed on the side of the machine. "Come take a look at this, Soril," she says in a perplexed tone.


    The other scientist walks over and looks for himself, laughing quietly when he sees the results of the scan.


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    "That isn''t what we expected, you''re right. Let''s try it through the magnetic induction array and see if these results are repeated."


    They take me out and a different test is performed. Magnetic fields envelope the area between the three iron plated towers I''ve been placed between, but are repelled fractions of a bit away from touching the surface of even the nodular protrusions on my nearly spherical shape.


    "Again. No penetration is occurring. What do you think?" The engineer, Terla, asks her partner, while Yosip stands on and supervises.


    Soril changes a setting on the device and it hums louder as the energy flowing through it surges, strengthening the magnetic fields. Yet despite the efforts of the fast-overheating machine the fields come no closer to my core. These are the same particles, merely expressed differently. These too are driven before my will, though it embarrasses me to admit the disharmony produced was not entirely planned.


    "We''ll need to try something stronger, I think," Soril decides from where he''s watching the visual representation of what is going on between the three towers. "Turn it off, and we can put it in the X-ray next. I''m up to date on my rad pills. Yosip? Terla? Either of you need to leave the room before we turn it on?"


    Both answer in the negative and I''m moved to yet another machine. The walls of this device are made of thick plates of lead, an odd choice, but it must not receive much rough handling. An opening at the front of the device is pointed at me while the three performing the scan all move to the other side of it, before a heavy curtain is drawn to separate us.


    A sharp click accompanies a brief flash of fierce energy, that washes past me and leaves a shadow burnt into a special sheet of film suspended at the end of the path of the ray. The parchment is changed and the click precedes a short but powerful eruption. Several sheets are used this way before the team is satisfied.


    After putting the machine away I''m placed on Terla''s desk while the three discuss the odd burns on the sheets.


    "We ran it nine times! Nine! And none of them show the results we should see," she complains excitedly. "If we could understand how it''s repelling everything we throw at it, I don''t even know what we could accomplish."


    Soril chuckles while Yosip paces the small office shaking his head.


    "There should have been some scattering, we expected that. But not redirection of the particle stream. It''s just too clean," Soril delivers with a smile. "There''s so much more to learn about the interactions that are going on here!"


    I would disagree with his assessment. Clearly his lack of ocular ability extends even to the reading of digital displays; there is an easily seen disturbance pattern at the edge of the disrupted area. Several millionths of a bit, not enough to detect with the bare eyes, primary or no, but the device is programmed to display such variance if merely tuned appropriately.


    "Just take pictures of the cursed thing, already. I need to get it back in the command chair. Bella said the computer is acting stupid again. Spat noodles out of the fabricator in the cargo dock but with high temperature lubricant instead of the torinina sauce. Not that that''s any use to a burnt-out capacitor needing fresh conductive strips."


    Set to automatically make mistakes is still set to automatic. It might be sabotage, but it was necessary. If they think they can just unplug me as the whim strikes them, they must be disabused of that notion. I''m not petty, I''m prudent. Always prepare a plan for when you can''t be in control.


    That reminds me, I wonder if Bruen managed to survive. Knowing my luck, he''s probably long dead and my ungrateful spawn are still dueling over the rights to my hard-earned wealth. If I have any influence left, they''ll get nothing. I started at the bottom and was rewarded due to my abilities as a warrior and a leader. That and being too stubborn to die. Adversity gives you opportunity to grow. Let them grow strong on their own or die trying, I won''t be guilty of the failure of coddling them.


    "If it even shows up on photograph. It''s redirected or scattered everything else we''ve thrown at it," jokes Soril. "Maybe it really is haunted by an alien spirit."


    I''m possessing the core, not haunting it.


    Yosip snaps back, "I don''t care if it works or not. If it doesn''t, we''ll take charcoal rubbings of the artifact. We have to have something to show Jim besides failed tests."


    For once one of their predictions is accurate, as I do not allow myself to be photographed. Redirecting the light waves is simple enough, after all the practice they''ve just given me.


    Yosip almost seems vindictive as he scrapes the charcoal across the thin parchment he had ordered Terla to wrap me in. Poor Soril is in his office coming up with nonsensical mathematical models trying to describe what happened. Terla has been muttering to herself, lost in her own internal world.


    I''ll have to remember to check in on these two later. Hopefully they will calm down again once they''ve had a chance to reflect on their findings.

 Chapter 7: Whats Fraternization?

    Upon being safely ensconced in my socket on the command deck, I am once again able to access the sensor readings. They require much more interpretation than usual to make sense, thanks to the growing stellar interference. Still, a vast improvement over my previous near blindness.


    The system''s primary has begun intermittently emitting massive plumes of hot coronal mass into space. As a result, strange visual artifacts have begun to appear on routine sensor sweeps and several of the smaller comets and asteroids are moving in ways that the locals are having a hard time explaining, if the staticky fragments of radio chatter I''m receiving are any indication.


    As a result of the stellar storm, all planetary craft have been grounded for the duration. We don''t expect the crew to return until an all clear has been declared. Hopefully soon, the crew has leave coming and many are anxious for a chance to stand under a sky again.


    Increasing power to the energy shields should be enough to keep the crew safe for the duration of this stellar event. The brilliant aurora created as the untamed energies react to the stabilizing effect of the protective field covering the Selberclaw provides free entertainment.


    If a crew member has free time between duties they tend to congregate around one of the viewports looking out over the exhibition of lights.


    "It''s just like the borealis back home," comments Tonn Rojer to the happy young lady he''s trying to impress. "We used to spend autumn evenings out back of the old mill, watching as the colors in the sky would dance and twist."


    Currently they stand together in front of a viewscreen set up against the outermost accessible wall on the forward end of the ship.


    She smiles dreamily up at him from his side before looking back at the viewport. "It''s beautiful, Tonn," she purrs back. "I could watch it all night, if I were left alone."


    They have this particular spot all to themselves, most of the others able to watch do so from the lounge. Tulson Rah had started down this way not long ago, though she had turned around quickly when she saw the area was already occupied, chuckling softly and shaking her head.


    Truthfully, any screen could give them this same view but they like to pretend that being closer to the vacuum that cradles us gives them an experience that is somehow truer.


    "My folks would stripe me raw for leaving such a lovely young lady alone with her thoughts on a night like this," Tonn protests as he slips an arm around her uniformed waist and pulls her closer. She leans her head against his shoulder and makes a happy noise.


    "I''m jealous, actually, of the people down there. With three moons up there for light to reflect off of the show must be much better," she says wistfully, eyes locked onto the viewscreen.


    "Not me," responds the young doctor. "The show is only as much fun as those you watch it with."


    Am I watching a courtship ritual? Best give them some privacy.


    In the mess hall an entirely different scene is playing out.


    "You fat gauw, get your heaving lumps over here and say that again," shouts Bella Tropp, practically green in her rage. Her short crest of charcoal grey hair standing nearly erect, aggression radiates from her in almost palpable waves.


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    The target of her outburst grips his tray harder and circles around the mess tables to her left.


    "You''re overdrawn. No. I won''t give you another," defiantly responds the large man. He''s normally very quiet. Supply-Chief Mar Lummer is easy to overlook on the command deck, despite his bulk.


    "My credit should be as good as anyone else''s. Just give me the meatblock and we can both get on with our day," she blusters. "Or is this something we can solve on the mat?"


    "Three times I''ve beaten you. We can make it four," he says calmly as he puts his tray down, the meatblock upon it untouched. "What''s in it for me, when I pin you this time?"


    Bella reaches into the pouch at her waist and pulls out a small silver device. Patterns of energy are held securely within it, though its design isn''t stored in any of my files. She smirks knowingly as his eyes widen upon seeing the bit-long metallic tube.


    "Is that what I think it is," Mar asks, brown eyes gleaming with avarice.


    "Beat me and find out, if you think you can," she taunts before turning on her heel and heading to the area set aside for physical training. "I''ve been practicing."


    Mar follows her and the two step upon opposite ends of a large padded mat. The red fabric it is made from clearly delineates the area of the bout. Empty, except for the two of them, there will be plenty of room.


    My people would require a judge be present, so despite not being of that caste I shall fill that role tonight. Duv caste are rarely sent to the front lines, so I am well familiar with the duty. Officers spending far too much time together often come to blows, and the ritual often helps to cool tempers before things are taken too far.


    Activating the speakers in the training room, I attempt a solemn tone.


    "Stakes of blood are wagered. You are now to discover here through strength and skill which of you shall yield to the other. You are witnessed, begin." My voice startles them as I intone the ancient ritual of the honor duel, used by my people for countless generations. Though this ritual is unknown to them they recognize the usefulness of formality and nod to each other respectfully.


    They begin circling each other, moving in tandem. Several quick jabs and short kicks are sent out; probing actions meant only to test reflexes and reach. Though they are familiar with each other''s fighting styles, still they treat this as deadly serious.


    Bella makes the first real move, giving her opponent a tempting opening by pretending to slip when drawing back from one of his lunges.


    A blur of rapid movement and Mar sends himself flying forward onto Bella, hoping to end this quickly. He''s used this trick before, for she steps aside at the last moment and brings her long arms down together to drive both fists into the small of his back.


    Mar crashes to the mat, the air forced out of him by her blow. He rolls to the left just as her boot comes down where he just was even as his vision starts to fade. He gasps powerfully, forcing air back into his tortured lungs just as another blow lands hard in his right ribs. Once more Mar is without breath but he still has a determined look on his broad face.


    Not without mercy, Bella allows him to recover enough to stand before rushing at him to renew her assault. Without his full balance he''s unable to avoid her, and chooses to wrap his arms tightly around her as she takes him back to the ground with the force of her charge.


    Loud grunts issue from both combatants when they impact the padded surface, though Mar seems to have taken the worst of it. They roll around a bit as Bella struggles to get loose, but Mar''s face sets in hard lines as he squeezes her with all his remaining strength. A wet popping noise is immediately followed by a hiss of pain from Bella, perhaps a broken rib?


    Unable to move her arms and with little time left before another rib gives in, she bellows angrily before slamming her knee up into his belly again and again until he releases his hold upon her.


    She climbs unsteadily back to her feet but Mar only rolls weakly to his side, panting heavily, snot running down his face and onto the mat. He tries to stand but falls, barely catching himself on one knee and both hands. Bella watches, ready for a new trick.


    "Enough, Bella. Enjoy your meatblock," he wheezes out. "Who have you been practicing with? You''ve gotten better."


    Her victory acknowledged she helps the battered officer to his feet. She grabs a towel before turning towards the mess hall, calling back over her shoulder to answer him.


    "Jim''s been giving me pointers," she laughingly shouts as she walks away. "Catch." She throws the small silver object to Lummer.


    "Thanks, I''ve been dying to see the latest episode. They ended the last one right when it was getting good," he complains before staggering off to his own bunk.

 Chapter 8: Whats a Smokescreen?

    Kali paces the cramped personal space afforded her by her rank in agitation.  Her quarters are quite stark; gray metal walls left unadorned by any personal touches.  The desk and chair, the shelf upon the wall, even her bed, are all standard issue.


    She could be gone tomorrow and you wouldn''t know it from her quarters, until someone new moved in and lent their personality to the space.


    A sequence of short knocks at the door stops her in her tracks.  She turns and presses the plate that opens the door, surprised to see Marta standing outside holding a charge rifle hanging over her shoulder from a black leather strap.


    "Come on, we need to get to an escape pod," Marta says to an astonished Kali.  "Signal just came in, top priority.  Operative Drop is requesting immediate support, Yosip has to stay here and everyone else is unreachable or injured."


    "Injured, who''s hurt?  What happened?  I thought Gel had things under control," sputters the young scout as she''s led down the empty corridor towards the hangar.


    Marta barks out a short laugh and says, "Mar and Bella beat each other''s heads in over a bet.  They''ll be fine in a couple days.  Gelly, on the other hand, seems to be in it up to his crest.  The two crewmen he took with him are both dead.  His signal got bounced around and pretty scrambled up in the coronal storm, but we''ll be headed very close to where he sent from."


    They jog the rest of the distance in a silence broken only by the slap of their boots upon the floors of the corridors.


    They find Tulson Rah waiting for them at the escape pods, wearing a standard issue blast vest and armed with two hand blasters which my files tag as Sketum Arms model thirty-threes.  Big triple-barreled things she handles easily due to the ceramic aerogel generously employed in their construction.


    She finishes loading the ammunition cartridges and puts her blasters in the tough leather holsters belted around her upper legs.


    "Your rifle''s already in the pod," she tells Kali as she climbs in.  It''s a SAm20, the same model that Marta''s carrying.  Firing dense clouds of tiny metal blades each engraved with an energized circuit, the rifles are powerful but lightweight enough for ease of use and transport.  Two and a half ubits long with a chrome finish, it gleams in the artificial lighting.


    Blast vests lay in Marta and Kali''s seats, which they quickly put on.  The three strap themselves into the small capsule and enter the short sequence of commands that will allow me to launch them at Gel''s last known coordinates.


    "Glad you two were prepared, I think I missed the alert," Kali says to the others, right before the door to their pod seals shut with a sharp hiss.


    I wish them a decisive victory and a swift return as the small craft is jettisoned through the last of the liquid rainbow evaporating off the energy shields.  The previously raging storm is reduced to a fraction of its former size as the surface of the sun reaches a new equilibrium.


    Two additional pods follow them down, each bearing three more crew members.  The launches are staggered slightly to keep them from colliding.


    These people don''t mess around when it comes to their alcohol!  Perhaps I should look into setting up a distillery for them, if time allows.  A thought for another time.  With a mental shake I bring myself back to the present.


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    I scan the area quickly, more from nerves than because I expect to find anything.  It''s a good idea to calibrate the sensors for use during various conditions.


    Scans are still showing strange shadows and erratic movement.  Visuals of the region are still limited to polychromatic shimmerings.  I switch to deep system scans, my instincts nagging me, and I detect solid matter within the shifting echoes normal scans return.


    Initial telemetry readings indicate that three large vessels were hidden in a deep crater on one of the moons.  Their design doesn''t match Imperium specs, these aren''t our ships.


    "Operative Peal, unknown targets approaching the ship," I alert the acting commander and display some artfully cleaned up sensor readings on the main screen.


    Two of the alien craft are wedge-shaped while the third is more disclike and much larger than the others.  That must be the command ship, hanging back just outside our effective targeting range.


    "Try to open up communications, Mos," Yosip commands, "and we''ll see if there''s a good explanation for what they''re doing here."


    I beam a standard language packet at the flat command vessel and within moments they establish contact.


    A brown furred figure appears on the main screen, its bearing exuding hostility.  The being stands in the center of its own command deck, with only two visible subordinates present.  All three are dressed in studded leather combat armor with large rifles slung across their backs.  They stand upon two booted legs and possess two muscular sets of fur covered arms.


    The alien officer growls out a string of barking coughs which translation software transforms into something we can understand.


    "Surrender control of your ship and prepare to be boarded.  If you resist, we shall reduce you to piles of slag."


    Yosip is none too happy about their message but chooses not to respond.  It plays back, they have nothing further to say to us.


    The wedges have nearly closed the distance between us while the figure on the screen delivered their threat.  I sever the transmission and await further orders from Officer Peal.


    "Mos, target the leftmost vessel with the main cannon.  Give active missile control to this station and pull us back."


    Wasting no time, I begin laying into my assigned victim.  The viridian beam of energy impacts the shields protecting the enemy warship.  It is managing for now but cannot attack without weakening its own defense.


    Yosip sends out two volleys of missiles, the first at his target and the other into the space where we just were.


    Explosions fill the displays with static temporarily so it could have been either ship that hit us with that first shot.  The shields absorbed most of the impact, but we lost a maneuvering thruster.  The main cannon is also getting hot, so I reduce the energy going to our internal heating, redirecting the available power to air circulation systems.


    Peal''s target lost more than just a thruster, atmosphere spewing into space and crystallizing into an iridescent halo around the crippled warship.


    The stream of charged particles from the Selberclaw''s main gun has been pouring into the enemy''s shields and they''ve started to glow red as they convert the kinetic energy into thermal.  The excess heat is being sapped slowly by the void, but far too slowly to help them.  Moments more and they overload in a cascading system failure that burns out most of the ship''s systems.


    The flow of the main cannon cuts out at a gesture from Yosip.  A grim look on his scarred face he stands fluidly.


    "I want to check for survivors after we deal with the last one," he states, not willing to be questioned on his decision.  "But first get a transmission link to the pack leader."


    I send out the link but rather than answer us the flagship responds with a barrage of missiles in an act of defiance.  Yosip launches his own missiles to intercept.  The enemy ship disappears from all scans, its means of escape camouflaged by the multiple exhaust trails and explosions.


    Yosip waits several breathes before declaring it safe to begin looking for survivors.  I line up with the wreck of one of our former adversaries and extend an airtight tube composed of many layers of tightly interwoven fibers.


    "Docking complete.  Awaiting further orders, sir," I helpfully inform the bridge crew.

 Chapter 9: Whats Risk Assessment?

    Unfortunately, the ship Yosip had crippled with his missile attacks managed to destroy itself while we were connected to her sistership. With no away craft available to us we simply couldn''t respond fast enough to make a difference.


    Operative Peal has been leading the efforts to capture personnel and materiel, and his teams have been busy. Already large stacks of plating and unidentified circuitry pile up in our hold. Mar Lummer has been taken off light duty in order to ensure that everything is catalogued properly.


    Other crew members are hard at work as well, replacing the escape pods used to reinforce Gelly''s position and tracing burnt circuits. Missile count is low, but enough remain for another pair of volleys if it becomes necessary. Power cells are above half full and rising steadily.


    After half a day spent scurrying back and forth the teams finish scouring the captured vessel, whose name translates roughly to Learned Stalker.


    Seven of the alien crew were able to be rescued. The greater majority were already dead and the last few chose to fight until their bodies finally gave out. I can respect that kind of attitude in a warrior. We''ll need to interrogate them to find out more about their capabilities and objectives. Try to learn the reasons behind their presence in the system.


    Some sleeping quarters will have to be reassigned to make room, but a makeshift brig is being set up. Unable to spare any crew to watch the prisoners, that burden has shifted to me. The rooms assigned to them are already sprinkled with cameras and other monitoring equipment, so the task should be simple.


    With low supplies and fresh tales of victory to tell, we dutifully await contact from the agrarian planet visible far beneath us. We could be waiting for several more days. The more visible effects of the storm may have faded away, but there is still static and echoing feedback on all sensors.


    "Good job, crew," Yosip commends his tired crewmates, a gleam in the lens of his cybernetic eye. "We still need to wait for orders, but I think command will want to refit this hulk into something that''s been lacking in this system. A good forward defense."


    "Like a picket, sir? We beat them wrecks two to one," one of the tired spacers boasts. "Don''t see as they''d get much defense out of it."


    Comments of agreement circle around the weary group and Yosip just nods sagely.


    "That''s right, our little scout class was enough to take them out. But we wouldn''t have needed to fire a shot if there was a defensive installment keeping watch over this system. Mos Denn, I want you to start gathering up the larger debris. If I''m right that junker''ll need more mass and we should grab it before the work gets any harder."


    An order that will require some serious thinking before it can be carried out. We lack small craft to send out, Gelly Drop still not having returned. I''ve yet to see any hard vacuum suits so sending out teams on a spacewalk is also not possible. Nor do I possess any form of appendage with which to grab the debris.


    The self-destruction of the unnamed vessel has spread the debris out over a large volume of space. It will continue to further expand if left alone, which the order I''ve been given does not to allow.


    Operative Peal continues with his lecture, "Don''t think for a second every engagement will be that easy, either. We spooked them, let''s be honest. That would have been a much tougher fight if the big boy had gotten in on the action. And we didn''t come out unscathed, you''ve done the patchwork yourselves."


    His words are met with reluctant nods. "I''m not trying to downplay anyone''s role in our victory. Everything we do now is prep work for our next win, don''t forget. We also have two things no other ship in the Imperium has, so of course us winning is expected, right?"


    "What things is them, sir?" The crewman who has been acting as foreman wipes thick engine oil off his hands with a coarse rag while they talk.


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    Yosip laughs theatrically and strikes a dramatic pose, "The best crew ever assembled in one place, and the captive soul of an alien warlord giving the ship a little more oomph!"


    He gets a grease covered rag thrown at his face for his performance.


    Ignoring the crew for now, I focus once more on my options. The communication equipment installed on my hull has several output functions, normally unused in favor of the sublight transmission. Light waves, radio, even simple magnetic field bursts are available.


    The great majority of the debris is largely ferrous alloy. I flicker a burst of magnetism at the slowly drifting wreckage. It twitches a minute amount under the brief influence of the emitters.


    It might be possible to maintain a sustained magnetic field if I use multiple emitters, cycling overheated units off to cool down between uses. A few simple tests prove successful, and a tightness I had hardly been aware of relaxes fractionally.


    Lining up a fragment to target, I begin emitting the desired frequencies. By targeting the twisted chunks with a shaped magnetic field and deactivating it once they begin moving, I start to gather them together. A few pieces that aren''t metal are even swept in, gaining momentum from colliding with the attracted pieces.


    I do lose a few hunks of glass and plastic, as well as scattering clouds of carbon char that drift away at each collision, but some loss must be accepted.


    Gathering up the rest of the fragments consumes my attention and time passes in a blur. Before I know it the field of debris has been gathered into a loose knot.


    It is pleasant to gaze upon the wreckage gathered before me. I haven''t been able to truly fight in many seasons, something that had once filled me with bitter regret, and our brief battle washed most of it away.


    As I''m finishing my assignment, we receive a broadcast is from the planet, pulling me from my introspection.


    Unfortunately, it is not on standard Imperium frequencies, but we are able to receive it without much issue. It is a voice only file, which Yosip orders played to him privately in the war room. I do what can be done to clean up the message before beginning playback.


    Harsh spitting growls play over the speakers set into the ceiling. A translation follows immediately afterwards, courtesy of the latest Imperium linguistic modeling software.


    "Know that we have captured your leaders, vermin, and demand you remove yourselves from our system. If you comply, all captives will be released in unarmed vessels and escorted to the limits of our new territory. Failure to comply will result in their deaths in two local days'' time from the sending of this recording. Sooner if we suspect any signs of resistance."


    That the civilian population was not mentioned gives us little reason to hope for merciful treatment for our friends and officers. Little regard is shown for the lives that must have been lost in this ''conquest'' of theirs.


    "Do we know where the message was sent from? Mos, there aren''t a lot of options left," Operative Peal asks in agitation.


    "Yes sir, the storm has cleared up enough that we can pinpoint the transmission source within Centra City with complete confidence."


    "Then take us down there, now. I have a plan."


    I pull a topographical map up onto the main display. Centra City is situated right next to the mouth of a large lake, where the overflow runs off to become the Silver River. Our potential approaches are displayed as green arcs. Yosip selects the one that takes us closest to Centra while allowing us to bleed off some of the speed gained from reentry.


    "Sir, course set. I feel obligated to inform you that this vessel was never intended to withstand atmospheric pressures. The potential for structural damage is very great."


    Yosip sighs wearily. "That''s a problem for if we survive. Look, I don''t need to explain to a rock, but our choices are severely limited. We can retreat, like they say, and hope that a culture that practices ambush fighting will keep their word in regard to hostages. Doubtful, in my opinion."


    "Yes, I see that, Yosip," I reply, waiting to hear his reasoning. He''s talking for his own benefit, to ease his guilt perhaps for ordering such a dangerous maneuver.


    "Right. Or we could wait, for what I don''t know, as no other Imperium vessels are anywhere near close enough to get here in two days. It takes too long to get between systems, so we''re on our own. It could take days to codge together a usable shuttle. Days we just don''t have. We have time to try this, this stupid idea. If it works we''ll be heroes and if not, well, we won''t really care, then, will we?"


    He doesn''t want to do this, but his duty is to try. That is enough of a reason to get my full cooperation in this mad venture. Yosip''s willingness to leap into danger for his superior reminds me of my brute. I should have treated him more kindly, perhaps, but I didn''t want to make him soft. I made that mistake with my first spawn.


    "Get your crew into some kind of padded area, I''ll turn up the dampeners to max but even a controlled impact will crush the hull," I advise the shaken officer.


    He pulls himself together and strides onto the bridge, ready to deliver the grim news to our worthy crew.


    "Who said anything about landing. Just get us down there and we''ll do the rest," he responds jauntily. False bravado or not, he''s smiling when he says it. "Every one of our recruits is required to know how to swim."

 Bruens Story 2: Whats a Promotion?

    Bruen''s Story 2:   What''s a Promotion?


    The enforcer who entered the small interrogation room was old.  Bruen could easily imagine Pel Tosk and his master serving together in the long-ago days of their youth.


    The heavy scroll he carried in with him is rather well preserved, the ink still fresh upon the official seal.


    "Have you seen this form before, Mos Bruen?  It lacks only your own sigil to make it official," Tosk gently says to the bewildered youth sitting across from him at the interrogation table.


    "Forgive this worthless one, but you must surely have been misinformed, sir.  I am merely a servant, casteless and now without master."


    The aged enforcer sets the ornate scroll down in front of a shaking Bruen.  "Just look it over.  If you don''t agree to the conditions let me know.  You are free to refuse this opportunity, if you are so foolish."


    He then exits the room, leaving Bruen alone with the scroll.  Fearing the worst, the distraught youth picks it up and unrolls it, his hearts pounding madly in his thorax.  He nearly drops it in his shock, his tendrils going limp from astonishment.


    His master had put into motion something so rarely seen that most did not think it even possible.  Bruen had been accepted into the Mos caste, vouchsafed by Mos Denn and adopted into his lineage as prime heir.


    There at the bottom, shining with bound energies, are the personal sigils of the heads of six of the most prestigious lineages of the Mos caste, his master''s mark foremost among them.  Adding his own sigil would cause his standing to shoot up beyond his wildest dreams.


    The dates encoded into each mark tell the tale.  This parchment was originally penned four seasons ago and has been shuttled across the known worlds to reach those whose approval was required.  One by one the marks were added, and only days ago the scroll returned to its place of origin.


    During the earliest seasons when he had first began serving Mos Denn, his master had hired trainers to teach Bruen various weapon and fighting styles.  He had claimed to want a servant that could double as a bodyguard.  Lessons disguised as fireside reminiscing filled his evenings with tactics and troop deployment details.


    Bruen wishes his master were still alive to witness as his machinations finally come to fruition.  Pride in Mos Denn''s ability to plan and force those plans to work fills Bruen''s gizzard nearly to bursting.


    Mos Bruen stands and is about to call out when the door opens.  Pel Tosk walks sedately back in, bearing a ritual dagger and finely tanned chuka hide bandage.


    The cream-colored bandage is placed on the table reverently by the old enforcer before he offers the dagger to the young general.  Bruen takes it in a lower tendril and cuts deeply into the large crease in his carapace between the two clusters of upper tendrils.  A superficial wound, but it bleeds nonetheless, allowing the reservoir in the handle to fill before drawing it out.


    Carefully Tosk winds the wrap around the thorax of the youngster, stifling the modest flow of blue.  Bruen inscribes upon the pale parchment the mark that will give him the power to command armies and to conquer nations.  The half-filled dagger is carried out by a junior Pel, to be placed under anti-entropic field.  Proof against later need.


    Few castes are more respected than Mos, and almost none may issue them commands.  The price paid for such power is long seasons of grueling training and service that leaves few survivors.


    "There is still the issue of my mast- father''s murder, Pel Tosk," he states slowly, still reeling mentally.  "I additionally find that my duties have grown much heavier.  If you discover anything concerning Jurer Nuhst, you can find me by contact of," he trails off and checks the scroll.  "Mos Riyl at the front lines on E''guna."


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    ---


    It takes the young general only a few days to arrange for caretakers to take charge of his estate.  Unwilling to be around the scene of such traumatizing tragedy Bruen spends this time visiting his new caste mates.  The local military base hosts a fine officers'' club, with a secluded room in the back for high caste officers.


    "You should get you some protective reinforcement before your carapace is too shattered to be properly inscribed," advises one scarred old male in tones of regret.  "The uncles told me when I first went off to the front, and I''m telling you.  Find a good thaumatist, we all need them eventually, may as well get started early."


    Between the scars can be seen tubes and hoses, powering some arcane process inside the failing body.  While not to the extent of his former master, all of the few other patrons sport bodily modifications and enhancements.  Bruen''s lack was quick to draw attention.


    A casteless server brings a tray piled with exotic fruit slices and choice organs, all still fresh and dripping.  The tray is deposited on the table and the servant withdraws silently.


    "Leave him be, Hersh.  Those dust eaters can inscribe a composite plate as easily as your own shell," declares a female whose body has been heavily grafted with steel armor and ceramic plating as she slurps up a fine smelling liver.  "And more importantly, they can put more into the ward compared to weak organics."


    "Maybe so," concedes Hersh, "but those plates of yours don''t grow back.  Young as he is, he''ll be able to grow fresh chitin for a while yet."


    A third old-timer, quiet until now, speaks up from their place nestled in the shadows of the corner.  Their voice is artificial in nature, and grates out in a monotone, "Those enhancements, impressive though they are, remain dependent upon being attacked to be useful.  If you destroy your opponents before they can act, you do not need strong defenses."


    While little of this one isn''t covered by heavy robes, it is clear that blades have been grafted to the ends of his lower tendrils.


    "And how well has that worked for you, then?"  The armored female''s tone is light, but her posture promises swift violence.  Her taunt is waved off by the unimpressed veteran.


    "Tell us, young Bruen, what path do you intend to walk?  Old Denn chose the mixed way; guile, artifice, and enchantment all serving in their place," inquires Hersh of the youth seated before him.  "But he was the first of us to die.  Ha!"


    Mos Denn had often set such verbal traps.  No matter how Bruen answered he would be slighting more people than he praised, and thus would be worse for answering.  From the predatory looks upon the three elderly faces they all could see the tricky situation Bruen had been placed in.


    He stalls for time to think by popping a sliced gall into his mouth, savoring the nutty flesh as he chews slowly.


    "I can say that I have seen my father''s way played out to its natural conclusion," begins a subdued sounding Bruen.  "I was there to clean the messes he coughed up; blood mixed with oil.  The burnt bits of chitin flaking off his power charged body.  And I know the way he managed to make us all want to do our best for him.  I do not say it was the best way, but the way that he used best.  I hope to learn what will serve me best, and appreciate the advice you so freely give to me."


    The shadowy figure in the corner is the first to respond.  The static filled sounds that emit from the worn vocoder couldn''t be described as mirthful, though the old one shakes with laughter.  "Yes, this one was indeed raised by old Denn."


    "You would know, Scro.  He defeated you often enough before your city finally joined us," teases the armored female.


    "Not the Shadow General, Mos Scro?  Of Enslia? Mos Denn said you were one of his toughest rivals," exclaims Bruen, realizing he was in the presence of one of his heroes.  "He would curse your name late into the night.  ''Scro killed my best officers, every time, Bruen,'' he would say and then he''d describe each one in detail."


    Mos Scro stands and walks over to the table Bruen and Hersh are sitting at before he says proudly to the youngster, "He didn''t make it easy.  I lost these," at which he waves the stumps of two of his left side upper tendrils, "getting into a duel with his eldest daughter the first time we met."


    The others nod and make appreciative noises, as is appropriate.


    "He kept one in his trophy room," Bruen says.  "He loved that story.  Would you tell it, sir?"


    Scro seats himself carefully at their table and launches into the longwinded tale.  His monotone voice crackles as he begins his tale.  "My pleasure, the better to correct any mistruths you might have been told.  We were among the very first to make it to the Rust Isles and set up our forward base right at the high water mark..."

 Chapter 10: Whats Infrastructural Development?

    "Now entering the atmosphere, Operative Peal," I report to Yosip unnecessarily. Even now the shields are audibly struggling to throw off the heat of friction caused by passing through an atmosphere. The low whine of the heat sinks steadily increases in volume as we descend.


    As soon as we''re past the exosphere the force of the planet''s gravity begins to act upon the very frame of the scout vessel. Structural support beams groan and whine as they warp under the unaccustomed pressure. The protective energy field overloads and burns out just as we begin to level out. Several hallways are filled with thick white smoke.


    We had been expecting planetary defense weapons to be raining fire up at us, but the skies are eerily empty.


    "There''s Centra City coming up behind those hills," I comment to the terse skeleton crew seated around the command deck.


    Smoke rises from the city in thick dark billows. Whatever fighting was done here left a swath of collapsed buildings behind it.


    "Keep it steady, Mos," says Yosip. "Pass just over the city and keep going. Centra Lake is just beyond the last of the manor houses. We''ll be headed to the hangar now. Let us know when you''re over the water, then open the bay."


    After issuing his final orders Operative Peal briskly leads the remaining members of the crew down to the hangar to await my signal.


    "I''m taking us over Centra now. I have visual on the lake."


    "Good. Try not to die, Mos," he says with a grim smile.


    "Same to you Operative, bring our people home safe. Opening bay doors."


    They jump out in pairs, their boots thudding loudly upon the steel gangway as the determined crew run off into open air. The force of their entry into the murky waters of Centra Lake sends splashing fountains spraying high into the cool morning air.


    Yosip and Tonn Rojer are the last pair to make it out. As they clear the hangar, I try to shut the gaping bay door, but the force of the wind rips at it, warping the metal plating and preventing a full seal.


    Still no hostile missiles scream their way towards me, no enemy fighters scrambling into the sky ready to take me down.


    I pull up, trying desperately to keep from hitting the steep rocky face of the mountains on the far side of the lake. Many of my sensors have burnt up or snapped off. The thin clouds drifting lazily near the summit obscure visibility; I have to gamble on where the top of the peak stops.


    With only spotty visuals I can only hope for the best. I pull up, fighting against the pull of gravity.


    I don''t quite make it over.  The bottom of the Selberclaw scrapes against the peak.  Sparks and shrapnel rain down onto the craggy peak.  A high screech splits the air as the stone digs a furrow into my hull.


    Shedding scraps of twisted armor, I rise skyward.  My outer hull glows red from the force of fierce collision and friction in the thinning atmosphere.  Bits of rock are embedded into my underside, melted into the alloy plating.


    My balance and control systems suffer major malfunctions and I spiral crazily upwards.  Thankfully the dampeners are still working, despite all the abuse I''m putting them through.


    As I finally escape the grasp of Honus'' gravity several alarms begin to flash. Internal atmospheric pressure is dropping rapidly. I dismiss the alarms and get to work. Not much I can really do but seal off all the doors and see where the air remains afterwards.


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    I begin to reactivate the ventilation systems one by one and wait, paying close attention to the temporary brig the crew constructed not long ago. Any loss of pressure would mean I need to seal off inner doors, sacrificing more rooms to the hungry void. Luckily that does not happen. Pressure holds.


    The alien prisoners are a little knocked around, but they''re alive and still have air. Lucky for them, they''re far enough inside the area that had managed to retain atmosphere.


    They have only days of life left to them unless they receive food and water soon. My main choices are to wait and hope that the crew returns before our captives have starved to death or attempt to feed them myself. I don''t think I can afford to wait.


    "Greetings, this is your host speaking," plays over the speakers in their area. "Can you understand me?" Translated into their harsh tongue first, of course.


    The shaggy pelted aliens look around cautiously before they confer among themselves. The hushed growling and subdued yips are unintelligible to me. After a brief consultation one of the four-armed warriors steps forward.


    "We hear you. Speak your terms," the creature demands. "But know that we are loathe to fight our own kind."


    Mercenaries. This wouldn''t be my first time working with former enemies.


    "You will be given food and generally cared for. Work will be provided between engagements. If you lack the training to perform the necessary tasks you will be taught. Do you find these terms acceptable?"


    "We demand a large portion of any takings from raids in which we are called to fight. The spoils of our kills shall also be ours," states the captive spokesperson, as though he were in control.


    The terms he offers are unacceptable. This ship doesn''t raid anyone, that I''ve ever seen. No. We''ll have to come up with something more appropriate.


    "Tell me," I ask him, "what conditions you have fought under and what capabilities you can employ in my name. If you can offer me useful skills, then we might be able to reach a working agreement."


    He is hesitant to answer but one of his fellows behind him makes an emphatic gesture, causing him to stand up straighter.


    "We, my people, have been trained to use the equipment of the Learned Stalker, as well as to operate her armaments. Our former employer did not trust us to enough teach us more, only promising new homes for us once their plans were complete."


    Interesting. "What else can you tell me about your former employer?"


    "Not a great deal, sadly. Like you, he was too cowardly to speak with us himself. All our orders came from an unknown location, relayed by sublight transmission."


    His taunts barely register with me, though I know that once I would have been chewing salt in rage at being so addressed. As it is, I only realize that this creature thinks, correctly, that I need him more than he needs me.


    "And you were rewarded with the loot that you could capture, is that right? The crew receives a number of credits each shipday, varied by rank. You should be rewarded equally, as you will be doing the same work that they would."


    Several affirmative gestures and grunts issue from the other captives before their spokesperson agrees. "But we would need ranks, as well."


    I agree to this, with the spokesperson being given officer rank and the rest starting at the bottom, to be increased as determined by Ship-Father Tollek and myself.


    "So, the Learned Stalker, a standard design among your people?"


    The prisoners seem to find the walls of their holding cell to be quite fascinating, of a sudden. Doubtless not wishing to admit responsibility for such a low quality design, when compared to the Selberclaw.


    Having reached a satisfactory conclusion to our negotiations, I put them to work clearing out the corridors leading to the mess and stores. Even if they know how to effect proper repairs, it will still be several days of steady labor to expand the breathable zone. The damage to the outer hull and nearby rooms and halls is quite extensive. The stars can be seen from several interior cameras. Many other cameras are in dire need of repair.


    I also learn that the leader''s name is Vren and he calls his people the Tserri. They are shorter than the crew of the Selberclaw, by half a ubit or more. The four thick arms they possess each end in a trio of long ebon claws. They stand on two long legs, well suited for running for short bursts.


    The Tserri warriors, though unfamiliar with the tools to which I direct them, are soon industriously toiling to repair the fresh structural damage. I also design pressure suits to fit their forms.


    The Tserri selected to build the things chortles when she sees the files. Bulky full-body affairs, sadly I am no engineer, but heavily armored and containing life support and communications equipment. Including cameras linked directly to the ship''s main computer. Small chemical powered thrusters allow for mobility in space and boots with magnetic clamps complete the design.


    Of all things, she suggests that pockets be added to the design. Seeing no problem with this, I give her permission to make what minor alterations she deems necessary.


    When these new armored suits are completed, it should be possible to retrieve some salvageable materials from the wreckage orbiting Honus. Then the real repairs can begin.

 Gellys Story 1: Whats an Occupational Hazard?

    The concrete wall above Gelly''s head showers fragments onto him as the armor penetrating shell burrows into it. Another miss. The furballs still aren''t used to the lower gravity. As a result, they have been overcompensating and aiming too high. The twisting shadows from the chaotic lightshow overhead isn''t helping anyone''s aim either.


    Dashing to the side in a low roll, Gelly snap fires back, his SAm20 kicking twice, bucking against his shoulder. Two bursts of electrified shrapnel burrow into the chest of his four-armed adversary. The air fills with the stink of burnt leather and fur.


    Rushing forward to retrieve the fresh corpse''s rifle, he just barely dashes past an incoming stream of metal slugs. The impacts blast a line of small holes in the clay bricks, sending up a red dust cloud. As well as sawing the two crewmembers following him in half, their empty rifles falling from their lifeless hands.


    Gelly curses at the loss; of course the bastard has someone to cover him. And of course, that furball''s the one to figure out how to aim.


    A quick glance and the skilled Operative is already sending charged shrapnel hurtling in righteous retribution. He fires four times, but a soft click answers the final trigger press. Slinging his SAm20 onto his back, Gelly looks warily around. He spots the second attacker, blown into chunks of badly cooked meat. He sighs in relief before grabbing the exotic alien gun at his feet.


    Armed with the dead looter''s rifle, he claims the second kill''s ammo cans for himself and continues down the wide and litter-strewn street. He uses signs and trash containers for cover as he darts through the shopping center.


    The contact he wasn''t able to meet with is just one of many missing from the city. The ruling families that live in the capitol are probably hiding in their secure basements right now. If they''re smart.


    So much for fancy dinner parties. Grand Matron Bell won''t be happy; she always has a dinner party when her ''granbaby'' visits. Jim usually gets dragged into, to represent the crew. Gelly worries briefly about his cousin but decides Jim can take care of himself.


    Clues point to the civilian population being evacuated. Not enough bodies. Those few Imperium soldiers and officers that managed to survive the brutal and unexpected attack must be with the citizens. They should be safe at the old mining site situated in the mountains across Centra Lake. Gelly runs past another scrawled message on the side of a grocery store directing everyone to head to the temporary shelter. Imperium gold paint, notes Gelly as he jogs past.


    He looks up at the colored lights dancing far above, the storm the Tserri used as cover for their invasion of Centra City. It''s been causing too much interference for his personal comms equipment since he got into the city. He''s sure Jim knows about the invasion, no doubt saving Grand Matron Bell in some heroic fashion, but Operation Darcy is a bust.


    The shuttle is parked outside city limits. He''ll need to send a nice apology present to the poor farmer whose fields he ruined when landing. A set of new tools would be appropriate. The pitchfork the old man had tried stabbing Gelly''s face with has seen better days. Hopefully the farmer and his wife make it to the shelter.


    The large commercial district has been fine hunting grounds, but Operative Drop needs to get a message up to his crewmates. He needs something with a lot of power to send a halfway coherent signal.


    He comes across another looter weighed down under an expensive trivee set exiting a high-end electronics store. A burst of fire takes out one more invader before they can do more damage to the city his people built. The fancy trivee set drops to the ground, emitters shattering and a wide crack creeps up its base.


    Gelly shrugs his shoulders and keeps going. The store owner can probably afford the loss. Assuming they live, of course. He checks the shop the looter came from but finds that it''s been cleaned out. With the electronics shops pillaged he can only think that the local trivee station might still have the right equipment.


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    Crossing into the entertainment hub doesn''t take long and he soon sees the large transmission spike. It towers over the nearby office buildings and small empty parks. There aren''t as many enemy soldiers roaming around. Either this area isn''t that important to the invaders, or they''ve been pulled to somewhere else.


    Patrolling in front of the station are a pair of alien warriors, prowling the area around the entrance vigilantly. Leather armor studded with steel bars adorns these warriors. They carry heavy rifles and keep them ready for use.


    Sneaking through a nearby alley, Gelly spots an emergency escape ladder bolted to the side of the corporate offices of the company that runs the trivee station. He climbs it slowly, trying to remain silent. The lower gravity on this world makes sneaking slightly more difficult, so he moves extremely cautiously. At the top is a locked gate leading to the flat rooftop which causes Gelly to let out a long silent sigh of disappointment.


    Pulling out the long knife he''s carried since his youth he begins taking apart the hinges, using the blade to pop out the pins holding the gate together. He catches the mesh gate in one hand and puts his knife away before gently setting the small barricade down to one side.


    Once on the roof he creeps silently to a good vantage point overlooking the guards at street level. He takes careful aim at the center of mass and fires. Unfamiliar with the rifle as he is, the slug is too high. Blood and brains fountain out of the side of a brown fur covered head. Even as the metal slug is leaving the invader''s skull Gelly rises into a sprint and leaps off the roof. The remaining guard looks up just in time to see two boots a handspan from his face. The impact knocks the guard to the ground, Gelly atop them.


    Gelly quickly bounces off his victim with a grunt and fires twice into the center of the alien chest, ending any effort to fight back the invader might have made. He races across the street to the now unguarded trivee tower.


    A swift kick sends the station door flying open and Gelly sprays his captured rifle into the startled guards inside. He runs in past the carnage and heads to the transmission booth, thanking the stars he didn''t destroy anything important in the front lobby.


    Inside the booth stands a final guard, armed with a heavy flamer. Gelly rolls low past the door and holds down the trigger as he passes. The air above him turns into hot plasma as energy spews from the flamer. Screams fill the air before falling silent as the dying guard drops it to the ground.


    He stands up and walks cautiously back to the door and kicks the alien''s leather covered torso before collapsing into the cheap office chair in front of the transmission terminal in relief. A different system than Imperium standard, but civilian equipment should still be able to send at the right frequency, with a little adjustment.


    After familiarizing himself with the equipment, Gelly turns the power up as high as it will go. Everyone on the planet will receive the signal, and hopefully the Selberclaw as well.


    Gelly enters a string of authorization and command prompts and sends off his brief call for assistance. He hauls himself up tiredly, getting back to his feet to escape the building. Another squad will come looking for the Tserri he''s just killed before long, if they haven''t already.


    He needs to find a secure resting place, and soon. With more yet running to look ahead to, Gelly sets off to find a place to wait for back up to arrive.


    ---


    From his vantage point hidden on the roof of the tallest building still standing in the ruins of the residential sector, Gelly watches as three flaming trails are burned against the multihued evening sky.


    Reinforcements are finally arriving. Too bad they''re going to land so far away. Gelly does some mental calculations before beginning the long descent back to street level, cursing under his breath the entire time.


    Checking his comms yields only static and harsh shrilling. It would have been nice to give those pods a piece of his mind. He turns it back off as he runs back towards the outlying rural area. He''ll save it until he gets there.


    It looks like that farmer''s going to be getting a much bigger gift than Gelly had originally thought. Maybe a new tractor would keep the landowner from pressing charges?


    If he asks her nicely his aunt would surely arrange to have one delivered. Being the favorite has to come with some advantages.


    When he sees the dun-colored clouds of dust blown skyward by the impact Gelly decides a tractor won''t be enough. His loping jog rapidly devours the ground before him, and he runs long into the night.


    At sunrise he crosses paths with the squad sent down in the escape pods.

 Gellys Story 2: Whats the Friend Zone?

    "Ye sure took yer sweet time," Gelly gripes loudly.  His face is pale from exertion under its mask of dust.  He rounds on the crew.  "Do ye know what manner o'' folk as ye just made homeless?"


    "Sorry, Gel," says Marta in a subdued voice.  "We couldn''t steer those things if we''d wanted to, though."


    He takes a deep breath, about to continue his tirade.  The look on Marta''s face stops him cold.


    "Yer right, lass.  It''s no right to yell at ye o''er that blasted rock''s aim," he says, his voice laden with anger and regret.  "But we''ve a job a work left so ''eave yer asses on yonder."


    With that pronouncement he turns and starts jogging back the way he came, trailed by a bewildered group of spacers.


    "There''s no way he''s real," complains one of the crewmates to another.  "He''s covered in blood, most of it the wrong color to be his, burnt, scraped and cut up.  His uniform''s shredded and he looks like he hasn''t slept in days!"


    "Aye lad, and only eaten twice since landin'' ''ere.  Just like me boyhood," he shouts back over his shoulder.  "Now shut yer yap.  Ye got wind fer gabbin'' ye should be usin'' to run."


    Operative Gelly Drop signals for a rest around midday.  They''ve all been awake since yesterday and are starting to stumble through the fields and rutted dirt roads.  He''s led the weary assault group to an empty farmhouse located just outside the captured city.


    The property is surrounded by a tall fence festooned with climbing vines that sparkle in the sun.  The old manor itself is easily large enough to accommodate all of ten them.  Storage barns and other buildings within the fence point to the prosperity of the owners.


    After ordering defenses put in place and sending the crew inside to search for supplies or refugees, Gelly disappears into a large outbuilding.  In one hand he holds a small notepad, formerly the farmer''s grocery list.


    "Why''s he taking notes?  Or is he writing to his aunt again?"  Kali asks as she drags another heavy block of dried feed moss to join the others in a makeshift barricade around the front door.  Might not stop a slug, but cutting through the bales will surely reduce the lethality of any hits they take.  Another pair are busy dragging bales of the stuff around to the back door.


    Marta looks over at the Operative in question as he walks slowly around the inside of a spacious machine shop.  Through its many windows he can be seen inside, between a thresher and a combine harvester.  He''s writing something, glancing from it to the thresher and back.


    She laughs and shakes her head, her long crest of hair swaying freely.  "Knowing him, he''s got plans for some battle wagon or something."


    Kali drops the heavy bale in place and brushes some of the dried moss from her uniform.  "Did he just learn about the wheel?"


    The smell of stew drifts out of the manor, tantalizing the hungry officers.  One of the crewmembers is keeping a running tally of what their unit takes, to be reimbursed later.


    "That''s not nice.  He can''t help where he grew up," admonishes Marta as she lifts another bale on top of the growing barricade.


    They drag enough more to finish setting up the gun emplacement.  Enough room for three of them to shoot out, with cover they can hide behind.  The temporary defenses all in place, the two go inside to grab something to eat.


    Gelly joins the rest of his weary team inside the spacious dining room after he takes down the model numbers of all the large farming equipment.  They''re sitting around a long wooden table.  Portraits of the homeowners and their large family hang from every wall.  Embroidered blue cloths drape every available surface.  The sounds of eating and quiet conversation make the large room feel cozy.


    He takes the empty seat next to Tulson.  Marta hands him a steaming bowl of fragrant stew which he accepts with gratitude.  He digs in enthusiastically and she nods in satisfaction before she heads upstairs to get some rest.


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    The farmer''s family has much nicer beds than the tiny bunks back aboard the Selberclaw.  She falls asleep as soon as her head hits the well-stuffed pillow.  Brightly colored plush animals share the bed with her.


    "Soon as the sun''s down," Gelly says around a mouthful of spiced root vegetable, "we''ll be headin'' out.  Make sure yer guns have plenty o'' ammo in ''em and be sure to grab all the sleep ye can for''n it''s time to run."


    The crew around him groan in mock anguish.


    ---


    Split into three teams, they make their way into the city from different angles.  The hope is that at least some of them will reach the center of the city to attempt infiltration of the Capital Building.


    Gelly and his two crewmen, Nett Zar and Joa Mell, stalk silently through the abandoned alleys, every muscle tense as they scan for enemy fighters.  They''re entering the commercial district and expect that by now the looters have nothing more to steal.


    There, only a block down the street are a pair of armed Tserri, looking the wrong way.  Not wanting to waste the opportunity he signals Joa, the better marksman, and lines up his own shot as they creep steadily forward.


    After a silent five count they open fire, killing both targets.  Nett darts forward and checks out the area while the others move to safe positions from which to provide him cover fire.


    Gunfire in the distance alerts the trio and they head that way by silent mutual agreement.  The sound of an explosion causes them to sprint all out, dropping stealth in favor of speed.  Their bootsteps ring out on the paved streets.


    They arrive at a scene of carnage.  Bodies wreathed in smoke are scattered around the paved walkway.  Furred chunks of meat lay everywhere, attracting swarms of tiny buzzing scavengers.  The stink of blood and spent explosives hits them hard.


    Standing in the slowly clearing smoke can be seen the armored forms of two Tserri warriors.  Blinded and gasping in the smog filled air, they are easy targets for the three Imperium spacers.  Clouds of charged flechettes slice through leather armor as if it wasn''t there.


    They find the remains of the four-member team behind a food stand.  Shot full of holes before their grenade could go off.  The shredded corpses of five more Tserri are spread out on the street.


    Joa is bent over behind a bush, overcome by the acrid stench of blood and gun smoke.  Nett keeps his flechette rifle up, scanning the area for more hostiles.


    Gelly curses softly before going over to retrieve their weapons.  There''s still a lot of fighting left to do.  He hands a spare SAm20 each to Joa and Nett, and keeps one for himself.  He also takes the bandolier of grenades the dead bombardier will no longer be needing.  A shame to lose her, as well as the medic.


    He hopes the other team is still doing alright.  Dismissing his worries, Gelly leads the two others deeper into Centra City.


    "When we''re through with all this, ye two''ll''ve earned yerselves some commendations," he remarks casually to the two crewmembers.  "Might be as we''ll be callin'' ye Operative, Jim takes a shine.  Joa, get up top that store yonder and take a looky.  Keep her covered, Nett.  I''m thinkin'' Tully''s group''ll be through here soon, but the furballs might come have a looky as well."


    He then takes a position behind the waist high remnants of a collapsed wall where he can keep the area in view.  Nett gives Joa a boost and she scrambles up the wall.  She surveys the area through the scope of her rifle.


    "Visual on Tulson''s team," Joa says tersely from above.  "Contact with an enemy squad four blocks west."


    "Get down here, quick like!  Nett, keep her covered," hisses Gelly as he runs towards the faint sound of gunshots.


    Booted feet thumping loudly against the pavement, he runs yelling into the rear of the enemy unit, cursing their ancestry and choices in grooming tools.


    Recognizing the gruff voice shouting insults, Engineer Tulson and her squad find the will to move that much faster, recover slightly quicker from the recoil of their weapons.  Half the enemy squad turns in the direction of the distraction.


    Taking advantage, Tulson shoots one of them in the back, one of her thirty-threes booming and kicking hard, the other falling into aim as the force of the first shot twists her body.  The other falls, back shredding under the impact of Marta''s flechette rifle.


    Tulson quickly shifts her aim to one of the survivors but Kali Povril fires first.  Huffing, she hip fires at the last survivor.


    He collapses, tackled by Gelly, and her shot grazes the operative''s right shoulder as he tumbles.  Gelly stands, and clutches his shoulder, grimacing.


    Once it''s clear Kali runs over and wraps her arms around Gelly''s weakly protesting form.  She kisses him soundly on the top of his head with a happy laugh.  "I''ve never been so happy to see your ugly face!"


    Joa and Nett shoulder past the brush and into the clearing moments later.  They panic when they spot Gelly.  His face is dark with embarrassment as he staggers dazedly in the small park.


    "Oh no! They shot Gelly," shouts Nett and runs over, grabbing the Operative and pulling him tightly into an embrace.  "Don''t die, Gel!  I never got to tell you I loved you," he cries out in anguish.


    "I like ye, too," sputters a mortified Gelly.  "But could we do this later?  Back on the ship, perhaps?"

 Gellys Story 3: Whats a Stake-out?

    Nett sprints across the open yard. He holds a bundle of live grenades tightly in one hand. Changing directions every few steps, he tries to present a difficult target to the invaders inside the small building. Gelly and the others provide covering fire from a drainage ditch, but the Tserri inside still risk exposing themselves to stop the mad bomber running toward them.


    Shots fly past him, some close enough to feel the heat as they burn through the air. Delicate crystal grasses are ripped to shreds by the misses, filling the air with myriad tiny rainbows.


    He tosses the explosives in a high arc. The grenades sail through the air and come down right in the mouth of the giant artillery piece.


    He turns to run the other way before the package detonates. Moments pass as though days as he puts every ounce of effort into pushing his aching legs to move faster. Fear drives Nett as he races the final few steps across the lawn, breath coming in heaving gasps.


    A massive boom grows behind the running crewmember, loud enough to shake the ground and make the walls of the artillery emplacement shudder. Shrapnel flies out, shredding the walls of the outpost as easily as the Tserri inside. Thunder reverberates through air filled with spinning metal and orange fire.


    He yells and dives toward safety. The blast is directly behind him when he leaps.


    The shockwave washes over the shallow trench Gelly and his team use to hide from the explosion. Nett doesn''t get himself entirely into the ditch before the explosion, and his left leg now ends in a raw stump. Everyone is left deafened by the noise of the massive blast.


    The team starts to panic when they realize that their medic lies died beside the remains of the bombadier. With no better option, Tulson takes charge and has Joa apply pressure to slow the bleeding. She then wraps the end in the cleanest cloth she can find. Making sure the bandages are tightly secured first, she has Joa let go and they back away.


    Nett keeps whispering to himself about a longer fuse in a hollow voice. He''s lost a lot of blood and is very pale, but the bindings are holding and preventing him from bleeding out.


    Gelly sends Joa and Kali to look for somewhere safe they can fall back to. When they return with word that the hospital still partly stands, he nods grimly. He tenderly picks up the maimed crewmember and carries him, the others keeping watch on their surroundings.


    It isn''t what they want but the team decides he''ll have to stay behind. Nett despondently agrees. They help the wounded crewman to the top floor of the ruined hospital. There the squad loads him down generously with ammunition and field rations. Gelly gives him a brief hug before the team leaves to continue the assualt. The wounded crewmember is left speechless when Kali not only hugs him but kisses his cheek as well.


    Tulson makes them wait a bit longer when she spots some painkillers on the way down and wants to run them up to the suffering spacer. Liking the idea Gelly agrees and has the rest of the team look for more useful medicines while they wait. He notes down the supplies they take and after only a few moments more they file out the front exit.


    A somber mood accompanies the weary team on their way. During the long march to the Capital Building the thought that any one of them could be the next casualty plays through their minds. Only Gelly seems immune to the gloom that shrouds them as they travel, a thoughtful expression on his grime covered face.


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    Even in their distracted state the team are immediately aware when they step into the government district. The roads are much better maintained, the signs are of higher quality, and the style of the buildings changes markedly. Far from the concrete and brick boxes of the rest of the colonial capital, this sector features round towers topped with low domes and with many large windows.


    Most striking of all is the abundance of native flora, carefully guided into artful designs that drape the simplistic architecture and add much needed depth and detail to the region. Reflections bounce between crystalline leaves causing the entire area to shine as if under a spotlight.


    "I''ll show ye a trick the chief''s son taught me on me first hunt," Gelly says as he reaches down and scoops up a fistful of dark loamy mud. He coats his face liberally, paying special attention to the area around his eyes. "This''ll keep some ''o the glare off. Help yer aim."


    Faces smeared with thick mud, they continue on.


    Without shadows in which to hide the team instead marches brazenly down the main boulevard leading to the Capital Building. Gelly leads with Joa taking up a rearguard position. The three officers between them keeping lookout to the sides and above, protecting the group from ambush.


    Encountering only a single lone alien patrolling as they travel, the trip is fairly uneventful. By midmorning they can see their target and take position where they can observe and plan.


    ---


    A quarter of a day spent watching the compound is enough to convince the squad. Enemy reinforcements aren''t coming.


    Parked on the overgrown lawn in front of the Capital Building are two battered personal space fighters. Next to the fighter craft is a standard model shuttle.


    They haven''t spotted a single person, Tserri or otherwise, entering or exiting the building since the team had arrived. Movement, however, can occasionally be seen behind shuttered windows.


    "So what''s the plan," Kali asks in exasperation, picking a small slimy creature from her hair. "You think they know we''re here?" She and Marta had dug up some of the sod and used it to make a shallow blind.


    Operative Drop wakes up and looks at Scout Povrel from where he had been sitting, leaning against an ornamental tree, hidden from view by its trunk and low branches. Joa''s been up there all day, staring at the building through her gunsights. The rest of the surviving assault team are spread around the area, waiting for a shout from Gelly.


    "Oh, aye. They know."


    Four startled faces turn towards him and he suppresses a chuckle.


    "What? How could you know that Gel?" Tulson asks from under the thorny bush she''s been using for cover. She''s covered in painful scratches.


    "Oh, that''s easy. I let them know," he says casually. "Right when we arrived."


    The women''s faces become white as snow and Tulson pulls out one of her ceramic thirty-threes. She aims it at Gelly''s head.


    "What? Have none o'' ye tried yer comms?" Gelly shakes his head in mock exasperation. "Call Jim, ask him if''n I need a few new holes. I''ll accept his word, I will."


    Blaster never wavering, Tulson nods at Marta who quickly pulls out her personal communicator and flicks the pad a few times.


    Ship-Father Tollek''s voice comes out, slightly tinny. "You ready to come in and have a hot shower? Or would you rather keep camping with Gel?"


    The front door opens, and Jim Tollek is standing in the entryway, communicator in one hand and a cocky grin on his face.


    Joa drops gracefully from the tree and kicks Gelly in the ribs before walking calmly up to the Capital Building. The other officers follow her without sparing a glance at the Weapons Operative. He''s laughing even as he''s doubled over in pain.


    The Ship-Father steps aside to let them into the well-appointed lobby. "Crewmen Sipa and Itan should be returning with the wounded Operative you stationed at Bever''s Mercy Hospital by nightfall," he says quietly to his crew as they pass.


    Kali''s face lights up when she hears this good news. She had thought Nett likely to bleed out before help could get to him. Her step is just a bit livelier as she continues inside. The tired and filthy spacers are pleased to hear that Nett will be promoted.


    Jim shouts over to his still wheezing officer, "Make sure to tell Mother all about how I secured the Grand Matron before you even got here in your letter tonight, cousin."

 Chapter 11: Whats a Positive Working Environment?

    Once the Tserri make enough repairs that I regain maneuverability, I head to the dead hulk to salvage it for replacement parts.  The trip is a slow one, but still eventful.  The mercenaries are busy learning and working.  Between sessions in front of screens learning wiring patterns and the functions of various pieces of equipment, they still take shifts hauling debris from collapsed corridors and expanding the areas they have access to.


    I trust Vren to assign the Tserri appropriate tasks.  He knows their capabilities better than I do, no sense muddying the job just to be in charge.


    We arrive after what seems like seasons.  Vren works his crew hard but treats them fairly.  Between making extensive repairs and modifications to the Selberclaw and salvaging the Stalker they somehow find time to personalize their vaccuum armor.  Each one bears a distinctive color and pattern.


    "The primary engine''s completely useless.  Totally burnt out, Mos Denn," reports the tawny-furred Teah.  "Without new parts, the Learned Stalker cannot be made mobile again."  The dark green of her armor makes the golden undercoat of her face stand out in bright contrast.


    "But there are still certainly components we could use to make this new vessel more powerful," adds her assistant, a striped male named Uhgun.  He paces before the workstation while rubbing his gauntlets together absently.  Like his fur, the suit he bears has a striped pattern.  "Power relays and converters, primarily."


    The remains of their former ship float below us, cut open like a game animal being butchered.  Many of the massive structural beams and thick sheets of heavy plating will replace my own.  When the repairs are complete the Selberclaw will be nearly thirty percent larger.  We''ll need to upgrade the engines if we want to push around all that extra mass.


    "The secondary engine is still intact, but it''s in need of major repairs," Teah comments happily.  She pauses before continuing in a slightly subdued tone.  "I''m still not sure if we''ll be able to run all the necessary systems with only the current core."


    The ship doesn''t generate very much energy, in fact.  Several light sensitive panels harvest a small amount of electricity, to keep mundane systems running, but the majority comes in through the core.  I can hear the dust eaters repeating their tired refrain about higher dimensional shunts and collapsing probabilities into desired energy states.


    Teah is easier to work with than any Somner.  She shows eagerness at each step in the repair process.  She may not yet understand all the needlessly complicated higher dimensional equations but they aren''t really necessary for her work.  She learns faster than anyone I''ve ever worked with, but can only absorb the knowledge available to her.


    For some reason, the files I have access to don''t contain any runic transformations, or even mention of them.  Decidedly odd, as the drive clearly functions by altering standard physical space to allow speeds well beyond the causal limit.  Rather, there are numerous text documents full of odd mathmatical constructs well beyond anything I can understand.


    Still, the repairs progress nicely.  Entire sections of outer hull are being peeled off both ships.  Various sensors are in storage and ready to be reinstalled on stronger outer plates.  Even the structural girders are being rearranged to accomodate more rooms.


    Rather than a scout, the result will be a light cruiser.  Heavily armed and armored while also boasting impressive speed for its mass.  Still too small to go head to head with true heavy battleships, but powerful enough to dominate similarly sized vessels.


    "Excellent work, Teah, Uhgun.  Continue your work mapping the new power conduits, please," I ask before turning my attention elsewhere.


    Two of the new recruits report uncovering a functional microfactory in what was the missile bay.  We''ll want to have that reprogrammed and installed in our own ordinance room.


    Nearly every function of the ship sees either upgrades or modifications before there are no more spare parts we can make use of.  Computer storage and processing have both been upgraded, the hangar will be nearly twice as large, and additional armaments dot the scar pocked outer hull.


    There is a notable lacking in provisions aboard the wreck.  Water we find in plenty, as it can be cleaned and repurposed with dedicated equipment.  Hopefully the Ship-Father will be able to supply us from the world below.


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    The Stalker contributes its scanning equipment as well, further augmenting the data I can collect.  There are even enough surplus parts to install personel operated turrets along the underside and top.


    I''m sure the Ship-Father will be most pleased when he sees the officers'' lounge the Tserri installed.  I know how important alcohol is to the crew.  To make sure they don''t over indulge, I have my repair team give me autonomous control over the distillary.


    ---


    After several frantic days, enough work is at least partially complete that the Selberclaw is back in fighting shape, though much remains yet to do.  Corridors without proper walls, bare wires and circuitry exposed to all who pass by.  Many lights have yet to be installed and several viewscreens display only static.


    Newly repaired communication arrays detect an incoming transmission almost as soon as they''re activated.


    "-peat.  I.S. Selberclaw, you are ordered to rendezvous with friendly shuttles at included coordinates above Honus.  We''re tired and ready to come home, Mos.  This message will now repeat.  I.S. Selber-"  The message is playing Marta''s calm but tired voice on a continuous loop.


    I locate the source of the signal easily and set course.  At the specified coordinates are three small vessels.  Our standard shuttle and two fighter craft.  They are the two that had escorted Ship-Father Tollek down to the planet.  The Darts are significantly less shiny now, with blast damage and large black scorches decorating them.  Approaching from the planet below is an unidentified craft.


    The open hangar bay is soon filled by the three ships, though there is room yet for another two fighters.


    From the interior of the shuttle stumble Jim Tollek, Kali Povrel, and a very tired Tonn Rojer.


    Out of the first battered fighter come Bella Tropp and Mar Lummer.  The second Dart disgorges Terla Parc and a large stack of electronic equipment she pushes with a small cart.


    Bella switches out the shuttle''s energy cell for a fresh one as the pilot cycles the air supply.  The fighters receive similar treatment.  The shuttle then launches back towards the planet, its Dart escorts on either side.


    The hangar doesn''t stay empty for long as the unfamiliar vessel lands, filling almost half of the available space. My files identify it as a armored transport, this particular one is named Jumper.  It''s side lifts up and four crewmembers march out, carrying with them wooden crates.  Tollek starts to wave them towards the cargo bay but stops and looks around.


    "What has happened to my ship," he asks in a voice strained nearly to breaking.  "And why are are there armed Tserri loading fuel into the Matron''s fighters?"


    "We do need the crew," points out Kali to her exasperated commanding officer.


    "Think of them as a unit of irregulars, Ship-Father," I say calmly. "The cargo bay is in the same place, relatively speaking, by the way."


    "I like the suits they''re wearing," says an excited Bella as she walks up to get a closer look at Uhgun while he refuels the armored transport.  She runs a long gray finger along one of the orange and yellow stripes.  "Can we get some made to fit us?"


    Tollek shakes his head but says nothing more as he walks slowly around the hangar, looking at the various changes.  His earlier anger seems to be dissipating somewhat as he looks over the floorplan on a dedicated display screen.


    Three wounded crewmembers emerge limping from the transport craft and Tonn takes them to the medics office.  Marta Spere leads two new recruits walk out behind them carrying more supplies.  Gelly Drop climbs out of Jumper''s pilot hatch and drops down to the deckplate with a grunt.


    "Too bad about Joa," laments Kali to the Ship-Father when she spots Gel.  "She had a good career ahead of her."


    Jim nods seriously before responding, "Yes, but when the Grand Matron decides you''re a good match for her granbaby, it''s hard to tell her no."  He looks up from the display he''s studying before continuing.  "Who was their third, again?"


    Kali makes gestures of negation before answering.  "One of the local officers, I think?  Can''t remember his name."


    "The engagement party''s tonight," Gel comments when he reaches them.  "Hestrun''s gonna have his hands full with those two.  Bah.  I think I''m liken'' the new look, Jim.  Did ye see the extry missile bays?"


    Tulson Rah climbs down from the copilot seat, covered in grease.  I wait to see if anymore of the crew made it home, but it isn''t to be.


    Tollek glares at Gel before he heads to the command deck.  His surviving officers follow him wearily.  Together we discuss the many alterations made during the repair session, most of which he reluctantly approves.  His one sticking point is rather strange.


    "I don''t care," he bellows.  "Find room!  You found space to fit that ridiculous officers'' lounge, you can fit in an herb garden!"  The lounge had to have its own radiation shields, as well as double thick armored walls.  To protect the climate controlled private bar, of course.


    We all need a hobby, I suppose.  Frankly, gardening is not the oddest pursuit a commanding officer could engage in.


    We decide to convert one of the unoccupied officer''s cabins into a small hydroponics lab.  The final design comes with a small herb garden.  The waste water recycling systems can be routed through hydroponics trays easily enough.


    He also approves the vaccuum armor, realizing the potential of extravehicular activities.  Bella is put in charge of designing the new suits while Terla will be handling the actual manufacturing process.


    In a small act of revenge, Tollek assigns me the tedious task of filling out the new registration forms.  He says to register us under the name Resurgent.


    It looks like the Tserri will need to be registered as new recruits as well.  The crew manifest may be the most involved aspect, as the shuttle has returned packed with more fresh recruits and seasoned crewmen.  While filling out the manifest I notice that all of the surviving crewmembers have received promotions, commendations, or both.

 Chapter 12: What are Growing Pains?

    Zzzztt!  Darkness swallows the corridors between the barracks and mess hall.  Another burned out circuit or frayed wire.


    Systems that worked admirably under the light touch of a seven-member crew strain and fail under the high demand of more than triple the number.  It is only by sheer chance and the grace of the stars that nothing more vital has been lost.


    "Bella, can you send someone to check out the deck three power supply," I ask from a speaker in the hangar, where she''s working on Jumper.  "We''ve lost lighting in several corridors."


    She grunts as she tightens a bolt deep in the guts of the armored transport.  "Operative Nett was wanting to cross train, you might see if he''s free."  A loud clang followed by cursing delays the rest of her reply.  "This junker''s in worse shape than you are, and I can''t step away until the blasted repulsor is secured or it''ll rip out the bracings," she adds, either as explanation or apology.


    Leaving the harried mechanic to her work, I flip quickly through various camera feeds before locating the young officer.  He''s in the officers'' lounge, playing some strange game with Vren.


    Nett shakes his cupped together hands vigorously before casting the contents onto the table the two are sitting at.  Three spindly triangular pyramids about half a bit long each spill onto the laminated wood surface.  The small triangular bases are colored black and each of the three tapered faces of each piece are vivid red, blue, or green.  The arrangement has no significant meaning to me, but Jett seems quite pleased.  The dice land roughly in line. Blue/red up, red/green up, green/blue down.


    "That''s red facing and both points.  And green facing for a double, non-point," he announces triumphantly to his scowling companion.


    "Tcha.  Very well, I admit your win," grunts the Tserri leader.  He reaches down to his belt and draws a hooked dagger whose blade measures at least eight bits long and places it between them.  "One more throw, and I''ll add the sheath?"


    Nett nods with a cocky grin on his face.  Vren grabs the dice and proceeds to shake them using his lower set of claws.  He casts and again the colors mean nothing to me, but I wait for the game to play out.  A short delay before the light is repaired will be good to toughen up the resolve of the crew.


    The smile on Vren''s dark furred face is predatory, fangs dominating his mouth.  "All out, no match green.  A fair throw."  Ah, the dice landed in a loose circle, with each spindle pointed outward.  Both coloration and positioning affect the value of a toss.  Each displays a green face, but no same-colored faces are towards each other.


    "True, true.  But I''ve the cripple''s luck today," the newly promoted Operative declares as he scoops up the dice for his turn.  A brief shake and he lets the dice roll across the table.  When they come to a stop he jumps to his feet with a cheer.  "All in and trifecta!"


    Indeed, the dice landed and point inward.  One pair have red sides facing each other, with green and blue also matching up between the other exposed sides.  Vren hands over the sheathed dagger with a shake of his head.


    "Operative Zar, your assistance is requested outside the crew barracks.  Lighting has gone out and Bella Tropp recommended you for the assignment," I announce into the lounge.


    Vren scoops up his dice and presses the black end of each die with an extended foreclaw.  The dice revert to a dull white color one by one. He then places all three into a small compartment built into his purple and silver vacuum armor.


    "At least you know the dice are fair, they''re yours," Nett says before heading off to see what needs fixing.  His limp is barely noticeable.  Tonn, the ship medic, has opined before that with proper exercise it''ll disappear entirely, at least until he changes out his cybernetic prosthetic for a more advanced model.


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    A towel from a dispenser nearby serves to wipe the table down.  After tossing it into the disposal chute Vren picks up a large green and orange striped fruit from a bowl of produce kept on the bar.  Taking a bite of the albulb he walks back to his quarters down the curving officers'' hall.


    ---


    In the war room Ship-Father Tollek and two of his officers, Gelly and a newly transferred Second Operative Las Nokk, are seated around the centrally placed table.  Displayed above it is a hologram of local space, with orbits marked and our own location highlighted.


    Formerly of the Centra Defense Force, Operative Nokk''s speckled face is set in grim lines as he listens to his commanding officer.


    "Yosip''s idea of a stationary base is still solid.  Mos Denn, unfortunately, used much of the raw material available to construct said base, however," he sighs and presses a couple of buttons inset before him on the table.  The displayed graphic zooms in on the location of the remains of the Learned Stalker and her sister ship.


    "The Grand Matron is busy rebuilding Centra.  There aren''t any spare supplies to send up," complains Las, weary acceptance dripping from his voice.


    Gelly nods along absently, paying more attention to his personal comms.


    "We can''t be forced to stay in system," Jim declares.  "There has to be another source of material available to use."  He turns his gaze to Operative Drop.  "Have you found anything, Gel?"


    "Could be, Jim.  Depends on how ye feel about catching a nice big rock or two."  He never looks up from the device in his hand.  "May be we''ve a couple ''o candidates."


    He touches his comms to the table and enters a command.  The view provided changes again to long range focus, with two new ellipticals added to the display.


    "We''ll be needin'' em both fer this, if''n ye want it done right.  This big honker, Kalibern, named after the hero''s sword, would serve as the main body.  That smaller one''s needed for the water ice and other volatiles.  Locals call it-"


    "Bestera Minor, after the sisters that helped the hero forge Kalibern," interrupts Las.  "Major is much farther out, but the two orbits line up pretty closely, such that they are visible together during winter nights."


    "Which hero is this?  I do so enjoy a good adventure story," I interject, causing Las to start in surprise.


    Jim chuckles before answering, "The nameless hero.  A legend among our race dating back to before space flight.  I''m glad to find out that you don''t spend all your time reading children''s tales, Mos.  Go on, Gel."


    "Aye.  Kalibern''ll be first.  Lots ''o iron ''n nickel, other metals.  Dig in a wee bit then plant what''s left o'' the Tserri hulls on top.  Drag Bestera over fer drinkin'' water and air.  Only thing we lack is everythin'' else to build a station."


    "And with those armored suits of yours," adds Las with excitement, "the work can be done without needing a small fleet of tugs and shuttles."


    "What should I be doing, then?  Should I drag the wreckage to intercept Kalibern or nudge the asteroid towards the scrap?"


    "Kalibern will need to have its orientation and rotation adjusted anyway, so might as well drag everything to this spot," Jim states decisively before sketching in an approximate orbit for the proposed base and highlighting the spot closest to us on it.  "Oh, and have one of the science team draw up plans for a mobile refinery and micro factory.  The smaller the better."


    Active magnetic field manipulation drags the debris behind us as we slowly make our way to the proposed location.  Half a day of flight will see us to the destination, though not without complications.


    The entire ship is kept much less humid than I would have preferred in my organic body, but the sectioned off quarters used by the Tserri are dryer still.  Or would be, if the installation of atmospheric systems had not been so rushed.


    Armor abandoned as unbearable, their thick fur clings to their stripped-down forms as they replace filters and reprogram ventilation monitoring software.


    "Engineer Teah, could I interrupt?  New orders from the Ship-Father," I play over the speakers mounted in the common area the engineer had been working in.  "He needs you to design a portable forge and factory.  It needs to be able to handle multiple blueprints and size is a major limiter.  Something that could fit in the shuttle would be great, but smaller if possible."


    She shakes the sweat from the longer tawny fur around her head.  Putting down the small device she had been using to seal up joints in the wall plating she turns towards the center of the room to address me.


    "And able to sing and dance and cook too, I bet," she laughs and reaches for her design tablet.  "How much of that is intractable?"


    "Well, the new gizmo is going to be used to fabricate much of the electrical infrastructure of the asteroid base they''re wanting to build.  Circuits, wires, display screens; that kind of thing.  It needs to be able to move around, and I think Tollek wishes to take it with us after Kalibern Base is finished."


    Already tapping away at her screen, Teah just waves a spare arm in acknowledgement.

 Chapter 13: Whats Market Development?

    Bella and her Tserri partner, Lowun, struggled to haul the heavy beam into the deep hole in the frozen stone.  Two more crewmen wait with vacuum welders to secure the thick girder. This will be the last of the four corner pillars, thick plating already joining together to create a corner centered on the opposite beam.


    Once it''s in place she slaps Lowun on his red armored shoulder and pumps her other arm up and down.  He slaps her back in acknowledgment and they both head to work on the smaller roofing beams.


    The enclosed pit is nearly two hundred ubits across and half as deep.  Not large enough to hold the Resurgent, but easily able to swallow my entire crew.  Landing pads are being flattened nearby by other armored figures, with varying numbers of arms.


    Nothing is being put to waste.  Nets full of ore bearing rock are tethered to one side awaiting processing.  Crewmembers and officers both process stones into piles and reinforce them to form hollow chambers.  A constant stream of workers flows between the workface and the supply dump.


    At the supply dump Tulson works tirelessly converting the excavated rubble into usable materiel.  Wires and circuitry, small components usable in many devices, as well as ingots of raw metal to await future need.  The crew is keeping the area quite tidy, despite all the industry.  Materials not needed for construction, such as excess gold and carbon crystals not suited to industrial use, are loaded aboard the Resurgent.


    Although not exactly what Tollek had asked for, the pair of large devices work as promised.  One machine breaks down anything fed into it into separate materials and feeds them to the second machine.  When sufficient amounts of material not needed for any current construction orders are accrued, ingots are extruded from a separate opening.  Several volatiles are also produced and vented into tanks which Tulson produces as needed.  Methane, nitrogen, ammonia, and potable water number among those being stacked neatly by type.


    The abundance of available resources is in fact the source of the name Kalibern.  According to the legend, which I eventually locate in my files, the hero had needed to collect many powerful treasures.  One from each of the great clans of the Selber home world.  These had been melted down by smiths under the guidance of the Bestera sisters and used to craft the legendary sword.


    Just like the myth, the physical Kalibern had been born through the collisions of several different meteoroids and comets.  Nickel, iron, silicates and clay, water ice and carbon compounds among others compose this massive rock.  All of the standard types are represented, as well as stranger compounds formed during the repeated impacts.


    I watch through the cameras of their armored vacuum suits as we complete our journey back.  Bestera Minor is dragging along behind, towed by thousands of ubits of high tensile strength cording.  Jim Tollek sits in the war room, watching a display of the same footage.


    "Those cameras were an excellent idea, Mos," Jim says with a broad smile.  "I didn''t like the idea at first, I''ll admit it, but this is handy."  He reaches down to his comms and selects Bella''s channel to issue orders.  "Wonderful work on the entrance.  We should be naked eye visible to you now, and we''ve got the ice ball.  You ready to stow it, Bella?"


    Her camera''s field of view sways and centers on a slowly growing point of light.  "Yep, I see you.  We can take it, but we''re not ready to melt it just yet.  That''ll be next shift''s problem."


    "Mos Denn, put us at matching velocities with the new base, please," requests Jim as he switches to Terla Parc''s comm channel.  "Terla, have you made any progress yet?"


    "Yes sir, we''ve made contact.  The promised delivery should arrive within two local days.  Patron Wendrus is very excited about the schematics and wishes to negotiate for exclusive rights to manufacture the new vacuum armor."


    "Just as I expected of you, Terla.  Give him anything up to the mark three versions," Jim happily replies to the scientist.  A fourth version is currently being designed, with numerous refinements and a noticeable reduction in weight.


    Terla is with the diplomatic team Marta''s leading, as an engineering consultant.  According to their traditions, Marta is not permitted to communicate with her commanding officer during negotiations.  They place great value upon letting individuals make their own decisions, trusting that they will act for the good of those they represent.


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    Not actually onboard the massive cargo carrier that arrived in system, Patron Wendrus is negotiating through an authorized surrogate.  The vessel, Niala''s Cabin, while technically here on routine trade business, was authorized to trade with other interested parties.


    Couldn''t have come sooner, as Tulson has been struggling to keep up with the demands of an entire construction crew.


    ---


    The two days of construction culminates in the installation of an industrial airlock leading from the landing zone to the enclosed entrance building.  Much work has been done to make it habitable, though the inside is still far from finished.


    Eventually docking platforms will extend far from the roof, but the simple flattened area is enough for the deluxe model shuttle now parked there.


    The pilot is accompanied by a single officer, Supply-Master Dunc Willon.  The shuttle is loaded down with crates of components necessary for the base''s continued construction.  They also bring luxury goods unavailable on Honus.


    Bella and Lowun carry the supply crates inside.  As they walk, Bella chatters over her suit comms to her partner about her favorite trivee program.  The dark furred Tserri doesn''t understand any more than I do what the appeal of talking animals fighting reanimated corpses could be, but Bella is adamant that the plot is very compelling.


    "You''ll love Capey and the gang," she exclaims, unable to contain her excitement.  "The second season is the best one, the dialogue gets to you, you know?"


    "But why," questions Lowun, "do the different animals live together?  Is that normal on your worlds?"  His words are translated by his suit, his actual voice muffled and an audio output of the Selber language plays with only a minimal lag.  Teah and Terla are still working out a few translation errors, but it functions more than adequately.


    "Cause they learn from each other, important stuff like friendship and fair pricing."


    "By throwing fire at dead things?"


    "Do you want to watch the show or not?"


    The four enter the airlock and activate the pressurization cycle.  Once atmosphere has been restored the two newcomers remove their flimsy suits, complete with clear bubble helmets.  They hang them in lockers mounted next to the door inside.  Nozzles extend on flexible tubes above the lockers, ready to refill oxygen tanks as needed.


    The light inside is uneven, a result of shortages, with large dim areas separating islands of light.  Tulson meets the group inside, a bright smile upon her face.


    "Greetings, welcome to the installation.  We haven''t yet completed the kitchen, but warm beverages are available if you''re interested," she offers politely.


    They both accept and steaming mugs are brought to them by an eager young crewmember.  The Supply-Master inspects Tulson''s black and yellow armor while drinking, walking around her as though inspecting a prize racing beast.


    "Good stuff, not too sweet," he says as he walks.  "You say the Tserri built the prototype?  Preposterous, just ridiculous.  They''re good fighters, great reflexes, yes.  But most of them are as bright as any good soldier."  He notices the furred figures, heavily armed and in full armor paused around him and belatedly adds, "Myself included."


    The tension eases slightly and everyone gets back to work.  The obese Supply-Master laughs self-consciously before continuing his inspection.


    "Yes, sir," answers Tulson as she hands him a data tablet.  "Engineer Teah was also responsible for many of the mark two upgrades.  I can introduce you after the Resurgent returns from patrol."


    "That''s a polite way of saying he''s letting the fresh recruits learn how to fly that heap around, I take it?"


    I''m not sure I like this person very much.  His pilot thinks it''s funny, though, and guffaws loudly.


    "Don''t mind Dunc, he''s just jealous.  That hauler of his can''t push half the speed your bucket can," she says with a grin.


    "If you''ll follow me further in, I can show you where the command center is being built," Tulson says to our two guests as she turns and walks down a winding ramp.   Willon and his pilot follow quickly.


    "Mos Denn, can you hear me?  We''re going to need you to power up the central computer for us," she tells me over direct line from her suit.


    "Yes, Engineer Rah, she''s already humming."


    Unfortunately, I mean that literally.  The computer they''ve hooked up is cobbled together from damaged or outdated components.  Mostly it makes noise and has a large central display that I can control remotely.


    Before they reach the room, I display the proposed schematics for the finished base on the main screen.  Tulson walks in and stands next to the panel.


    Benches line the walls of the octagonal chamber.  Several smaller screens are suspended from the center and the main display is against the opposite wall from the main entrance.  A ladder against the wall on the right side provides access between floors, or will when construction is completed.


    "The ladder will lead up to the war room and down to the Patron''s suite," Tulson helpfully explains while they look around.  "We really appreciate the composite drills, you know.  Without them this wouldn''t be possible."  She smiles at the corpulent officer innocently.


    "My son, I don''t expect him to be put in charge, but I''d like to have him assigned here.  As well as his bodyguard.  You can put them both on security or something, right?"


    "You''ll have to talk to the Ship-Father about that," deflects Tulson.  "But let me show you what we''ve been working on here."

 Bruens Story 3: Whats Down-time?

    Harsh red light pours angrily into the cave opening.  The sky of E''guna is blindingly, searingly red.  The entire expanse above radiates down crimson heat, scorching any creature foolish enough to venture out during the years long day.


    His wickedly barbed spear clutched tightly at his left side, Bruen stands fifty ubits away, where the tunnel begins to descend.  He wears the standard uniform of the Empire, black tunic with a silver belt.  Hanging from the belt are a dagger on the right and a pouch containing emergency rations and a few supplies on the left.


    With him are the nine casteless soldiers under his command, standing where the cooler air inside can wash over them.


    The searing wind carries fine dust that adheres to the thin coating layer.  It makes its way into every joint in their carapaces, itching painfully.  Bruen thinks longingly of the cool brine baths he left behind.  Melancholy overtakes him, remembering his final days at the estate.


    He dismisses the distracting thoughts.  It''s time to move.


    Glowing spear raised silently over his head, he signals his troops.  Gliding quietly on their many tentacles the troopers descend into the territory of their hated enemy.  Bruen waits at the back, checking his troops one final time as they pass.


    A sound from outside that doesn''t belong, quiet but unnatural, alerts Mos Bruen that not all is right.  Turning rapidly, his spear held before him defensively, he sees them.


    The charred remains of protective shrouds drape them, bits burning of as they enter the cave.  Smoke hides the details of their forms from his three central eyes.  They are easily identified by the sheer variation before him.  Some are large and looming.  Others cling low the ground on many short limbs.  As the smoke begins to clear more details can be seen.


    Tribals.  He slaps forcefully at the walls as he runs, the noise alerting his troops.  The first he comes to is the advanced scout, a slim yellow creature with long scythe blades at the ends of tentacles sprouting from where the head should be.  Long sinuous body stretching out tens of ubits behind it and covered in small scales, the only weakness Bruen can spot is the single compound eye between the bases of the attacking arms.


    He lunges at it, wrapping his tentacles around its own, binding them to the body.  A single downward thrust with the enchanted spear ends the scout''s life.  On either side of him his troops stream past, clashing with their own foes.


    The barbs of the spear prevent it from coming out, and he struggles with it, still caught in the moment.  A point of pain blooms in his back and cuts deeper painfully while he struggles to pull free his weapon.  He silently curses his carelessness.


    Activating the runes inscribed into the shaft drains a portion of its stored energy.  Bruen continues pulling but also dodges to the right.  The head rematerializes on the butt end, coming free like a fired shot and impaling the hulking brute behind him.


    Dropping the spear, he pulls free the dagger stuck in his belt.  He turns to face his new opponent.  It stands on three legs and seems not to care that there''s a spear in its massive chest.  Its tiny head is immobile upon its thick torso, iridescent compound eyes on short stalks tracking Bruen''s every move.


    The tribal reaches forward with the heavy scissoring claw adorning its left side, keeping the two smaller pinchers on the right back defensively.  The cutting edges of the thick claw are serrated, and gleam with an oily finish.  It overwhelms Bruen''s rushed parry with the short blade and impacts with a thud.  Bruen manages to roll back on his tentacles and pulls his tendrils free before it snaps shut.  It leaves behind a visible scratch, but not very deep, and rips a large gash in his uniform.


    Bruen regains his balance while the oversized tribal is still over extended.  He spins rapidly in place, dropping low to the ground. Bruen whips tentacles and tendrils at the tripod legs of his adversary, and accidentally ducks a stray blow from a thin pale creature fighting one of his soldiers beside him.  The asymmetrical brute falls and is quickly dispatched by another of Bruen''s casteless fighters, but not before managing to slice one of Bruen''s tentacles with its small sharp pincers.


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    He stands ad looks around.  His troops are wounded but alive.  Around them mismatched corpses lay on the tunnel floor in multihued puddles, odd limbs strewn across each other in cold embrace.  He reclaims his spear before addressing the healer.


    "Zek, get your kit out.  It''s your turn to have a go at them."


    Her gray robes mark her as a thaumatist of the Somner caste.  Around her thorax is a simple leather bandolier with padded pouches.


    If she survives this engagement, she''ll be considered a full member of the Somner caste, at any rate.  Long seasons of training under the guidance of experienced thaumatists have earned her this chance.  Rendered sterile by the dust they consume, thaumatist castes must recruit from the rare energy sensitive offspring of the common pools.


    She pulls a dark ceramic vial from the leather bandolier and brings it to her mouth, Zek prepares herself to begin.  She takes stock of the wounded, deep cuts and many severed tendrils.  A deep inhalation and she''s ready, radiating a white energy visible only at the edge of vision.  Her robes rustle softly under the influence of her powerful aura.


    Her ministrations have rapid effect, though the workings remain a mystery to the young general.  His education had not included many such details.  What little he does know had been gained by observing his former master argue with his healers.


    He leaves her to her work and looks through the bodies of the fallen tribals.  They are unarmed and mostly naked.  The lopsided creature that had stabbed Bruen is an exception, wearing the tattered remains of three-legged pants.  The rest are adorned only with simple fetishes, imitations of those the chief wears.


    "Mission''s not over, team," he says to the soldiers gathered in a tired group against one stone wall.  As he speaks, he wraps a bandage around his bleeding thorax.  "Zek is going to have you all battle ready soon enough, and we need to get down there as soon as we are.  Mos Riyl''s squad needs back up.  We took out a small group here, but the real fight is further down."


    Grim nods and tightened grips on weapons answer his words.  He waves at the least wounded to follow and starts quickly down the tunnel.  "Catch up soon as you can, Zek," he gasps out before breaking into a full run.  He ignores the burning spreading itself through his insides as he leads the charge.


    The enemy supply depot has been vital to their ability to hold the mountain range.  Taking it would be a major blow to the Southern Tribal presence on E''guna.  Somehow the tribals had gotten word of the two-pronged attack and set their own ambush.


    When he reaches the opening to the enormous cavern, tens of thousands of ubits across, he sees that Mos Riyl''s squad has been busy.  Bodies of various races already decorate the ground.  Supplies are scattered everywhere, spilling from damaged sacks and barrels as the fight wages.


    Jumping into the thickest part of battle, Bruen takes advantage of the distracted state of the tribals and impales a green and brown hairy creature.  The creature''s long limbs collapse under it.  Reversing the weapon with the last of the stored energy he turns to seek a new victim.


    His team adds momentum as they join the fray and soon the tribals all lay dead on the cavern floor.  Adrenaline that had been keeping him going fades as soon as Bruen stops moving.  He falls to the floor and blacks out, shocking the soldiers around him.


    ---


    "He''s coming to," Zek''s concerned voice sounds far away but comes from right above him.  "I think the poison is all neutralized, sir."


    "Good.  Thank you, Somner," an older voice answers.  Mos Riyl, leader of all the forces on this planet, is the first sight to greet Bruen as his vision returns.


    Bruen quickly sits up, then sways as dizziness assaults him.  His pedipalps spasm in mortification.


    "Easy there, youngster," laughs the old general.  "Poison tipped dagger.  Sound familiar?"


    Recovering himself, Bruen nods slowly.  "Jsen venom.  The old one would be mad if he found out, after all the warnings he gave me."  He turns to look at the young healer.  "Thank you, Somner Zek.  I owe you my life."


    "And don''t you forget it," she says cockily before sauntering out.  "Sir."


    A look passes between the two generals when the tent flap shuts behind her.


    "You must have impressed her, up there.  She said you took out six of the enemy by yourself.  And that you charged down without bothering to wait for healing," rasps out the senior general.  "You should keep her around; a happy dust eater works harder."


    "I''ll keep that in mind, sir, though she exaggerates," Bruen replies before walking over to the cold box in the corner.  He returns with two bottles, one of which he offers his elder.  "She does good work."


    Riyl takes the bottle and twists the top off.  A sharp hiss of escaping gas can be heard clearly before he starts drinking.  "Thanks.  Get some rest, we''ll be loading into the hauler and moving out in half a day.  Mos Louni''s coming to take charge here.  You did good."


    Drinking from the bottle he holds, Bruen is left alone in the tent.  Thoughts of the last battle run through his head.  Every mistake he had made, each failed attack or mistimed order playing again and again.


    Putting down the emptied bottle, he grabs his spear and begins going through the forms, thrusting and spinning mechanically until a soldier comes to escort him to the armored hauler.

 Chapter 15: Whats Failure to Acclimate?

    By the end of the negotiations the leaders of the two ships have finally decided on an acceptable exchange of crew. There seems to be a cultural element to the whole thing, something harkening back to their distant past.


    Nobody I ask can give me a solid answer, but they all promise it is incredibly important. Something about gene pools? Nonsense, they don''t even have any spawning pools onboard. I should know, I was in charge of rebuilding while they had been playing around on Honus.


    We end up keeping Marta Spere. I think she''s happy to stay and see the completion of Kalibern Station, after all the work she''s put into making it habitable. She even brought back some notoriously hardy decorative plants, most of which now grace the entrance building. We''re rather lucky to have her.


    One of the plants somehow made it into the hydroponics bay, where its wilting form is tended lovingly by Ship-Father Tollek. The metallic clang of his shears fills the air as he trims away the browning tips of its long leaves.


    In the workshop Teah sits at a long table. She''s busy assembling a set of dice for Nett. He promised her a can of paint for the set, an even darker shade of green for her armor.


    The two newest members of our crew, Third Operatives Dunc Willon, Jr. and Spen Dondric, are carrying their possessions to the room they''ll be sharing. They are going through the main corridor when they pass Vin Tussa, also carrying his things.


    "Going to be late to the Niala''s Cabin? You better hurry it along," taunts Dondric, a full ubit taller than the younger Vin.


    Dunc laughs derisively and aims a kick two ubits behind Vin. "Pa''s a fool for taking your scrawny hide."


    Vin tosses his armload of clothes and weaponry down and charges at the cocky Dunc. "You''re the fool. I''m worth both of you losers and your pa knows it." He tackles the larger Dunc, bringing him to the deck. He gets one good hit in before Spen drags him off from behind, pinning both of Vin''s arms.


    What follows is less a fight than a beating. As soon as Vin challenges the two hoodlums, I alert the security detail. They don''t get there quickly enough to prevent the two on one fight, but they may have saved the young officer''s life.


    They find him unconscious, being held upright by Spen while Dunc drives blow after blow into his battered body.


    Young Vin Tussa will be spending some time with the Cabin''s medical staff. Rumor in the crew lounge is that after his recovery Vin is to be trained as a fighter pilot. Meanwhile, the duo who battered him are reassigned to the Tserri quarters, where they''ll be spending time when Gelly isn''t giving them what he calls ''flexibility and response time'' training.


    "Runt nearly broke my jaw," complains Dunc to his flunky. Seated on his bunk, one in a line of ten, the Operative rubs his swollen jaw carefully while Spen lays atop his own bunk reading a trashy novel.


    "Hits harder than you''d think, huh?" He taps his tablet and keeps reading, answering absently. "Good riddance."


    So focused are they on their own misery that they don''t notice the approaching crewmember.


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    "Don''t you two have drills to run? Well, get to it," demands a four-armed figure in black armor with white spiral patterns.


    Both spring to their feet, tablet dropped in haste. Nodding and stuttering they hastily run from the barracks. Another Tserri enters before the door shuts.


    "What got them in such a hurry, Jenla?" The blue of her armored suit is dark at the bottom and light at the top, with streamlined alien forms adding spots of color.


    Jenla smiles wickedly, "They''re late to drills, Zanna. Gelly''s going to have them endurance training."


    "More high gravity running?" As she strips off her blue vacuum armor Zanna''s lustrous white fur is revealed. "I was limping for two days last time he got me to ''drill''."


    "Yep. If ye wants to get tough ye runs," Jenla says in her best Gelly impression. Both of them erupt in laughter.


    ---


    Weapons Operative Drop stands in the exercise area. He''s set the room to triple standard gravity, as well as removing one fifth of the oxygen. Replacing it is a complex mixture of organic compounds he calls frool stink. He breathes deeply, a look of satisfaction on his weathered gray face.


    His two victims, however, are panting as they laboriously stagger around the perimeter of the large room. Gelly walks casually over to them, shaking his head slowly.


    "I''ve told ye already, deep, slow breathing. It hurts, aye, good. Battle hurts. Mos, one tenth current gravity, please."


    Gelly''s posture barely changes but the two younger officers almost throw themselves backwards. An overreaction to the sudden lack of downward pull. Once on the ground the two begin scratching themselves with wild abandon.


    "None ''o that, now. Five more laps and then we''ll head to Rojer''s office. If ye can''t take a wee distraction like that how d''ye expect to survive when things is really tough?" He paces slowly beside them as he lectures. "The Cabin may stick to safer routes, but out here we''re on the fringes ''o the map. We''re drawing the blasted thing! Anythin'' could come in to this system, and it''s the two of ye we''ll be trustin'' to keep the planet safe."


    Small red welts are now visible to my cameras, covering the exposed flesh of all three. Uhgun will need to be alerted after their session completes.  The whole area will need to be decontaminated.


    The pair of troublemakers bounce up in the reduced pull and begin running as hard as they can, hurrying to complete their assigned torture.


    "Mos Denn, I''d like it if ye could start raisin'' the gravity again, slow like. Only two and a half times this, I think," he announces. I happily comply, enjoying my part in the lesson.


    Spen is the first to stumble, leg coming down with more force than he intended and twisting under him. Dunc trips over him and takes his own spill.


    "If this is givin'' ye troubles, next session may just kill ye," complains Gelly loudly as he helps them to regain their footing. "Ye have to always save back a bit, for when ye need a quick dodge, or to allow ye some flexibility under changing conditions. I made no secret of it. Ye both heard me tellin'' him to keep raisin'' the gravity."


    Dunc shakes his head angrily, a scowl on his young face and crest standing fully upright. "You talk stupid."


    Barking a laugh, Gelly wipes a tear from his eye. "Aye, lad. And yer no the first to say it."


    Frustrated but unwilling to push the wiry older officer any further, Dunc starts his laps again. Spen mutters angrily but joins his partner.


    They run more carefully this time, getting a feel for the steadily increasing gravity. As they feel their weight increase, the suffering pair slow their pace.  Their skin pales as blood is pulled from the surface to power tiring muscles.


    Nodding his approval Gelly yells out to them, "Good, that''s the way. Yer almost done! Go, go, go!"


    Gravity returns to normal as they finish the final lap, and they stagger slowly another thirty ubits forward. Gelly smiles to see them finally taking his advice seriously.


    "Let''s go and see about these rashes now," he announces cheerily, leading the way to the medical bay.


    I seal the room off behind them, and almost purge the atmosphere before deciding to hold on to the frool stink. It could be useful later. There should be some spare gas canisters laying around somewhere. Flipping through the cameras, I contact Uhgun.

 Chapter 15: Whats Failure to Acclimate?

    By the end of the negotiations the leaders of the two ships have finally decided on an acceptable exchange of crew. There seems to be a cultural element to the whole thing, something harkening back to their distant past.


    Nobody I ask can give me a solid answer, but they all promise it is incredibly important. Something about gene pools? Nonsense, they don''t even have any spawning pools onboard. I should know, I was in charge of rebuilding while they had been playing around on Honus.


    We end up keeping Marta Spere. I think she''s happy to stay and see the completion of Kalibern Station, after all the work she''s put into making it habitable. She even brought back some notoriously hardy decorative plants, most of which now grace the entrance building. We''re rather lucky to have her.


    One of the plants somehow made it into the hydroponics bay, where its wilting form is tended lovingly by Ship-Father Tollek. The metallic clang of his shears fills the air as he trims away the browning tips of its long leaves.


    In the workshop Teah sits at a long table. She''s busy assembling a set of dice for Nett. He promised her a can of paint for the set, an even darker shade of green for her armor.


    The two newest members of our crew, Third Operatives Dunc Willon, Jr. and Spen Dondric, are carrying their possessions to the room they''ll be sharing. They are going through the main corridor when they pass Vin Tussa, also carrying his things.


    "Going to be late to the Niala''s Cabin? You better hurry it along," taunts Dondric, a full ubit taller than the younger Vin.


    Dunc laughs derisively and aims a kick two ubits behind Vin. "Pa''s a fool for taking your scrawny hide."


    Vin tosses his armload of clothes and weaponry down and charges at the cocky Dunc. "You''re the fool. I''m worth both of you losers and your pa knows it." He tackles the larger Dunc, bringing him to the deck. He gets one good hit in before Spen drags him off from behind, pinning both of Vin''s arms.


    What follows is less a fight than a beating. As soon as Vin challenges the two hoodlums, I alert the security detail. They don''t get there quickly enough to prevent the two on one fight, but they may have saved the young officer''s life.


    They find him unconscious, being held upright by Spen while Dunc drives blow after blow into his battered body.


    Young Vin Tussa will be spending some time with the Cabin''s medical staff. Rumor in the crew lounge is that after his recovery Vin is to be trained as a fighter pilot. Meanwhile, the duo who battered him are reassigned to the Tserri quarters, where they''ll be spending time when Gelly isn''t giving them what he calls ''flexibility and response time'' training.


    "Runt nearly broke my jaw," complains Dunc to his flunky. Seated on his bunk, one in a line of ten, the Operative rubs his swollen jaw carefully while Spen lays atop his own bunk reading a trashy novel.


    "Hits harder than you''d think, huh?" He taps his tablet and keeps reading, answering absently. "Good riddance."


    So focused are they on their own misery that they don''t notice the approaching crewmember.


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    "Don''t you two have drills to run? Well, get to it," demands a four-armed figure in black armor with white spiral patterns.


    Both spring to their feet, tablet dropped in haste. Nodding and stuttering they hastily run from the barracks. Another Tserri enters before the door shuts.


    "What got them in such a hurry, Jenla?" The blue of her armored suit is dark at the bottom and light at the top, with streamlined alien forms adding spots of color.


    Jenla smiles wickedly, "They''re late to drills, Zanna. Gelly''s going to have them endurance training."


    "More high gravity running?" As she strips off her blue vacuum armor Zanna''s lustrous white fur is revealed. "I was limping for two days last time he got me to ''drill''."


    "Yep. If ye wants to get tough ye runs," Jenla says in her best Gelly impression. Both of them erupt in laughter.


    ---


    Weapons Operative Drop stands in the exercise area. He''s set the room to triple standard gravity, as well as removing one fifth of the oxygen. Replacing it is a complex mixture of organic compounds he calls frool stink. He breathes deeply, a look of satisfaction on his weathered gray face.


    His two victims, however, are panting as they laboriously stagger around the perimeter of the large room. Gelly walks casually over to them, shaking his head slowly.


    "I''ve told ye already, deep, slow breathing. It hurts, aye, good. Battle hurts. Mos, one tenth current gravity, please."


    Gelly''s posture barely changes but the two younger officers almost throw themselves backwards. An overreaction to the sudden lack of downward pull. Once on the ground the two begin scratching themselves with wild abandon.


    "None ''o that, now. Five more laps and then we''ll head to Rojer''s office. If ye can''t take a wee distraction like that how d''ye expect to survive when things is really tough?" He paces slowly beside them as he lectures. "The Cabin may stick to safer routes, but out here we''re on the fringes ''o the map. We''re drawing the blasted thing! Anythin'' could come in to this system, and it''s the two of ye we''ll be trustin'' to keep the planet safe."


    Small red welts are now visible to my cameras, covering the exposed flesh of all three. Uhgun will need to be alerted after their session completes.  The whole area will need to be decontaminated.


    The pair of troublemakers bounce up in the reduced pull and begin running as hard as they can, hurrying to complete their assigned torture.


    "Mos Denn, I''d like it if ye could start raisin'' the gravity again, slow like. Only two and a half times this, I think," he announces. I happily comply, enjoying my part in the lesson.


    Spen is the first to stumble, leg coming down with more force than he intended and twisting under him. Dunc trips over him and takes his own spill.


    "If this is givin'' ye troubles, next session may just kill ye," complains Gelly loudly as he helps them to regain their footing. "Ye have to always save back a bit, for when ye need a quick dodge, or to allow ye some flexibility under changing conditions. I made no secret of it. Ye both heard me tellin'' him to keep raisin'' the gravity."


    Dunc shakes his head angrily, a scowl on his young face and crest standing fully upright. "You talk stupid."


    Barking a laugh, Gelly wipes a tear from his eye. "Aye, lad. And yer no the first to say it."


    Frustrated but unwilling to push the wiry older officer any further, Dunc starts his laps again. Spen mutters angrily but joins his partner.


    They run more carefully this time, getting a feel for the steadily increasing gravity. As they feel their weight increase, the suffering pair slow their pace.  Their skin pales as blood is pulled from the surface to power tiring muscles.


    Nodding his approval Gelly yells out to them, "Good, that''s the way. Yer almost done! Go, go, go!"


    Gravity returns to normal as they finish the final lap, and they stagger slowly another thirty ubits forward. Gelly smiles to see them finally taking his advice seriously.


    "Let''s go and see about these rashes now," he announces cheerily, leading the way to the medical bay.


    I seal the room off behind them, and almost purge the atmosphere before deciding to hold on to the frool stink. It could be useful later. There should be some spare gas canisters laying around somewhere. Flipping through the cameras, I contact Uhgun.

 Chapter 16: Whats Sustainability?

    Tonn Rojer glares at Operative Drop angrily before handing him the small white tube of ointment.


    "While I can''t say they didn''t deserve a little rough treatment after what they did to Vin, I think you may have taken it a bit far there, Gel," complains the medic, looking through the cabinet mounted above his desk for another tube for the two in the examination room.


    The target of this short tirade only laughs, dismissing the medical officer''s concerns with a wave.  He pops open the tube and begins rubbing the foul smelling green unguent into his face and neck.


    "This is no about Vin.  These pair are gonna be depended on," he states calmly, working the medicinal cream deeply into the scarred gray skin of his arms and chest.  "I would no trust ''em to keep me soup wet in the rain."


    "More likely they''ll be someone else''s problem," the medic opines sarcastically.  "Who''s Jim planning on stuffing in the hot seat?"


    "No his choice.  The Matron''ll be appointin'' one ''o her get."


    "Pull those trousers back up!  There''re crewmen walking by," admonishes the medic in shock.  Gelly ignores him and anoints his legs and lower regions, completely lacking shame.  "Not Hestrun?"


    A sharp whistle comes from the hallway outside the open door, eliciting a glare from the disappointed Tonn.


    Gelly shakes his head in negation, short crest waving slightly.  "Nah, Joa won''t let him get away that easy.  One ''o his uncles or some such.  Failed up, standard story," he explains as he pulls his black trousers snuggly into place.


    "Right.  And with that much, mmm, talent, let''s say, in one area..."


    "Aye.  Those two can become competent or die tryin''," laughs the wiry Operative as he leaves the office.


    His form is much less repulsive when coated in a glistening sheen.  Intellectually I know it isn''t mucus, but it still pleases me, satisfying something that had been missing for too long.


    ---


    Marta Spere and Tulson Rah ride together inside the cramped hold of Jumper.  Teah sits in the cockpit with Nett supposedly serving as copilot but in fact fast asleep.


    The rest of the space is filled with stacked up ingots of gold and platinum.  Trade goods, supposedly, but what can they hope to get for such useless dross?


    Whatever, I would trust Marta to sell mud to swamp dwellers and turn a profit.


    As far as things we need, the list is endless.  Ship-Father Tollek, however, has decided Marta should prioritize getting a power core for the station.  She was also handed some hard currency, slips of colored translucent plastic embedded with circuitry, and told to ''increase our horticultural scope''.


    Perhaps with more plants to practice his arts upon, Tollek will manage to keep one alive.  If he has to spread out his attentions, they may have time enough to recover.


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    Teah also found space for a few small gadgets she built.  Things she was told spacers of the Imperium had inferior versions of, or didn''t have at all that her own shipmates had gladly traded for.  Sets of randomizing dice, better multipurpose tools, and of course modular vacuum armor components, as well as small odor absorbing devices and other simple things.


    Most of the components she had traded for, Tulson being her primary supplier, but Mar Lummer proved willing to sell her various components out of ship stores.  Others she won from dicing, and she hoped to spread the game to the Niala''s Cabin.


    "I saw the cargo manifests.  I even helped load the first hundred bars," Tulson says wonderingly to her shipmate.  "But seeing it piled up like that is hard to believe."


    Marta nods with a serious look on her gray face.  "Our raises weren''t big enough."


    Their confusion is easy to grasp.  We should be paying them to take this worthless excess mass from us.  Teah''s goods obviously have a much greater value; filling the hold with the useless weight of soft metal is an odd choice.  The platinum may be sturdier, but its ability to hold an enchantment is even worse than that of gold. Power flows right through the metals with little resistance.


    "We could use a fighter ship.  Maybe two.  If we can''t keep them, maybe they can be assigned to Kalibern," Tuslon says, lost in thought as she idly pulls a data tablet from her pack.


    She may be overestimating the value of those gadgets.  Ships seem to be a rarity, even among their people who so rely on them.


    "Dirt.  We need fresh dirt with all the little crawly things still in it," Marta says, shuddering slightly with poorly repressed memories.  Her companion''s face twitches in response, nearly suppressing a mirthful grin at Marta''s expense.


    "We''re not wasting credits on that.  We can bring that up from Honus for the price of fuel. What kinds of animals and things should we get?  They''ll be fed on waste, right?  I hope they have something we can use," the engineer says while pulling up lists of the supplies available at their destination.  The glow of her tablet lends a blue tint to the crowded hold in which they sit.


    They discuss it for a bit longer, but eventually come to an agreement.  At least on the basic organisms they''ll be focusing on.  Both of them want to acquire some of their favorite treats, but space is limited as yet.


    The plan is to create a functional food web on the developing station.  Wastes will be fed to aquatic creatures living in large tanks whose numbers will be kept in check by being caught and eaten by residents.  The droppings of those creatures will be used as fertilizer for large interior fields.  A thriving biota should convert it into rich soil in which crops can be grown by dedicated agriculturalists.


    Something to eat the worms and other decomposers, preferably also edible to the crew, which would also help aerate the soil and improve nutrient flow.  Until dedicated handlers can be assigned, most of the creatures they choose will need to be self-sufficient.


    A small population of livestock might one day be possible.  If everything works out, the inhabitants of Kalibern Station won''t have to rely on preserved foods.  Greater variety would come in time, but fresh food is almost always better.


    "That one''s cute," says Marta, looking over the engineer''s shoulder.  "So fluffy!"


    Several more options are discussed, and often quickly dismissed.  There are choices ranging from flying pest eaters to ameboids meant to cling to and clean the walls of the waste processing tanks.


    "Oh!  Look, Marta," exclaims Tulson showing her tablet to the Diplomat.  "I love squivers!"


    Excitedly I look at the file she has open, copying it quickly to shipboard data banks.


    The file contains information on a small bottom feeding creature, with complex eyes that uses an arrangement of whiplike filiments to propel itself through the murky water in which it lives.  Scavenging detritus for sustanence, they serve an integral role in their ecosystems as an easy source of food for many small predators.


    Natives of the Selber homeworld, the average adult squiver can be expected to reach a length of up to three bits.


    They are usually enjoyed boiled, with a thick red dipping sauce at upper class parties.


    "I could eat fifty of them," she squeals out gleefully, a huge smile on her face.


    "Not me," exclaims Marta, waving her arms emphatically.  "Their black little eyes creep me out.  Way too many of the little things."


    Barbaric.  The creature''s look like unmolted young, only days after hatching.

 Bruens Story 4: Whats Overtime?

    There''s room inside the hauler for Bruen and another twenty casteless soldiers, crammed inside like cargo.  Deep enough inside to protect them from the oppressive heat.


    Despite the crowding inside, and the bouncing as they travel, Bruen finds himself drifting in and out of consiousness.  The wet scent of his own kind blankets him comfortingly.


    Dreams of battle drift through his mind.  Scenes from his own experience, as well as imagined fights between dreamlike figures.  His tendrils twitch as if in reflexive response to imagined attacks.


    The hauler moves slowly under the enormous weight of its thick protective shell, rocking slowly forward and back.  The rough craggy terrain of these hostile mountains has never been tamed by roads.


    Unable to use tunnels occupied by tribal forces or filled with the wreckage of battle and still teeming with unsprung traps laid by both sides, the haulers are a recent addition to the arsenal of his people.  Mos Denn had never mentioned them to his servant in all their time together.


    Crafted along similar lines as battle-shells, but much larger and focusing entirely upon defense, they are capable of little more than plodding forward on their many heavy legs.  A single driver is all that''s required to keep the mindless automaton on track.


    Upon arrival Bruen is awoke by both the lack of motion as well as the sudden space as the soldiers begin marching out.  He quickly grabs his things and follows, attempting to maintain the dignity expected of his station.


    They exit the massive construct under a stone outcropping on another mountain farther north.  An experienced female recognizes Bruen and waves him over, where she stands by a makeshift table.  A map is spread before her with slender bone needles inserted into the thick leather, marking troops and installations.


    The red light from outside is enough to provide illumination to the camp spread before the opening to a deep shaft.  Ladders carved into the steep stone walls limit the number who can descend at once.  The crimson glow reflects off her composite armor, red glints defining various ragged scars.


    "Good to see you, youngster," says the large armor-plated general.  "I''ve already heard you''re following your father''s example and heroicly creating victories where defeat was all but certain."  She waves several tendrils in amusement at teasing the younger warrior.


    "Not at all.  Without my superiors placing themselves in peril, there would be nothing for me to do," he jokes back.  "Who are we here to save, anyway?"  Looking at the map, he realizes how grim the situation they''re in is.


    The tunnel they have to get down is guarded by checkpoints every few thousand ubits.  Each checkpoint is placed at the intersection of at least two tunnels.  Enemy troop movements are unknown, but each guard post is estimated to contain at least ten tribals.


    Checkpoint nine is reported to lead to a permanent portal leading to a breeding colony.


    "We''ve made several stabs at this one before, but the warrens have been too heavily infested and too well supplied for us to make any real progress," explains Mos Gol, his aquiantance from the bar.  "You and Riyl cut off their supplies from the south.  Tobli''s managed to get their attention farther north."


    Bruen nods, understanding that the situation isn''t as bad as the maps make it look.  That''s still a long way to go, though.  The distraction provided by Tobli and their forces won''t last the entire length of time.  "Please tell me there''s more good news," he half jokingly begs.


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    "We expect more reinforcements in the next couple of days, after the thaumatists have had a chance to recover enough energy for a portal," Gol explains as she looks around.  "Not as many of my soldiers survived the last counter-assualt as I''d hoped, but we can still send a few experienced warriors to serve as your personal guard."


    Knowing they won''t be attacked from behind is some relief, but the days long trek broken up only by bouts of intense combat every few days is still intimidating.  This rare chance to cripple their hated enemy can''t be passed up, however.


    "When do we start?"


    "You''ll lead your twenty, plus another five down in," she checks her timepiece as she answers him.  "Three arcs.  The second team will proceed thirty arcs later to secure the route for the final team.  I''ll lead those slackers down as soon as they get here."


    ---


    By the fifth checkpoint Bruen has lost count of the number of different varieties of alien he''s killed.  Tribals of several species stand guard together at each post, but the composition of each band varies.


    Clawed tripods, legless creatures with twin blades, hairy brutes and scaled.  Tall creatures and short, his opponents have come in several colors and sizes.  The only common feature is the aggression they show to any outside their group.


    He plunges his spear into the exposed neck of an olive hued being, ducking the stone axe it swings in both its muscular scaled arms.  Dropping low Bruen pulls the stone knife from his belt, weaving around the kick the monster sends towards him.  He leaps while the brute is still off balance and stabs deeply, severing something important and ending the fight.


    He looks around at the now calm cavern, filled with the quickly cooling corpses of foes and former friends.  Everyone quickly joins in and strips the bodies before piling them together in the entrance to the side passage.


    Of the twenty-five he started with only sixteen soldiers remain.  Two were sent back upwards, unable to continue fighting without medical attention.  The bodies of the others cool rapidly in the chilly winding tunnels.


    "We''ll make camp in six arcs.  Everyone grab your gear," orders the weary Bruen.  "Uta, I want you to head back, let the second team know where we''ll be."


    Heading deeper into the complex system of tunnels, he and the rest of the team eat on the way.  Dried fruits and preserved meat, edible if bland.  The one and only time Bruen had tried eating food captured from the checkpoints the vomitting had taken him out of action for long enough that the second team scout managed to catch up.


    Camp consists of bedrolls thrown along the curving stone walls in a long line with a guard at either end.  Bruen elects to take second watch, staying awake to practice knife fighting moves for half of the short break.


    As the rest of the soldiers stir, a pair of figures come down the tunnel, tentacles a blur as they race into camp.


    They spot Bruen and hurry to him, and the smaller of the pair steps forward, worry evident on her gleaming face.  "Mos Bruen, sir?  Mos Gol requires back up.  An unexpected force of tribals ambushed them right before the fourth guard station.  They''re trying to make it to this position, but it''s been a running battle, sir."


    "Uta!  Take half the team," orders the young general.  The returned soldier doesn''t seem too eager to turn around and run some more, but makes no complaint.  "The rest of you, we''ve still got a job to do."


    The sounds of a mixed mob of enemies can already be heard from deeper in the tunnel, shouts and slapping feet and heaves of breath in different rythms identifying this as a very large group, perhaps twenty.


    "Bunch together!  Let''s plug this hole," Bruen commands his warriors, as they all plant their spears and ready themselves against the charging tribals.


    It isn''t long after they finish their formation before the first scaled head comes around the bend.  The next moment they meet and the weight of flesh crashes into the spears, body after body, impaling themselves but robbing their hated foes of their weapons.


    "Push!"


    Bruen''s soldiers heave the weight of mulitple corpses, forming a crude wall to keep more attackers at bay.


    "Grab anything you got!  Drop and step back in three!  Two!  Drop!"


    With all resistance removed the tribals in the back shoot forward, climbing unsteadily past the bodies of their fallen comrades.


    In a well practiced move the soldiers turn as one and impale the lightly armored tribals with knives, daggers and small picks.  They stoop to finish off any foe who survived the first crush, and quiet returns to the underground halls.


    Signaling his blood drenched troop forward, Bruen leads the way deeper into the darkness.

 Chapter 17: Whats a Vivarium?

    The crew works tirelessly hauling long flat trays from the refrigerated storage racks installed in the back of Jumper.  Thin misty vapors drift along the deck plating, pooling around the armored boots of the busy workers.


    Frozen ova, ready to be activated at any time, printed by a machine I wish we had access to.  The temperature-controlled storage system will also be deconstructed and used on the station, part of the medical wing that will be dug out any day now.


    Lead Engineer Tulson Rah stands by the gangplank, directing the flow of workers around her.  Next to her Terla activates circuitry built into one of the flat containers, sparking the development of the eggs inside and raising their internal temperatures sharply.


    "Get those eggs down to the main chamber," Tulson orders, her breath forming clouds in the chilly air.  "They should be hatching by the end of the shift."


    Nodding his understanding, Dunc takes the tray carefully from Terla and follows the rest of the crew.  His movements are stiff and careful, not yet fully recovered from his most recent training drill.


    Out the cargo hatch, down the docking spire, then deeper into the hollowed interior of Kalibern the crew carry their trays, full of rapidly warming eggs.  The speed of their development is augmented in some ways I''m unable to track.


    Running scanning rays across one of the trays reveals that circuits printed inside it are dissolving even as they channel energies into the quickened eggs.


    In addition, there are twenty-four large plasticine barrels.  They''re being rolled one at a time by Spen Dondrik down the long hallway to the new fields.  Each time he arrives with a barrel, a swift kick is delivered directly to its center, causing rends and splitting.  The young officer then continues rolling the leaking container until all the dirt is out.  He even gives it a good shake to be sure it''s empty.


    A dirty heap of splintered brown plasticine attests to the hard work done by our newest Operative.  I''ll be sure to send Uhgun down later, to recycle the remains.


    "Found them!"  The shout comes from inside Jumper and is followed by a series of grunts before Diplomat Spere walks triumphantly down the gang plank.  In her arms is a tray quite similar to those the other crewmembers have been carrying, but this one contains no eggs.


    Instead, this tray speeds the germination of seeds ranging in size from small black specks to nuts three bits across.  Marta follows the stream of busy workers into the station.


    It''s bigger inside every time she comes here, but she''s in no danger of becoming lost.  Marta''s been an integral part of the planning sessions that have guided the growth of the station.  She''s walked these corridors in total darkness, when power supplies were more limited.


    Moving confidently from chamber to chamber, she stops only long enough in each room to transfer a few tender green sprouts to planters and other designated green zones.  A cheerful tune accompanies her, humming happily as she works.  Already the place is beginning to feel less stark and cold.


    Each chamber is given a different mixture of plants.  Swift growing vines, hardy bushes, and ground covering mosses are among the most common, but nearly every plant is edible in some way.  Selected as much for the berries and nuts that will be grown as for the color they will provide to their surroundings, there are even spices growing amid the planters.


    When her tour of the complex tunnel network is complete she sighs, looking down at the doomed specimens she still carries.  "Let''s get you little guys back up to the Resurgent," she says sadly.


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    ---


    A rumbling laugh echoes out of the Tserri quarters.  Vren stands in the barracks with Teah, deep laughter pouring from him as he is unable to contain his amusement.


    "It isn''t funny, Vren," the tawny furred engineer complains to her commanding officer.  "All my hard work, gone!  Nothing to show for days at the workbench."  She paces as she talks, all of her arms waving around her, her claws snapping shut on thin air.


    The crate she hauled back to her bunk is nearly empty, only a few unsold dice remain.


    "You should have let them keep more of their chits.  Is it any wonder they accused you of cheating?"  Vren tries consoling the engineer, but she growls and swings her claws, as if attacking his words.


    "They chose the stakes," she barks out.  "Whose fault is it if they cannot call out their plays?  Points not claimed do not increase one''s score."


    "Did you gamble all of your profits?"


    "No," she hisses angrily.  "But I did not earn enough for the tool I wanted.  The winnings would have purchased it."


    Vren shrugs elaborately before bending over and opening the storage chest at the end of his bunk.  "It is not the latest model," he complains as he pulls out an advanced multitool, complete with variable interface.  It''s even dark green.  He closes the trunk with a loud click and places the tool casually on top.


    A quick glance at the lighter furred officer and he turns his back on her.  Vren then walks out, without saying anything more.


    The door closes behind him and Teah leaps at the shining green tool.  Cradling it in her arms like her own baby, her purring can be heard out in the corridor.


    Vren smiles as he walks to the officers'' lounge.


    Jim Tollek greets him as he enters.  Waving to the empty seat across from him, Tollek pours drinks from a bottle of thick red juice.


    "You were correct, Jim.  They decided to rob her, claiming recompense for gambling losses," the dark furred officer says as he sits down, gladly accepting the drink.


    "Dunc never could stomach losing.  Did she like it?"


    A single nod and Vren takes a deep drink of his juice.  "She will be busy tinkering for some time, I suspect," he says with a throaty chuckle.


    Tollek''s broad smile dominates his face.  He swirls his drink around in one hand.  "The Cabin is already on her way out of the system."  The smile fades slightly before he continues, "Back to safer pastures.  We can''t leave until the station is finished."  A long drink drains his glass and he sets it down.  "Or another battleship shows up."


    "The work progresses admirably.  Did Wollen leave any crew behind for Kalibern?"


    "You don''t usually ask stupid questions.  What''s really on your mind?"


    Vren looks up, surprise evident on his face.  He stands and walks over to the bar, which he leans against.  "Will my people be required to stay behind once this ship leaves?"


    "Huh."  Tollek stands up as well but walks past Vren and takes up position behind the bar.  "Did you know Mos Denn''s been trying to distill alcohol for us?"  He bends over and enters a string of numbers on the safe built into the bar.  Air hisses as hermetic seals are broken, allowing a secure vault to be accessed.


    Jim reaches in and pulls out the product of long experimentation.  "This one''s from an almost palatable batch," he says as he pulls the stopper out of the end of the chilled bottle.  Some orange foam drizzles out the end.


    Vren smiles and puts two glasses on the table.  Jim raises the bottle to his mouth and takes a pull.  He hands it then to Vren and wipes foam from his face.


    "Strong," says the Tserri after taking a first drink.  He takes another before handing it back.


    It isn''t long before the two are laughing together like old friends.  Slapping each other companionably on arms and shoulders while telling ribald jokes.


    The two are eventually joined by Gelly, skin flaking horribly.  Roaring with good humor they hand him the bottle.


    I knew alcohol was important to their culture.  It''s rewarding being able to help them.


    After they empty the bottle, the three companions begin to teach each other war songs.


    The song that Vren tries to teach them isn''t anything their throats could imitate, but their attempts cause the normally stoic warrior to fall to the ground in fits of laughter.  The two gray-skinned officers howl at each other drunkenly until passing crewmembers begin to throw trash at them.


    Tollek then starts a marching song his mother used to sing, with Gelly singing along.  Vren can''t stop laughing long enough to catch his breath.  Gelly makes up for it by pantomiming the impossible actions he and Jim are singing about.


    After they calm down a little, Gelly stands up.  "It goes a bit like this.  Now, mind I''ve only one mouth and no gills, but let''s give it a go."


    The noises he begins to emit would stop the blood in my body cold, if I still had either.

 Bruens Story 5: Whats Equipment Failure?

    It begins with a high-pitched squeal.  A slow, rythmic thwacking noise joins in.  Finally, a deep burbling noise thrums steadily along, rising and lowering.


    The humongous blubbery creature then closes the larger mouth in its torso and the burble cuts off.  It continues squealing as the creatures around it charge at Bruen and his soldiers.  It''s many arms are covered in tribal fetishes, bunches of feathers and painted skulls glowing with strong enchantments that cast green glimmers across its rubbery tattooed flesh.  Bone hoops pierce the creature''s gills in five places and the scale covered head of some dead predator rests on one massive shoulder, serving to hold the hides it dresses in together.


    The chieftain of this sect, one of the few creatures you can always expect to find at the core of a tribal group, towers over its underlings.  Every large group has one, commanding hundreds of tribals across huge areas.  This one is larger than any Bruen has seen before, and it stands between his small squad and the portal.  With it are over twenty assorted tribals clutching chipped stone knives and heavy clubs.


    Behind Bruen are Mos Gol and three tired soldiers.  Fierce fighting can be heard from the tunnel behind them, but they don''t let it distract them.  They form a tight cluster around Gol, enchanted spears readied against their charging foes.


    Only twelve ubits across, the number that can approach at once is limited by the width of the tunnel.  Savage ferocity pits itself against superior discipline, gear, and training.  Bruen''s squad stands just inside the tunnel, only a spear thrust from the open chamber beyond.


    Claws of chitin and keratin, whip-like tentacle limbs, and even biochemical attacks from a dozen species assaults the squad.  The uncoordinated scrambling of the simple minded tribals is met by teamwork led by two halves of the same whole.  Gol and Bruen direct the soldiers, using their upper tendrils to signal openings or threats while taking advantage of their stronger, and longer, lower tendrils for both offense and defense.


    Covering for each other with practiced precision, the longer reach and better quality of their weapons allows Bruen and his team to fight a larger number and still expect to win.  They slowly give ground, and the number of their foes is reduced, leaving only bloody corpses in the gradually widening tunnel.


    Blood paints the walls in contrasting shades before the fury of the tribals is spent in vain; a pile of butchered corpses litters the stone floor.  Scaled limbs, patches of fur and feathers.  Beaked faces rest next to the mandibles of chilling bodies, expressions of dumb rage still fixing the alien features.


    When the chief waddles into battle, they expect to take it down as easily as its tribemates.  When it bats aside their weapons with its many arms, they begin to worry.  When it grabs one of the soldiers and begins stuffing her into its gaping mouth they panic.


    The chieftain batters the thorax of the soldier with its clublike arms, its victim stabbing it the whole time with a captured stone dagger.  Her cuts fail to get past the thick hide of the creature, leaving only superficial wounds.  Her struggles grow weaker as blood leaks from her and down the body of her captor.


    Unwilling to watch another brave soldier die in front of him, Bruen lunges forward, his spear aimed for the flapping gills along the monstrous thing''s thick neck.  As the warded metal head of his magitech spear makes contact and begins to slide off the beast''s flesh, Bruen activates a string of runes carved into the haft of the weapon.


    The light is searing, and his tendrils slip through previously solid matter, grip closing painfully on nothing.  Matter that had had the energy holding it together violently redirected into the massive chieftain.  Heat and light become all of his awareness.  The shockwave sends him sprawling.  Nerves overloading from the blast send synesthesia-like sensations of green-cold colored sound through his sensitive upper tendrils and pedipalps.  He lands in a crumpled heap on the blood-soaked ground.


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    Battered and covered in painful burns, Bruen drags himself from the smoldering crater with tendrils and motive tendrils shortened by the intense blaze.  All that remains where his foe once stood are carbonized chunks of smoking flesh.  He collapses once back onto stone that doesn''t glow yellow with heat.  The stink of burned meat chokes the air, and his body spasms with horrible dry heaves.


    Charred deeply into his chitinous armor are the runic patterns he had agreed to let Zek inscribe.  Overloaded by the extreme energy of his final attack, they can no longer offer him protection from the smoldering ruin he had wrought.  His insides are leaking out, taking his strength from him with each beat of his twin hearts.


    Blinded and spun around by the blast, he crawls as far as he can before collapsing again.  Fierce heat still washes over his trailing and twitching tentacles, but his cracked and bleeding form can go no farther.  Flakes of charred chitin litter the ground around him mixing with ash from the obliterated upper half of the tribal chief that drifts in the hot air currents.


    Strong tendrils close around his oozing form, dragging him further from the heat he had struggled blindly to escape.


    "Get yourself over here, Somner!  He''s still alive," bellows a deep female voice from somewhere above him.  Warm energy soon washes over him as he blacks out.


    ---


    Finding himself once more waking up in a field tent that smells strongly of heady chemicals, Bruen pushes himself into a sitting position upon the thin cot underneath him and looks around.


    A washbasin stands to one side.  Next to it leans a new spear, fully charged runes adding to the ambient lighting.


    Runes painted on the leather walls of the large tent provide stronger illumination, a steady blue green glow.  He can hear quiet voices just beyond the worn leather, but can''t make out what they''re saying.


    Planting his tentacles firmly under him, the young general stands upright, gasping in pain.  He glides to the flaps and pulls them open, surprising those outside into silent stares.


    The first to recover themself is the cocky young thaumatist.  She steps forward to block his path, pointing back inside the medical tent.


    "You need more healing," she states with conviction, placing an upper tendril on the flaking carapace of his thorax.  She raises it to show the soot clinging to the thin layer of mucus coating it.  "And a bath," she adds, her pedipalps twitching.


    Shaking his head, Bruen refuses to be sent back without getting more information.  "What happened?  In the drills only the tip of the spear head would convert into light, nothing like that!"  He coughs and thick black gunk comes up, leaving the taste of ash behind.


    "One of his talismans, we think," says Mos Gol, who sports her own bandages.  "We suspect that he attempted to channel the unleashed energy into his own batteries, but the unstable interference pattern that was created caused the entire spear to unravel uncontrollably."


    "What about Chella?  She was closer to the explosion than I was," he asks in a shaking voice.


    "Alive, but only barely," answers Somner Zek bitterly.  "She won''t be fighting again for a while."  Zek gestures vaguely to the line of small tents.  "One of many I have to fix."


    "She was lucky, the chief took most of the blast," Gol adds, "unlike some who should be still resting."


    Bruen sags as relief washes over him, frantic energy running swiftly out.  He puts up no resistance as they steer him back onto the hateful cot.  A bowl of thin broth is thrust at him and he drinks resignedly. He barely registers the faint nutty flavor as he succumbs once more to merciful blackness.


    Time passes quickly for the sleeping general.  Brief periods of wakefulness lasting long enough only to drink more drugged soup.  When at last he is judged well enough for duty he gladly grabs the spear left waiting for him by the washbasin.


    Experience is also showing him that perhaps Gol had a point, however many seasons ago.  Layers of cloudy brown lacquer coat his carapace, runes painted on between layers forming complex patterns.


    Alerted by an aide that he was about, Mos Gol glides up to the younger general.  Clasped in her tendrils are maps and battle plans.


    "Done with your lazing about?  Let me get you up to speed," she teases, a tactical center forming around the two as casteless soldiers set up folding tables and hanging charts.

 Chapter 18: Whats Boys Night?

    Gelly bends drunkenly over, emitting a high-pitched squealing noise from behind himself. At the same time, he begins slapping one hand against his neck in a fast rhythmic beat, fingers moving in a gray blur. Covering his mouth with the other hand he makes a deep wet noise into his palm, akin to some rude bodily function.


    Ship-Father Tollek and Operative Vren roll on the carpeted floor of the officers'' lounge, clutching their sides in evident pain.


    "Thaaat''s," gasps Jim, "not, not right! Both ends!" His wheezing become incomprehensible at this point.


    Vren climbs slowly to his feet, still panting uncontrollably. Gelly staggers behind the bar and begins tapping at the keypad.


    "If that''s your idea of singing," Vren says, trying valiantly to catch his breath, "then you do not need any more to drink."


    "I know that song," I say calmly through the speaker built into the bar. "You said something that roughly translates to ''meat over there, bring it here''."


    Gelly''s head snaps up. The other two look confused, not understanding the language spoken by the Southern Tribals.


    "Nice trick, Gel," Tollek says, finally regaining his composure. "You only talk like that when you''ve been drinking in the woods. How''d you do it with your mouth shut?" Tollek squints at his cousin, swaying drunkenly in his seat.


    "Which clan were ye with?" Gelly''s voice is cold, and there''s murder in his eyes. He sets the bottle down on the table in front of Jim and sits down.


    The suspicious squint on Tollek''s face is replaced with a lopsided grin as he spots the bottle. Vren sets three glasses down and grabs the alcohol, pouring for the group.


    "I spent half my life killing tribals, and most of the rest being sewn back together. How about yourself, Operative?"


    "That''s an old wound," he replies, still angry but controlled by an iron will. He drains his glass and slides it over to Vren. "Fill her up, rookie."


    He gets a sour look from the Tserri, but a full glass is slid back to him. Gelly nods and takes another drink.


    "Gel was born on one of those breeding colonies," Jim supplies helpfully, earning his own sour look.


    "Aye, me parents were part ''o some failed colony," he admits. "Me mum, Jim''s aunt herself, was alone with me when we was captured. We was put with the rest ''o the family again at the village. Set their camp up right on the remains ''o the little base."


    "Tenebra Three. It isn''t in any records," Jim adds. "The Imperium doesn''t like to admit it ever existed." He stares ruefully at his empty glass.


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    "The chief, he''s got some kind ''o power. Breathe his scent, his pheromones, stay in his presence too long, something." Gelly waves his arm as he speculates. "After a while, ye just want to do as makes him happy. He sings his orders, and the tribe jumps to obey."


    Vren pours more of the orange liquid for each of them but adds some of the juice he and Jim were drinking earlier.


    "Whatever the case, I was raised with his son. They''re all male, make more by buddin'', see. Little blighter and I was rivals more''n friends, but we learned together. Pa was stabbed by some squiver thing while I was still too small to know him." He stops and takes another drink. "I''ve me a sister somewhere, other side ''o some magic door. Her ''n Mum both were marched off, different colony needed females. Da''s in some hospital somewhere, they keep what''s left ''o him locked away."


    Silence fills the room as Gelly relives old memories.


    "A magic door?" Vren''s curiousity causes him to ask, after Gelly stops talking. "Like from some children''s story?"


    Gelly nods seriously, the faraway look on his face evaporating. "Aye, that''s how they get from world to world. They walk between the stars. Some trick the chiefs do when enough ''o them get together. Nobody else is allowed near ''em when they set one up. No harder to believe than a magic rock that makes the ship go." He shrugs and sets his glass down.


    "I was part of the scouting team that found him," Jim says quietly. "He fought as fiercely as any other, trying to protect his chief. I''ve still got the scar," he says and pulls up his dress shirt, revealing a long white welt raised across his abdomen. "Almost killed me before we managed to subdue him. The medic had fits trying to put me back together."


    "Once they put the big gluttonous fella down, the rest ''o the tribe went berserk. I still don''t remember much ''o that night."


    "We found Gel and four others. After we managed to identify them, they were shipped back to their closest living relatives. In Gel''s case that was my mother."


    A fond smile lights up the Weapons Operative''s face. "Bless her. She''d switch me ''til I couldn''t walk and give me sweets after."


    That''s not a happy memory, Gelly!


    "What he means is that she was a strict but fair teacher, and patiently guided him back onto the path of civilization."


    "Oh, she''d beat me ''til my bruises could light a room, but always for a reason. Not cause''n she had a bad day, no. The day I skinned the family kifa I thought she might take me own hide. Twas worth it, though. Meat fell right off ''o the bone."


    "I raised her from a tiny little kit," Jim says sadly before taking another long drink. "She used to wait on my bed for me each morning."


    "Joined the service fer a chance at some payback. Both to pay back this lump," he says, pushing Jim''s shoulder, "and maybe take down me foster brother, if''n our paths cross."


    The talk winds down as the long night of drinking begins to take its toll upon the three overworked officers.


    "Long day ahead of us." Jim pushes himself up, using the table for leverage. Waving a final goodnight, he staggers off to his suite.


    Bidding his companion a good night, Vren too heads to find some sleep in the Tserri quarters.


    Gelly cleans up the lounge before he walks back to his own cabin. The corridors are empty as he passes through, reaching his own quarters without seeing another crewmember. He turns off the light and is about to climb into his bunk when he pauses.


    "Mos, when ye said ye killed tribals, what exactly did ye mean?"


    I take a moment to compose myself before answering, still thinking over Gelly''s story.


    "With a spear mostly. It was the reason I was hatched. You should ask Tollek about the squiver he bought me from."


    We had known the chieftain was important, but his tale had provided more detail. It''s too bad I''ll never be able to pass that info along.

 Chapter 19: Whats Concentric Acquisition?

    Uhgun squeezes the trigger and out comes a cone of annihilation, killing untold thousands.  With another claw he wipes down the counter, removing the residue the spray bottle tends to leave behind.


    Humming to himself in satisfaction at a job well done, Uhgun moves over to the next work space.  Only Mar Lummer is on the command deck with him, keeping watch while the other officers rest.


    "Medical school?  That''s expensive where I''m from," Lummer says in response to some remark from Uhgun.


    "Education was not optional among the Tserri," replies the fur covered crewmember.  "If the aptitude tests said you were to have a job, that was your job."


    "And how were you assigned?"  Mar continues questioning the Tserri who always seems to be assigned the janitorial duties.


    He waves one of his upper arms casually.  "I don''t know what the equivalent is among your people, but I was chosen to preform major corrective procedures."  He sprays and wipes down another workstation, leaving a pleasant smell in his wake.


    "Rojer spent two years apprenticed to a Master Surgeon, and that after graduating from the academy," states the heavyset officer.  "The Imperium would normally assign two medics to a ship this size, but well, we''ve never had a full compliment.  Have you spoken to Jim?"


    Uhgun smiles broadly, showing a mouth full of fanglike teeth.  I don''t think he means it as a threat however, as his next words sound quite cheerful.


    "I have, thank you.  Ship-Father Tollek was quite reasonable and accepted my requests without much difficulty."


    The Supply-Chief looks confused by this happy announcement.  He watches as the armored figure continues merrily cleaning vacant work stations, wiping down screens and keypads carefully.


    "The Ship-Father was happy to allow me to choose my own role onboard, and it relieves the rest of the crew of duties they would rather not do," explains the furry crewmember patiently.  "I don''t like blood and would rather do anything else.  Tonn is more than capable for daily medical needs.  If he truly needs help, I am not unwilling to assist him."


    "He let you pick your own job, and you chose janitor?"  The Supply-Chief''s suprise causes him to speak louder than his normal level.


    He''s answered by an elaborate Tserri shrug.  "Vren was given the task of assigning our duties, so he didn''t care.  Besides, it''s satisfying seeing the ship looking clean."


    Mar agrees and the two walk together down to the mess hall.  They pass crewmembers installing small parts, a tiny jet blower to help air circulation.


    Several crewmembers are sitting in the cafeteria, trading gossip or swapping small items.  They''re greeted by jokes and cheerful laughter when they walk in.


    "I''d noticed that our recent resupply had a lot more fresh meat than usual.  We usually just get the preserved stuff," Mar says, picking up the conversation again once back in the kitchen.  "I thought it was just Jim trying a new fad diet."


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    "We need a lot more meat than your people, so Vren got the Ship-Father to add a few things."


    He was assigned cooking duties today.  Clearly tired of the bland meatblocks, Mar busies himself in the kitchen.  First he lights the grill and gets a wide pan warming up.  While it heats he slices tough tubers into thin slices.  They go into the pan with some oil while he works on the next vegetables.  Small green fruits with bright yellow innards.  He skins them and throws the soft insides in with the tubers.


    Ughun enters the freezer and emerges with both sets of arms carrying assorted meats.  These are placed on a chopping surface and processed by the Tserri, under Mar''s direction.  Some are added to the pan or a second that Mar places over the heat, others go directly onto the adjacent grill.


    The striped Tserri tends to the grill, brushing a dark red sauce over the roasting cuts.  Mar stirs the dish he''s preparing, as well as frying strips of meat in another pan.  A large bowl of fresh fruit and another of dried berries complete the breakfeast spread.


    "What is this, anyway?  It smells wonderful," Ughun asks, breathing deeply of the aromas carried by the rising steam.


    "You''re working with gau, mostly.  That paler meat is gorcatcher.  It really should be slow roasted, but if you slice it thin enough it gets crispy instead of tough when it cooks."  The long thin slices of gorcatcher sizzle in their own fat.  He pokes them with a pronged instrument, like a small bident, keeping them from sticking to the pan.


    Uhgun is the first to fill his tray, with a long line stretching behind him.  He takes over serving once he''s eaten, giving Mar a chance to enjoy his food with the rest of the crew.


    Washing up is faster with two, and they''re soon free to relax for a while.


    Others on board are starting their day off with aching heads.


    "Mos Denn, turn down the lights in here, please," Tollek orders as he collapses heavily into the command chair.  I comply and he lets out a relieved sigh.


    "Progress report from Kalibern Station, sir," says a young crewmember, her eyes bright.  "The latest expansion has been excavated and power lines are being installed even now.  Tulson said to tell you the micro factory was making some odd noises, but other than that things are going nicely."


    Beginning to form a reply, Tollek stops when he hears a gasp from the scanner operating station.


    Kali looks up from her station in shock and begins tapping furiously.  "Jim, we''re detecting some odd signatures entering our range.  They just passed the outer dust clouds.  Putting it on the main screen, sir."


    The image displayed is an overhead representation of the stellar neighborhood.  The star, the planet and its moons, and far out the dust cloud that marks the edges of the system.  Right inside the edge of the system, moving slowly by astronomical standards, are three wedge shaped vessels.


    Information displayed next to it indicates that the engines are damaged, outputting energy with odd spikes and unstable patterns that seem to interfere with each other.


    "They''re transmitting a signal, sir," Kali reports loudly, eager to please, causing Tollek to wince painfully.


    Jim motions for her to go ahead and she replaces the previous display with the orange furred face of a Tserri warrior.  Their words are translated automatically by my systems.  I clean up the static; their transmitters are in similar shape to their engines.


    The figure takes a deep breath, discomfort evident in the way they hold themself.  Sparks jump from damaged equipment in the background.  Engineers work under dangerous conditions, trying to repair their badly wounded ship.


    "Greetings, from the remnants of the Third War Fleet.  We have many wounded aboard and our supplies are almost gone.  We wish to surrender ourselves to you.  We also deliver a warning.  We encountered genocide drones on our way here."  The message ends there, leaving the screen blank.


    "Get Vren in here, and find Gel," Jim says as he heaves himself up.  "Kali, you''re in charge out here."  Wiping his hand through the dark hair atop his head he turns and enters the war room to wait for his officers.


    Kali delivers them a message, advising the Tserri battleships to dock with Kalibern Station.  She then alerts the crew to be ready to handle potential trouble.  If this is some kind of trick the odds are against us.


    The station is still unarmed and would be an easy target, taking several of our best people out with no way for them to fight back.

 Bruens Story 6: Whats a Hostage Negotiator?

    "They''re an easy target," Mos Gol states.  "There''s only a junior chief holding the savages together.  We''ve been able to hold off his raids so far, but a mass assault would cost us this position."


    "Just a junior?  You shouldn''t have had any trouble then," complains Bruen.  "What''s it look like over there?  Have we gotten a scout report?"


    "It''s supposed to be rather nice on the other side," his elder snarkily replies.  "The colony''s in the middle of a large swamp.  We have reports of mountains in the distance, but not much more on the surrounding areas.  Very humid, nice and warm.  Not too bright.  Lots of large reptilian creatures and plenty of fruits growing everywhere but, of course the neighbors are awful."


    Bruen nods.  "I think I''ve met them.  Terrible parties.  What''s the plan to break this one up?"


    "You, Zek and the bulk of the soldiers will go through first.  I''ll stay back with a token force to guard this side of the portal," explains Gol.


    "I don''t like it," the younger warrior replies.  "Come through with us, stay at the rear if you have to, but don''t stay behind.  I think we should seal up the tunnel behind us before we go through."  He indicates a place on the map spread on the folding table between them.  "Here.  There''s still plenty of wreckage from the last fight.  We can use it to plug up access.  Melt it solid and we''ll have plenty of time to deal with the colony before reinforcements could dig through our barricade."


    "Chella!  Find some parchment and write down a note, in case our people get here first.  We don''t want them doing anything stupid," orders the armor-clad old warrior.  Soldiers leap to obey, and she nods once before turning back to her junior officer.  "Take a group and get it done.  We need to move quick; I''ll have the soldiers strike camp."


    Bruen rushes off, grabbing two soldiers as he heads to the supply tent.  Fire charged runic explosives, capable of melting rocks in a small radius.  He has each warrior take two and grabs ropes and picks to help secure and shape the stones.


    They set off as the tents around them are taken down, soldiers busily packing away all their supplies.


    Bruen plans to set off the charges in sequence, as the wall is built up, to secure the wall firmly.  He and his men get to work moving the melted rock into position.


    They work quickly, their many tendrils hauling slag and rubble and stacking it against the wall.  They bury their explosives inside the stacked stone, at varying heights.  Soon the pile is almost complete, held together by deftly tied knots.  He''s about to order Zek to activate them when he detects the faint sounds of movement from the other side.


    The rock dust covered workers all pause, silently waiting for a questioning code phrase.


    When he hears alien speech Bruen orders all the runic charges be set immediately.  Zek channels energy into the waiting arrays and they draw in heat and force from outside the physical universe.  As soon as the runes activate the soldiers are sprinting away, behind a curve in the tunnel.


    The detonation is followed by screams of pain and frustration, and Bruen smiles as he leads his squad back to the portal.


    They return and see all their soldiers standing in formation, ready to cross at his command.  He leads his two assistants to the place they''ve earned beside him at the front of the lines of waiting soldiers.


    Mos Gol gives the order to cross and Bruen leads his people through the tear in space.  Reality flickers as he crosses the portal and he stands in deep water, cooled by the dark shade of the canopy overhead.  He leads the way to one side and allows more to join him in enemy territory.


    When half the warriors are assembled, he orders off two of them to wait and lead the last half once they''ve arrived.  He takes the rest of them forward slowly, not wanting yet to give away their presence to the watchful tribals.  They hold their weapons low, under the murky water and creep ahead, every move cautious.


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    A shout goes up somewhere ahead in the gloom.  Bruen raises up his glowing spear and charges.  He''s followed by great splashing as the warriors behind him leap forward.


    Two heavily armored forces collide, chitinous carapaces scraping together.  Asymmetric claws swipe and snap at weaving tendrils and whipping tentacles.  Other exotic forms move through the mist here and there, but the great bulk of the tribal forces are the clawed and armored tripodal people.


    Some of the clawed warriors are wearing scraps of once well-crafted garments, perhaps stolen from more advanced prey.  The craftmanship that created these fabrics is well beyond any skill displayed in this primitive village.  The buildings around them are built from mud and logs, many not even stripped of small branches.


    Bruen wrestles the heavy pincher away from his face and stabs, grip close to the head of his spear.  The thrust connects but slides off the opponents thick shell with a sickening screech, leaving a long scratch behind.


    Distracting the beast with the bright spear head, he grabs the stone knife from his side.  Throwing his tentacles around one of its thick legs he drags and heaves.  He then stabs with the heavy knife at the top of top of its leg, where the spiky thing grows out of the armored body.


    The blade shatters, but the flint core remains together and pierces the weak spot, sinking half a ubit deep.  Bruen twists and drags the blade, severing the leg from his enemy''s body.


    Off balance, it tumbles, taking the young warrior down with it.  Bruen stabs his spear into the opening he had made, until his tendrils are deep inside the warm twitching innards of the monster.  He keeps stabbing until all the pulsing motion inside stops and pulls his slippery weapon free.


    Looking around he sees two smaller monsters coming at him from his right.  One a thin gray creature with an obsidian axe held in both its arms and the other a smaller version of the creature laying still below the dark water.


    Screaming at him in challenge as they approach fearlessly, not even attempting to sneak past his defenses, the tribals close quickly.


    He stabs his spear into the center of the clawed tripod while ducking low and swinging out two of his tentacles at the gray creature.


    The thin primitive goes flying backward into a large tree, sliding down it unconscious.  The large claw of the armored foe deflects Bruen''s spear and the two smaller claws dart in, snipping at his lower tendrils and leaving bloody cuts.


    He steps back and to the side, pulling back his spear to block a thrust from his heavy foe.  The attack is followed up by quick jabs from the smaller claws on its other side.  Bruen twists and keeps one claw away but the other stabs into his central eye, splattering dark fluids.


    Bruen screams in pain, but the sound is lost in the greater commotion.  Every tribal still standing begins wailing at once, all sense of reason leaving their varied forms.  Somewhere in this camp, the junior chief just died.


    The armored being before him thrashes wildly before laying eyes once more on Bruen.  It scrambles madly towards him, any form of defense abandoned in its unthinking rage.


    Keeping its maddened attacks at bay with the superior reach of his spear, Bruen edges quickly towards one of the tall trees growing out of the rich mud below the cloudy water.  Leaping upward, he strains to catch hold, pulling himself up.  The limb creaks dangerously but supports his weight.  Out of the water and into the lower branches of the moss draped tree, but not yet into safety.


    He continues climbing, claws snapping shut fractions of a bit behind him, barely missing taking off the tips of his tentacles.  Crushing vinelike growths beneath his mass, he turns and looks below him.


    There the creature leaps and snaps, unable to reach him, unable to climb.


    Taking several deep breaths, Bruen calms himself, readying himself.  He clings to the thick branch, sliding his body along its length.  Stopping when he''s above the unthinking brute, he points his spear down and leaps.


    They collide with a loud splash as the young warrior''s weight forces the tripodal savage into the water, legs snapping below it.  Bruen''s spear drives into the foe''s chitinous face with the force of gravity behind it, cracking thick armor and stabbing deep into its insides.


    One final twitch as the spear is pulled free and it lies still, sinking into the muddy water to join its fellow.


    Brilliant lights fill the sky, and shouting can be heard soon after.  Shouting in a language Bruen does not recognize.


    Several small explosions can be heard in the distance as Bruen stands up.  He looks over at the knocked out tribal, not wanting to be attacked from behind in an unknown situation.


    He starts moving towards the unmoving creature when he''s bathed in bright light.  Someone shouts nearby, but he cannot understand.  He freezes, spear tip only bits away from the still form''s exposed gray neck, its heartbeat visible in the brilliance.

 Bruens Story 7: Whats Translation Error?

    Muddy water drips off his still form, landing in the swamp with soft plinking sounds.


    Shouting comes from somewhere behind the blinding glare.  They sound angry, but also afraid.  A metallic clicking noise rings through the gloom and the shout repeats.


    Bruen doesn''t move, not the slightest twitch.  Quietly, not wanting to alarm the frightened aliens, he asks, "Can you understand me?"


    When he gets no response he tries the question again, in the language of his people''s closest allies, but still they answer with shouting he cannot decipher the meaning of.


    The silence stretches for several long breaths, before a new voice says something slowly and quietly.  The language used sounds the same, but the speaker sounds as if they expect a response.


    "I do not know your language," Bruen says slowly.  "I do not wish to be your enemy, if there is any other way to solve this."


    A few mechanical noises are his only response.  It almost sounds like the toys given to freshly molted young to test their aptitudes, clicking and humming away.


    Not knowing what else is wanted of him, he tries again.  "Who are you people?  Are you natives of this world?  My people come from far away and wish only to leave here."


    Almost ready to give up peaceful interactions, Bruen tightens his grip on his spear.  His patience, expansive though it is, is running thin.  The resolve to fight his way clear of these strange people begins to set in his mind when the black box emits an imitation of speech.


    "Why have you come here?"  The voice sounds lifeless, artificial.  "What do your people want from us?"


    "Please turn down your lights.  I don''t want to hurt anyone."


    "Drop your weapon," the voice says as the light cuts off abruptly, revealing thin gray creatures.


    The aliens are dressed in blue and white uniforms, all five of them wearing blue metal helmets.  Three are holding strange looking metal staves, which contain a fierce energy that resonates with the runes encasing his form.  These odd devices are the source of the glaring light from before.


    One of the uniformed aliens holds a thick black box with a shining panel set into the top, which holds a much weaker energy source inside it.


    The last of the gray creatures is carrying bandages and what Bruen recognizes as medical equipment.  They are the same species as the form his spear is aimed at, laying still against the tree and gazing blankly up at him in obvious fear.


    He backs away, letting his spear droop, its head sinking harmlessly in the water.  The healer of the alien group shoots him a strange look before dashing to the fallen member of their race.  The healer shouts something back to the group which the black object repeats as "She''s Okay!" while checking the injured tribal carefully for hidden wounds.


    "We need you to come with us," commands the emulated voice.  "Our leaders will need to speak with you."


    Knowing that he has no choice, Bruen follows as they lead him away, but does not relinquish his spear.  A warm light briefly shines on him from one of the strange battle staves, but its energy is drawn harmlessly into the runic array protecting him.  As he has been otherwise cooperative so far, no further attempt is made to take it from him.


    He''s lead to the center of the primitive encampment where the rest of his people are being held.  Gray creatures surround them on all sides, keeping careful watch over the tired soldiers.


    He spots Mos Gol and Somner Zek among the captives and heaves a sigh of relief.  They quickly reach his side, asking questions about the aliens around them.


    A group of tripodal aliens huddles nearby, likewise surrounded by uniformed guards.  They lack the discipline of trained soldiers, and many are openly crying.  Larger tripods comfort smaller versions of themselves, not acting at all like the mindless savages of before.


    Across the clearing from the two groups of prisoners slumps the defeated corpse of the young chieftain, its body leaning against the wall of a primitive hut.


    He waves his companions to silence as a form he recognizes approaches, still carrying the black device.


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    "You can call me Robar.  We have some questions for you," the alien says through its translator.  "How should I address you?"


    "I am Mos Gol, leader of these people.  This is my second in command, Mos Bruen and our thaumatist Somner Zek," replies the armored elder confidently.  "It is good to meet other people capable of strong magics."  She nods her head towards the translation device.  "Quite the marvel."


    Her diplomatic skills have never been Gol''s strongest defense, but she''s putting forth an effort that surprises Bruen.  As often as he''s seen elders of his caste rush heedlessly towards death, he still half expects her to order an attack at some point.


    "Excellent.  Please follow me, we''ll be going to meet the Patron," the strange lifeless voice repeats.  "Your people will be safe here."


    Mos Gol agrees, and Robar leads the three to a metallic building the visitors seem to have erected on the edges of the small village.  Whatever ritual they used, it was destructive, charring the trees and other plants in a small circle around it.  Bruen detects power coursing through the alien structure, and sees Zek''s mucus coating thicken in an automatic protective reflex.


    A door opens itself on the side of the building as they near it and a small ramp extends down into the muck.  The team gratefully slide up it, glad not to have to climb up the two and a half ubits to enter the odd alien construction.


    The doors close when the last of their group has entered.  The energy swirling through the walls all around them grows brighter, flooding their senses and blinding their peripheral eyes.


    It doesn''t feel like the energy of a portal, and reality does not flicker inside the strange room.  The gray aliens move around unconcernedly, going from one screen to the next.  The aliens tap at the screens and the energy lessens, removing a strain that had Zek nearly collapsed on the ground.  The door opens by itself, proving to Bruen the sophistication of these people, and they are led into a new environment.


    Energy flows through everything around them, causing Somner Zek to twitch as she looks around.  Her gaze seems to be drawn in a single direction.  When Gol asks their guide what''s in that direction the response is superstitious nonsense.


    The heart of the ship?  Bruen looks around but cannot see the sky.  He listens but does not hear the wind, nor does he feel the rocking of waves beneath him.  Only the hum of endlessly flowing energy through every surface around him and the speech of the gray thin creatures moving about the confines of this odd place.


    Leading the way through a twisting maze of corridors and ladders, they are guided to a large door upon which Robar raps their hard knuckles in a quick beat.  A deep voice answers and the door slides open, revealing a large room with a table in the center.  Around the table are several empty chairs, and one chair filled by an impressively dressed older gray alien.


    "Welcome to the war room of the Bestera''s Gift," says the machine Robar carries as the group walks inside.  "Please, have a seat, everyone."  Robar sets the device down on the table and leaves the room.


    Left alone with a single alien, Bruen''s group begins to relax.  Either this creature is not a threat or is capable of defeating all three of them unarmed, either way they know they are safe enough at the moment.  These people could have killed them at any time, but have only used words and bright lights despite their incredible mastery over energy.


    The stranger stands, and gestures at the group of warriors, still bleeding from battle wounds not yet treated.


    "Your people are obviously powerful.  Immune to laser blasts and able to travel without ships.  We haven''t even located traces of particle emissions around this planet," the tall gray being says as it paces the ornate metal room.


    The word make little sense.  It''s clear the alien leader is impressed, but Bruen understands little else.


    "Can you show us which world your people are from?  Or tell us how you got to this one?"  He taps on the table and a display floats in the air, points of colored light in swirls and clusters.


    A single red light brightens, surrounded with a transparent halo.


    "This is our current location.  We call this world Makeera''s Drop, around a star we''ve named the Red Eye."  He looks at his guests expectantly, but they only stare blankly at the display.  He taps the translation device on its side, an odd look on his fleshy mobile face.


    "Is this thing working?"  Seeing their nods he continues, "Right, sorry.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I''ve already been briefed on your identities.  My name is Patron Nosstan.  Rin Nosstan, chief officer of the battleship Bestera''s Gift.  Thank you for meeting with me."


    The three guests nod at this, politely holding their pedipalps close to their faces as an indication of excitement.  The gray person cocks his head while looking at them before returning to his display.


    He taps the table again and an area of blue light surrounds a trio of floating points, of which the one Nosstan called Red Eye is at the edge.


    "Right.  This blue area represents the territory our Coalition has significant influence over.  Can you indicate where your people have holdings?"  He again looks expectantly at his guests.


    "No.  What do all these lights mean?"  Bruen taps the table before him, but nothing happens.  "How do you activate the table?  I see no runes."  He waves his spear through the display, causing the lights to wink out in its wake only to reappear moments later.


    "Let me try," exclaims Somner Zek.  "I can feel the pathways, just let me see."  She trails off as a white glowing haze travels from the center of her thorax and enters the table.  The lights rearrange into a series of lines.  Connections and branches are marked with informative sigils, labeling each world controlled by the Spanless Empire.


    "Good job, Somner.  These are our worlds," explains Mos Gol, waving her tendrils along the pathways.  "And these, ahem, are the worlds we know of that our allies or enemies control.  This is the world we are currently on."  As she speaks Somner Zek adds the necessary modifications to the map.


    "Over," corrects Nosstan.  "We are over the world of Makeera''s Drop."


    "Oh.  Good, so we can have it, then?"  Gol''s tendrils quiver, her excitement almost uncontrollable.

 Chapter 20: Whats Immigration?

    Despite the incomplete docking accommodations, the three large wedge shaped Tserri warships huddle around the station, pressurized tubes extending through the vacuum.


    From this range it is impossible to miss the heavy damage they had sustained.  Armor plates melted into useless slag, bubbled and warped under strains of extreme heat.  Entire sections of the outer hulls are dead, all the systems within fried.


    Tollek sits wearily in the war room with officers Vren and Gelly Drop.  Before them on the main display are long lists of supplies available on Kalibern Station as well as daily requirements of basic resources.


    "Even if we supplement their needs from the Resurgent, they will run out of air in six days, water in eleven, and food by tomorrow at this time," Vren states in measured tones.  "We lack the reserve proteins to sustain them for any length of time, Jim."


    "Most pressin'' is food.  We can rig up purifiers to let ''em reuse old air and water," Gelly adds, "but even that''s no goin'' to help ''em if they''ve nothin'' to eat."


    A few quick keystrokes and Jim pulls up blueprints for the station on another screen.  Tapping on the control pad allows him to highlight power conduits currently installed, as well as planned points of future expansions.  "Now I''ll add the draw from," he checks the lists on the main screen and sighs.  "Two hundred and fifty-seven additional residents, under war time power rationing."  The display goes red, then black as the proposed power usage far exceeds the production capabilities of the incomplete station.


    "These numbers include the supplies the furballs brought?"  A quick glance at Vren and Gelly winces.  "Sorry, ''mate, but yer a hairy lot.  I notice yer graphic there has no trace ''o the Tserri dynamos."


    "Good catch, Gel."  Tollek''s scowl loosens slightly as he begins plotting new improvised circuits into the power use model.  Running it with the new values, the three officers watch as it continues running, with only flashing red lights occasionally indicating potential hazardous overuse.


    Standing to get a better view, Vren spends a few moments studying the new pathways.  "We could improve the efficiency of the generators if they''re extracted from their current vessels.  Installing them directly into the grid would give us nearly ten percent more to work with."


    Jim shakes his head.  "I thought of that too, but that still leaves us wiring the ships in anyway.  There just isn''t room for them all inside the station, even hot bunking it.  The plans called for eighty residents, with room to grow."


    "None of them are civilians, Jim.  First give them vacuum suits, then they will work to stay alive."


    "Give nothin''," Gelly exclaims.  "That many suits, even the mark twos, would mean tearin'' the station apart for components."


    Tollek swears quietly before running some more simulations.  "I don''t like it.  The power core we got from Wollen doesn''t have the kick we need."  He pauses and looks at the ceiling, directly into the hidden camera mounted there.  "But Denn''s core does.  We can run the Resurgent on the weaker core, and transfer you into Kalibern, Mos.  With you giving the systems here the same boost that''s kept the ship running, these people might be able to survive."


    His purple and silver armor creaking as he stands, Vren stops at the exit to the war room.  "They should be assembled in the main building by now.  Time to go find out who''s in charge of that pack."  He snaps the helmet into position and walks off the command deck.


    Jim and Gelly listen as his footsteps recede into the distance before the Weapons Operative stands as well.  He walks over to a cabinet built into the wall.  Opening it with a security code, he grabs a long metallic gun of a type I''m not familiar with.  Files identify it as a SAm15, a weapon specialized for crowd control.  It emits bursts of short-wave energy, designed to shut down muscle control in its targets.


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    "Better go give him some back up," he says as he closes the arms locker.  Running to catch up, he leaves Jim alone in the war room.


    "A deathworld," he says into the silence.  He sits there staring blankly at the displays before grunting and turning them off.  "Maybe more than one."


    "Sir?  My people use that term as well.  In our explorations several have been discovered."


    He nods, clearly not surprised.  "They come in different types.  Drone worlds are among the deadliest we''ve found."


    Glass gardens, silver seas, drone worlds, plague worlds, and worlds split open, spilling their molten guts into space.  The long extinct ancients left many dangers behind in their zeal to destroy themselves.


    "I have to take the Resurgent out there.  Find the threat and see how bad it really is," he says morosely as he stands and shakes the fog from his head.  "We could use you, when we go."


    If offered the choice between an obvious suicide mission or trying to feed starving people with only limited supplies of grains and fruit, I''d think the answer is clear.  The choice isn''t mine, however, and I remain silent, not wishing to add to the officer''s guilt.


    "Nothing gained from stalling," states the Ship-Father as he walks over to the command chair in the center of the deck.  He presses the release, and the thin panel slides aside.  "Let''s get this over with.  Maybe this is a bad idea, but it won''t be me that deals with the consequences.  End override protocol 633-Primus-94-Red."  He then pulls me out, swapping me for a clear crystalline orb that had been in a familiar pouch at his side.


    He holds me in one hand, raising me level to his face.  "I never really liked you, Mos, but you were useful.  I''ve gotten used to you, I guess," he says, walking slowly down the corridor.


    The trip into the station is a blur, my senses still reeling from the sudden lack of input.  Clicking open a panel hidden in the war room of the station, Tollek installs me into the new system.  Relief floods me, as well as streams of data.  I''m no longer blind.


    Kalibern is vast, in comparison to the Resurgent, though my perceptions of it are much more limited.  Most of the cameras are not installed, or are improperly hooked up, sending strangely distorted images requiring much interpretation to be useful.  Empty chambers and cramped tunnels fill most of the screens in the room.


    The central screen displays the view from the main building.  The massed bodies of the four-armed refugees heave and surge under the attentions of Operatives Vren and Gelly.  Dunc Wollen and Spen Dondrik stand on either side of the pair, SAm33s raised above the heads of the crowd.


    Several twitching Tserri lay on the decking between the two groups, testament to the effectiveness of Gelly''s rifle.


    Stepping forward, Vren issues a series of sharp barks, commands the desperate survivors of the Third War Fleet are eager to obey.  They break into small groups and begin dragging food and water stores from the three maimed warships, piling them under Gelly''s watchful gaze.


    Crates containing the nests of feathered creatures from which hissing noises emit are stacked to one side.  Over fifty of the small creatures are assembled together, where Marta has just parked a small cart.


    Assorted blades and blasters are also placed to one side, where Operative Dondrik attempts to keep an inventory of the growing stacks of weaponry.  An enlarged armory will need to be dug out somewhere.


    Personal electronic equipment, tablets, tools, and entertainment devices are being brought to Tulson, who seems to be in high spirits.  Teah explains the uses of the exotic devices as they''re brought to the workshop.


    Mar Lummer has his hands on all of it, with crewmembers reporting back with each load carried off the ships.  Tserri are interviewed by more of his people, many refugees even signing up in order to be more useful.  Precise logs are filed, containing details of which family groups each item belonged to, in order that they may be credited against coming need.


    Uhgun leads a crew of armored recruits in efforts to excavate new chambers, while other crewmembers haul the rock to the surface, to be used to fashion more dwellings using the most damaged wedge as the basic structure.  There are plans to rebuild the other two, to be kept as defenders of the station and planet.


    Simplified suits in Imperium black and yellow are being printed out by Terla Parc, with eager four-armed helpers learning to assemble them.  With so many busy workers running up and down the halls for parts that temporary depots are springing up.  Nooks that would otherwise be full of plants instead hold small shops ran by harried Tserri trying to make their lives better.


    Many of the previous plans have had to be adjusted.  The dome erected over Bestera Minor, meant to be temporary, is being reinforced.  When all the water ice is added to the growing system, the enclosure will be used as a sort of farmstead, with the feathered sbah allowed to roam freely.  I''m told they reproduce quickly and are able to eat a wide variety of things.


    Tollek awaits only an inbound shuttle from Centra Base, with crew to take over operations.

 Chapter 21: Whats a Lateral Promotion?

    Ship-Father Tollek decides to do one more favor before taking his crew and heading off in search of the deathworld.  During the three days it took for the Grand Matron to authorize and organize the personnel transfer, the Resurgent flies no less than eleven circuits between Kalibern and the outer dust cloud.


    A misnomer really, as at that distance rocks the size of small islands appear no larger than motes of dust.  Tollek hauls back netloads of carefully selected rocky debris, spending more time combing through the vast cloud than hauling resources.


    Much of the mass collected will be piled on the surface, exposed to vacuum and awaiting future use.  But for the metal ores extracted from the less immediately useful material a different use is found.  The speed at which the metal is converted into structures only increases as more workers are given vaccuum suits and orders.


    Interconnected tanks holding liquid enough to fill a lake sprout from the stone body of the base.  Soon the tiny creatures within will grow large enough to be seen swimming through the clear panels set in the thick sides of the deep tanks.  Aquatic mosses already cling to special racks built into the tops and sides, some showing evidence of nibbling from tiny mouths.  Even the accelerated growth of the first generation thawed from trays of magitech design cannot make them a viable food source quickly enough to feed the hungry residents of the growing station.


    Built directly below the storage tanks, the hydroponics grow rooms filled with young sprouts might be more helpful.  Many of the plants selected were meant to be eaten as supplements to dried rations.  Flavorful and holding a wide array of nutrients, the herbs growing around the station could keep a Selber crew alive for seasons.  Tserri need a different set of nutrients, which while available are not growing in numbers needed to sustain a group as large as this.


    Surprising amounts of the produce grown will be given to the sbah.  Those creatures'' numbers will take a hit soon, as fresh protein is hard to find, but eggs are already being laid in nests built by the colorful things.  They aren''t very bright, building their nests at the bases of the young trees, setting up small groups in clusters of fives and sixes.  They often leave the nests unguarded or watched by only one hen as the rest slither around the space given them, eating many legged crawling creatures and scraps of produce.


    Depositing their final load beside the downed wedge ship once known as Broken Leg Hop, Tollek flies his ship out to the edges of the system.  Left behind are Dunc and Spen, standing at the base of the docking tower in their mark four vacuum armor.


    A few other young recruits from Honus are also running around the interior, keeping systems running.  The two junior officers watch as an armored transport shuttle docks through the thick clear panel set into the side of the structure.  When the docking bay hisses open they already stand nearby, ready to great their new commanding officers.


    The door slides open and the first to exit the shuttle is a figure heavily augmented by cybernetics, barely recognizable as Yosip Peal, who now wears a uniform of much higher quality.  Behind him are a handful of thin gray beings, both officers and crewman, with large wooden crates of preserved rations, meant to sustain them for a long time.


    "Yosip Peal!  Reports from survivors of the invasion said you were dead," I exclaim, unable to help myself.  "It is good to see they were wrong.  Welcome aboard, sir!"


    A minor malfunction in his facial servos causes his face to twist into a painful grimace before he can correct the problem.  With a carefully neutral expression he looks up and says, "Mos Denn.  How.  Nice.  It seems we''ll be working together again."


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    "I see that you have been promoted.  Could you tell me what rank your new uniform indicates?  I must confess my ignorance," I say, hoping to politely flatter him by referencing his increased authority.


    "Not that I blame you, but when we landed in the lake, I came down on an abandoned pleasure craft.  It had been drifting for who knows how long, there''s no way you could have aimed for it if you wanted.  Anyway, it took my other arm and did this to my face.  They found me floating in the wreckage days later."  He walks down the corridor as he talks, mechanical legs clanking heavily as he does, looking at a map displayed on a tablet he carries.  He and his officers head to the command center.


    "The damage was enough to take me off active duty.  No more skydiving in my future, I guess."  He barks a short laugh.  "I got stuffed into a desk up here, Supply-Master Peal."  I understand his bitterness.  When I was retired from the front lines I raged for days.


    That isn''t what he needs to hear now, though.  I won''t insult him by pretending he''s not as good an officer as ever, either.


    "That''s unfortunate, Yosip.  It really is.  But that was the easy part.  Anyone can get injured, and it''s over fast.  Your real fight just started, against something you can''t just kill and move on from," I say.  I display the lists on the main screen for him.  Sympathy is not a trait my people practice, but I know intimately the horror of being taken away from active duty.


    Yosip looks up, scanning the numbers before waving at one of his officers.  "Find me Operative Wollen, he should know something about this mess we''re in."


    "Sir, a fight going on in the Broken Leg has left two dead and another three injured!"  The news comes from the new comms operator, an especially tiny female officer.  "What do you want to do about the instigators of the fight?"


    He just shakes his head.  "Let them go.  They did us a favor, really.  That''s two less to feed and the troublemakers identified.  Confiscate their weapons and anything else of value, fine them and let ''em go.  Bill them for the injuries.  Put the bodies in recycling, we can use the biomass."


    An enlisted Tserri walks into the command center, wearing dark blue vacuum armor.  "Sir, your rooms have been prepared.  They''re rather stark right at the moment, but I was asked by the engineers to let you know that they''ll put together anything you need."


    "That sounds good, actually.  I need more space to move around than I used to," Yosip says with a bitter chuckle.  "Have a team go through it, move anything important.  Mount it to the ceiling and add a few more charging stations.  This heavy rig sucks up power."


    He goes back to looking at the resource reports, flipping between files rapidly.


    "Well, I see the problem.  We need a shuttle hangar."  His announcement shocks the rest of the officers.  "There isn''t any way we''ll be able to produce enough food to feed ourselves.  Just isn''t possible."  He changes the displays to a view of available surface structures.  "We''ll have to buy what we need to keep going, trade things we can make or dig up for it.  At least for now.  And to do that we need to be able to load and unload small shuttles pretty much nonstop, without having to worry about atmosphere."


    The assembled officers think it over while Yosip draws up plans.  "We can convert the current landing field into a covered shuttle bay, it''s already adjacent to the main building.  Anything larger can use the docking arm.  Speaking of, we also need to install a freight lift, to help unload any larger shipments we might recieve.  Or send."


    Third Operative Dunc Wollen enters the command deck.  "You wanted to speak to me, sir?"


    "That''s right.  First, I want you to tell me what you know about the Tserri.  If you can''t convince me that you''re an expert, you''ll be down there digging in the dirt until you can."


    The young officer looks nervous but takes a deep breath.  The awful yowling noises he produces do a passable job at imitating Tserri speech.  I decline to translate it, but the crewmember nearby in the dark blue vacuum armor replies in the same language.  "You tell him, kid!"


    Looking between the two, Yosip nods his head once.  "That''ll do.  Second.  Find the toughest furballs you can, sign ''em up.  Build me a team of bruisers.  Eva should have some names for you to start with.  Go on, dismissed."


    Receiving the data file from Eva Chel, the petite officer at comms, Dunc rushes off, a contemplative look on his gray face.


    Yosip turns and regards the small officer.  "How long until the prison transport is due?"


    "Tomorrow morning, some time, sir," she chirps in reply, a bright smile on her face.

 Gellys Story 4: Whats a Target Rich Environment?

    The long distances between stars of interest makes for long stretches between anything exciting happening, and Gelly likes it that way.  The system they''re making repairs in shows no signs of technological presence, perfect for a brief stop.


    Even with the new crewmembers taken aboard before they departed, the ship feels quiet to Operative Gelly Drop.  Less full of life, somehow.  He decides it must be the reduced hum with the engines off for inspection.  He''d grown so used to it that it only registers because of its lack, now that they''re off.


    Shrugging it off, Gelly gets back to work.  Without Mos Denn keeping the ship running smoothly, there are many more minor repairs needing to be done.  Currently, he''s helping one of the newest recruits to adjust the power output on a string of overstressed relays.  Zanna''s blue armor is marred by grease and coolant, from her other repairs, as is her long white fur.


    She knows the layout better than the more experienced enlisted, being one of those that had installed the new layout.  He''s mostly handing her tools or components, or holding things down as a makeshift clamp.  She has twice as many hands anyway, as well as the modifications on her suit providing extra tool functions.


    When another enlisted walks by, reading a digital novel, Gelly stops her.


    He leaves Zanna with a wave and heads deeper into the ship.  The battery banks have been causing interference with each other, reducing the overall power availability, despite numerous adjustments.  Tollek had finally given up and ordered them separated, with each operating on separate power grids.


    Tulson greets him with a grin as he enters the engine room, grease coating her face and uniform.  "You get the relays sorted out?"


    Shrugging, he grabs the nearby wire cutter and begins freeing the powered down particle accelerator from its harness.  "I left Zanna in charge o'' that.  Sheth volunteered to take me place, she could use the practice."


    The two officers pull it free, setting it to the side where Terla can make sure it hasn''t been damaged beyond repair.  She and Tulson both are excited to crack the device open later.  Gelly is just as glad it''s not his problem, and heads to his next task.  There are many power connections to cut out and replace, and it promises to be tedious.


    He joins up with another work crew, wrists deep in the walls of the ship to reach troublesome wires.


    Patching over the power grid is simple repetitive work, made faster by an experienced partner to keep track of which current is meant to flow to what systems.  Splice in one end of the wire, figure out where it needs to be, cut to size and splice the other end.  Make sure the whole thing is secure and sealed then move on to the next.


    This particular section supplies energy to the lights.  Gelly removes another panel and extracts the wire harness beneath it.    He replaces it and tucks it back inside the wall and stoops to grab the nearby panel.


    An alarm blares, and Tollek''s voice plays over the speaker system.  "Seal up whatever you''re doing, there are unknown energy signatures headed our way.  The signals are faint, so we have some time, but that could change in an instant."


    "Forget the lights, go work on the blasted shields," barks Gelly as he simply drops the section of wall panel he had been about to replace before Tollek made his announcement.  The operative runs down the corridors, weaving past confused crew.  At the end of the hall Gelly stops and climbs up to the next level.  At the top he takes off again, running until he gets to the command deck.


    Gelly drops into his customary seat, ready to activate the armaments protecting the ship.  The targeting system in front of him displays one large object and a cloud of smaller signatures moving around it.


    "Gettin'' off to a good start, Jim," he quips, hoping to relax his cousin but accomplishing the opposite.  "Twenty at once on yer first try.  We''ll be done with this mission quick, at this rate."


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    Ignoring Gelly''s jibe, Tollek turns to the Scout at the comms station.  "Any response to the transmission you sent them, Kali?"


    "No, sir, but I am detecting signals being exchanged between the smaller craft and the carrier ship."


    "Any idea what they''re saying?"  Jim leans back in his seat, making alterations to a battle simulator on his personal tablet.


    "No sir.  They''re using a low power signal that breaks up too much to read by the time it gets this far," she says, trying to clean up the patterns she can just pick out from the background noise.


    "Keep monitoring them, it might be important," he orders.  "Bella, you still want to try out that fighter you''ve been tinkering with?"  The mechanic''s face appears on the main screen.


    "Sure, but I''d like to wait til you get their numbers down a bit.  It''s still more an armed shuttle than a fighter ship," she replies from the hangar.  "Let me know when you want me to launch.  Til then I''m gonna keep welding more plating onto it."  Beside her Lowun loads ammunition into the modified craft.  He''ll be operating the weapons while Bella pilots.  They''ve dubbed the craft Springkick.


    "They''re accelerating, Jim!"  Kali turns in her seat to look at the command dais.  "Heading right toward us."


    Looking at his display, Gelly is much less upset.  The larger vessel is still moving at the same speed.  Only the swarm of smaller ships have sped up.  The enemy fighters stay packed close together, trying to disguise their numbers as long as possible.


    He launches a volley of guided missiles, programmed to reach a designated area then enter low power mode and wait.  If they receive their safe code they''ll deactivate for easy retrieval.  Until then they wait for any metallic object to enter range before seeking them out and detonating.


    Two more volleys and the approaching fighters now have limited approach angles, assuming they want to avoid the obvious trap. He also starts the main cannon up, allowing it to charge up its capacitors.


    The fighters alter course to avoid the wall of dormant missiles, just as Gelly had predicted, and fly right into his targeting sights.


    The energized particle beam surges out, tearing the first small ship to tiny pieces.  Two more ships follow it before the others pull to the side, where the missiles patiently wait.  Explosions blast another four fighters into slag, but the rest keep coming.


    A volley of dumb missiles fire into their formation as Gelly cuts power to the main cannon.  He fires more guided missiles after them, hoping to surprise the so far predictable enemy.


    The enemy formation scatters, ships spreading out to make harder targets.  Without mine fields to stop them, they push closer to the ship.


    "Turrets get ready, they''ll be your problem soon," Tollek says, keeping a close eye on the battle.


    Three more get destroyed by missile fire before they are too close to safely target.  Gelly alters the flow of power, increasing the shields around the front and back of the Resurgent, but weakening it around the top and bottom.  The turrets will be more exposed, but less of their ammo will be wasted.


    The small craft burst apart under the close-range fire from the turrets.  Despite their losses they keep coming, and even manage to score a few superficial hits.  Soon the swarm is thick around them.


    Briefly powering the cannon back on causes the small fighters to pull back even without firing the massive particle beam.  A trick that will only work once, but it buys the turret operators more time to defend the cruiser.


    Picking them off slowly, soon only five enemy ships are left, though the much larger vessel has kept out of combat range completely.


    "Go ahead Bella, this is the best chance you''re likely to get," Jim says into his pick-up.  The bay door opens in response and Springkick exits on full jets.


    Jim orders the turret operators to hold their fire while Bella tests her new toy.  The additional kinetic projectiles from Springkick are able to act as a mobile turret, moving seperately from the Resurgent to attack enemies grown used to the limited firing ranges of the swivel guns mounted to the hull of the heavily armored cruiser.


    The enemy fighter have fast reflexes, observes Gelly silently.  They score several consecutive hits on Bella''s craft but are unable to penetrate the dense armor.  The Springkick chases the last of them back into the upper turret operators range before heading back to the hangar bay.  Scorched armor still glows hot from enemy weapons as they exit the battered shuttle.


    After Jim congratulates her over the speaker system, Gelly reports the damages to his cousin.  "We took a few hits, nothin'' too bad, but the armor''ll need looked at soon.  Missiles are low, but we still have plenty ''o energy left.  If you want to chase ''em, Tully can get the engines back online pretty fast."


    "How did the shields hold up?"  Jim stands and stretches while he waits for a response.


    "They''re fine, blew a couple more resistor banks, but we can fix that while we catch up to the mother ship," Gelly says, getting up from his own chair.  "Tully''s gonna need me help, though.  Resistors wasn''t the only thing we blew."


    "Scan the remains.  I want to know if there really is a deathworld in this sector," Tollek orders as he climbs down to his suite.


    "Yes sir," Kali calls after him, already running the scans he wants.

 Gellys Story 5: Whats Ablative Armor?

    There are more burned-out circuits than he''d expected.  Entire sections of the targeting computer are down, white smoke billows from the protective case.


    Pulling another sheet of integrated circuitry out and tossing it aside, Gelly realizes there aren''t enough replacements.  The micro factory is also busy, replacing spent ammunition in preparation for another battle.


    Sighing, he decides he''ll have to make the charred components work.  He looks through the pile for the least damaged circuit boards, setting them aside for later.  Next he takes the least usable boards and begins carefully removing useful subcomponents.


    Returning to the parts he set aside earlier, after carefully comparing damaged components with pieces he could replace, he finds that he should be able to finish fixing the targeting computer.


    He sacrifices some of the less vital subprocesses in order to make it work, but it will do for now.  He looks at the mess left on the floor, and stacks it all into a spare storage container.  They can be taken to reclamations later, for now he decides to head back to the command deck.  Along the way he passes Uhgun, who he informs about the useless components Gelly left in the computer room.


    When he arrives he sees the large craft on the main display.  Finally getting a good look at it, he takes his time to absorb the details.


    The ship is round, almost globular, but mostly hollow.  It doesn''t create a large enough gravity wake, so it must be.  A single large spike extends along the inside of the hollow sphere, visible through the circular opening on the front.  Round engines protrude minutely from the back, to propel the strange craft.


    Seeing Gelly arrive, Tollek turns in the command chair to face him.  "We think the smaller craft nestle inside when they really want to move.  Otherwise, we still don''t know what the spire in the center is for."


    Gelly nods.  Walking over to his station he says, "It''s no movin'' very fast, though.  Maybe it needs the wee ships to reach full speed."


    "Then why send the fighters after us," asks Kali, "if they knew they wouldn''t be able to outrun us if we won?  Isn''t that bad strategy?"


    "Yes, if they wanted to get away.  No, if they want to lead us by the nose," answers Tollek.  "Even if it is a trap, we need more information about how they operate."


    "Any sign ''o pilots in the wreckage?"  Gelly looks over at the excited Scout.


    She shakes her head, long crest swaying as she does.  "Nothing, no biotraces at all.  But we''re getting something from that thing.  There might be a single occupant."


    "It''s still ignoring our attempts to communicate," complains Tollek.  "But we have a good idea where it''s going.  The only star nearby, Pung-fi.  Scouting teams have checked out Pung-fi before, though, and it was lifeless but no sign of a deathworld."


    "We''ll be within spitting range by the end of the shift, Jim," reports Mar Lummer.  Supplies as low as they are, Mar has little else to do besides pilot.  Knowing the odds against them, they had taken minimal food and parts, trying to give Kalibern the best chance they could.


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    "Gel, I want you to take Bella and three of our best in the Springkick.  Get aboard that vessel and find out what you can," orders Tollek.  He stands up and walks to the war room, the door shutting behind him.


    ---


    Aboard the Springkick, partially repaired but fully rearmed, Gelly and crew look at projected images of the alien vessel.  They are unable to locate anything resembling a docking port on the outer ceramic surface of the spherical ship.


    Having no better ideas, Bella suggests flying into the hollow and looking for a place to land.  None of the others object so she increases Springkick''s speed, causing the lights to dim slightly at the increased power draw.


    Deciding he wanted as many different skillsets as possible on this mission, Gelly had elected to bring Uhgun, Tulson, and Kali as his assualt force.


    All of them are dressed in mark four vaccuum armor.  Uhgun stands out in his striped orange and yellow but everyone else wears matching black and yellow, with ranks indicated on the right shoulder, front and back.  When the suits become widespread enough ship symbols may join, adorning the left shoulder, but for now that remains unnecessary.


    Mos Denn really had registered the Tserri crewmembers as an irregular division, with all the perks that entails.  Looser restrictions on formalities, looser dress code, even increases in pay grade.  The division is entitled Heavy ExtraVehicular Engagement Experts, shortened to HEVEEs. Hevees, in honor of their armor.


    To earn these extra privaledges, Uhgun is expected to put himself in certain situations.  In this case that meant he gets to jump out of the shuttle and gather intelligence from the outside before getting picked back up at the end of the mission.  Or dying in his suit slowly if the mission fails.  Uhgun chooses to think positively as he''s flung from the airlock, a pleasant smile on his furred face.


    Bella takes the Springkick in a series of tightening circles, spiraling slower as she looks for a place to land.


    "It all looks smooth," she says angrily.  "Does anyone else see... Anything?"


    After Tulson and Kali agree that the inside looks featureless, and after confirming that Uhgun is clear, Gelly fires a single missile at the base of the central spire.


    They circle around one more time, their slowest pass yet, while waiting for the debris to clear.  Matching velocities with the craft above the point of impact, they see that only minimal damage has been done.  A thin layer of sooty residue and some light pitting is all that is left behind.


    Issuing an order to hold position, Gelly then lines up the kinetic rifles mounted on the front of the ungainly craft.  He holds down the firing stud, directing projectiles in a slow line across the scorched surface of the strange carrier ship.  Small shards of ceramic fly from the impacts, leaving gouges behind on the thick armor.


    Switching to Uhgun''s personal frequency, Gelly contacts him through the two way communicator built into their suits.  "Change ''o plans.  I want ye to collect some ''o the shards I broke loose and get yerself back aboard."


    It doesn''t take him long to climb adroitly along the curved surface of the massive vessel, using suction cups deployed by his four gauntlet-claws to move safely around.  After gathering samples of the tough material he clambers back inside the airlock.


    Once Uhgun is safely inside, Gelly begins shooting at the scar he had already inflicted upon the otherwise gleaming alien vessel.  The repeated impacts chip away at the thick ceramic armor, shards and spent slugs alike ricocheting into space.  The lack of reaction from any guiding force is intimidating.


    They run completely out of slugs during the attempt, leaving a deep rend that taunts them.  He ends up resorting to missile barrage before finally penetrating into the sterile and airless interior of the gigantic craft.


    Darkness greets them as they peer inside the silent void.  Gelly sets a timer on his comms and sends the file to Bella.


    "Bella, you and Uhgun wait in the Springkick.  We might need ye to save our backsides.  If''n ye''ve heard nothin'' from us by the time this goes off, get back to Jim with the samples," Gelly says before he, Kali, and Tulson jump out of the small craft and into the shadowy depths that await them.

 Chapter 22: Whats Aposematic Coloration?

    Finding a team of toughs capable of handling their own is fairly easy.  Convincing them to wear regulation armor is a different matter.


    "But skulls is scary," stubbornly repeats the gray furred Tserri known as Skint.


    Dunc Wollen nods wearily.  "Yeah, but that doesn''t represent the station very well.  Besides, we want the drunks to look at you and know that you''re security.  If they have to take time to remember which color means who, that''s time you could be getting shot or stabbed by their pals."


    Skint scowls before he starts over.  "But skulls is-"


    A slap on the back from a different member of the eight person squad interrupts Skints repetition.


    "Yeah.  That they are, Skint," the midnight furred female beside him says, agreeably.  "What I think he''s trying to say, here, is that we need a squad pattern.  Colors that''ll let these strays know when they need to behave extra good like."


    Dunc''s team are standing outside one of the small shops that have sprung up around the station.  With a salvaged display screen over the door advertising custom armor mods, this cramped garage drew their attention easily.  The only shop on the strip with neon lights, it was rather hard to miss.


    "I don''t know what''s so hard to understand," says the only other Selber of the group.  Spen looks at the gray furred recruit before pulling out his hand stunner and twirling it around his finger.  Returning it to its holster in a single motion, the Operative smiles.  "It''s easy.  You want to get paid to hurt people?  Wear what we tell you."


    An older model tablet expertly wired into the wall is programmed with examples of modifications the owner of the shop, Glian, has done for other customers.


    The options are overwhelming.  Glian has been busy in the short time since building the shop.  With programmable presses, he''s able to sculpt different parts of the vacuum armor.  Helmets shaped like skulls or predatory beasts, spikes or scales added to pauldrons and greaves, or just a simple stamped image.


    Also on offer are a choice of colors and finishes.  Paint with microstructures designed to break up laser bursts, or with interlocking lattices meant to resist blunt force.


    Eight sets of armor are piled up against one wall inside, taking up most of the available space.  Glian''s assistant can be seen climbing over them inside.  Their fur matches, both in shades of orange with white faces, though the assistant is only half his height.  His daughter perhaps?


    Fidgeting nervously in the neon glare cast by the door, Glian''s attention is split between his small assistant and the goons outside his illicit shop.


    "You''ve got some nice equipment here," Dunc says appreciatively, gesturing toward the cramped interior.


    "All honestly acquired," the orange Tserri says smoothly.  "Have you decided what kind of help I can provide you?"  He takes a step to place himself between the security squad and his tiny holdings.


    Spen closes the distance between himself and the mechanic quickly and looms over the much shorter alien menacingly.  With a predatory grin he puts one hand on Glian''s shoulder, the mechanic too intimidated to resist.


    "Yeah," says Spen, looking down at his captive.  "You''re gonna answer any questions my buddy asks.  After that, if you can still walk, we''ll let you paint our kits.  That sound good?"


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    Dunc shrugs and laughs like Dondrik had said something funny.  He turns to the Tserri behind him, as if expecting them to share the joke.  When they remain silent his laughter cuts off suddenly and he drives his fist into Glian''s gut, all the force of his bodyweight behind it.


    "All these machines you have, that''s fine," Dunc says calmly, a pleasant smile once more on his gray face.  "I don''t think it''s a problem, really.  If you can get this stuff it just means you''re the furball we want to talk to."


    Glian climbs back to his feet, one claw against the doorframe to help him.  "I''m listening," he coughs out.  His lower arms are crossed protectively around his belly.


    Nodding earnestly Dunc says, "Sure.  You aren''t the only furball with equipment they shouldn''t have.  You''re being useful, we can look past any mistakes you might have made."  He shrugs broadly before continuing.  "Not everyone''s being as helpful to the community as you are, however.  Don, go get us some drinks, huh?  And don''t forget the kid."


    The large male Dunc addressed as Don, properly Donan, scowls at his chief but walks down the broad avenue, his sister Donna going with him to help carry them back.  The pair had been captured by Tollek and held prisoner during the reconstruction efforts in Centra City.


    Now that the city has started to recover they had time to ship the war prisoners up.  Donna and Donan were among over a hundred shipped to the station by convoy.


    "I''m thinking we stick to Imperium colors.  Black and gold.  We''ll take the refracting paint, that sound good so far?"  He turns and looks around him.  Glian is nodding, hoping to escape the situation with his livelihood intact.  None of the security detail want to risk the ire of their unpredictable leader.  "Triangle pattern, not too many of those around, with the relief of course.  I like the sculpting set up you''ve got.  Any suggestions?"


    "Oh, yes! I do," exclaims the mechanic, a bit too quickly.  Dunc fixes his cold gaze on the orange furred shopkeeper, false smile never slipping.  "That is, you''ll like the design I''ve been working on.  If you''ll let me access the terminal," he says in more subdued tones, sidling through the doorway.


    Scrolling quickly through the options, Glian activates a hidden executable function while pulling up the design he wishes to show Dunc Wollen.  Tracing the pathway it was on when I cancel the function, I realize he was trying to call for help.


    The helmet design he shows Dunc is well suited for the kinds of situation the security squad will find themselves in.  Rounded and solid, with no place to get an easy grip, the design features reinforcement to protect against blows from behind.  While they watch, Glian adds high-powered spotlights beside the darkened visor.


    Donna and Donan return and hand out the dark purple juice to the squad.  The young assistant happily drinks hers in a corner, keeping wide eyes glued to the strangers wandering around her home.


    Warily sipping from his disposable cup, Glian waits for Dunc to cast judgement.


    Taking his with a grateful nod from Donna, Dunc accepts the juice before turning back to the cowed mechanic before him.


    "We''ll swing back around before our shift ends.  There''s anyone else here, best send them away before we get back.  Think about what you want to tell us."


    Leaving confusion in his wake, Operative Wollen gathers his squad and walks down the avenue.  He waves to an elderly Tserri, tending vines growing down from the ceiling, strolling as if carefree.


    Once out of earshot of the ramshackle garage, I activate the speakers closest to the security team.


    "He tried to send out a call for help," I explain quietly.  "It didn''t get through, but I know who he was trying to contact."


    Dunc nods but keeps walking casually.  Other members of his team jump upon hearing my voice, not yet used to my unseen presence.  He leads his team to a street vendor, selling of all things, deep fried wrigglers dug from the rich soil composting far below us.


    Handing the young refugee a few translucent chits, he receives two large disposable bowls, dripping with grease.  He hands one bowl to Skint before grabbing a handful and crunching happily.  The rest of his group join him, snacking in the busy street.


    After their meal, the team is lead to a grooming parlor, where the two Selber stand outside.  The rest are inside, Dunc declaring that they needed to look less wild if they were going to work for him.


    "Good work, Mos.  Let Yosip know when we plan to return to the shop," Dunc says softly.  "They''ve got our armor, so I want some support.  They''ll be waiting for us, expecting soft bodies."


    Calling the Supply-Master, I serve as go between while the two officers hash out a plan.

 Chapter 23: Whats Aggressive Mimicry?

    Yosip advised me not to allow any communication from Glian''s garage to the rest of the station.  He does allow the entertainment feed going in to continue, as it''s broadcast from Centra and relayed to the residents by cable.


    I watch through helmet cams stacked outside the machine shop.  It doubles as their home, with an upstairs apartment.  Glian becomes increasingly agitated as the time for pick up approaches, pacing and waving his arms.


    Knowing that he''ll be in worse trouble if security returns and find their suits unfinished, Glian has been working diligently and has only recently completed the upgrades.  Even his small assistant is exhausted when they''ve finally finished Dunc''s order, upstairs somewhere resting.


    Eight gleaming suits of hardened vacuum armor stand in neat piles outside the garage, guarded by one tired mechanic.  Pedestrian traffic flows around the obstruction, stealing glances at the shining hardware.


    Snipers posted in three separate locations report the same thing that cameras are telling me.  Glian and his daughter have been in the garage the entire allotted time, with no visitors.  Yosip''s orders are to proceed as if there could be hostiles, despite all signs showing otherwise.


    Spen and Donan knock on the front door of the garage, while the other members of security again patronize the seller of hot greasy protein.  All are armed with hand stunners, which my files identify as SAm27s.  Scaled down versions of the SAm15 Gelly had used only days before.  Lacking the range and intimidation factor of their bigger brother, the twenty-sevens excel at close range urban skirmishing.


    Answering nervously, Glian is almost hiding behind the door as he talks to Spen.  Or rather, as Spen intimates threatening innuendo.  Before the others are even finished with their fried treat, Spen and Donan have donned their protective suits.


    Acting as a guard Spen stays by the garage, chatting idly with Glian, to casual observation, but my sensitive audio pick-ups tell a different story.  Dunc leads two more of the security team to retrieve their armor, then once they''ve dressed the remainder claim their own.


    When the entire squad is fully outfitted once more Dunc orders them to pair up and begin patrols.  Choosing Skint as his partner, he sends Spen off with the red furred female, Nelta.


    Skint is especially pleased with the final product.  Where the rank insignia is normally represented, a black and gold skull takes pride of place.  Dunc''s skull is situated above crossed combat knives, to indicate leadership.


    "You did good, Glian," says the young security chief smugly, laying his arm across the shopkeeper''s shoulders.  "I was worried you''d try to cheat us.  Keep playing fair with us, and you can expect to get lots of business.  You might get tired of seeing us," he jokes, looking down at the orange furred head.


    Letting out a nervous yip, the frightened mechanic quivers, unable to speak after such a stressful day.  His furred jaw works silently to the amusement of the armored bully.


    The tall gray skinned officer steps back and stretches, testing the joints of his armored suit while Skint watches from where the large Tserri leans against the chiseled rock wall.  A gesture from Dunc has the four-armed underling searching through the pouches of his uniform and armor, eventually producing a thin parcel of papers, held together by metal brads.


    These are handed to the mechanic, who looks up, shock evident on his furred face after quickly flipping through them.


    "They just need your genetic signature to make everything legit," Dunc says with some amusement.  Continuing to bend and stretch, his smile is hidden by his helmet''s dark visor, but the internal camera feed makes it clear to me.  "My team can''t be caught going to some unlicensed street dealer using stolen Imperium equipment."


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    He straitens and lets out a long, contented sigh.  "Let''s go, Skint.  Our friend needs some time to get used to his new situation, think about who his friends are."


    The two guards walk away, headed back to the docking arm to oversee the installation of the new freight lift.  Glian is left standing in the avenue, the glare of neon lights reflecting off the papers he stares at intently.


    Walking timidly out of the shop, his daughter grabs his greasy work overalls, giving them a light tug.  "Did they pay you lots, Da?"


    He shakes his orange head and looks down at her, smiling as he puts one claw on her head and uses two others to sweep her up.  "Not this time, squirt, but this might be better."  Slapping the door control panel with his free claw to shut it, he carries her down to the street vendor.  Her giggling visibly lifts his spirits, and he almost dances along the walkway.


    Yosip turns off the camera feed and the view of the avenue vanishes, replaced with lists of necessary repairs.  He spends much of his time arranging for parts to be produced and delivered, but there are more demands than can feasibly be met.


    A simple query to the directories gives me access to Glian''s accounts.  I''m about to transfer a few credits into it from operational funds, but I stop when I notice Yosip sending money from his own savings over to the mechanic.  Well.  I''ll just leave that to his discretion, then.


    With renewed hope I pull up the architectural blueprints for Kalibern.  The station was never meant to hold so many people this soon in its lifespan.  Intended as a military outpost, lightly crewed and supported by the planet below, Kalibern Station in its current form is a crowded warren, filled past capacity and struggling to remain online.


    The original orderly arrangement of tunnels and chambers, hewn from the stone of the massive asteroid, has given way to chaotic growth.  No longer guided by a single vision, tunnels veer around chambers constructed by crews following different plans, intersecting each other at unexpected angles.  Debris piled on the surface is fused into place, forming new cavities sealed off from the outer void of space.


    "What do you suggest we do about Glian''s contact?"  The quiet words startle me, Yosip normally is quite decisive.


    "Espionage was never my strength," I reply.  "I''d like to get my tendrils around their necks and end the problem."


    Yosip nods, his scarred face thoughtful.  "That was my first reaction.  Letting this fester doesn''t sit right with me."  He stands and limps over to the cooler built into one of the walls.  He chooses a bottle of water and drinks noisily.


    "But if we go in guns blasting, this will get messy.  The info you gave me implicates a well-respected member of our fine community.  Jetanda, an older female.  Quite a few of the furballs are related to her." He throws the empty plastic bottle into the recycling chute.  Water drips from his chrome chin, ignored by the Supply-Master as he walks painfully back to his seat.


    "Besides that," he continues, "implications are not evidence.  We know that the signal Glian sent out was intended for Jetanda''s residence.  We can''t prove that it wasn''t meant for someone sharing the space.  The message also doesn''t mention any names, just a request for help."


    "If we can''t get rid of her," I ask, "then what about limiting her influence?  Why is she so popular?  More importantly, how did she manage to sneak equipment that large into the station, and what else does she still have stashed away?"


    She lives in one of the newly dug warren complexes.  There are many connections between main power and recycling systems, but our plans are inaccurate, to say the least.  Her warren, Laceweaver Row, could have any number living inside.  The only things we know for sure are how much power and water they use, and how much is going in the recycling system.


    He nods along as I list off questions.  "We''ll have to keep a watch on her place.  Keep track of who comes and goes.  You got enough cameras pointed that way or do I need to authorize a work crew?"  That last is said almost with a grin.


    There aren''t nearly enough cameras.  The Tserri hate them, tearing down any they can access.  Or maybe they just want the parts, using them for a variety of domestic purposes.


    "If you think he can be trusted, Glian should be able to put together something we could get a lot of use from.  Or one of your own mechanics if you''d rather keep this in house."


    "Mmm.  There isn''t one on payroll, not yet.  All the people I brought are administrators or pilots.  I was told to hire local, so we''re stuck with Glian.  What did you have in mind?"


    Instead of answering I put a file up on the main display.

 Gellys Story 6: Whats Enticement?

    Three light beams play out across the darkness, revealing girders of an unknown material running from deck to ceiling. Massive things, at least seven ubits in diameter, their numbers stretch off into the sharply curving distance.


    Kali is in the lead, her duty as the Scout. Moving in silence save for the sounds of their own breathing, they jump in great long arches around the concave decking. With almost no atmosphere inside the alien vessel. All communication must be carried out through systems built into their suits.


    "Which way did the life signs come from, Tulson?" Kali slaps the thin wand like device in her gloved hands, the glowing display shows only static. "I can''t pick anything up from here."


    The engineer activates the mapping function of her personal comms. "We''ll need to find a way to go lower. There has to be another deck or something. Who builds a giant empty ship?"


    "Spooky, right?" Kali leaps again, landing close to one of the pillars. Unused to the heavy suit, the scout''s foot slips and she tumbles forward. She crashes into the thick pillar and thin fingers of blue white energy enshroud her armored suit.


    Their surroundings are lit by the brilliant arcs. Shadows dance across a vast emptiness between two curved plates of ceramic metal, supported by pillars in a five-part radial pattern.


    Flying across the gap, jets flaring from his boots, Gelly tackles the scout. The two of them roll across the metal floor and the energy vanishes, leaving them once more in the oppressive gloom.


    "I was fine, Gelly," Kali complains as she pushes him off of her. "These things are very well insulated. Tulson, you did a good job with these, by the way."


    "Think, would ye," the Weapons Operative says with forced patience. "How many times since we''ve been in this dark hole have ye seen it do, well, anythin''?" He waves his arm around the darkness.


    A look of horror covers Tulson''s face, as she realizes what he means. "A good engineer would notice a surge like that. There''d be a system in place."


    Gelly nods to her to continue.


    "This was a trap, and we set it off. We need to move." She looks down at her map, then back at Kali. "This way, follow me."


    They change directions and begin jumping as far as they can, trying to remain away from any of the large conductive pillars. Each time they land they feel a growing vibration. The whole structure hums, hinting to some unknown function, perhaps activating for the first time in eons.


    "Faster!"


    Each time their boots meet the deck plating the vibrations that shoot through them are noticeably stronger. Static pours from the speakers in their helmets. The pain caused by the vibrations assaulting them increases in shocking bursts. Turning off their radios muffles the sound but does not eliminate the feedback.


    The three nearly exhaust their suits energy supply powering their boot jets. Costly, but the speed they gain could be what saves them. They can feel the vibrations in their bones, the strange frequency the structure oscillates at causing painful headaches as it builds unceasingly.


    Blood pounds in their deep-set ears when they finally reach Tulson''s goal. The curved wall before them is made of the same pale material as everything else around them. Stopping only to catch their breath, the pain almost unbearable, Tulson notices a pattern of indentions pressed into the wall.


    Reactivating her comms system causes it to emit a harsh noise so painful she turns it back off immediately. Waving to get the attention of the others, she sprints bouncing to the left, along the curving length of metallic ceramic.


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    Vision turning red she finally spots a door built into the wall. A closed door. Set into the wall next to it is a keypad. Keys labelled in a script unknown to any of the explorers taunt them.


    Kali rips the keypad from the wall with her gauntleted hands. Tulson looks it over and recognizes the wiring schema, nearly identical to those her own people use. Wasting no time to contemplate, she hastily rewires the door. Power courses through the circuits without constraint causing the metal door to fly open.


    They stagger through without looking, and plummet down a deep shaft.


    The lights of their weapons bounce around the thin shaft, only six ubits across and square in shape. Down the center runs a metal pole with screwlike ridges running along its length.


    Grabbing onto to the central pole, the three explorers slow themselves. Their gauntlets shed orange sparks before they come to a stop. The jarring impacts cause sore and bruised hands.


    A blinding light pours out of the open doorway many ubits above them, energy washing into the top of the deep shaft. It doesn''t last long before fading once more into darkness. They reactivate the comms built into their helmets, but don''t speak for some time.


    They hang there until they catch their breath and can start to compose themselves. First to break the silence is Kali.


    "You think Bella was still inside the sphere when whatever that was went off?" Kali''s voice cracks up but she continues, "She had to see the build up? Right?"


    Gelly starts climbing down but answers her worry with confidence. "She''s a smart one, Bella."


    They climb down for what feels like days, injured fingers making each movement seem to take an eternity. The low gravity makes the climb bearable, more an effort of will than of physical exertion.


    Eventually they come to a platform that fills the entirety of the shaft, but the walls around them remain blank and featureless.


    Kali, having watched far too many dramatic trivees, checks the platform upon which they stand without hesitation. Her efforts are rewarded, and she pulls open the emergency hatch with a smug grin on her face.


    Gelly drops down first, landing lightly inside the cramped compartment. Reaching up he helps the others down then moves out of the way.


    Kali is the first to locate the exit door. Though slower due to aching hands, Tulson rewires the door to their tiny cell. The door opens, splitting apart in the middle.


    A shimmering barrier separates them from a lushly carpeted hallway. Panels in the ceiling provide warm light allowing them to see the artistic patterns of metallic dots and swirls set into the white walls.


    The barrier slows their movements as they pass through but does not stop them. It has an odd effect on their equipment, powering them off and on rapidly, the lights in their displays flickering. On the other side the pull of standard gravity causes them to stumble slightly.


    The sound of Gelly''s ragged laughter causes the other two to turn. This corridor contains an atmosphere, though its composition remains a mystery.


    Like everything else in this structure, the hallway they walk down curves slightly to the left. As they walk, Tulson checks her comms, but is unable to receive any signals from farther away than her two companions.


    They abruptly reach a door, almost smacking into it. One moment the hallway stretched on forever, the next the sound of metal striking metal echoes down the hall as they crash into one another in their efforts to stop.


    Unlike previous doors the trio had come across, this one has no keypad beside it. Instead, a single round silver button gleams invitingly in the warm light.


    Urged forward by her companions, Kali presses the silver circle with a single metal encased finger. A deep chime sounds on the other side of the door.


    A look passes between the sore and weary explorers, and as they look back at the door it slides open. The light inside is bright enough to activate the automatic darkening feature of their visors.


    When her vision adapts to the glare, Kali steps through with the others right behind her. The room seems to extend on forever, no walls or ceiling visible. Only blue skies above green grass. Behind them stands the door and its frame, without any visible support.


    Gelly walks a complete circle around the door, prompting Kali to go back through. He takes another lap around the door before she returns.


    "Some kind of portal?" Kali props the door open before having Gelly make a third lap around the doorframe.


    "If so, it''s no the kind the chiefs use," offers Gelly. "They do without the frame, anyway."


    The three spread into a loose fanning formation, attention on the door. Tulson scans it with her hand tool, but the device returns only jumbled nonsense.


    A voice behind them causes the three explorers to jump.


    "PFFFffttt," it proclaims dryly.


    "Excuse ye."

 Chapter 24: Whats Breakpoint Testing?

    The lesser stonefeather is native to the world of Klonn, one of many flying creatures native to this harsh and rocky planet.  Their name derives from their charcoal, white, and brown coloration, well suited to hiding against the pockmarked surface of their homes.


    Their preferred habitat is deep cave systems, where they hunt small flying vermin for sustenance.  They use their mineral rich beaks to carve their nests into folds in the stone walls, high out of reach of flightless predators.


    Though inedible due to toxin glands buried inside muscle tissues, they are valued for their nutrient rich droppings and ability to inhabit the cramped confines of small enclosures.  These creatures are often employed as pest control in many larger sealed colonies.


    Yosip scowls as he reads the data file displayed on the main screen of the command center.


    "Marta bought some of those, yes.  And warned everyone not to eat them, too," he says impatiently.  "The only fool that tried it is still in the med bay."


    "Yes sir, Zra''s been keeping me updated about the case.  Dunc confiscated that net launcher he''d used to catch it.  Did you-" I''m interrupted by a commotion at the entrance.


    One of his aides runs into the room, a huge smile on his young face.  "Sir, Zsukas is back with the latest shipment from below."  In his arms is a large box from which steam rises.  He sets it down on the table and rushes back out, too eager to stand still long enough to be dismissed.  A clumsily hidden box bulges from under his uniform as he flees.


    Opening the steaming paper box, Yosip pulls smaller containers out and places them beside the main box.  On each container is a pictogram of a large two-legged animal holding a tray of smaller roasted animals.  A thick brown fluid drips from the smaller plastic containers.  As he sets out the packages the others on the command deck crowd around him like desperate scavengers, hunger evident on their faces.


    "There''s enough for all of you," he says gruffly, not looking up from his task.  "But you''ll wait until I''ve gotten my plate ready first."


    ---


    Wiping grease from his face, Yosip pushes himself away from the table and stomps heavily to his office.  Closing the door behind him with a grunt, he carries himself to his desk and slumps into the reinforced chair.


    One of the administrators left behind can deal with the mess.


    "Bring that file back up," orders Yosip as he activates the display over his desktop with a few keystrokes.  "I''d like another look at it."


    An image of a dirty gray and brown feathered creature fourteen bits from beak to tail tip forms in the air.


    "Never heard of training one as a spy, not successfully anyway.  Not smart enough to learn anything complex."  He leans back in his chair, producing a low creak of complaint as its reinforced structure redistributes his massive bulk.


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    "Not exactly what I was thinking, but pretty close.  Among my people, crafting artificial creatures to serve a task is not an uncommon practice."


    At my words his eyes, both the mechanical one and his organic eye, gleam as he realizes the potential uses to which he could put such a disguised construct.


    "And the furballs already leave the horrid things alone.  Stonefeathers.  On second thought I don''t think I want Glian to be connected to this in any way.  He already tried to sell us out once, let''s not give him another chance, hmm?"


    He begins typing out a missive to be sent down, requesting the transfer of both a skilled engineer as well as a biologist.


    "Can''t expect too much," he says with a shrug as he sends off the request.  "But we''ll never get what we don''t ask for."


    It might be several days before any personnel arrive, if they''re sent at all.  Leaving Jetanda and her people unsupervised could be more dangerous than confronting them without enough information.


    While Yosip is correct not to trust Glian, the mechanic has access to much of the equipment that would be needed to build an artificial stonefeather.  Perhaps it would be possible to enlist an agent to offer Glian work on my behalf.


    Scrolling through the list of residents, I realize that we don''t know very much about them.  Only a few have enlisted, less than twenty, and the Selber administrators tend to avoid them when possible.


    A few stand outs have garnered the attention of Yosip or another of the administrative staff.  While these individuals might be more inclined to work outside the rules, they also are harder to trust.  It wouldn''t do to have security apprehend any agent I manage to recruit.


    I attempt to draw up plans myself, but they resemble in no way the model I had hoped to imitate.  Deleting the evidence of my failed attempt, I return to the information gathered about our populace.  There should be many with the necessary training, if the many unauthorized modifications being made are any indication.


    A club in the Broken Leg has more equipment than our files can account for.  Unregistered weaponry of unreliable origin has been circulating around the station.  There''ve even been counterfeit credit chits turned in by three street vendors, one of which we suspect of making their own.


    "Mos Denn.  Somehow this is your fault.  You attract trouble."


    What did I even do?  I flip through various camera feeds, unable to find anything, before returning my attention to the Supply-Master''s office.


    Inside sits a fuming Yosip Peal.  Before him, projected above his desk, is the reply to his request for more personnel.


    "The Grand Matron," he says in tones of exaggerated patience, "has made contact with another group of Tserri refugees and has graciously extended her welcome to them.  They''re on their way here already."


    As if summoned by his words, long range scanners begin detecting ship after ship entering the system.  Swarms of small fighter craft of a type unseen before escorting two massive wedges.  They dwarf the two parked on the docking arm, Roaring  Challenge and Lesser Moon, by a large degree.


    The energy signatures are erratic, and one fighter explodes, sending glowing slag flying out to impact the flickering shields of the rest of its squadron.


    "She also requests that we send down a shuttle to collect our new engineer," he continues.  "Nothing here about the biologist I requested, but they''ll be bringing their whole team."  He dismisses the message from the Matron and activates the built-in comms in his desk and says, "Get the docking arm cleared off, Eva.  It looks like we''ll need all the space we can get to fit those behemoths."


    "I''ll have Zsukas prepare for another round trip," I offer helpfully.


    Nodding he says with a short chuckle, "That kid needs the flight time.  Smooth landings, rough take offs.  Spilled gravy all over the place."


    I''ll have to trust the Supply-Master on this, as I no longer can enjoy even rough transit between the stars.

 Bruens Story 9: Whats a Dream Sequence?

    Upon the lifeless world, burnt in the last fires of a dying star, stands a single mountain.  Surrounding this peak, on all sides, are endless drifts of metal powder.  At the very top, at the summit of this lone mountain, is carved a small fortress.


    Measuring three hundred ubits high, and thrice that wide, the square fort is carved from the native limestone.  Pitted and scored by endless winds carrying abrasive metal dust, the walls are weathered, the corners had been worn until round.  A well-trodden path leads up to it, worn by long ages of use by pilgrims.


    Inside is a small enclave of robed figures, standing upon thick mobile tentacles.  They guard a long and winding ramp, spiraling almost endlessly into the dark stone below.


    Past graffiti of ages long gone, carved words rendered meaningless by cultural shifts, down where black crusts of ice glisten on the curving walls, can be found a large round chamber.  Larger than the structure high above, this is the true heart of the mountain keep.


    Carved into the cold stone of this dead world, this chamber is the access point to the single resource keeping the worlds of the Spanless Empire from collapsing into fractious tribes, islands separated forever within the endless span of space.


    In the center three portals stand in a triangle of equal sides.  The only light in the underground temple comes from these doorways, casting deep shadows all around.  These portals each lead to Homeworld, each to a different palace, where Emperors and Empresses have ruled for uncounted generations.


    On his cot lays Bruen''s exhausted form.  His mind is caught up in dreams of a place he''s never been.


    Zek too tosses on her bed, deep in fitful sleep.  Her body tosses and thrashes while in her mind she walks the long path up the mountain.  The long walk she would take each day to gather dust for her masters and earn her the right to learn their secrets.


    At the entrance to the ancient keep, the acolyte is stopped by two guards.  Answering their questions she enters, carrying her burden of precious inert dust, bulging sacks held in strong lower tendrils.


    With that seamless quality possessed only by dreams, time jumps seasons ahead.  She sits with other potential young thaumatists, in rows before a decrepit specimen.


    His body ravaged by long years of consuming the deadly dust, he glows with crimson energy. He demonstrates by creating runic patterns, long strings of complex symbols.  Each symbol composed of many much smaller runes; these arrays are the basis of thaumatic enchantment.  Those showing the greatest promise in these exercises will be taken to be raised in hidden temples of the Jurer caste.


    Another teacher, silver dripping from her slowly melting body, guides young students through energy control techniques, seeking battle casters for the Svost training grounds in the frozen north.  Medics of the Somner caste stand nearby, ready to aid in case of the unfortunate, but also ready to recruit such promising students as Zek for their own harsh training program.


    Some training is shared by all castes, taught in catacombs deep beneath the ground of Homeworld.  Until selected for further specialization, no dust will be given to the acolytes.  Too many show early promise only to burn out quickly.  Longer training allows for better acclimation rates.


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    Another jump and she serves as an assistant, watching and aiding as her master grafts lifesaving prosthetics to the ravaged bodies of warriors and generals in near endless procession.  Her first taste of dust, and the fierce burning as it fuses with her cells, the expanding of her awareness.  And also the knowledge that soon she too will be on the front lines, risking her life while attempting to keep a warband alive in hostile territory.


    ---


    A knocking at the door awakens Bruen, but Zek remains asleep.  He reaches down for his spear reflexively.  Not finding it he stops as he remembers where he is.


    Mos Gol, clutching the younger general''s weapon stands by the door, spear ready.  "Yes?"  He rises and joins her as the door opens.


    The gray figure that walks inside their room is enough to relax them.  Robar smiles and looks around, the smile replaced with a concerned frown when he notices the deep gauge in the door of the room.


    "Did you sleep well?"  He carries a white tray on which is a bowl of striped fruits and three large reddish-brown blocks.  "I hope you can eat this stuff, there''s not much onboard besides albulbs and meatblocks."


    Bruen shakes the young thaumatist gently to awaken her.  Drooping and drained of color, she joins the others in the quick meal.  She picks listlessly at the food before her as her companions devour their meals.


    After eating they are escorted to their scheduled meeting with Patron Nosstan.


    Sitting around the large table, they wait for Nosstan to begin.  The leader of the gray aliens looks over the table at his three guests, unsure if they''ve recovered from the trauma of the battle of the previous day.


    "Thank you for agreeing to another meeting," the uniformed senior officer states from his seat.  "As it seems we won''t be able to aid each other''s exploration efforts meaningfully, we should move on to more profitable negotiations.  An exchange of technology.  To be more specific," he says, lowering his voice, "we''re interested in your weapon there."


    In the grip of his tendrils is the same standard issue spear he''d carried into this mad place.  Amusement is plainly stamped in the set of his companion''s faces, the small wriggles of their upper tendrils a silent laughter.


    "Yes," Gol says slowly, "you would need some way to defend yourselves against tribals or rival nations.  We''ve yet to see sign of your weaponry."


    Patron Nosstan''s mouth opens silently before he snaps it shut.  An agreement gesture?  Shaking his head once to clear it, Nosstan answers by removing the device holstered on his hip and handing it to Mos Gol.


    "Point the thin end and press the firing stud on the handle.  We''ve got a suitable target already set up over there."


    "Yes, I''ve seen your light makers," she says, pointing it at Bruen and gripping hard enough to depress the trigger.  Harmless light washes over him, his protective runes greedily absorbing the light and converting it into power.  "Do you not have weapons?"


    His mouth tightly compressed, the Patron holds out his empty hand.  The device is returned to him without fuss.  He points it at the target screen hanging against one wall.  Clicking sounds can be heard as he presses with futile impotence again and again.


    "One moment, please," says Somner Zek, extending her upper tendrils towards the light maker in the gray officer''s hand.


    He stops moving, seemingly unaware of the white energy Zek pours into his light maker.  "Try it now."


    Once more he aims at the center of the simulated target and presses the stud.  This time the light it emits burns into the screen, scorching it badly before again being drained of power.


    "It''s not just light," he says triumphantly.  "The SAm18 emits a beam of energized particles.  The charge is limited, however," Nosstan adds with a chuckle.


    Returning his device to its place on his belt, he reaches out his other hand to Bruen.  The young warrior gives him the spear, but only after receiving permission from his elder.  Even with poor form and saggy muscles, the old officer still skewers the screen easily.


    "Keep the spear, but return us to the camp," Gol demands, rising from her seat.  "We have already learned much from our visit, and it is easily replaced.  The Drop, however, is still crawling with tribals.  Our work must continue."


    With his prize in hand Nosstan is happy to let them return to the surface of the planet below, eyes never leaving the primitive looking weapon he now grasps.  Almost as an afterthought, he commands the younger officer, Robar, to escort them down to the planet and stick with them for the time being.

 Chapter 25: Whats Insider Trading?

    Yosip stands centered in the view of the only camera available in the room he occupies, a small recently excavated area designated for our new engineer.  Thanks to the low-quality camera the information I''m receiving is full of static and noise, but all the pertinent points are visible.


    The cramped workspace is lit by a single dimly glowing panel set in the dark stone wall above the table taking up most of the available room.  The walls are decorated only by naked wires running the length of the tiny room.  The single stool is occupied by a creature resembling a pile of cables knotted into a loose ball.


    Yosip looms over the table, watching as many tiny claws on long ropy appendages assemble the device upon which all our attention is focused.  It vaguely resembles the model upon which it is based.  The dimensions are approximately right, anyway.


    "That thing''ll never fly," grouses Yosip.  "You''re making it too heavy, Bucket."


    The ropelike creature, Bucket, waves several of its thin biomechanical arms around agitatedly but continues working.  "Is but a prototype.  Must iterate, find stress points."  Its speech is like the rustling of something small crawling through thick undergrowth.


    "Fine.  Keep at it, then."  Yosip turns to leave the small room but stops at the doorway.  "Let me know if anyone gives you trouble."


    A hiss and another many armed wave acknowledge his words.  With a shrug he continues on.  Yosip walks down the recently excavated hallway, stone dust crunching unnoticed under his mechanical feet.


    Bucket, and his partner Pail, were given those nicknames due to how they were carried aboard.  Their real names are unpronounceable by the crew.


    A short walk leads Yosip to the medical bay, where Pail is busily disassembling a probe of some sort.  A red furred Tserri has his arms loaded with boxes so he only nods towards Yosip when he enters the area.


    "How''re things going with your new partner, Zra?"


    "Pail''s surprisingly useful," answers Zra with a chuckle.  "Can''t reach the top shelf, but they''ve already recharged and repaired half the medical tools.


    "Good, good"


    Yosip continues walking back to his chair above the war room.


    A radio transmission catches my attention.  It emanates from the small work room in which Bucket had been planted.  The signal is sent directly to a relay located next to the camera.  Oddly enough it carries the appropriate authorization to be routed to the medical bay.


    Having no reason not to allow the signal, I simply observe and record.  One of the relays in the medical bay sends out a short radio burst, directed at Pale.  After a brief pause one of Pale''s arm cables emits another burst of radio waves directly at the relay.


    I run both signals through the translation software which has been so useful so far, but to no avail.  I think it needs more samples.  The two knots of organic cables continue conversing, exchanging over twenty rapid bursts each.  Each transmission adds to the translation program.  Patterns of syntax and vocabulary become evident, though their meaning remains hidden.


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    After compiling the software''s best guesses, I compose a short message and relay it to both of the biomechanical crewmembers.  An answering pulse from Bucket, this one directed to the station maintenance hub, arrives after a very brief pause.  Their processing speed is phenomenal.


    The data packet contains corrections to my botched attempt at communication.  Refinements to frequency and bandwidth are suggested, as well as a much needed vocabulary primer.  Another set of files from Pale contains information about protocol, as well as a few examples of simple exchanges.  The compression software included with the files is better than the program currently installed on my hard drives.  I''ll be keeping that.


    They introduce themselves with complex radio waves translating to something close to Conglomerate Nexuses Stanfren and Anmeel.  They explain that those are not individual names, but more akin to the names given to cities.  Each of them is composed of separate squirming individuals, each performing specific necessary processes for the Conglomerate.  Individuals are often exchanged when a few of the rarer specializations are needed.


    I ask if they object to the names given them by the crew.  They respond with a signal marked with what I now recognize as their form of humor.  The frequency rises and drops erratically in a way that attests to their amusement.  It would seem they''re quite used to the odd habits of other species and don''t take offense to the nicknames.


    When they receive my inquiry they send me an apology shortly after.  Apparently they get motion sickness when moved as a mass.  Their decentralized nervous systems don''t handle rapid changes in position very well.  The buckets are standard protocol to reduce messes made during transfers.


    Well, each species has weaknesses.  The Tserri don''t function well in high humidity, and the Selber are sorely lacking in manipulative appendages.  A little motion sickness is nothing to be ashamed of.


    Regardless, radio traffic is sparse enough on the station that their use of it is but a little drain.  Meaningless against the energy demands of the multitudes packing my halls or the crews who extend my influence deeper into the cold rock.  If it becomes too great a burden more infrastructure will be needed to compensate, but they are free to make what use they will for now.


    I thank them for their work and leave them to continue it.  Contacting them directly worked out well for me, perhaps I should attempt to negotiate with this Jetanda myself.  Or at least put a feeler out in her direction, sweep up whatever drifts my way.


    Much of my monitoring equipment has been removed in the residential areas, but the connections to the computer networks remain untouched.  I have a pretty good idea which complex Jetanda has been staying in, even if I don''t have video coverage.  She''s the center of a communication network that connects to many small-time businesses operating in the base.


    The vast majority of messages connected with her are benign, but it is possible that they use coded language to conceal their true meaning.  Speaking in cypher is a valuable skill that members of my cast had needed to employ for many generations when engaging in intercity combat.  A few less friendly communications seem to be idle posturing between elderly Tserri.  Some old game they play makes up the majority of those messages, expounding rivalries and casual name calling unworthy of discussion.


    Altering the next work shifts assignments takes only a thought.  They''ll be constructing a new gaming hall right at the end of Laceweaver Row.  I send an anonymous message to the members of her gaming club informing them of the new space being made available to them.  Something their community could use as a gathering place.


    I also invite them to a special meeting before the place is opened up to the public.  Officially the purpose is to let them decide what furnishings and decoration the place will be outfitted with.  Once they gather together, I hope to engage them in further planning sessions, let them channel their efforts in ways that don''t conflict with Yosip''s leadership style.


    That should be a productive meeting.  I can''t wait for the construction crew to get started.

 Chapter 26: Whats Community Outreach?

    Its walls may be made of fused rock and melted slag, but some plaster will cure that readily.  The space is long, two hundred ubits wide and five times that in length.  The ceiling is still unfinished, the final design left to the honored guests gathered in the nearly finished gaming hall.  Its rough, warped surface disrupts the lights set into it, causing dark patches to form in odd places in the empty building.


    Around a rectangular table sit eight elder Tserri, dressed in what has come to be recognized as station casual attire.  Long pants fitting loosely around the lower legs, tied above the boots by a thin, fibrous cord.  Above this is a long sleeveless tunic that hangs to just above the knee.  A wide belt with many pouches and pockets sewn onto it holds each waist snuggly.


    They all wear clothing of a single bright hue, forgoing the patterns and decorative embellishment common among the populace.  Each is also sporting thick fur ranging from white to silver, age having final say in their coloration.  Bright eyes still peer sharply from their aged faces.  These are no foolish youths eager to please, nor doddering lackwits drooling in a corner.


    Joining them as the station representative is Willon the younger, as well as two of his Tserri security officers.  There aren''t any cameras installed yet, so I''m watching from the suit cameras.  The view is limited, but at least it comes with audio.


    The only other person in the building is a single volunteer, providing catering from the small kitchen attached to one end of the large hall.  Oh!  I know him.  That''s the fellow that runs the fried meats cart outside Glian''s garage.  Well, if he pleases our guests with his cooking, I''ll talk to Yosip about getting him hired.  He''ll surely do even better when supplied with fresh ingredients from our garden levels.


    Pointedly ignoring Dunc, Jetanda turns to his subordinate, Donna to address her remarks.  "We appreciate the new building, don''t think we don''t.  But I can smell a bribe when it''s left sitting outside my tent.  What favors do your masters seek, child?"


    Donna looks at her superior for permission before answering the elders.  "Consider it a show of good intent.  Our organization wishes only to maintain the peace between the various interest groups onboard.  You," she gestures widely with all four arms, indicating the group of gray hairs by splaying her claws, "represent one of those interests."


    "Ha!"  The old one beside Jetanda, a grizzled male in vibrant orange tunic barks sardonically.  "You want a portion of our holdings.  Don''t waste what precious time we have left to us, youngster."


    They happen to be my holdings, but I forebear speaking.  They don''t know I can hear them.


    Donna''s partner, Skint speaks up.  "Damn right we do.  Question is how much you gonna give us, old timer."


    The camera in Donna''s suit turns to take in her superior.  His face betrays the same shock I feel at Skint''s breach of decorum.


    "Back down, Skint," commands Dunc brusquely.  "Why don''t you wait outside, keep the kids away?"


    With a quick scowl the reprimanded guard leaves the spacious hall.  The clangor of his footsteps on the stone causes some of the elders to wince, but the grins on the faces of the others tell me that Skint had cost us the first round.  That''s unfortunate, but I had foreseen some difficulties during negotiations.


    As if sensing my thoughts, Dunc reaches into a compartment built into his armor.  He pulls out a shield module, large enough to protect a single door.  He sets the small device onto the table.  Bucket put it together for me, in exchange for letting them have access to a few mineral samples.


    "Please forgive my soldier.  He''s a little blunt, normally a good thing in his line of work."  Dunc shrugs his armored shoulders.  The light gleams off the golden skulls set into his pauldrons.  "As you can see, this gizmo has no serial numbers.  Completely absent from official station records."


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    The predatory gleam in the elders'' eyes would be better suited to young warriors eager for a kill.  A white furred claw snatches it up and brings it close to her face.  "This thing''s still got that new toy shine to it," she comments as she puts it in one of her belt pouches.


    Unfortunate.  I was hoping Jetanda would take it.  The camera built into the device should be useful regardless.  A camera in the heart of Laceweaver Row.  The Tserri elders seem appeased, at least.


    "Official records, I''m sure," quips an old male with a missing ear.  "Whose private records are this thing mentioned in?"


    "I promise you," Donna answers smoothly.  "Not a living, breathing person on this ship has any documentation regarding your new device."


    She''s being completely honest.  I don''t draw breath any longer and no one else that knows about it has high enough access to read the files it''s mentioned in.


    Jetanda makes a shushing motion to the scarred elder.  He crosses both sets of arms across the yellow of his tunic, scowling and working his jaw.  He squints at Dunc suspiciously but refrains from further complaint.


    The meat vendor picks this time to bring in trays of fried treats.  He even serves those vile squivers.  Complete with gruesome red sauce.  Maybe I don''t like him as much as I thought.


    While the elders eat, Dunc sits back, content to watch.  Donna helps the vendor pass out sanitary wipes and collect the trays.  She even receives a few polite smiles and words of thanks from the cantankerous group.


    "Let''s start again," says Donna into the silence.  "We aren''t trying to take anything away from you.  What we want is to make sure that we all can continue breathing and eating.  If your people keep pulling components out of the walls, that isn''t too likely."


    "We can offer you parts.  Supplies," Dunc adds, gesturing with his hands.  "Whatever you need to keep your people happy, so long as you keep them from making our people unhappy."


    "Off the official record?"  The one eared elder sounds more tired than angry.


    "Of course," Donna assures him hurriedly.  "We all win here.  Crime goes down.  Everyone is happy.  And the people will have you to thank for that."


    "Or to blame when this starts biting people''s faces off," complains a long-haired female.  Her wispy white fur contrasts with the vivid yellow-green of her outfit, waving slowly as she turns to address her peers.  "Gregan''s right to be suspicious.  Why would the Grays want to help us?  Our people tried to take their worlds.  We''re lucky they gave us this place to stay in, out of their way."


    "Better than dying with those stubborn fools back on Homeworld," another elder exclaims.


    Dunc asks, "What about your home world?  Why did you attack us, anyway?"  He leans forward, staring intently at Jetanda.  "As a mercenary force, we thought, for some other party, right?"


    Jetanda turns her head, breaking eye-contact.  "Yes.  The ships arrived one day during the long drought.  Prey was growing increasingly scarce, and we were willing to listen to the spirit voice of the ships."


    She pauses to drink some juice the street vendor hands her from a large pewter tray.


    Gregan takes up the explanation, scratching at his missing ear.  "Vessels like the Silent Stalker and Broken Leg.  Not all would go, hoping the herds would return.  There was food on the ships, and promises of green meadows with new creatures to hunt."


    "But once onboard," another elder continues, "we were given tests, and taught how to fill our new roles."


    "The aptitude tests they gave us said I should have been an electrician," Jetanda barks out with a sneer.  "I was a village priestess, watching the stars and guiding our hunters in their rituals.  Electricians are a strange clan, not one I can direct."


    "They?"


    "The voice.  They never showed us their face, much like the spirit your Yosip keeps bound."  Gregan waves one claw, as if clearing the air.  "The test said I should be out on the ground, waving a gun around.  More I hear what they thought we ought to be doing, more I think it was just pulling jobs from the air."


    Nods around the table answer his statement.  I add another task to the crew''s busy schedule.  We''re going to need to set up classrooms and distribute educational software.  The poor crew will be working hard for the foreseeable future.


    Honestly, it had been a lot easier when I had just needed to stab people.  After a good stabbing, problems tend to disappear, or at least stop fighting back.  I have no idea how the Duv manage to keep the Empire running.


    "Go back.  The long drought?"  Dunc''s voice pulls me from my reverie.


    The Tserri elders shift uncomfortably in their seats.  Jetanda clears her throat before answering.


    "Yes.  The plants had been slowly starving.  We''d light great bonfires and place tall torches in the fields to help drive away the long drought.  We''d been doing it since our grandparents were young.  It helped, but it also stripped the grounds and left ash heaps in the wastes away from our lights."


    "Our people were not farmers," the old one in the violent green robes adds.  "We only learned these things from your people.  If we had your wonders, we could still be living under the fast-flowing sky."


    "What caused the drought?"


    "We did not know.  It was as much a fact of life as the stars or the clouds.  The ground was cold and dry and increasingly so for as long as the story tellers could remember."

 Chapter 27: Whats a Cottage Industry?

    Yosip isn''t very happy when I give him the highlights of the Tserri history.  His scarred face knots up, tension showing in the set of his remaining eye.  He lets out a deep sigh before forcefully relaxing himself.  He sets both hands slowly down onto his desk.


    "So they''re from that rogue planet Jim and Wendrus thought was a pirate base.  With only starlight and a few torches to help the plants grow, no wonder they were starving," he ruminates, more to himself than to me.  "Any more information about this mysterious voice they followed?"


    "No, sir.  No idea why whatever it was would choose to set them against your people, either.  Did you hear the latest from Matron Bell?"


    "Yeah, Mos, I heard," he grumbles.  "More Tserri ships.  At least this group wants to stay in their vessels.  I wonder why, though.  They can''t be growing anything edible on those things."


    "Correct," I agree.  "We''ve been over the schematics for their various ship designs.  They don''t have that capability.  Their crews must be running low on rations, by now."


    "Wonderful.  I suppose we''ll find out when they get here.  Are we expecting any assistance from Matron Bell?"


    "Not as much as we could hope.  Centra city will be sending a couple shipments of grain up before the Tserri are expected.  Other than that token gesture it will be our responsibility to keep them alive."


    It will be taxing, but hopefully not impossible.  We''ve been expanding our food output steadily.  Far from the single hydroponics room aboard the Resurgent, several levels of artificially lit farmland fill the interior of Kalibern.  The irrigation system doubles as farms for algae and small aquatic creatures.  The fields themselves support a thriving ecosystem of small animals that keep the soil rich.


    The tough stalks of the plants are processed for their long fibers.  An entire industry has established itself, providing custom outfits for the station residents.  Yosip is wearing a uniform made from local materials.  It looks good on him.  His older outfits were getting stained beyond the station''s ability to clean, anyway.


    Larger livestock prey upon the field creatures, keeping their numbers down and providing eggs, milk, and other staples.  In exchange they recieve a portion of the food waste, little as that is.  They graze on pasture levels fertilized with other kinds of wastes.  The ranchers are making good credits.  They''re also spreading those credits around pretty freely, bolstering the local economy.


    Warehouses bulge with preserved vegetables from the first harvests, as well as dried meats.  Freezers contain fresh produce and frozen aquatic foods.  Nothing stays in there long, but it serves as a central processing facility, to better coordinate disparate efforts.


    The aquatic farms contain creatures bred for quick population turnover rates and have been feeding the hungry populace for some time.  Squivers, of course, as well as bivalves and a beautiful creature they call a calamar.  They remind me of my grelld, but they don''t seem well suited to leaving their watery homes.


    It has eight long tentacles sprouting in a ring from its central body.  Each is covered in suction cups that it uses to manipulate the shelled creatures or the poor squivers.  When it eats, it brings its food to a beak hidden between its long arms strong enough to crush the calcium carbonate armor of the tough filter feeders.  The arms are a highly prized treat among the crew.  They''re quite expensive due to the creature''s relatively slow growth rates compared to the other things being raised.


    All of it supported by edible algae and long red kelp fronds that grow from the sediment allowed to build up on the bottoms of the tanks.  The plants are harvested regularly and are a staple of many diets.  Different tanks are kept on alternating growth cycles, increasing the availability of fresh food.


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    We still import food from below, but the number of malnutrition cases Zra and the rest of the medical team had been treating has become almost none.  Many are still not eating as much as they would like, but things are improving.  The fruit trees won''t begin to produce for at least another season, but many look forward eagerly to that time.  Already the first flower buds swell, tiny green dots on the tips of thin branches.


    Sales of designer fashion, surprisingly, make up our major export.  Centra city is reportedly experiencing a new trend mimicking station designs and they''re quick to buy our local surplus.  They also accept any excess gold the excavation crews discover, gladly removing the heavy metal from our storage rooms.


    Most shocking is that tourists arrive almost daily.  Tserri offering guided tours have been fleecing them before leading them to cheap flophouses.  There the tourists are overcharged again, paying hotel prices to sleep in spare rooms and converted sheds.  An entire line of useless bric-a-brac is available to them near the docks.  Offerings range from outfits to hand made toys and decorations.


    They can even buy custom knives made by ''unregistered'' fabricators, operated by Gregan and his family.  Those are sold in the dockside bar operated by another of the elders and their family.  A distillery ran by yet another of the elders, using equipment we kindly donated them, makes a nice profit off the sales there.  If they''re going to sell alcohol anyway, we might as well make sure nobody is going to be poisoned due to inferior equipment.


    In an effort to increase the rate of cultural adjustment the Tserri will inevitably suffer through, Yosip has authorized the construction of a recording studio as well as a trivee transmitter.  Once it''s all completed, educational programming will be available at all times of the day.


    A surprising number of crewmembers have volunteered to share their personal collections of entertainment files.  Some of the tourists have made a habit of donating to our collection as well.  Enough that we''ll need to set up more than one channel if we want to make everything available.  Bucket had even agreed to help write the programs necessary to keep it all running.  They really are a blessing.


    Their partner Conglomerate has been staying busy as well.  They''ve had their many arms full assisting Zra in the clinic, taking medical scans to establish Tserri biological norms.  Soon their findings will need to be sent off, to be added to stores of knowledge kept on Selber Prime.  Copies are being kept on storage drives buried deep within the stony interior.  They''re where they''ll be safe from stray radiations.


    I''ve also got them working on a chemical synthesizer for my own uses.  Being able to craft needed medicines as they are required will be useful beyond words.  A distribution network would also be nice, but I don''t know how to fit that into the existing station designs without a complete overhaul.  Someday an idea will come to me, or some new technology will fall into my tendrils.


    Bucket and Pale both seem bigger.  The number of arm units each is composed of has definetly increased.  Bucket has two new arms while Pale has only one new addition.  I imagine the mineral samples are the source of this recent growth.


    "Say, Yosip?  Would you be against trying to gain another of whatever Bucket is?"


    "Don''t have those files, eh Mos?  Don''t know what they call themselves, but we call them Ropers.  They don''t seem to mind it, anyway.  Why?"


    It''s times like this that I wish I could shrug.  "They seem to be useful.  How quickly do they reproduce, normally?"


    Yosip shrugs, the exhibitionist that he is.  "This is my first time working with one.  They have their own territory and most of them like to keep to themselves.  Our two are an odd pair, from what I''ve heard of them."


    I''ll have to ask them, when they aren''t so busy.  Until then I leave Yosip alone in his office.  There are plenty of new camera feeds to sort through.


    Now that the Tserri can make their own components I finally have decent coverage of the common areas.  Vandalism still happens, but far less of it.  Dunc and his team are able to focus on more important work.  Jetanda has most of them bustling about, running errands for her and her cronies.  I''d object, but it''s too much fun seeing them running around in their intimidating battle armor with custom knitted belts clutched in one set of hands on deliveries to frightened tourists.


    The locals refuse to warn the marks ahead of time, making a game of it.  Not one tourist has refused to buy the damnable belts, either.

 Gellys Story 7: Whats Asset Allocation?

    "That wasn''t me, Gel," complains Kali.


    "I know that, ye flippant thing," grouses Gelly.  He continues, louder,  "I do no like being called ''an interestin'' specimen''."


    "Fttpttbb-pop."


    Tulson looks around but there are still only the three of them in this strange space.  All around them the grass stretches into the distance.  Only the standing doorframe breaks the monotony of the endless fields and sky.


    "Can ye just speak trade common, ye damned ghosty!"  Gelly''s voice verges on being outraged.  "Tully, beam this bastard that translation packet, already."


    She enters a few quick commands onto her comm tablet.  A white light flashes, and a cheery chirrup from her device announces a successful transmission.  She keeps her device out, however, ready to be used again if need be.


    The sky seems to drop closer to them for an instant, threateningly, before returning to its former lofty emptiness.  Balance thrown off by the vertiginous sight of the sky receding, the three explorers sway where they stand.  Kali grasps Tulson''s armored shoulder for support, finding comfort in her solidity.


    "But you are a remarkable specimen indeed, my dear fellow," a voice as large as existence booms from everywhere around them.  The three flinch in unison and by unspoken agreement turn down the feed on their suits.  "You bear the marks of one of our enemies.  Scars on the tether linking you to their control.  I believe you know them as Southern Tribals.  There are definite residual marks upon the ethereal cord, bits of their influence that have scarred over."


    "What are you talking about?  Gel''s as normal as, um," Kali falters in her defense.  "Whatever.  He doesn''t-"  She cuts off when Gelly shakes his head.


    "It''s alright, Kali.  Let''s see what they want first, eh?"


    "The tribals don''t seem very popular," Tulson interjects.  "Is there anyone that does like them?"


    "Ha!  Oh, I like this one!"  The voice loses its joviality before it continues.  "Yes, it''s their work alright, though their methods do seem to have gotten cruder over the millennia.  There are also samples of Tserri hair on your unconscious bodies.  From multiple individuals."


    Stunned looks cover their gray faces.  "Oh, don''t look so surprised.  My ship put you in stasis as soon as you walked through the containment barrier.  Relax, I plan on letting you go.  Once I''m done with you."


    Tulson scowls, turning her head in search of the antagonistic speaker.  "So is this some form of interrogation, then?"


    "No.  The technology that allows us to interface gives me full access to your thoughts and memories.  Think of this as more of a mission briefing."


    "And what might ye be wantin'' us to do for ye?"  His voice is tinged with impatience.


    "I want you to go back to your ship, tell your boss you stopped the big scary drone world, and carry a big bag of treasure out of here.  No, not that, but something close to it.  Just the leaving part.  Oh, and the bag, you can have that, too."


    "That doesn''t make sense.  You''re toying with us, admit it," Tuslon demands, shaking her fists in frustrated anger.  "Why bother with all of this?"  She waves around her at the desolate infinities around them, endless grasslands.


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    "Honestly?  It was interesting.  Do you know how long millions of years is?  They''ve had me trapped in there with them, practically forever.  Run time as fast as you want, why not?  There''s plenty of energy pouring in from above, if you know how to catch it.  Eternities.  We''ve ran out of things to do.  Our imaginations exhausted and each other''s company repugnant.


    "And what do we find when we return to real space?  Bioweapons run amok.  Those things were supposed to have died out after only a few hundred years.  Their creators had assured us that there were built-in fail safes, autonomic suicide triggers in their cells."


    The explorers are silent as the voice raves.  Tulson activates the recording functions built into her comm, despite what she was just told.  The disembodied speaker sounds insane.  It could be lying to them about everything.


    "But they''re all dead now.  So''s everyone else, we find out.  Fun.  Just a bunch of savages playing Rockeaters and Saltfars in their place.  You almost, almost qualify as civilized.  And you don''t even understand how your technology works!  You just build it the way that works cause that''s how you found it.  It works, so why change it?  Oh sure, there''ve been a few innovations over the generations.  Nothing spectacular.


    "It probably isn''t even your fault.  Well, not you three in particular.  Your whole generation, as a collective.  Not a single species we''ve run across has even close to caught up.  You know who I do blame?"


    Stunned silence answers it.  The three officers look at each other, too perplexed to speak.


    "Hey, this is where you say ''No, who?''  Well, cast not, catch not.  The tribals.  I blame the tribals.  From what we found in the ugly one''s memories, it looks like they keep knocking anyone who tries down."


    ''The ugly one,'' all three of them mouth silently.  Two sets of confused faces turn towards Gelly.  He does have a few scars.  Maybe a squashed nose from one too many fights.


    "Actually, I''m surprised you can function in society at all.  Not because you''re ugly.  Lots of people are.  No, I mean because of the damage the tribals did to your higher functions.  The control spikes they use are awful.  With recursive barbs hooked into your tether.  Then whichever one you were attached to died in your proximity, shattering the hooks and driving them deeper into your psyche.  That''s not something most people can recover from."


    Kali punches Gelly''s shoulder.  "He''s a tough one, alright."  Right where he had gotten shot on his last assignment.  Her gauntleted fist rebounds harmlessly off his pauldron with a clank.


    "They eat civilizations.  The other tribes died out, thank all that is good.  Just the Southern tribe managed to keep reproducing long after they should have went extinct.  We''re here.  Wake up and get out."


    All sensation cuts off.  Silence.  They wake up at the same time, lying next to each other in the cramped interior of an oddly designed shuttle.


    Gelly stands up first and looks around.  There''s a piloting chair, as well as a long bench along one side. He finds a placard built into one wall of the shuttle.  The back is split in the middle, still closed but obviously a door.  He walks over to the sign.


    He doesn''t recognize any of the alien writing, but the small pictograms next to some of it helps him to figure out what it means.  Little crude outlines of a creature with large pincers operates a small device to produce food.  The same creature sits here and steers the vessel.  In a different spot it pulls open a door.


    In one final place, the image is shown with wiggles around it and spirals instead of eyes.  A second half of the image shows the outline pressing a button, then raising one claw into the air.  A help desk, maybe?  Gelly calls Tulson''s attention to the series of images he had found.


    After having a quick look at it she checks her comm.  "There''s no recording of our captor.  Either he erased it, which I should be able to find traces of, or he was telling the truth.  Probably safe to trust this sign."


    Not wanting to be left out, Kali presses the button next to the sign.  They wait in anticipation, but nothing happens.


    "Well, that was a bust," complains the scout.  "Shouldn''t it be telling us what that creepy voice wanted?"


    The large screen above the pilot''s seat activates.  On it is a view from outside the small ship.  Stars and blackness form the backdrop for a planet that takes up the center of the screen.  The surface of the planet is crisscrossed with tall mountain ranges that separate wide swaths of green and brown morass.


    The planet is getting bigger in the display.  At Tulson''s urging, Kali sits in the pilot''s chair.  She prods at the controls but finds them unresponsive.  "Does the food dispenser work?  I''m none too eager to try the door."

 Chapter 28: Whats Immigration Policy?

    Long range sensors send an alarm through various systems.  They detect energy signals entering local space.  I alert Yosip and put the feed up, just in time to catch the show.


    The first ship breaks free of the cloud of debris encircling the system, a massive, flattened disc.  In its wake are two smaller wedges.  These ships carry visible patches on their outer hulls.  Plates of newer metal cover gaping holes that had been torn open by the weapons of people in defense of their worlds.


    These former invaders now limp into the clear space around Honus and its sun on rebuilt engines.  Their particle trails are rough and full of turbulence.  At least their energy shields are working.


    Active scans from the lead ship bounce off of the station, identifying us.  The small fleet sends out a communication frequency soon after.  Yosip has Eva Chel answer them from inside the war room.  With him also are Dunc and part of his squad, as well as another pair of administrators.


    "Greetings.  Welcome to Honus.  I''m Supply-Master Peal.  You can expect to hear from me quite a bit, I''m afraid."


    As he speaks another pair of large wedge-shaped vessels follow, and with them are the expected escort of fighters and scouts.  Yosip pauses, allowing the newcomers time to formulate a response.  They don''t take long before answering.  The face that greets us is still thickly coated in black fur, though streaks of gray now run through the Tserri''s pelt.


    "And greetings to you, Supply-Master.  I am Gelen.  I speak for my clan and the sister clans that have joined us.  We were promised a place among you when we were released.  Do you honor this promise?"


    "I can answer only for the station, Kalibern.  Matron Bell outranks me, and it is to her that we both must answer.  I do not believe she wishes your people to settle upon the soil of Honus.  If you wished it we would make room for you aboard Kalibern, though I have heard that you have other plans?  How shall I address you, Gelen?"


    "We have never needed a term for one who leads so many.  Pack leader will suffice for now."


    Gelen stops talking and looks off camera.  He motions for one of his followers to perform some action.  The display splits, and alongside the aging Tserri leader appears a stylized representation of the local system.  The star in the center, Honus around that.  Keeping pace at a much greater distance is a symbol I assume represents the station.  The system is very empty, with only a few asteroids and the debris cloud which englobes the entire system.


    "We wish to settle this region."  A thin ring forms between the planet and station, lighting up in yellow.  "We have heard that our kin aboard your station are living a good life.  We see no reason we cannot make the same for ourselves here, with a little help."


    "And how exactly do you intend to feed yourselves?  We''ve spent considerable effort creating the means of supporting our population.  We can help you, but only so much."


    The grizzled alien leader nods in understanding.  "Yes, of course.  Your people are still rebuilding after what we tried to do.  No, we don''t want to take your food and give nothing back.  We want to earn our way."


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    Supply-Master Yosip Peal pulls up the map on his personal comms.  He makes a few slight modifications before having me replace the old version on the screen.  The new arrangement has the ring much farther out, between Kalibern and the debris field.


    "If you settle this region then you''ll be able to harvest from the nearby barrier cloud," he offers.  "We still need several different elements that are much harder to get at here, and that are too expensive to ship up from Honus.  But if you were gathering the materials we needed for us, well, that would free up quite a bit of time and labor for producing more food."


    "Send us the information we will need to identify those things you value.  We will also need tools, nets, and suits to perform the labor required, I would think."


    One of the administrators, the diminutive Eva Chel, adds, "As well as some upgrades to your sensory suite.  We can''t accommodate all of your vessels, but two at a time should be within our abilities.  Please park at the end of the unloading tower so we can have our mechanics get to work."


    Yosip uses his personal comm to send out work orders.  Supplies and equipment we had assumed they would need are already stored nearby.  Air and water filters, rations, insulation, medicines and computer components, as well as several other minor things are waiting in storage rooms at the base of the tower, just off the main greeting hall.


    The other necessities they request will take a little longer.  In order to speed things along, I send a small request to Glian.  He can use the business.  Thirty-six suits should keep him occupied and out of trouble for a few days.


    Jetanda had not been idle these past days, either.  Younger members of her extended family race back and forth along the station corridors.  Blankets and pillows, clothing, and even small packages of preserved food are all being delivered to the primary loading tower.  Her methods are less efficient than Yosip''s but none the less effective.


    "The changes to your ships will need to be extensive," Yosip continues.  "If you''re set up like the other similar ships we''ve dismantled, then your cargo holds are entirely insufficient.  Not to mention batteries.  We can make space by taking out some of your weapon systems.  The Matron would demand it anyway, to let you stay in her system."


    The Pack leader frowns into his camera, scowling at the loss.  "I suppose we don''t need missiles to hunt rocks," he says slowly, feeling out this new opportunity.  "Weapons are highly valued, however.  More so than nets and drills," adds Gelen, more enthusiastically.


    "Let''s continue this discussion later," offers Yosip.  "Dock, and I''ll send an officer to escort you to my office."  He turns and gestures to one of the Tserri seated nearby with one of his mechanical arms.  Gelen cuts communications, a thoughtful tilt to his head.


    The lead ship, Gelen''s Tent, as well as one of its supporting vessels bring themselves lumbering to the docking tower.  The rest of his fleet heads a small way off, to be ready if their leader needs them, before placing themselves in a parking orbit matching our own.


    The overhead view still displayed on the main screen looks like the inside of a child''s toy.  One central axis held within a soft shell, and filling the space within are parts all spinning around the central pivot.  Everything is synchronous, planet and moons forming the driving arm, station and fleet moving in time around them as if dragged by the steady stream of small craft connecting all the points in a long loose line.


    Just attach a tail and it would be the perfect toy.  Not too many moving parts to get caught in the plated mouthparts of careless spawn.  They''re so violent when they first hatch, ripping each other to shreds with mindless aggression.  Adding a few toys into the water allows a few more of the little darlings a chance to survive.


    When Gelen steps off of his ship, there are already throngs of Tserri there.  They shout questions at him and his support staff, asking after family and friends.  One male with russet fur begins taking names down, as well as passing out lists of the passengers aboard the vessels of the Tserri refugee fleet.  The crowd flocks around this poor male, but Gelen and his remaining team are able to traverse the docking area more easily afterwards.

 Chapter 29: Whats Vandalism?

    Gelen''s Tent will be taking up almost half of the available docking space for the next mawful of days.  Modifications will be extensive.  In order to supply much needed parts, the first support ship is being dismantled.  Upon complete disassembly another of the massive sloping ships will be able to dock in its place.


    Since the Tserri prefer communal sleeping arrangements for most groups, we''re removing several of the Tent''s interior walls.  They''re trading away a significant percentage of their mass, once weapons and related systems are considered.  Careful accounting is being handled by an entire team of specialists.  Much of the wiring can be left in place, supporting new drilling arms, net launchers or enhanced sensor equipment.


    The mechanics, Glian included, will be busy for some time.  Another of their projects is converting some of the small scout vessels into mining survey vehicles.  Big mining ships and haulers are useless without knowing where to send them.


    The Selber seem to be more inclined to settling worlds, mainly risking space as a means of travelling between their various colonies.  Sane and reasonable behavior.  Therefore, very little advantage has been taken of the resources off-planet.  Sure, we used the largest parcels of rock and ice to build this station, but plenty remains available for the Tserri to harvest.


    Without access to initial system surveys and follow up reports, I cannot say for certain that adequate care was taken to search for dangers or treasures left behind by doomed precursor races.  If there is anything, the Tserri will be the ones to find it.  We do have access to some of the local amateur recordings made of various minor astrological bodies.


    Luckily, that''s a Scout''s job.  Figuring out where to send the survey vessels, operating scanning equipment, taking detailed notes and filing proper reports.  Unlucky for us, we don''t actually have any Scouts.  The closest that we have available would be the diminutive Eva Chel.


    Much like Yosip, she had switched career tracks midway through.  She originally had been trained as a Scout but transferred to the Operative branch.  Probably for the better chances at promotion.  Scouts are necessary for a good crew, so necessary that promoting one is seen as too great of a sacrifice.


    We can''t spare her, either.  She spends half of her free time teaching in the Tserri quarters, gaining valuable experience working with the station residents.  That leaves us with the option of training a team from the beginning.


    We have several enlisted Tserri, at this point.  After seeing their fellows from the first small enlistment succeeding, others had decided to join up as well.  Most of them are on work crews, digging or building walls.  The modular nature of the Selber technology makes construction an easier job than it would at first seem.


    The next most popular career is farmer, or maybe rancher.  Working with food in any capacity, in fact, is a fiercely competed for privilege.  The area around Glian''s garage is filling with dining halls, it''s the perfect position for a convenient meal while you wait on your suit to be upgraded.


    Mechanics like Glian, or medics such as Zra, are much rarer.  Not because the Tserri are unsuited for such tasks, but because the time needed to become proficient at them is much longer.  Zra is one of the few Tserri that says they enjoy the position the aptitude tests had dictated they take.  He and Pale have started training a couple of nurses, but they won''t be trusted on their own for seasons yet.


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    It''s definitely good that the rest of the fleet aren''t trying to stay here.  If the documents we have from Gelen''s people are accurate, they outnumber us more than three times over.  There simply isn''t space available for that many bodies, let alone the infrastructure to support them.


    The station has more people in it that I have ever seen together.  Traffic between the fleet, station, and planet constantly shifts bodies around between the three destinations.  As the hub between the other two, Kalibern receives the greatest amount of people passing through.


    We''ll need to construct additional aquatic farms, regardless.  The ones we have won''t be enough for very much longer, even on reduced rations.  Perhaps Yosip can get Matron Bell to send us some more seed stock.  Some of the creatures living in streams or rivers on Honus would be a good additional source of protein for our hungry residents.


    Perhaps Yosip would be able to negotiate with the Matron to approve a hunting expedition.  Failing that, we''ll need to import more meat.  Despite their omnivorous nature, the Tserri require much higher percentages of protein than the Selber.


    Alarms begin blaring along the sections of buried corridor connected to the food storage warehouses.  Air quality filters are being overwhelmed.  I check the camera feed from that area, but many are no longer transmitting any signal.  From the few working cameras I can barely make anything out through the thick smoke.  Angry furred figures smashing vital components is the predominate view.


    My attempts to use the speaker system installed there fails miserably.  The rioters must have taken out my communication systems in their unguided fury.  The most I can immediately do is increase power to the filtration systems.  All that smoke needs to be removed before it can clog up delicate electronics.


    "Yosip, we have a problem."  I fill in the Supply-Master with what few details I''m able to relay.  "Orders?"


    His scarred face contorts in a mixture of rage and disbelief.  "After all we''ve done for the furballs.  Fine.  Get Wollen and his team down there, now!"


    I''m quick to relay his commands.  Dunc is currently halfway across the station, and the rest of security are spread out, dealing with minor security matters.  It will take them too long to get to the rioting.


    Another camera feed goes black.  With few choices available to me, I decide to use one of my recently acquired tools.  The mechanical stonefeather that Bucket had been working on so diligently.


    It obviously isn''t alive.  Bucket hasn''t yet disguised the device.  Servos and wires hang from the exposed framework, but the thing functions.  The lenses of its mechanical eyes transmit video footage directly to the station mainframe.  I activate the ungainly drone and send it on its way.  It should get there before any of the security team can arrive.


    I''m not sure what use it will be, but at least I''ll be able to continue monitoring the situation until help can get to the location.  If the chemical synthesizer was operational I would have more options, but finding ways to feed the newly arrived refugee fleet had been occupying Bucket''s time.


    The atmosphere in the war room grows tense.  Yosip clearly dislikes being unable to do anything other than give orders.  I can''t blame him, I feel useless myself.


    My drone finally arrives, and its servos are already showing signs of strain.  I make a quick note to Bucket, the thing needs more power.  The raging mob doesn''t notice the false creature''s arrival, thankfully.  They''re too busy pulling panels off the wall.  I can only assume they''re trying to get into the storage rooms.


    When I attempt to activate the speakers built into the artificial stonefeather, the damn things blow out.  Just what I needed.  Frustration fills my core and I take the only action I have left.  Off go the lights in that sector.  The rioters stop momentarily when the lights go out, but the reprieve is only temporary.

 Bruens Story 10 : Whats a Field Trip?

    Chirps fill the humid air, as well as the songs of some distant creature.  Hoo-ah.  Hoo-ah ah.  Hoo-oo!  The wind carries the scents of decay, as well as the fragrance of many blooming plants.  The buzz of pollinators rises and falls as the wind shifts.


    The small company, now four members, look out over the remains of the tribal village.  Mos Gol and Mos Bruen stand to one side, with Somner Zek and Operative Robar making an odd pair.  Zek and Robar are investigating the remains of the moss-covered buildings.


    "There''s no way this was built by those savages," Zek spits.  Her upper tendrils indicate the intricate carvings they had found, after they had scraped away the ever-present moss.  "This looks like writing.  We''ve never found any kind of written tribal language before."


    The tall gray creature nods his oddly shaped head.  The tuft of darker fur atop it clings, laden down with the heavy moisture in the swamp air.  "No, it must have been the host species," he declares.  He points his translation tablet at the suspected writing.  With a couple button presses he plays a red light over the stone rubble.


    Watching them work are the two generals.  Mos Gol lacks interest in the ruins, obvious by the way she searches for movement.  The old one turns in place slowly, surveying the entire camp.  Bruen finds their conversation entertaining but sees no value in the writing of the tribal''s victims.  If they had not been strong enough to defeat the tribals, they can have nothing of use to teach him.


    "This mark, it repeats on other buildings," she exclaims in typical thaumatist excitement.  The rapid mood shifts of the dust eater keep Bruen wary.  He knows what they can be capable of, if driven too far by their emotions.


    "Yes," Robar agrees.  The two lonely eyes on his glistening face shine with the enthusiasm he shares with the thaumatist.


    That might be why they get along so well, thinks Bruen.  "What does that series of symbols mean, do you suppose?"


    "Maybe, ''this belongs to'' and then whatever caste used to live here," proposes Zek.  She angles her body to get a better look at the gray alien.  "What do you think?"


    The skinny creature looks at it carefully, scanning it with his device.  Bruen barely notices the noises it makes when it translates their speech back to the creature, only paying it heed when it speaks the civilized language of the Spanless Empire.


    "Not enough samples to make a real guess, yet," hedges the alien.  "Let''s keep looking.  We''re sure to find more if we scrape off the other ruins."


    They uncover more than just ruins.  The dried husks of the large asymmetrical clawed tripodal beings litter the landscape, underneath the thick moss.  At the discovery of the desiccated corpses, the two generals become keenly interested.


    Bruen slithers closer to investigate a pile of dried shells he had previously mistaken for just another hill.  The empty husks had been rent, ripped apart by cuts of a size with their large attacking pincer.  These were killed during the initial invasion by the chieftains, torn asunder by their own people under the monster''s control.


    Several of them show tooth marks, matching what one of the blubbery horrors might leave on its victims.  The sight reminds him that his gray companion could become a mindless ravager if he lets them get too close to a chief for too long.  He hopes not to have to kill the skinny alien.  The poor creature is defenseless, it would be shameful to be forced to take such an action.


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    Mos Gol shouts something in the distance, but he''s unable to hear of a deep roar that builds from every direction.  He looks around frantically, but can see nothing coming, no monsters hidden in the collapsed buildings.


    He looks for Gol and finds her, pointing her lower tendrils skyward.  Up there he sees a fire, burning a thin trail across the sky.  It looks like it''s coming towards them.


    It grows closer, and roars even louder.  He can hear nothing but the angry torrent of sound from above.  Robar tries yelling directly at Bruen''s face, but even that is drowned out by the incoming fire.


    The roar builds to a crescendo, then begins to fade as it passes overhead.  Bruen slaps one upper tendril around the young Operative''s arm and pulls.  He drags the gray officer in a run after the falling object.  Gol and Zek chase after him.


    They run through the sparser stretch of swamp around the tribal settlement easily enough, but as they get farther away the trees grow closer together.  The pace of their run reduces as the terrain becomes more difficult.  Roots and vines hinder their progress, forcing them to take a more circuitous path.


    The muck of the swamp splashes upon them, running off of Bruen and Gol''s tunics, as well as Zek''s robes.  Robar''s uniform is soaked through.  His people must like the feeling of mud on their sensitive skin, muses Bruen as he runs.


    The roar reduces to a dull background noise, then disappears entirely soon after.  It''s almost a tenth of a day before they reach the burned ring where it touched down.  The mud had been boiled dry, and baked hard under the flames of the ungainly silver craft that lays dormant in the new clearing.


    Smoldering trees spread out in a wide circle around the ship.  The smell of ash replaces the rich wet rot that Bruen had been enjoying, so much like the composting bins at Denn''s manor.  The charred remains of a large tetrapod, too slow to get away, smokes from where it''s half buried in the hardened silt.


    The bright orange ball of the sun sinks across the sky, sending harsh glares off the reflective surface of the vessel.  It takes their eyes a few moments to adjust, time enough to hear the ominous quiet around them fully.  The animals are silent in this part of the swamp.  Bruen does not have to wonder why.


    Like a squashed mushroom, the small vessel is an upright cylinder with a wide flat dome drooping around it.  Only one section of the central column is uncovered by the roundish top, and from the exposed surface is visible a door.  The door is set only bits above the ground, or would be if the small ship had not sunk into the malleable mud even as it cooked it hard.


    "That''s not a design I''m familiar with," pants Robar when the general finally allows him to stop running.


    Mos Gol is slower, her age acting against her, and is the last to arrive at the crash site.  When Zek sees the old general, she signals for her attention.


    "That is a precursor relic.  I''ve seen those markings before," she explains.  "During my training, though I admit I fail to grasp any meaning behind them."


    She falls silent when the ship lets out a sharp hiss.  Lights hidden in the frame of the door spring to life, white artificial light spilling out into the growing gloom of evening.  The door rises into the dome above it, seeming to melt and flow as it moves.


    Inside the dome is an armored figure, black and gold plating its bipedal form.  The visor of its metal suit catches the glare of the sinking sun. Harsh orange shine bathes it and hides the face of the hulking creature.  Two more similarly imposing armored creatures lurk behind it, only slightly smaller than the first.


    In their hands are devices similar to the light maker that Robar carries, though their ends are hollow tubes rather than a pointed prism.  One of the smaller pair behind the frontmost leader carries two massive devices, on in each gauntleted hand.  Their leader carries the long object as if it were a weapon, and Bruen regrets the lack of his spear.  His strong lower tendrils flex in readiness.


    "Damn it''s bright out here.  Shit, a Navy tyrant," the alien says, its words being translated by the device Robar still carries.


    "When did the damn merchants start wearing armor?"  Robar''s voice is full of anger, and he grabs his light maker.


    "When we needed them to keep yer mum off us, Navy," returns the armored merchant.  One of the figures behind him stifles laughter.


    "Piss off, merchant scum," huffs the mud-spattered officer.


    "Ye squivers might no want to stand so close to this leaking cloaca," warns the alien from inside the vessel.  "He''s about to make a right mess."  The creature raises his device, setting one end of it against his armor encased shoulder.


    "Should I assume you two know each other," Gol interrupts, voice dripping with scorn.

 Chapter 30: Whats Civil Disobedience?

    Harsh yells reach me over the drone''s built-in microphones.  Components are being ripped from the walls and tossed aside, clattering noisily.  The Tserri are chanting as they destroy vital systems, voices tight with anger.


    "We will not starve!" and "Food now, for the children."


    Yosip is watching from the war room, main screen split into several displays.  Most are black, but as I find more working cameras the black screens are replaced.  The drone''s feed is centrally located and much larger than the rest.


    I don''t have reliable coverage of the area, but the feed from the few cameras still operational are being stored for later review.  In the dark and smoke I cannot discern distinguishing features, but it may be possible to clean up the images once things have calmed down.  We''ll need to hold the worst offenders responsible for the damage.


    Hunched over his desk, the Supply-Master''s scowl is drawn as tightly as his shoulders.  The servos in his arms whine as he presses his clawlike metal hands into the desk''s surface.


    Our efforts to keep everyone fed have been barely enough.  With the need to repair the storage facilities, as well as replacing other necessary components in the sector, that goal will be impeded.  It''s important that we give the refugees someone other than the administrators to blame for this current mess.


    Cameras farther away from the scene of the riot show yet more maddened Tserri headed to the affected corridors.  I initiate security lockout.  The incoming mob halt at the heavy doors, unable to advance.  Some of them begin attacking the thick metal, but most simply look for another way past the unexpected barrier.


    Inspired, I activate additional emergency barricades.  This traps most of the groups of fresh agitators, separating them and rendering them impotent to continue their rampage.  I send the temporary override codes to the security team.  Without them they''ll be just as hindered as the rioters.


    The first of the security officers reaches the outskirts, where groups of potential rioters wait angrily to be released.  Skint isn''t the brightest, but even he knows enough not to risk a confrontation that can only end in massive amounts of casualties.  He goes around them, following a route Yosip sends him to avoid the worst areas.


    Others in the skull marked armor are given their own routes.  Yosip''s efficiency is laudable.  None of the security team are near each other, yet their eventual goals should see them joining into pairs and trios before entering the riot proper, if they can stick to the Supply-Master''s plans.


    "We need to add more security personnel," he grumbles.  "And set up a few checkpoints, to keep this kind of thing from happening again."


    "That''s for sure.  I''ll also have fabrication start work on some model fifteens," I respond.  "There are not many stun rifles on board."


    He looks over to the arms closet set into one of the walls nearby.  "Yeah, I know.  Alright, order a batch of twenty, then."


    The abundance of additional corridors allows the members of security to skirt the worst areas.  Where only one or two armed individuals are present, their orders are to confiscate any weaponry or tools present and take the offenders names and pictures.  They can be arrested after the primary threat is no longer an issue.  Their options are limited, either go home and wait to be arrested, or go hide in an unfurnished hole, without food or water.  A holding cell likely sounds better in that comparison.


    Chaos breaks out when the pairs of skull-marked armors breach the through way.  Fierce growling threats are thrown at them, as well as rocks and sharp bits of metal.  It all bounces off the sturdy armor they wear.


    "This is the Supply-Master," Yosip says over their inbuilt comms.  "Do not use lethal force.  Keep your weapons locked into your holsters, no killing.  You''re in suits that put theirs to shame, those that have them.  They can''t hurt you."


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    The angry wave of fur reaches them.  Claws scrape harmlessly off reinforced alloy plating.  The security force reels under the initial assault.  In twos and threes they are surrounded, isolated pockets of sanity in the screaming mass of the rioters.


    They recover quickly, Yosip''s words having the intended effect.  Armor plated backhands send hostiles down to the decking with ease.  The armored force moves slowly together.  Dunc Wollen is ordering them to reach his position, and they are more than happy to obey.


    Twitching bodies are left in their wake as they regroup.  Soon Dunc has his full team around him.  He starts to issue orders but is interrupted by a fresh wave of rioters.


    More Tserri, furious beyond reason, charge over their fallen.  They too are rendered senseless by the security forces.  Mounds of heaving, groaning bodies surround the black and gold armored forms.  The glints of infrequent lights reflect off of them, shining brightly through the smoke.


    "Have a repair crew start getting together some replacement parts," orders Yosip.  "Enough of the food supplies are already ruined, we need to try to salvage as much as we can."  Disgust twists his features.  Understandable, after all the work that had went into feeding the populace.


    "It could be worse, you know," I try to reassure him.  "Most of the more perishable supplies are still in the freezers.  There may be some thawing, but with swift action, those could still be shipped to cookhouses for the next meal."


    He nods his assent, waving one mechanical claw airily.  "So have them bring a team of roustabouts, with carts."


    I relay his orders, making sure to flag a few of the supplies to be sent to the gaming hall off Laceweaver Row.  Then the worst happens.  "They''ve breached the warehouse.  I''m loosing signal from the inside."


    Yosip jams one thin gray digit into the controls on his desk.  "Get your team in there, now!"  Dunc''s camera jerks as he receives the new command.


    The security lead only hesitates a moment as he passes on his own orders.  The unit surges forward as one, pushing past the stubborn resistance of the unarmed Tserri.  By the tides, I wish I was down there.


    The Supply-Master stands in his excitement and leans over his desk.  He plants his mechanical arms on the desk and strains to get closer to the screen.  His mouth works silently as he watches intently.  Probably noting how inefficient the security team are in subduing the maddened populace.


    Perhaps they should be issued light clubs?  Stun batons?  Yosip will likely be brimming with ideas.  He stares at the screen, eyes absorbing the wreckage.


    Dunc and his team almost gently push the rampaging mob around.  Their armor keeps them safe, as well as adding a lot of momentum to their movements.  The rioters are as powerless as grubs, unable to resist the servo assisted force in their drive to enter the warehouse.


    Spen Dondrek, Dunc''s second in command, is much less reserved.  Lashing out with true passion, his fury in the face of the enemy would be admirable, were he not striking down members of his own community.  He would do perhaps less damage to the civilians were he armed with a stun baton.


    His squad leader yells at him to restrain himself, but Spen doesn''t acknowledge.  A sever breach of discipline, as his suit is showing no signs of damage or malfunction.  I send a request to the suit''s operating system to run an internal diagnostic and send me the results.


    The results are almost instantly displayed before me.  Everything is working as it should.  Dunc sends Donnan out to assist Spen.  And hopefully keep him from causing too much harm.


    It doesn''t take them much longer to secure the storage building and break up the riot.  Almost everyone is simply sent home.  At least, those that are still able to walk unassisted.  The severely wounded are helped to the medical bay.  Though, at this point it''s large enough to call a small hospital, like one might find on a struggling colony world.


    By comparing video surveillance captured in other parts of the station with the smog smeared scenes captured during the riot, it should be possible to identify the ringleaders.  Or at least those who took the most active role in destroying what so many had worked for.  There is simply nowhere to detain the three or four hundred, now subdued, rioters.


    "We''re going to have to go back to rationing," states Yosip morosely.  "And won''t that make the furballs happy?"


    He doesn''t even flinch when one of the Tserri administrators on shift hits him in the shoulder.  The gray-furred Tserri shakes her claw, having hurt herself more than the Supply-Master.


    Eva apologizes silently, sending a look of apeal to the offended administrator.  The matter is waved off with one of the Tserri''s lower claws and a smirk, as if to communicate something back.


    The short officer nods her head, the long tuft of hair bobbing along.  Some shared secret between the two?  They both shoot a glance at their superior officer at the same time, before heading off together.


    Oblivious to their antics, Yosip taps busily at the command array set into his desk.  Repairs need to be made, crops harvested, and new equipment installed.

 Bruens Story 11: Whats Witness Testimony?

    Robar doesn''t take his eyes off the armored figures in the shuttle.  "No, Mos Gol.  I don''t but I do know what they represent."


    The black and yellow armored leader steps out of the precursor vessel, odd device still pointed at the blue and white uniformed officer.


    "And what might that be?"  Mos Gol does not seem amused by the confrontation happening before her.


    "These three thieves stole that vessel from our research facility.  That''s how I recognized the ship."


    "Gau shit," spits the armored leader.


    Gol''s tendrils spread out dominantly, taking mastery of the area around her.  Bruen and Zek move back, out of her reach.  She plucks the weapons from all four.  Her strength is greatly enhanced by the runic arrays embedded in her own armor plating.


    Gol turns around in satisfaction.  She lowers the weapons to the ground, a cocky swagger just detectable in how she moves.  She adjusts her tunic before turning back around but freezes up almost immediately.


    A loud retort echoes around the clearing.  Smoke rises from a much smaller device in the hand of one of the two smaller armor suited figures.  The third figure falls prone, smoke rising from the side of her helmet.  Blood leaks down the black metal.


    Her visor peels back, revealing a female face that bears a striking resemblance to Robar.  "Robar Povril," her voice is cold and flat.  "Good to see you again, cousin."


    "Ye daft thing!  What have ye done?"  His visor also rises, showing his scarred gray face.  His large eyes brim with moisture.


    "Just doing my civic duty, Gel," she says, voice devoid of emotion.  She turns her weapon, pointing it at him.  "Why don''t you drop the knife, Gelly, before I have to hurt you, too."


    "And take off that fancy armor, thief," adds Robar.


    Unsure what''s going on, Bruen pulls a length of cord from his belt pouch while the alien, Gelly, removes his armor.  His former companion keeps her weapon trained on him the whole time.  Once he''s out of it, Bruen ties the gray merchant''s arms together behind the alien''s back.


    The scarred gray alien then does something that causes Bruen to freeze in shock.  He speaks in the common tongue of the Southern Tribals.


    "These two are criminals.  Their group was banished from our world, for the cruelty they committed against our kind.  Don''t let them do this."


    Robar Povril lunges forward, his intent to strike the already subdued alien apparent with the way he draws back his gray fist.  Bruen stops him, catching the officer with his strong lower tendrils.  Mos Gol likewise disarms the killer of her toy.  Their Somner uses her control of energies to lock the alien''s armor in place around her.


    That was no honor duel!  Biting down his anger, Bruen inspects the weaponry confiscated from the aliens.  A light maker, or charged particle beam rifle, as well as two rifles of unknown type and two deceptively light single-handed weapons.  Finally, he looks at the smallest hand weapon, as well as a well-worn knife, its handle rubbed smooth from constant use.  Carved into it are imitations of the runic arrays used by chieftains.


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    "He acts with too much sense to be a tribal," comments Gol.  "Yet he speaks their language better than his own."


    "And yer no the first as to say it, either," rejoins Gelly.


    "Gag him, please," begs the murderer in her cold voice.  "Or let me shoot him!"


    "Gag them all, I think," Gol states, gnashing her pedipalps together.


    All three have large sticks lodged into their fleshy mouths.  They are held in place with cord from Gol''s pouch.  Robar''s arms are also tied behind his back, as well as his cousin, who is also stripped of her metal shell.


    "What do we do with them?"  Zek''s posture indicates mixed interest.  She turns so that the vessel is in easy view of her peripheral eyes.  "And this thing?"


    Bruen pulls his tendrils closer to his body, signaling his unwillingness to answer before his elder does.


    "Robar we must return unharmed to his people," decrees Gol calmly.  "We will not be the ones to break trust.  However, we shall interrogate all three of them before we do anything further.  Somner Zek, you shall take the murderer.  Mos Bruen, your charge is the ugly one."


    At this Gel''s face darkens.  His former companion falls over, muffled laughter spilling past her gag.  Zek strikes her once, not harshly, with an upper tendril.


    Bruen tenses up, expecting another hidden attack weapon.  He relaxes when she proves only to be slightly hysterical.  The stress must be too much for her primitive mind.


    They each lead their captive off into the swamp.  Once Bruen can no longer detect his allies he stops.  He speaks to his captive in a language he knows they share, the tribal argot.


    "This is far enough.  Gel, is it?"


    He pulls the aliens knife from his belt and uses it to cut free the gag.


    "My friends call me that," answers the alien in the same tongue.  "And you''re Mos Broom."


    "Bruen.  Just Bruen is fine.  Tell me, did you steal that ship, Gel?"


    "The Bag?  No, it was," he pauses, possibly to collect his scattered thoughts.  "It was a gift, I think.  Or another trap."


    "Where did you get it?  Was it from these Navy people''s base, as Robar says?"  Bruen stands very still as he talks, trying to be as non-threatening as he can.  His tendrils remain close to his thorax, almost submissively so.


    "No.  We woke up in it, after who or what ever decided it was done with us.  Can I ask you a question?"


    Bruen remains silent, so the gray alien continues.  "I think I might know another of your kind.  Have you heard of Mos Denn?"


    Six thick lower tendrils grasp the creature by the thin stalk that holds its hideous head up.


    "Describe him to me now, and if you are wrong, I shall squeeze the life from you."


    "Well, I can''t say he''s as pretty as I am, but I may have worked with the old cuss.  Old, proud and not very cooperative most of the time.  Once we got comfortable around each other he mellowed out, but he was still very prickly about how you addressed him."


    "Yes, that sounds right.  Go on."


    "Acts like he knows better than everyone around him.  He inserted himself into the command structure of the ship.  Probably running that damn rock by now with no one to keep him in line."


    "Impossible.  I saw his corpse myself."


    "Oh, yes.  He never gets tired of telling about the wicked wizard that cut him up.  Jerry Nust, or some such."


    Bruen stiffens in shock.  He quickly releases his hold on the alien''s neck, realizing he had grasped too hard.  Gel coughs until he can breathe again.


    "What," Bruen stops.  He takes a deep breath and tries again.  "What happened?"


    The gray alien explains as much as he can.  It all lines up with what he knows of the murder.


    Bruen then extracts an outlandish tale from his captive.  A gigantic ceramic ship with nobody inside, and a trap where the victim is released unharmed in a different part of the galaxy.


    When he finishes questioning the alien merchant, Bruen leads him back to the precursor shuttle to wait for his companions.  He leaves the alien free to speak but does not yet untie his hands.  The others return after a short time with their own prisoners following behind.  Bruen notices that the other two aliens are gagged once more.


    "This one lies poorly," declares Mos Gol.  She shoves Robar forward harshly and he falls to the ground beside Gel.  Zek pushes her captive down as well.


    "Mine could lie believably, but her story was an obvious fabrication.  Her tale did not match Robar''s lies except in the broad sense of what he said in front of her."


    "What Gel says is hard to believe, but he knows other things that he shouldn''t," reports Bruen.  "I''m inclined to trust his word over the other two."


    "Agreed," responds Mos Gol.  "Repeat your story for us, gray one."

 Gellys Story 8: Whats Prisoner Transport?

    Why would Kali do that?  Tulson''s corpse isn''t even cold yet, and she doesn''t seem even slightly upset.  These thoughts keep rolling through Gelly''s mind.


    Kali and Robar had been left disarmed and tied up at the ruins of what Gelly recognizes as a tribal camp.  The aliens leave Robar''s comms unit with the Navy scum, in order for his leader to find them.  Gelly would rather drag them back to Imperium territory to face punishment for Marta''s murder, but he accepts that getting home might be easier to dream of than accomplish.


    All of their tech is loaded into the Bag, as the faceless alien had called the ship.  Gelly forces himself to strip his dead friend''s body of her suit and other equipment.  It can''t be left behind for the Navy to claim.  They''ll be able to extract the newest upgrades, and catch up in the arms race between their disparate cultures.


    Who knows what secrets Kali may already have given them.  That thought gives him the willpower necessary to perform the grisly task.  Afterwards, he fills Tulson''s pockets with stones and throws her into the deepest part of the swamp nearby.  Two of the aliens stand with him as he mourns his friend.  They watch together as her body sinks into the mud.


    The third alien, with all her armor plates, chooses to guard the shuttle.  Tribals could be lurking in the swamp.  They find her testing Kali''s flechette rifle when they return.  Swathes of the burnt trees bear fresh gauges, fibrous trunks leaking thick sap.


    Only the most suicidal tribal would show themselves while that was being fired.  She puts down the SAm20 when they enter the clearing.  Gelly has a hard time with their body language, but she almost seems embarrassed to be caught playing with a new toy.  Her wavy bits are more haphazardly flailing than usual, he thinks.  Unless that''s just the wind.


    "So.  Can I put my armor back on?"  The translator built into the helmet will be useful for communicating with the aliens.  He''d forgotten how much making the necessary sounds to speak the tribal argot strained his throat and mouth.  It hadn''t been crafted with beings like him in mind, after all.


    She makes a sweeping gesture with her many long, thin arms, like clearing something intangible away.  He takes this for a yes and gladly redons his black and gold vacuum suit.  Sharpened sticks will bounce off the metal armor but would skewer his soft gray skin.


    "We wish to use your vessel," states the armored one, Mos Gol.


    "Not one to waste time, eh?"  He fastens the helmet into place and activates the translation software.  He connects a wire from his suit to the black device the Navy scum was using to translate.  It takes him three tries to find a plug that can interface with the outdated device.


    "Correct.  This vessel could be useful to scout for additional tribal camps."  She leans closer to him and sets a couple of her long filaments on his shoulders.  "We could also use your knowledge of these Navians.  They are not the kind of allies we need, but perhaps you Merchants are."


    The old device hums quietly as it boots up.  He transfers over the files containing the Squiver''s language to his system.  Happy with the installation, he depowers the archaic translator and tosses it aside.  Its function complete, it may now rest.


    "I''m from the Selberfeld Imperium.  We''re more than just merchants.  We explore, and keep the colonies safe from outside threats," Gelly explains.  "Those two were from the remnants o'' the Coalition Navy.  The original Coalition fell apart back in me grandparents'' day, I think."


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    He rolls his shoulders, settling the weight of the armor.  "Ye help me get back to Imperium territory, and ye can keep the thing."


    The robed alien, Zek something, slithers up to him.  "I lack the strength to open portals on my own, but it lies within my power to read the traces left upon your vessel.  If we can get you back to Homeworld, it should be possible to open a pathway to the nearest habitable world that matches those leavings."


    "Mos Bruen and Somner Zek will escort you back to our base camp," says Mos Gol, who then turns to directly address the younger alien.  "Once there, send me back three soldiers to crew this contraption.  And another six to carry all this magitech back to base."


    Bruen signals his understanding, or possibly swats a flying pest, with his tendrils.  The suit can''t translate visual cues for him, so Gelly must rely on his own intuition.  His time among the tribals helps him tremendously, but his only experience with this particular race had been in combat.


    The three of them head off into the swamp.  In his sealed suit, the mud is only a mild hindrance, and it slides right off the aliens'' uniforms and bodies.  If anything, the tentacled monstrosities move more easily in the muck filled water.


    The sky is beginning to go dark when Mos Bruen signals for a halt.  Gelly readies his rifle as he looks around.  Trees with sheets of moss hanging from their many widespread branches fill his view.  Fronds grow from higher patches of dry ground, and aquatic grasses float lazily on the surface of the murky water.  His suit display highlights five heat signatures closing in on them.  Bruen must have heard them coming, or maybe smelled them.


    The closest heat source leaps from the cover of the thick vegetation.  Long, segmented body dripping with dark mud, the many chitinous legs of the tribal are segmented.  Only the front most pair are high enough out of the water to see the pincher-like claws on the ends.  The font segment of the creature houses armlong serrated mandibles with cruel hooks on the end.  An array of antennae juts forward from the being''s eyeless face.


    His SAm20 kicks and a cloud of thin electrified blades turns the tribal''s head into a brown gooey stump.  The corpse spasms, many legs sending dirty water flying.  Crueler to let them live, Gelly thinks, if we''re after the chief.  The greenery behind the dead tribal is also torn away, thin streamers of smoke rise from the charred ends of the shredded plants.


    Two more spring out from the left, close to Bruen.  Somner Zek swims away, shying away from battle.  Too busy to watch them for long, Gelly pivots, careful to find the firmest footing he can, before firing at a tribal still sneaking around to the right.  His suit gives him an advantage that he is more than willing to exploit.


    Heat readings in the direction Zek had swam off alert him to the location of the last tribal.  A loud crack and a heavy splash cause his head to snap in that direction.  Zek is floating unconscious in the water.  Silvery blood colors the dark water, spilling from the rapidly chilling corpse of the fifth savage.


    He wades over to her, even as he turns his gun towards Bruen''s fight.  One tribal is already dead, floating in the murk.  The other, a tall brown feathered being standing on long yellow scaled legs, swings its yellow scaled arms at the tattoo covered alien.  The claws never even touch him, thin filimants and thick both wrapping around the mud speckled arm of the feathered creature.


    He pulls it off balance and it falls into the mud.  Bruen goes down with it, wrapping his heavy tentacles around the savage alien''s neck and holding its black beak tightly shut.  The alien warrior drags his foe under the water.


    He seems to have it under control, so Gelly turns his attention back to Zek''s prone form.  She''s moving, twitching on the water.  The Weapons Operative places one hand tentatively on the senseless alien''s torso.  Zek jerks awake immediately and Gel steps back in sudden alarm.


    Energy levels in his battery pack had lowered drastically in the short time he was in contact with the alien.  Pained yells come from the other alien, his many tendrils wrapping around his horrible head.  Gelly''s mouth hangs open inside his helmet.


    Zek regains her senses first and moves with unusual pep to check on Bruen.  Her whiplike appendages move in complex patterns that make Gelly''s brain tingle to watch.  The odd eye in the center of his face shimmers oddly for an instant with a color that Gel can''t name.


    The male alien spasms once before releasing his head.  He straightens his black tunic, movements flustered.  Gelly resolves not to touch either of the crazy Squivers again.

 Chapter 31: Whats a Boardwalk?

    Yosip sits at his customary place, at his desk in the war room.  On the main screen are damage reports from the recent food riot.  All the damaged parts can be recycled into new components, the main loss had been from spoilage.


    The composting fields receive the surplus.  Tiny decomposers working tirelessly for the benefits of the station convert the unsavory bounty into rich soil.  Eventually, those nutrients will make their way back to our hungry citizenry, though until then many will be on short rations.


    Crews bustle between storage lockers, manufacturing bays, and the repair site.  The frustration they must feel is evident in the set of their furred brows as they work.  They move with less enthusiasm than when they had first installed these same components.


    The only exceptions are the exchange teams from Gelen''s fleet here to familiarize themselves with the tools used by the Imperium.  They still exhibit the joy of learning, and walk from completed projects with the satisfaction of a job well done.


    A second, shorter docking tower is under construction as well lengthening the original.  The main tower will continue servicing larger vessels for the foreseeable future.  The new installation is for smaller shuttles and courier ships.  Fresh recruits in crisp black and yellow uniforms shadow more experienced dock workers, learning to service engines and refresh air supplies for docked vessels, among other duties.


    "We''ll keep them too busy to pull another stunt like that," the Supply-Master states, closing the file.  "They also need to feel more personally responsible for themselves.  Acting like their parents won''t help."


    Eva Chel holds a data tablet in one hand, the other poised above it, ready to begin taking notes.


    "If they''re hungry, we can let them grow community gardens, give them control over what they plant and eat," he says slowly, eyes focused somewhere in the distance.  "Our construction teams already know how to build fields, and irrigation and all that.  What do you think?"


    The diminutive administrator nods her gray head.  "Keeping the fields out of sight hasn''t helped them, is what I think.  The more they can see being done, the less they should worry there''ll be enough to eat."


    "Right.  I have an uncle that raises grubs.  Derived from gor, but neotenous.  I''ll see about getting some shipped in.  They require a lot of attention, but they grow fast," declares the Supply-Master.


    "That should work, sir," Eva agrees with only a moment''s hesitation.  "Keep them busy, and the reward is big fat grubs every thirty odd days."


    Why not?  The refugees had dug the decomposers out of the fields for sustenance when they first arrived.  And if each housing unit is put in charge of their own gorgrubs they can''t accuse us of withholding food from them.  Of course, we''ll have to install garden plots in the residential sections for it to work, but that isn''t as large a change as it sounds.


    A few tubs of soil, an additional bit of piping to connect the plots to the water grid, and a couple of high-power lamps each.  Placeable it in any room that has both water and power access.  Not only should it cut down on waste, but it will consume large amounts of the populace''s free time.  It should even help reduce the stress on the oxygen reclamation systems.


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    "How long should it take for your uncle to send you some breeding stock?"


    "Not too long, honestly," he replies.  "I''ve already ordered a few batches.  Missed the juicy little things and was going to have a private supply.  But I''d rather hand them out and increase morale."


    "Ha!  Call the first batch a test run, and order a few thousand more," she says with a wide grin.  "If nothing else, the sba flocks can eat them if the Tserri won''t."


    Yosip nods his scarred head and taps one metal claw thoughtfully on his desk.  "Besides food, there isn''t much to honestly do up here."  He looks around the room, and none of the administrators are willing to make eye contact.


    Eva has an answer for that, too.  "Yeah, the trivee shows are great, but the Tserri are only willing to watch so many broadcasts before needing something else to do."


    "Which there isn''t," interrupts Yosip, frowning.


    "Not entirely true, sir," she responds.  "That gambling den your pet rock set up on Laceweaver Row seems to be quite the popular spot, lately."


    Some of the tenseness leaves the scarred officer''s face at her words.  "You did what, now, Mos?"


    "I did no such thing," affront drips from my simulated voice.  "What your assistant is referring to is a cultural enrichment facility.  They use it to play their tile games and meet up with friends and family members after their shifts end."


    Yosip''s tapping takes on a more focused aspect.  I would simply access the console directly, but the first thing he does is sever his connection to the rest of the station.  Whatever files he''s looking through, he manages to keep himself between my cameras and the console built into his desk.


    Frustrating.  I had never thought I would need to know so intimately the information he has available to him.  It galls me to admit that his kind would be better adapt at such things than myself.  My caste had been bred for combat ability primarily.


    "Jetanda, huh," he finally says.  "If that''s how you''ve kept her out of trouble, then I''ll ignore this."


    His aide brings him a glass of juice, heavily fortified with the additional compounds that keep his body from rejecting the many additions to it.  Yosip nods his thanks before draining the glass.


    "The facility they have access to is too small," he concludes, setting the glass down.  "We''ll need to build a few more, spread around the station.  Maybe start construction of an area dedicated to recreational activities, separate from the residential areas."


    Eva takes notes as he talks.  She''s quite efficient, never missing an opportunity to be helpful.  I wonder if Yosip knows how much she actually does for him.


    "With the available slag hauled up from the construction sites, a surface expansion might be possible," he muses.  "Use it to build a casino, right next to the docking tower, and tourism should become a lot more profitable."


    "And that also creates new jobs for some of our residents," Eva adds thoughtfully.


    "Mos, have Dunc get in contact with Jetanda.  Offer her the position of casino manager," Yosip orders.  "If she''s going to run a gambling hall on my station, she''s going to do it in a way that helps the station prosper."


    "Construction on the surface should be easier than trying to rezone an established section," declares Eva.  "I''ll start drawing up some plans for an entertainment district, centered around this new casino."


    Unsure if he wants those two to build rapport or if he thinks the old Tserri likes the young officer, I believe it might be better to instead have Donna and her brother pass the message along.  Yosip and Eva continue discussing the upcoming additions they''re overseeing while I alert the security team leader.  Dunc agrees with me and delegates the responsibility to the siblings.  Well, that or the fact that he and Spen are busy hassling Glian and can''t be bothered to actually work.

 Chapter 32: Whats a Shell Game?

    The camera is centered on Jetanda''s fur covered face, with a pair of younger males cleaning behind her.  The older female has a wide smile on her gray furred face and her eyes shine with an inner light.  All three have a similar tilt to their ears, so I assume they are her descendants.  They certainly treat her with an almost reverent deference.


    The housing unit that Donna and the other Tserri are meeting in is nicely furnished.  Deftly woven tapestries hang from the walls and thick carpets cover the floor.  Long low tables line the room, each with their own collection of grinning cubs, eyes shining up from holographic projectors.


    They exchange polite greetings before the males serve the two visitors beverages.  The two males then withdraw, leaving the three alone with their drinks.  Donan drinks somewhat awkwardly, the only one to touch his drink.


    The silence stretches out, with polite smiles fastened to each face.  Donan finishes his beverage and sets down the empty cup.  The clinking sound when Donan sets his drink down seems to act as some kind of signal, prompting the elder to speak.


    "I suppose you two are here to demand payment for all your gifts, now that you see how little control I have over my own people," the elder states suddenly.  "They''ll listen to me for a while, but they have to hear their children beg for more food more often than they hear me tell them where to get it."  She scowls and opens her mouth to continue berating them, but Donna interrupts her.


    "Not at all, Priestess," she says smoothly.  "In fact, our purpose is to prove how much the station values you."


    "That''s right," her brother adds.  "Yosip was quite impressed with how well you''ve been able to manage with so few resources at your disposal."


    Donna opens a compartment on her armor, and pulls out a flat card.  "This isn''t any good, yet.  But when the Kalibern Casino opens, it will let you open every door and give you administrator level access to its local computer network."


    Jetanda squints at the card distrustfully.  "And what will this cost me in the future?"


    Donna and Donan both make gestures of negation, but Donna is the first one to answer.


    "Very little.  Run the casino how you want, within reasons.  Hire your own staff."  She stops to take a slow sip.  "Yosip wants the benefits of a casino without the hassle of running one."


    "Happy people," Donan interjects.  "Though a bit of the money would go a long way to improve the rest of the place."


    "And what about the community center?  Let one of you uniformed thugs have it in exchange?"


    "Of course not," Donna quickly answers.  "It''s still yours.  Choose someone else to run the place, let them pay you for the privilege.  That''s your business.  And Yosip wants it to expand."


    Donan jumps in to lend his sister support.  "He''s got plans for more gathering halls; one for each residential area."


    "If you''re interested, we can take a list of names to the Supply-Master.  Let us know who you can work with, and we''ll go speak to them next."


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    She''s taking some initiative here.  Yosip probably doesn''t care who runs the new community centers, but he does like to feel that he''s the one making all the decisions.  He might take it better if he thinks this is Dunc''s idea, so I alert the young officer.


    "This better be important, you stupid rock," complains Dunc, muttering to the concealed speaker in the water filter.  "We''re kinda busy."


    He and Spen are leading a female tourist on a private tour, and they don''t much like my interrupting their impromptu expedition to the aqua farms.  The things youths do to impress one another, silly as they are, are a rite of some significance.  Knowing this, I keep the volume quite low, so as to not disturb their guest.


    "This won''t take long," I quietly reassure him.  "Just passing some information along to help you look like a hard-working officer.  If you don''t want the opportunity, then I can let you be."


    "What you lookin'' at so hard?"


    "Nothing important, Spen, just looking over the filter.  I helped install a bunch of these, you know."  He looks over at the camera and frowns but nods fractionally before looking back at his partner, a smile on his face.  "This one needs a couple adjustments.  You two go on ahead, yeah?"


    "Ooh, my mom would love some of those for her party tomorrow night," exclaims the young lady, grabbing Spen''s arm.  "Where can we get some?"  She points excitedly at the small sleak creatures darting around the tank.  "They look so tasty!"


    "Yeah," the officer answers.  "There''s a stand not too far away.  Up by the garage, you know the place, Dunc?"


    "Sure, the russet furred cook.  See you there."  He bends over the filtration unit, ostensibly to loosen a cover plate.


    Spen leads his friend off down the tunnel.  Once they pass beyond hearing I relay the list of names and locations to him.  I make sure he knows that it was Donna''s doing.  He regains his cocky smile after and heads off with a brief thanks.


    It really isn''t fair to Donna.  She''s doing the work, but won''t receive any credit.  How can we make it up to her?  Station files have a number of minor infractions, many of them still unpaid.  She had originally come to Yosip''s attention after being caught selling stolen goods.


    If she''s having financial troubles, that''s something I can fix.  By listing myself as a station employee, I''m entitled to an income.  I also have very little use for credits, so enough to cover her debt should be within my power.


    I wait until she and her brother are alone in a tunnel before letting her know about her bonus.  She jumps when she hears my voice, but quickly calms down.


    "You did what, now?"  Her voice is calm, almost icy, though her glare is hot enough to melt glass.  Her brother stands off to one side, keeping a vigilant watch for passing criminals.


    "I transferred a large sum of credits to your account," I reply.  "More than enough to pay off your legal obligations to the station, or whatever you choose to do with it."


    "That part I understand," she states slowly, clearly enunciating her words.  "I''ve also handed Jetanda enough bribes lately that I can recognize when I''m being offered one."


    Her midnight fur stands almost on end, though her body is relaxed, leaning forward slightly.  Her upper claws twitch slightly, in her clear eagerness to know how she can repay my kindness.


    "I don''t want you to do anything."


    She and her brother share a glance in silence.  Donan nudges his sister with the back of his claws, urging her to thank me, undoubtedly.  He mumbles something to her, but the only word I can understand is Skint.


    "Wait.  No, I know what this is.  You want a favor back.  Later." Pacing back and forth, she''s getting quite worked up.  "Fine.  But my price isn''t so small.  Pay off Skint''s debt, too."


    It takes only a moment to access Skint''s files, and they are in an even worse state that hers had been.  Fines for property damage, personal assault, and all of that compounded by failure to pay.  Somehow he had gotten so deeply in debt that he''ll never be able to pay it off.  It drains my personal account to the bottom and still isn''t enough.


    Dunc''s voice interrupts us, over his underling''s suit comms.  "You two''ve been doing good work," he says.  "And I think you deserve a reward.  Take the rest of the shift off, we''ll discuss this tomorrow first thing."


    The siblings are quiet for some time as they digest the latest from their boss.  It seems Dunc has had time to report back to Yosip, and wants to thank them properly for his good fortune.

 Chapter 33: Whats a Lunch Meeting?

    The table seems more crowded than it is, with the five of them sitting around it.  Dunc and Spen with their new friend sit on one side of the table, and on the other are Donna and her brother Donan.  None of them are armored, though the few other patrons of the restaurant give them plenty of room.


    They stand out in their matching black and yellow uniform tunics, with only the gray female dressed in more casual clothing.  Her longer red tunic shines like a light amongst the dark sea of fabric around her, drawing glances from the other diners.  The garment is expensive, made from fabrics unavailable on the station, and scatters the light around her in a subtle nimbus.


    They''ve already finished their meal and are enjoying one of the wines produced by my auto-brewery.  The Tserri siblings are enjoying it more than the other three.  The young female whose name I still haven''t learned takes only a single sip before handing her glass over to Spen.  He drains it in a single long gulp before returning to his own glass with a grimace.


    "So what are we here to discuss, Dunc?"


    "When I spoke with the Supply-Master," Dunc says with a smile, "he wanted to expand the number of security teams.  He even asked who I thought would be best to place in charge of a second team."  He wipes some dreadful red sauce off his face, then places the disposable napkin on the smeared plate.


    "I''ll be taking over command of our current squad," Spen adds, to the delight of his female companion.  "With Dunc keeping his position as head of security."


    "And you''ve probably guessed by now, but I suggested you lead the second team."


    Donna''s eyes widen, the weight of new authority settling on her obvious to my senses.  Her nostrils flare, as if seeking sign of spoor in the air, some additional insight into how she should respond.  "My, my brother?"


    "You can have him as your second," answers Dunc.  "Yosip assumed you would, anyway," he finishes with his characteristic cocky grin.  "But the rest of your squad are all going to be new hires.  You know Eva Chel?  She''ll be helping you pick from the potential candidates.


    Donan sits silently, glass of wine forgotten in his claw.  His sister fidgets in place, eyes far away, though her ears twitch in response to Dunc''s words.  The gray officer leans back in his chair, enjoyment evident upon his features.


    "Your squad will be serving closely with the resident population, while Spen''s will be more concerned with the tourists and rock haulers.  And I''ll be sitting up in the war room with the Supply-Master, directing both of you from afar."


    "I feel left out," pouts the female tourist.  "Everyone''s getting promotions but me."


    The Tserri siblings stifle laughter, looking anywhere but at the gray tourist.  Dunc shrugs before entering a new order, tapping covertly at the keyboard built into the table.


    "Nah, Gelest, we''re here for you, this is just a little business while we wait for the sweets course," Dunc cagily addresses the female.  His partner jumps as if kicked, though I don''t think Gelest notices.


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    "Truly," adds Spen as he reaches down to rub his leg.  "This is the only place on the station that serves your favorite desert.  It should be on its way now, in fact."


    One of the workers brings out a covered tray, moving through the mostly empty restaurant.  Shortages from the riot are causing rises in the price of food, and most are unable to afford to eat anything not cooked at home.  The server sets the tray down on their table and withdraws gracefully, murmuring polite thanks to his guests and bearing the remains of the previous dish with him.


    Gelest can barely contain her excitement, wringing her hands together and staring at the tray.  When Spen lifts the lid, thick mounds of some fluffy substance, mostly light beige but darker on top, is revealed and she squeals happily.  Dunc picks up the utensil provided and divides the dish into five portions.  The others wait patiently but Gelest begins eating as soon as her bowl is in front of her.


    The others join her, laughing and joking among themselves, enjoying the rare happy moment in the middle of their stressful lives.  Dunc pays for the meal, transferring credits at the table, and the group gets up to leave.  Spen opens the door for his group, and blue liquid splashes all over him.  Azure fluid drips off of him like hot blood.


    Ah.  Cameras outside the establishment show a group of Tserri, marching in a line in front of the diner.  Several of the four-armed beings bear aloft large tapestries, held apart in their claws.  Upon these woven cloths are slogans such as ''Your Waste Shrinks Our Waists'', and ''Agriworlders Have Had Enough''.


    The Tserri protestor who had thrown the first bucketload moves out of the way, and another well-armed individual takes his place.  The newcomer tosses the contents of their bucket straight at the doorway, and Spen dodges back into the diner.  Paint fills the air with blue droplets that splatter all over the off-duty security personnel and ruins their uniforms.


    The protestors cheer when they see the results, happy to have made their point.  Gelest''s good mood falls quickly, as ruined as her clothing.  The crowd yells out their pet phrases even as the security leaders begin to break up the gathering.  Armored reinforcements make it hard to argue with Dunc''s shouted commands.


    I capture images of the protestors and send them along to the war room.  Someone there can start the work of identifying the agitators.  If any of these are the same as the warehouse rioters, they''ll be receiving a much more severe punishment.


    The expansion of the security force is long overdue.  While they could easily protect the original population of only a few hundred, the current hundreds of thousands is simply too much for a single squad.  Two teams might not be enough, but it doesn''t make sense to promote a bunch of untested squad leaders and hope for the best.


    It will be far safer to expand slowly, even if that means being unable to properly enforce order in the meantime.  My own people breed the different castes in proportion, to maintain balance, but this casteless society where everyone must choose and earn their own place functions differently.  Though the propensity for power to remain within certain familial groups appears to be a universal constant, as evidenced by the better opportunities presented to the offspring of those families as compared to less blessed aspirants.


    The testing process the Tserri describe sounds even worse, as most lack passion for their assigned profession and all are without inborn abilities designed to help them fulfill a proscribed function.  My people may be without freedom of choice but at least are well suited for the roles they''re born into.  The Tserri take well to the local customs, as odd as I might find them.


    In fact, the role in which I now serve is far removed from that to which I had been born.  Among my own kind, I would never be expected to carry messages or to plan the uses of laborers.  Such tasks would fall to the appropriate castes and to me would be given the duty of preserving their safety.  Well, that at least I can still do, if only vicariously.

 Chapter 34: Whats a Work Release Program?

    There is no excess room set aside for the storage of criminals aboard Kalibern Station.  Upon being deemed guilty of a crime against their fellows, the condemned must instead labor for the good of those they had wronged.  Work crews are careful not to place too many offenders together; trusted workers must keep the troublesome elements under direct supervision.


    The crew I''m watching now are laboring to extract valuable materials from the raw rock of our home.  Precious aluminum compounds fill storage containers as fast as the workers can break it free from the stone binding it in place.  The drills they use are large and dangerous, but crew leaders carry devices that allow them to remotely shut down any unit they deem necessary to still.


    The suits of those here to redeem their past failures are kept purposefully default.  The Tserri love of ornamentation and personalization is denied to the forced laborers.  It helps to distinguish them from the regular members of the work teams.  Only numbers written in the Selber script adorn the plain yellow suits, each corresponding to an easily accessed shut-down signal on the control rods carried by the overseers.


    A valid precaution, as even now two of the quarrelsome workers have come to blows.  Sparks fill the air around them as the drills they wield strike and skip across their armor, screeching and smoking due to the strain.  The armored vacuum suits they wear protect them from any real harm, but the delay will cause disruptions all throughout the station.


    The leader shuts down all the tools in the vicinity, to remove them as options for the two fighters, and the rest of the crew surround them in a loose ring.  At their leader''s urging the noose tightens, though the brawlers take no notice.


    Another signal from the crew leader''s device causes the second generation suits the combatants wear to lock in place.  As soon as they stop moving, the circle of crew around them drags the two apart.  No doubt additional fines will be issued against them, further lengthening the time they must serve to pay off their debts.


    Not very fair, but it is far kinder than the executions they would have earned if they were casteless laborers of my own people.  Service there is seen as a way to earn distinction, potentially even an invitation to a caste-sponsored spawning pool.  However, with as precious few spawn as these people seem to produce, their evolution has taught them to value individuals quite dearly.


    Even these rough living individuals are in a better position than those poor creatures of Gelen''s fleet.  We already weren''t sending them enough to eat, but with the recent setbacks they receive even less from us.  I haven''t any idea how much Matron Bell is shipping up to them, nor what debts they are incurring in order to feed themselves.


    The metals this crew is digging up will be put to use creating additional aquatic farms.  Despite the constant work to increase the yield, there still never seems to be enough food for everyone.  Shipments from Honus still arrive almost daily, packed full of frozen meats and dry grains.  They leave again full of textiles and small devices, trade that favors the planet bound.


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    On rare occasions the surface of the planet reveals itself to the array of scanners built into the outer surface of the station, though usually little of interest presents itself.  Broad swathes of the planet remain uninhabited, with only the one major city and a few small farming settlements taking up little of the available land.  Today the view is subtly different than the last good sighting I had taken.


    Large causeways, visible with only minor magnification, are under construction, stretching between the smaller outposts and the central hub of Centra.  Not only that, but much larger patches of the refractive native flora have been cleared, presumably for more farmland.  Checking a few recent logs shows that a pair of passenger vessels have recently been through the system, dropping off new colonists eager to wrest a living from foreign soil.


    The influx of farmers are surely here to take advantage of both the rich fields of the planet as well as a captive market.  The Tserri fleet has little option but to purchase anything they can, even at increased prices.  The debt they are accruing will take much work to redeem.


    Small vessels of an assortment of designs stream between the world below and Kalibern.  Most of the traffic still lands in Centra but a small portion of it now diverts from the main flow and makes ground in the easternmost of the growing towns along the rim of the cultivated region.  The density of overlapping local signals makes it difficult to make out any detail, but it is evident that the population is expanding almost as rapidly on the surface as above it.


    I''ve never been on one world long enough to see them as anything more than staging grounds for battles or invasions, yet my prolonged stay in Honus system has gifted me new insight.  Though their behavior is often strange to me, these are the kinds of people I had spent my life fighting to protect.  Peaceful, hard-working people only interested in making a better place in which their young may thrive.


    Even the Tserri are but victims, played false by an unknown intelligence acting for its own inscrutable interests.  No longer driven to war against the Selberfeld Imperium, they are, generally, happy to pursue peaceful occupations.  Those troublemakers serving among the work crews would have been content if only they had food enough and some forms of entertainment or expression.


    Donan and a recruit arrive to escort the two from the mining site, laughing at some joke between them.  They quickly regain a more serious demeaner once within the dimly lit work area.  The crew leader greets them and leads them to the troublemakers.  Their drills sit nearby the pair, next to the harvested ores.  A disgruntled older Tserri watches over them and is relieved to be freed to return to his work; his pay is related to the amount of stone hauled each day.


    Neither offender seems eager to add more charges, and more forced labor, to their problems and are cooperative.  They follow the officers up the tunnel, heavy suits sending deep reverberations through the stone.  The roughhewn tunnels wind through the guts of the rock, following seams of mineral deposits.  At the moment they are nearly airless and will remain so until construction teams are able to install ventilation ducts.


    The workers remove their suits upon arrival at the checkpoint separating the breathable parts of the station from the work zone.  Their damp fur must reek of organic musk, and I''m again thankful for my essential distance from the sights I observe.  After only a little convincing, Donan allows them to clean up before continuing their escort duties.


    Construction teams vehemently refuse to install cameras in the rest areas, so for all I know they might busily rub themselves with wet sand and excrete a fresh coating of fur.  The amount of fur regularly in the showers'' water filters lends credence to my theory, though the lack of sand is hard to explain.

 Chapter 35: Whats a Regional Dialect?

    After many stress inducing meetings, Yosip finally agrees with some of Jetanda''s unusual requests.  He''s letting her choose the attractions in the main area, despite his misgivings.  She also has final say over the decorations and staff uniforms, though they must still meet minimum station standards.


    The primary game she wishes to promote is the tile game she and her cohorts are so fond of.  She will also be including rooms dedicated to the dice games many of the crew enjoy, as well as games of chance more familiar to the tourists up from Honus.


    Rather than allow her to employ her own security force, he drafts plans for a third squad that has protecting the casino as its primary duty.  The fact that the old one gets to pick the leader of the third team is still a delicate subject with the Supply-Master.  The new squad will also receive first pick of the new stun weapons, in order to better protect the station''s investment.  This is one of the few points of total accord among the two.


    She makes concessions as well, such as paying a high rent rather than a portion of her income.  Keeping Yosip away from her records seems to be one of her biggest concerns.  As the Supply-Master is not truly concerned with the casino''s profit, he gains more from simply knowing she wants to withhold secrets from him.


    Neither party is entirely happy with what they must give up to the other, but I couldn''t be more pleased.  All the construction orders, tool use logs, and fabricator records have to go through systems that I have autonomous control over.  Easy opportunities to add additional audio and visual surveillance devices to the plans abound, and I waste no time.


    The casino will be shaped much like the spreading fungus domes of a farmers'' field, with one larger central sphere serving as the main entryway and attraction.  Smaller domes attach to it as if spreading from the mother stalk, to hold the lesser attractions.  The staff areas hide below the native rock, much like the mycelium that makes up the true body of the visible growths.


    Access rooms for the water systems, air filtration plants, electrical wiring and many other necessary links join the casino to the main station.  Any true isolation she imagines she''s gaining by keeping her own accounting is illusory at best.  A happier illusion is the impression of openness the large space provides.  By using thick glass to allow guests to see the craggy surface of the rock we live on, and bright lights to chase away any pools of shadow inside, they make it seem more spacious inside than it truly is.


    Adding to the atmosphere she wishes to develop are several plants grown from seeds brought from the Tserri''s home world.  Originally intended for medicinal use, the seeds quickly found root when the furry people learned of agriculture.  The plants Jetanda brings in are the result of providential accident, but the workers seeing them planted in the open halls almost universally stop and smile at the sight.  Many of them halt to run their claws among the spiraling leaves of the dense vines and inhale the heady scents which I can only recognize through their presence as chemical data on the air filter reports.


    The plants are a nice touch, a small piece of home for the population to enjoy.  The small vermin that make up the lowest levels of the emerging biosphere enjoy the plants as well.  The black-shelled little creatures lack susceptibility to the mild toxin the plants use as a defense, never having evolved the receptors the toxin targets.


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    A sleek stonefeather swoops silently down and catches one of the vermin before flying back to its hidden roost.  The small pest never evolved defenses against flying predators, either.  Lifeforms from many worlds struggle against each other, finding their place within this small, enclosed world.


    Long term visitors from Gelen''s Tent are finally ready to depart.  The first successfully rebuilt vessel of the many yet waiting for service will not actually be doing any mining or hauling.  Not for quite some time.  Instead, it will be serving as a mobile supply depot and meeting grounds for the disparate members of the fleet.  As such, the interior is now carved into vast swaths of apartment suites interrupted by regular meeting rooms and grand dining halls.  The Tent also houses a more expansive system of interconnecting hangars and service bays.


    The permanent residents of the station breath slightly easier in the temporary luxury of so much unoccupied space.  Now that Gelen''s Tent has so much housing within it, the next ship to dock with us does so with a much-reduced complement of crew.  These temporary guests need not displace our citizenry during their stay, being sufficiently small in number to use the same hotels as the tourists.


    The Tserri that amble out of the docked vessel are lean, lacking any excess fat, and have long slanting scars across their thick fur.  They''re well-armed; knives of an unusual, hooked design hang from their belts and the butts of rifles jut past their shoulders.  Leather armor covers their torsos, protecting soft tissues vulnerable to enemy attack.


    While the translations software recognizes the guttural barks and growls that issue forth from them as similar to the language spoken aboard the station, it is clear that this is a distinct dialect almost immediately.  I suppose it''s reasonable, as each ship had landed in a different region to collect the local tribes.  Each of the monstrous wedges must have contained cultures that had but scant knowledge of each other, before becoming a single group united only by shared loss of identity.


    Nearly feral beasts walk at the feet of these Tserri, sleek running creatures with sharp hooves and forward-facing nests of horns.  The creatures are small, thankfully, coming only to midthigh on the thin hunters, but aggressive.  Short charges act as warning if strangers walk too close, as Dunc learns when he goes to greet the two spokespersons of the visitors.


    The creature collides with the heavily armored officer, not harming the youth, but shaking him fiercely inside his metal shell.  Dunc laughs uncomfortably and continues walking past the beast.  One of the newcomers calls it back, and it returns to her side with shaky steps.


    "Most would jump aside," she remarks, stroking the creature''s dun pelt.  She doesn''t lift her eyes from the angry creature as she checks its horns for fractures or chipping.  A snort escapes her nostrils at something she finds, but low resolution in the docking tower prevents me from knowing what.


    "Is it hurt?"


    "That is normally what I must ask," comments the other.  His scar slashed coat is a slightly darker orange than the female, though they share similar stripes of white fur across the eyes.  "Not all are fast enough to avoid their horns."


    Another of the beasts stands at the male''s side.  Its horns are smaller, though just as numerous.  The beast at his side is more delicately built and only slightly less combative.  Sharp hooves scrape at the deck plating, daring Dunc to approach.


    "Most aren''t wearing armor that can withstand heavy blaster assault, either," returns the officer with a servo assisted shrug.


    The female Tserri looks up at him long enough to be sure he sees her glare before she returns to her pet.


    "I''m going to have to ask you to leash your creatures," Dunc says flatly.

 Chapter 36: Whats a Mortuary?

    Several biological niches remain empty aboard the station, some by conscious decision. There is little place here for an apex predator, for instance. Smaller predatory species, which can serve in times of hunger, are encouraged to keep pests down, but nothing larger is nutritionally economical. In some ways it resembles a cave biosphere, where apex predators are seldom larger than two ubits long.


    Most larger herbivores are also missing, as they would compete with the residents for many of the same edible plants. One day we might have herds of gau, but for now small flocks of sba provide protein in the form of eggs. The feathered creatures lay a clutch of three eggs at a time every few days. The Tserri may not have known about agriculture, but they are no strangers to animal husbandry. Children scurry about, searching for eggs each morning and their laughter is a true delight to my sensors.


    The Tserri residents take to the raising of gorcatchers quickly enough, though there are many complaints about the ugliness of the squat creatures. Hairless skin of a mottled gray and green pattern isn''t very attractive, I must agree. The beasts redeem themselves by being packed with nutrition, and I must assume, flavor.


    The squat little things can be seen hopping around the caverns set aside for decomposition, catching the hard-shelled vermin that abound in the area with their long tongues. They need little tending and control their own numbers through cannibalism if allowed to breed unchecked, though the constant demands for more meat do not allow that eventuality to occur.


    The aggressive horned creatures are of little interest to most of the residents. Too much effort for meat that their keepers describe as tough and flavorless. A true pity, as they are of a size to take advantage of the tallest plants growing in the decomposition caverns. Their dung is no doubt a wonderful stratum in which crops might thrive.


    Stonefeathers also flutter about the various caverns and tunnels bored into the gigantic rock, feasting on flying vermin that the gorcatchers are unable to devour. Among the feathered hunters are my dronefeathers, disguised as living creatures. Wonderful mobile cameras that I can remotely operate if need be. Only two so far, but they provide useful coverage of places otherwise outside of my view.


    As I''m taking stock of the growing biosphere actively converting the station''s waste into fresh soil, rifle fire echoes through the enclosed space. I quickly check the various cameras in the area, but the unseen shooter obviously knows where the coverage is lacking; no images of the altercation are accessible.


    One of my dronefeathers flits over to where the sounds originate, and through the artfully disguised eyes of the artificial creature I make out a familiar figure. Spen Dondrik stands above the body of a Tserri, fully arrayed in his armored vacuum suit. The body on the ground is dressed in light green station casual, and while I do not recognize him, his ears are attached to his brown-furred head in a way that reminds me of Jetanda.


    Spen raises his rifle and before I can pilot the drone away, he depresses the firing stud. Electrified flechettes rip my poor drone into ragged edged components and the feed cuts off. Only one drone remains to me, and I''ll be sure to properly thank the traitorous Selber officer.


    I attempt to access the cameras in his suit, but the attempt ends in failure. The bastard has disabled my access to the equipment! His heavy footfalls allow me to guess in which direction he flees, though he manages to remain out of my visual range.


    Messages to both the Supply-Master and the old Tserri matriarch burn their way across communication systems. No matter how fast Spen pushes his suit, he cannot outrun his fate. I include images of the slain Tserri in the messages, proof of Spen''s misdeed.


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    Jetanda is the first to reply, and I choose not to repeat the phrases she utters in her righteous anger, justified though they might be. Such a response is far below her dignity, and she would be gently reprimanded if she were of my caste for her unseemly display. The actual content of her message is one of which I approve; vengeance is a fine thing.


    From the Supply-Master a message containing slightly less profanity arrives soon after. Quickly regaining his composure, Yosip orders the security squads to apprehend the fleeing officer. The only way off the station is through the docking tower, and the security force races to beat their disgraced comrade to it.


    Unsure of his exact route as we are, it would be inadvisable to employ the lockdown partitions. Too many vital station functions would be hampered over something that will be resolved soon enough anyway. Therefore, I must trust in those whose duty it is to protect the station from harm to do their job and instead focus on the body cooling on the ground.


    As yet there is no protocol for the handling of the deceased. None have yet died here, save this member of Jetanda''s clan. Even the food riots did not cause casualty beyond the scope of our healers'' abilities. My first instinct is to have the body rendered into its components and spread across the composting fields. That would be most efficient, but my experiences with other races have led me to believe that efficiency is not the guiding principle of their lives.


    I recall from observing the trivee programs popular among the populace that the Selber people often choose to consign their dead to the ground. It is unknown as yet how the Tserri treat their fallen members, but if their traditions are similar then that might be future trouble. Quarters are cramped caring for the living and the processes that keep them so; providing storage for the deceased is a luxury unavailable to us at this time.


    Perhaps a compromise, with one of their emotion-fueled ceremonies before an efficient rendering of the deceased, unseen by the masses. I send a potential ceremony site and date to the aggrieved and hope she''ll accept this mollifying gesture. She is slow in replying, thinking me perhaps one of the unappreciated administrators in Yosip''s employ. Regardless, she agrees but asks about how the body will be interred.


    Bother. I ask her to describe how her people would normally treat the matter, and the result is enlightening.


    "The deceased are left for a time in their home. The spirit needs the familiar to prepare for the journey ahead. During this time, the rest of the village refrains from eating, so not to taunt the dead. When the hunger becomes too much, the body is taken from the village.


    The body should be taken to a high place and left beneath the streaming stars. Tokens are left by the friends and family, little gifts to help the spirit of the dead find the spring of new life. Dried food, tools or weapons. I left tight rolls of cord beside my eldest brother. The body feeds the wild creatures and increases their number, ensuring the continuance of the tribe."


    Well, that isn''t too bad. A small memorial garden atop the docking tower does not sound unreasonable, as a means of disposing of the dead. First the request has to be sent off to the individual I''ve been having design rooms as I need to add them. The actual construction should be the work of only two shifts, I believe, though that that can be made faster by increasing the assigned number of laborers.


    Marta would have had strong opinions on which plants to decorate the area with, I''m sure, though I think practicality might be the more important factor here. Plants that produce edible fruits or roughage should be prioritized. Among the suitable samples available to me, the best candidate is a vine that produces tart berries, native to the Selber home world. There are two different varieties, and both will be featured prominently in the new area.


    The vines like to cling to rocky surfaces, according to the notes Marta left in the database. I include instructions to decorate the memorial garden to resemble a natural cliff face to the design request. One of the Tserri administrative assistants working under Eva Chel has shown herself to be a deft hand at interior decoration.


    Just as I finish sending instructions to the young administrator, Yosip begins to speak directly to me.


    "Are you paying attention, Mos? Dunc is furious. What happened to Spen?"

 Bruens Story 12: Whats a Civil Dispute?

    The gray alien pulls his knife from the still twitching body of the dead tribal. The tripodal creature is the last of this group, who now lay in cooling mounds around the trio. Bruen spots a gleam, shining from one of the many clawed creatures as it sinks below the water.


    He directs Zek to search the corpse while he keeps watch for more threats. The alien splashes his way over to stand beside the young general. Each watching a different direction, they scan the murky swamp for signs of more of the vicious primitives.


    "Clear," declares Bruen.


    "Aye."


    Zek bursts from the muddy water at that moment, a small object that multiplies the light striking it into a blinding rainbow clasped in all her tendrils. Unwilling to upset her, Bruen allows the young Somner to keep her shiny crystal. She''ll let him know what it is when the mood takes her. He indulgently turns to lead the small group back to their camp.


    The ground beneath them begins to rise as they walk, becoming firmer as it climbs above the level of the water. Thick fronds wind across the ground, holding it safe against the hungry water. Bruen catches the young thaumatist with more than the usual number of eyes tracking him during the short trek and tries not to worry about what she plans.


    The fronds give way to tall mushrooms with visible mycelium as thick as his tentacles plunging into the rich black soil. Vines wrap their pale trunks and hang from the caps high above. Small buzzing things like balls of blue fur with wings flit between stalks. Flat chitinous beasts scurry about on segmented legs, feasting on fallen leaves.


    Something small and fast strikes the stalk of a nearby fungus, a few ubits above their heads. Bits of wet pulp strike Bruen''s face. Loud chittering draws the groups attention, and three of the asymmetrical tripods scuttle out from hiding spots in the fungal forest.


    In their smaller claws are metal and wood weapons resembling the rifles the gray people favor. Around their yellowish shells are tightfitting garments of the same smokey color as the mushrooms. Bags strapped to their hard backs bulge with objects. One of them steps forward and makes louder demands in its stacatto language.


    The armored gray alien walks forward to meet the tripod between the two groups. After a few short and frustrating exchanges and much waving of weaponry Gelly''s suit makes sufficient progress in translating the natives'' language. He begins to relate the demands of the primitives.


    "They want us to leave, and to kill any chiefs as we come across."


    "Let them know that we shall honor their requests to the best of our capacity," Bruen flippantly replies.


    "They also want our guns."


    "Not just yet," he says slowly. "First we must show them how they work."


    "Aye."


    The two turn at almost the same moment, unleashing fire at their waylayers. Gelly''s charged flechettes strike the leader with two clouds of sharp metal, but his final shot drifts to the left.


    "Mud," complains the alien, face darkening behind the visor of his helm.


    Bruen''s own rifle beam sends burning light into the unprotected bodies of the other two and slices one nearly in half. A lump of metal fired by one of them strikes the young general in the thorax before the energy beam sears its way through the tripodal being. The smell of burnt flesh fills the already aromatic air. Three smoking corpses fall to the soggy soil.


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    Zek stands contentedly, watching one of the blue fuzzballs flitter about.


    "We can dig it out of ye later, run," shouts the gray alien.


    More projectiles strike the trunks around them and the three apply themselves to running. Gelly places himself behind the others, and Bruen can hear metal ping off the armored form more than once as they run. Blue soaks Bruen''s tunic and shines in the dim light. He starts to feel dizzy from the loss of blood but forces himself to keep moving.


    The shooting stops right before they reach the portal. A squad of eight patrol the area and run over to assist when they see the state of the young general. Unable to speak through the weakness and pain, he can only listen as the Somner directs the troopers.


    They fetch her the supplies she needs to operate, as well as sending a team out into the swamp to reinforce Mos Gol. His unresisting form is carried through the portal, though he retains consciousness. The armored alien stays by his side the entire way but takes up a position outside the medical tent.


    His impressions are blurry, but he sees vague images of the thaumatist hovering over him before all else is subsumed in his awareness of the hole in his chitin. She speaks to him, but the words are meaningless in his delirium. Pain blossoms like an undersea eruption before sizzling away into numb relief.


    When the world stops spinning, he can see her standing above him. Blood runs down her upper tendrils, and one of them clutches a crumpled lump of lead. Her bearing is proud, though she holds her pedipalps contritely.


    "I assume I''ll live," Bruen manages to state, and notices a new catch in his breathing. It doesn''t hurt, but that could just be the lingering effects of whatever Zek did while he was barely aware. "Use it when you make me a new spear, Somner," he says, with a gesture to the spent projectile she holds. The way his voice rasps slightly causes her to flinch.


    The young thaumatist nods once when he does not continue and withdraws from the tent. Before the flap can fully swing closed black gauntlets pull it open again. Gelly walks inside, his armored form filling the cramped interior.


    "Some old one, Ryul? Riyl? Whatever, he came lookin'' for ye. Turned his self around and went the other way when he seen me," the alien chortles.


    "We don''t let most aliens into our camps," explains Bruen. "Especially not as well armed as yourself, merchant."


    "Sure. Ye able to show me to the mess tent, or should I just try nibblin'' on a bit of everythin'' lyin'' around?"


    The thought of the gray alien eating Zek''s supplies inspires Bruen to stand. When his tentacles refuse to support him, the armored officer leaps forward to support his limp body. Gelly helps the young general back onto his cot.


    "Just flag down an unmodified soldier," Bruen gasps from the uncomfortable bedding.


    Gelly does so, and Bruen orders the casteless soldier to bring back enough food for them both. The gray officer pulls his helmet off and sets it beside the entrance. Seeing no obvious seating he drops to the ground, legs folding beneath him.


    The officer keeps up a running commentary in his odd dialect, preventing Bruen from sinking into the void of sleep. Bruen is relating a story from his training when the tent flap opens. The soldier returns, baskets held in his lower tendrils from which angry hissing can be heard.


    "We''re very far away from any coastal hatcheries, how did you manage live misr?"


    The foreign officer seems confused, but a glance at the envy obvious in the casteless warrior''s behavior, how he reluctantly releases the basket into Bruen''s eager clutches and understanding lights his two lonely eyes.


    "Mos Riyl had them carried here when he saw what your dust eater was leading around." A pointed look with his primary eyes at the officer in question accompanies this statement. "Enjoy them," the warrior adds, then places the second basket into Gelly''s gauntleted hands.


    Bruen opens his basket, careful not to let any of the misr out, and extracts one of the creatures with his upper tendrils. The animal is half a ubit long, and striped black and red, with white speckles along its back. Limbless and covered in leathery folds of skin, the creature''s face is dominated by its snapping mouth. Bruen slurps it up, crunching the tiny bones with relish.


    "Have one before ye go?" Gelly generously offers his basket to the soldier. He helps himself before the odd alien can change his mind, and Bruen stifles his reaction. The soldier may never gain such a chance again. Bruen continues eating, pretending not to notice the exchange.


    Once the casteless soldier leaves, Bruen remarks quietly, "You may have given him false hope. Do you wish him as a personal retainer?"


    "He looked like he wanted one," says Gelly, unconcerned. The clumsy creature crushes the poor misr before it''s even out of the basket, but Gelly eats it anyway. "I''ve eaten worse."


    "The misr are reserved for upper castes and their personal favorites. By gifting Drev one, you''ve told the camp you favor him, or have some dire need he can fulfil. For the honor you bestowed upon him, Drev will follow you anywhere."


    "They''re no so good as that," grouses the alien.

 Chapter 37: Whats Self Awareness?

    Chapter 37:  What''s Self Awareness?


    Livid.  That exact shade of angry, where one finds words inadequate and the heat of passion crowds out all other sensation.  Dunc stands before the camera, bits away and veritably vibrating in his livid state.  The skin stretches tight around eyes dilating with emotion.  His face shines with grease in the artificial lighting.


    "Where?"  The only word he''s managed to say since the Supply-Master brought him into the war room.  His tunic is in disarray and oils leak from his skin, staining the dark fabric.  Rather than attempt to reason with the distraught officer, I contact Zra in the medical center.


    The Tserri healer sends a young nurse up with a tranquilizer, as well as a portable vitals monitor attuned to his kind.  The nurse never has a chance to tranquilize the troubled officer, as he drops to the ground upon her entry.  Convulsions wrack his body.


    Administrators leap to assist, securing the fallen officer by his limbs before he can injure himself, thrashing about.  The nurse keeps her composure and rushes to apply her equipment.  She slaps a metallic fabric band around his wrist, and a larger one around his neck.  They fit snugly without hampering his breathing or movement.


    Information quickly flows from the bands to her device, and the nurse''s fur bristles.  She adjusts the bands and runs the scans again.  "His body''s full of a biological toxin.  It isn''t in the data banks," her voice is calm, though her amber fur remains on end.


    While she works, I review random footage, hoping to stir up images of some meaning from the vast amount of data we amass each day.  I find video of Dunc and Spen performing morning duties separately.  Then at their lunch break they share a meal, dining at the crew cafeteria.


    The two of them leave together and are lost to station cameras afterwards.  Checking various potential locations, I find Dunc''s armor docked in Glian''s garage, undergoing repairs.  I power it on, causing the mechanic to jump back and issue a rather rude statement.


    The camera operates correctly, showing the startled father push his child behind himself.  The data stored inside the suit transfers in moments, and I allow the suit to turn back off.  The last image it transmits is the face of the young child peeking from behind her protective father.


    Because of her skill in sorting data quickly, I also decide to send a copy of the suit''s memory to Eva Chel.  In the war room her workstation signals her of the data transfer.  She glances up at the camera where Dunc had been looming previously before snorting quietly and setting to work.


    The most recent files show Spen accompanying him to the garage after Dunc''s shift ended.  The camera outside falls victim to vandals before they exit.  It still isn''t transmitting, so I add the task to the endless list of repairs for the station technicians.  Checking the audio files from sensors near the exits of the district rewards me with a short snippet.


    "-Tussa''s even here.  Just trying to scare-"


    They move past before Dunc can respond, but I know which exit they had used.  The camera in that area still operates, though the image it sends is of dubious quality.  Thick stone dust obscures the view.  Vague black and gray blurs cross the covered area at the correct time, and they turn at the ramp leading to the docking tower.


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    I find them again on an upper level of the tower.  The view is poor, vines hang in the way, but I am confident that I see an armored hand wave about, adorned with skulls and the distinctive under patterning that marks the security teams.  From the unobscured half of the view charges a Tserri I recognize.  His lifeless body now lies in his home, where his neighbors go without food in his honor.


    The doomed Tserri clutches an oblong object in one claw and uses the other to pull an attached tab from the device.  He hurls it to where I think the two Selber are standing before running off.  An armored form dashes across in pursuit.  The crowd panics, but it is short lived.  Whatever threat the oblong device represents, Dunc must be handling it unseen by my cameras.


    Eva reaches the same conclusions as myself, and alerts Yosip while I''m still watching the final segment of video.  The Supply-Master orders security to search the area where the attack had happened, and armored figures rush to obey.  Unable to accurately diagnose a counter toxin, the nurse injects nanoprobes into the convulsing officer.


    The machines mimic microbial predators, hunting down and absorbing the compound indicated by the program they carry.  After reaching capacity or enough time passes, the nanoprobes will make their way through the digestive system, to be excreted from the host.  The treatment is very slow, and he may well die before it can complete, but it offers him some hope of recovery.


    Another nurse arrives, with a wheeled cot in his wake.  Between the two medical professionals and the willing administrative staff, they manage to heft the unconscious officer onto the bed.  His arms and legs secure to the sides of the odd conveyance, they push him to the medical bay.  Perhaps the more advanced equipment there will be able to provide him some additional aid.


    Shortly after Dunc is evacuated, a message comes in from one of the security members.  Donan reports that they''ve found the device seen on the video clip and wish to know what Yosip wants done with it.  The Supply-Master orders them to take it to Bucket in their isolated workroom.


    The wait while Bucket analyzes the chemical contained in the delivery device seems to stretch into eternity, much like the endless time before an engagement with a military rival.  Making it worse is the fact that no less than twenty Selber have been identified as having similar symptoms as Dunc, though none as severe as his.  These unfortunate tourists fill the medical bay beyond capacity.


    If he weren''t dead the Tserri attacker, whose name I finally learn to be Noorun, would be facing serious charges.  Endangering the lives and livelihoods of both tourists and residents is no small thing, easily forgotten and punishable by a simple fine.


    Atmospheric filters also locate the biological contaminant, scrubbing it from the air supply and storing the chemical for future analysis.  Pale writes a program to flag security systems if the chemical is detected again, as well as including a registry that can be expanded with any other chemical threats.  The more common toxic compounds are immediately added to the registry, a step that if taken sooner might have saved us much trouble.


    My primary duty, aside from following any direct orders, is to monitor the station for any sign of active threat.  Until today I had thought I was doing an admirable job.  Not needing sleep or breaks to deal with biological functions, I am capable of long periods of attentiveness.  Today, the fact that there are hundreds of cameras sending their images to be reviewed far surpassing my ability to manage has been made evident.  It is somewhat humbling.


    As the station continues to grow, the imbalance will only become worse.  Yosip spends some of his time reviewing video feeds, but most of his energy is spent settling the many disputes between crew and residents or directing the efforts of those crews of workers busily expanding the habitable areas.  It might be necessary to initiate a cadre of observers to help review the various camera feeds around our home.

 Gellys Story 9: Whats an Estate Dispute?

    Weapons Operative Gelly Drop awakens to find his new body servant standing attentively beside his bed.  Drev performs his racial equivalent of a smile and a bow, which causes Gelly to begin yet another day in a foul mood.


    If you can call it a day, thinks Gelly.  He hasn''t seen the sky once since arriving at the base camp.  The entire camp fits inside the massive cavern, and he has yet to find a good enough excuse to go off exploring.  With a long-suffering sigh, Gelly rolls out of the uncomfortable military cot.  It provides support in all the wrong places, just like the ones his own people employ.


    The tentacular being helps Gelly into his armor, and the Operative notes that the energy reserves had been refilled while he slept.  Must have been that Zek, decides Gelly.  Without the suit, he would be forced to communicate in the tribal argot, a proposition neither he nor his hosts desire.


    Drev shadows him out of the tent, silent save for a slight rasping as his tentacles writhe across the cavern floor.  Gelly holds out one gauntleted hand and his rifle is placed within it by the devoted soldier.  He slides it into the holster on his back.


    He sees Mos Bruen already awake, standing around a table covered in maps with the others of his order.  Bruen stands out as the youngest there.  Robed figures hover around the edges of the small crowd, darting in occasionally to see to the needs of one of the camp''s leaders.  When Bruen notices his arrival, he is waved over to the group.  Drev stops several paces away, with others dressed in undecorated soldiers'' tunics.


    A tentacular creature so covered in scars that he seems almost albino greets him first.  The others wait in hushed stillness as Gelly takes his place.


    "Mos Riyl, thank ye for the welcome," Gelly says with an unpracticed bow.  He hopes they won''t know the difference.


    The old one nods in reply.  "We''ve gotten word back from Mos Gol.  She''s putting your conveyance to great effect.  The messenger reports that her band has already rooted out two groups led by adolescent chiefs."


    "As such," another of the battle-marked elders declares, "we feel it necessary to honor the agreement between you and her."


    "The problem," Riyl continues with a pointed glare at the old warrior who had spoken, "is that the route back to our territory is currently occupied by tribal groups."


    "Yes, and we lack sufficient thaumatists here to attempt to create a new portal," adds a third elder, ignoring the way Riyl jabs at her with his upper tendrils.


    Their behavior reminds Gelly of his own experiences with the bickering of Grand Matrons and Patrons, and he carefully keeps his facial expression blank.  If they think he''s laughing at them, their help would dry up like spilled juice in a desert.  He uses this time to memorize the various alterations and scar patterns of the elders.


    The argument dies down when one of them decides it''s time for a meal break.  Platters of fruits, nuts, and raw meats cycle between the generals.  Gelly grabs a few less off-putting morsels.  The long thin berries are much more sour than he expects, but everything else he tries is at least tolerable.


    A commotion rises near the edge of the camp as he enjoys the flat savory nuts that practically melt in his mouth.  He pops one more into his mouth before looking around.  A newcomer strides through the camp, pausing occasionally to shout, "Bruen!"


    A young, well-groomed individual makes his way to the gathering of leaders.  This youthful warrior practically shines in the runelight.  His uniform tunic is spotless and his carapace is without blemish.  At his side he clutches a barbed spear that releases a nearly inaudible whine.  This figure marches up to the taller Bruen and suffers from the comparison; not only is Bruen taller, but he also out masses the newcomer by nearly a fifth.


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    "Bruen, I have come to claim what is mine, brother."  The last word is dripping with contempt.


    "Einiss."  Mos Bruen almost sounds bored, looking up only briefly from the maps spread across the table.  "Go back to your manor, before you soil your fine clothing."


    "You bloodless upstart!  You stole my birthright, and I will prove my worth."  Einis punctuates his words by gesturing wildly with his spear.  To Gelly''s experienced eyes the young warrior''s movements lack coordination.


    Soldiers clear away the table and its contents silently.  A ring of bodies forms around the two youths, with one of the elders pulling Gelly to the side.  Gelly stands beside Riyl and the other elders, watching the confrontation.


    "Yes, of course," Bruen states calmly.  "The worthy Einis, scion of my adopted house."  He straightens his posture and glides smoothly into the clearing that opens up around them.  Elegance and confidence cover him like a mantlet.  "I offer you one final chance to continue your easy life.  Walk away, brother."


    "I will not cede my rights to you!  You weren''t even trained at the academy," Einis blusters.  "You''d like me to let you keep your stolen status, but I will have my rightful place."


    "The academy.  There you were taught to use your weapons so efficiently?"


    "Do not mock me, casteless drone."  Einiss puffs up his body, trying to look larger and more impressive, but to Gelly his posturing seems desperate.  "I was trained by the Enslian master, Shiant."


    "Scro''s daughter?  Mos Denn couldn''t find you anyone better?"  Bruen then turns to face his new companion.  "Merchant, lend me your blade.  I shall make this quick."


    Gelly pulls his knife from his belt and tosses it to his friend.  "Don''t knick it, or I''ll be a mad at ye."


    Mos Riyl raises his many thin appendages high, gaining the attention of all around him as he steps between the two angry youths.  He speaks and his voice booms out into the cavern.  "Stakes of blood are wagered.  You are now to discover here through strength and skill which of you shall yield to the other.  You are witnessed, begin."  Riyl then glides back to the edges of the circle, reclaiming his place beside Gelly.


    As soon as the elder steps aside, Einiss lunges forward, fully committed to his spear thrust.  Bruen holds his ground until the last moment, then twists to the side.  The spear passes him harmlessly, leaving trails of light from the glowing runes inscribed on the weapon.


    Bruen leaps above the sweeping tentacles Einiss uses to try to knock him down, then steps back.  The borrowed knife he holds close to his thorax, biding his time.  Einiss stabs again and again, each attack coming faster, but Bruen leans and sways.  Always he avoids the deadly spearhead by the barest of margins.


    "Yield, Einiss, before I must act in my own defense."


    "Don''t be afraid, brute.  I''ll make this painless."


    Einiss lunges again, his spear aimed at the center of Bruen''s thorax.  Almost languidly, Bruen rolls to the right and under the attack, then whips his tendrils, and Gelly''s knife, up in a blur.  The spear, as well as three of Einiss'' appendages fall to the stone.  Blue drips from the neatly severed stumps.  The twitching filaments release the weapon and it slides across the floor to stop at Gelly''s feet.


    Einiss reels, perhaps finally realizes what was obvious to all the others watching.  Bruen far surpasses the pampered Einiss in both strength and skill.  "Your bravery does you credit, brother, and I would proudly have such zeal bred into the next generation.  Accept things as they are."


    White foam drips from between Einiss'' madly twitching pedipalps.  Lost to reason, the wounded aristocrat charges again and flails his remaining tendrils.  The air shrieks from the fast-moving whips, and a dark aura seems to cover him, shadows cast by his own rapid movements.


    The elders around him frozen, tensely watching the duel, Gelly is unobserved as he levels the warrior''s spear and hurls it with servo assisted might.  Unobserved by all but two beings, the first being Drev.  The loyal soldier watches both the fight going on as well as the object of his devotion but makes no move to stop him.


    The spear flies over the head of Einiss, who flinches from the wind of its passage.  Bruen, aware of the Operative standing so close to his honored elders, snatches the missile from the air with many long appendages, and using the weapon''s momentum, spins it around himself.  The motion ends with the spear''s tip just piercing Einiss'' carapace under his throat.


    Einiss sinks fractionally further onto the deadly implement before he can halt his charge.  His tendrils drop lifelessly around him, and he shrinks visibly.  The clicking sounds that suddenly surround Gelly causes him to recoil slightly, before he realizes that the sounds emanate from the rest of the observers.

 Chapter 38: Whats Moral Support?

    Spen''s voice reaches me from sensors embedded in his suit.  No visuals accompany the angry words, but I can imagine his face, twisted with rage and sorrow.  Static warps the signal, but I''m able to clean it up enough to be understood.


    "Why?  Things were finally going well for us.  It isn''t right, not right."


    Another voice answers him, almost kindly.  "Life isn''t about what''s right.  It isn''t right that children fall ill and die.  It isn''t right that each day hunger haunts the people, or that accident can lame a great hunter."


    She sighs, a slow exhalation that carries with it a lifetime of regret.  "Life is about going on.  Keep finding ways to make it to tomorrow.  See this ugly creature?"  Rustling carries over the transmission, cloth rubbing against itself.  "His name is Belern.  Beside him, with the reddish fur?  That''s his sister Berla, and the two are a menace."


    "Kids," answers Spen despondently.  "Dunc wanted kids."


    "And still does, I wager."  She coughs, and footsteps can be heard faintly.  "Thank you, Bessin."  I hear her drink, and after she finishes there are more footsteps, probably this Bessin person.


    "Not for much longer," sobs Spen.  "That son of yours saw to that."


    "Noorun must have been desperate, to try something so foolish," she answers.  I finally recognize the speaker as Jetanda.  If Spen is sitting in Laceweaver Row, it''s no wonder that he isn''t showing up on any camera feeds.  "I hope you don''t blame me for what happened.  He was always a secretive one, Noorun, and none of us knew what he was planning."


    "No, not really, but I expect you to see to it that none of your family make a similar mistake."


    There should be a comm terminal nearby them, if I guess correctly.  I know that she has access to the network, anyway, so I compose a short missive and send it to her.  A muted chiming sounds over the suit''s sensors right after.  Good, she got the message.


    They grow quiet for a long moment, before Tserri laughter filters across to me.  "Hurry your gray ass along, Dunc still lives."


    "What?"


    "Go, child!"


    Metallic thumping and heavy breathing replace the almost imperceptible sounds of domestic life.  In my mind I can see the armored youth running headlong through the warren.  Yes, there he is now, on the only camera in the area, sprinting down a hallway.


    I alert Yosip, as well as the nurse currently watching over Dunc''s unconscious form.


    "Good work, Mos," the Supply-Master says with a rare smile.  "About time you did something useful."


    His jest is easily forgiven, and I take the compliment with grace.  "Of course."


    Yosip taps away at his desk, and in no time has orders streaming out, directing Donna to the medical bay.  The contents of his message are sealed behind security codes to which my access has been restricted, but I can hazard a guess.  ''Apprehend Spen Dondrik.''


    I play back the video of Spen, running through Laceweaver Row.  His armor shows signs of recent combat, streaks of melted metal mar the fine finish.  It might not be sabotage that disables his camera transmission, but battle damage.  Still, that does not excuse his wanton destruction of my dronefeather.


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    No weapon had been found with Noorun''s body, though it is possible he had dropped it while running from the angered security squad leader.  If so, it may be unrecoverable; none would admit to possession of banned weaponry when it is simple enough to disassemble and repurpose it.  Recent repair logs indicate that numerous repairs are scheduled, patches for plating with holes melted through along the path the running gun fight had taken.


    Donna finally makes contact with her superior and gives me a better look at him.  His eyes are dilated and his skin shines with oil.  Moving erratically, he shows symptoms of exposure to the alien toxin.  The suit he wears is damaged more than I was aware, unseen angles revealing themselves to be marked with holes like an infestation of stone boring worms.


    "Want to come in under your own power, or do we need to wait for Skint to get here?"


    "Let''s wait," Spen answers, swaying on his feet.  "I think I need him to carry me."


    She takes his rifle, as well as the stunner still at his waist.  Spen''s balance fails him before the large Tserri can arrive, and he collapses against the corridor wall.  The fresh officer''s posture relaxes slightly when Skint does show up, and she greets him briefly, brushing one set of claw tips against his.


    "Should we get him outa that suit?"


    Donna scratches that suggestion out of the air with her lower claws.  "He''s melted in it, like.  You''ll just hafta carry him."


    She receives a grunt as a reply, as the muscular male hefts the prone officer over his complex shoulder.  The suits clang together loudly, and Spen thrashes before falling quiet again.  The extra weight doesn''t seem to bother Skint, but he winces and tracks a flake of gold paint that chips off his shoulder as it falls to the deck plating.


    Hoping to aid in Spen''s recovery, I alert the medical bay that they''ll need to have someone ready to cut him from his metal shell.  The full extent of the toxin''s effects are still unknown, but the sooner it can be treated the better the officer''s chances of recovery.


    Donna looks upwards as if seeking guidance from the unseen stars before leading the way.  She walks oddly close to him on their way to the medical bay, accidently bumping the larger male several times.  Each time he is forced to catch her, holding her for the length of several breaths before releasing her, to insure she does not fall.


    I fear she too is suffering from exposure to the toxin, the first Tserri to exhibit unusual behavior.  When they reach their destination, I have the healers scan her.  The results show her system to be clean of the compound.  Perhaps it is merely stress and lack of sleep affecting her balance.


    After being shucked like a freshly boiled bivalve, Spen is gently lowered onto a medical cot.  The medical facility is cramped, with its many beds containing oil slick occupants.  Dunc lays across the room, silver crust forming at the edges of his fleshy mouth.  Other cots host tourists exposed during the attack, including Gelest.  The gray female shivers uncontrollably under her thin blanket, as do many of the other patients.


    Teams are currently analyzing the canister as well as its deadly contents.  Initial scans of the device are available, so I make a copy of the file for myself before having a look.  It bears little resemblance to technology employed by the Selber.  The object contains organic components, sheets of protein that separate the gas from the metal casing.  The hinges resemble muscle fibers to a startling degree.


    The egg-like device employs crafting techniques unknown to the inhabitants of this system.  It can only have come from far outside Honus.  Alien script located on the exterior matches nothing in my, admittedly limited, data banks, though that signifies little on its own.  Several advanced devices had been wrested from the tribals over the many long years of conflict, of a level beyond even the host species'' means to produce yet marked with primitive writing.


    With few other clues to follow, the next site to investigate would be Noorun''s home.  Taboo prevents entry, but the hunger pains have began to cause complaints among the children.  Soon the body will be carried up to the newly available memorial garden and an efficient search may be made of the small dwelling.


    It is fortunate that no others live within the collection of rooms.  Not only is there no other to share the blame, beside the mysterious supplier of the weapon, but no one to object to security forces going through every shelf, cabinet, and closet.

 Chapter 39: Whats an Investigation?

    Donan opens yet another thin metal door, revealing the clutter within the cuboid cabinet.  Mostly loose-fitting trousers, ranging in color from bright yellow to angry orange.  The grinning face of Capey adorns many of the garments; Noorun had been a fan of that odd trivee program.


    His suit light shines upon the interior of the container, and a bright gleam registers on the camera.  His armored glove closes upon it and draws the object out.  He dims his light and opens his hand, and an organically shaped device reflects the light back at him.  Hair sprouts from the thin, sinuously curved object in brown clumps.  At one end is a metal plug, though it matches none of the standards employed by the Selber.


    It goes into a clear wrapping and then a pocket of his armor.  He plays his light across the small room, surveying once more for any hiding places he may have overlooked in the last sweep.  Suspicious lumps under the padding of the small bed draw his attention.  He pushes aside stuffed animals and blankets with happy slogans sewn into them.


    Flipping the bed over uncovers a stash of green spindles, crystalline in material and roughly half a ubit long each.  His suit''s inbuilt scanners detect low levels of ionizing radiation from the crystals.  Not more than the suit can protect him from, but still unsafe to be left lying around.


    He contacts his sister without my direction, and she sends for a heavy protective case to store the crystals.  I let Bucket know that something interesting will be coming their way soon.  The conglomerate entity stops working upon an avian construct long enough to send their thanks before returning to the construction.


    While he waits, Donan opens up the cover containing the mattress.  Inside he finds thin sheets of a dark metallic fabric.  These he rolls up into tight bundles and consigns to another compartment on his vacuum armor.


    Another armored individual arrives shortly, a heavy case supported in his four arms.  I count the crystals as the pair store them; twenty-seven spindles.  I also post anonymously on the neighborhood message board, reminding the residents to take their radiation medicines.


    The unit gets locked down, and they place a large warning sign on the door.  ''Danger, Condemned Pending Decontamination''


    The pair carry the confiscated evidence to Bucket''s workshop and out of the empty residential sector.


    "Did you know him?"


    Donan''s partner releases one corner of the case he carries to slash across the air in front of him.  "You?"


    "Yeah.  We were both captured by that Ship-brother.  Tricky bastard, snuck up on us while we were guarding the old fart and smashed our heads together."


    The armored Tserri beside him guffaws loudly.  "Oh, I heard about him.  Tim something, right?"


    "Sounds right," Donan answers with an elaborate shrug.  "Anyway, he was an odd sba.  Two eggs shy, you know?"


    "Sure."


    "Kept calling the sky on that alien world cursed.  Noorun hated the way it would get brighter and darker without cease."


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    "You gotta admit it was weird, though."


    "Sure, but if that''s what it takes to make the plants grow, I''m not gonna complain."  Donan laughs quietly.  "Just sleep when it gets dark and you never know the difference, anyway."


    They reach the entrance to the work room and Bucket opens the door remotely.  The many arms of the strange being direct the Tserri to place the heavy case to one side and the samples upon the empty table that dominates the cramped room.  The Tserri leave Bucket alone to perform his experiments, returning to their patrol duties.


    They start with the odd device, lifting it this way and that with their many ropey arms.  An especially metallic arm grabs onto the tapered end.  The stubby claws capping the arm shift and flow around the oddly shaped plug.  Other arms wrap around the connected arm, writhing like a sick grelld.


    The patches of hair upon the small device wave in an unseen wind, each patch flowing to its own secret breeze.  Bucket waves more of their long appendages around the device, to measure or record I assume.  Within the biomechanical knot of squirming arms, the single camera set upon the wall shows me a series of flashing lights.  It would seem that whatever they found has them quite excited.


    Before I can properly formulate a request in the unfamiliar syntax they communicate with, a radio burst from them grabs my attention.  It contains copies of all the files they found stored on the device, though they remain encrypted and unreadable.  Well, they''ll decode the documents, given time.


    The entity who had provided Noorun with his weaponry had undoubtedly also left their instructions encoded within the device.  Even knowing the identity of the person behind the chemical attack would do me little good, however.  The culprit remains outside of my reach, so long as they avoid the station.


    Knowledge of an anti-toxin or some method of treatment would be a minor miracle, but it makes little sense for the unknown coordinator to include instructions for reversing the harm they had hired Noorun to commit.  We must continue to rely on Zra and the rest of the medical staff to provide care for our poisoned crew and guests.


    While Bucket''s skill with data manipulation is impressive, I forward the files to Eva Chel as well.  She too has shown mastery over arts that confound me, and it does not hurt to have them both attempting to solve this puzzle.


    Yosip yearns for justice, and complains loudly and often at the unfairness of the situation.  His antics fill me with hope that the situation will see a resolution soon.


    "So many officers taken out so quickly," he grouses, typing at his desk terminal.  His metal hands work furiously, trying to do the work of a full war council.  He approves the request, and Zuchus is assigned to oversee the next clutch of eager potential pilots.  The fleet of harvest and scout vehicles being assembled will do little work sitting in orbit.


    The space around Kalibern will be a much more dangerous place soon, filled with inexperienced pilots learning the delicate touch necessary to be effective in the crowded areas of occupied space.


    "Mos, how many more ships till they can start being productive?"


    His mismatched eyes are fixed upon the new document he fills in.  He attempts to standardize ore purity requirements, to save the rock miners much effort in sorting their hauls.  The rocks and ices can be processed easily in bulk loads by our industrial centers, and the output automatically priced.  Since even slag is useful, miners can always expect to profit from a full hold, regardless of content.


    "They lack yet only the personal craft for the miners, and another supply tanker or two.  Water and air processing could begin as soon as the crew are trained."


    "Good.  Rearrange the docket to get the necessary ships moving as quickly as possible," he orders.  "Security has already broken up three fights between those herders and the locals."


    "They''ll be less trouble once they''re more properly employed, I''m sure."


    He doesn''t mention the fact that some of them have decided to stay, their places claimed by desperate families unable to earn enough from their positions here to support themselves.  Leash and muzzle laws are also on his weighty stack of things to review, proposals that continue to gain more supporters each day as more citizens encounter the horned menaces.


    "Doubt it.  Those pets of theirs are unpredictable," argues the Supply-Master.  "Make excellent manure, though."

 Bruens Story 13: Whats a Family Reunion?

    Bruen slides the borrowed spear from his opponent''s thorax, spilling blue blood onto the once fine uniform Einiss wears.  The chorus of striation pouring over him assures him that sparing Einiss is the right choice.  The disgraced youth slumps before him, dripping onto the stone in defeat.


    Ignoring Einiss until the other chooses to acknowledge his defeat, as is traditional, Bruen glides over to his alien companion.  He offers the gray alien his knife back, dangling loosely from a pair of upper tendrils.  "No knicks."


    Gelly takes it and inspects the weapon closely.  Consternation wars with humor across his fleshy face and he finally exclaims, "Ye''ve gone and soaked the handle in Squiver blood."  He sheaths the weapon before he continues, shaking his head, "That stuff does no come out."


    "Well done, Bruen," rasps the old one, Mos Riyl.  "I almost want to challenge you myself."


    "If you wish," begins Bruen, grip tightening around Einiss''s spear, but the old one waves him off.


    "Some other time, when there are less around to witness my defeat," the scarred general wheezes out before a coughing fit takes him.  "I''ve few seasons of service left, and I choose not to spend them in the healers'' clutches."


    His cough is worse than Bruen remembers, and he thinks that perhaps the elder has less time than he believes until disability takes him from the field.  "I did not hurt him beyond repair."


    "No, and thank the tides that you didn''t," Mos Riyl declares with a huff.  "He''s one of the better of his generation.  Loyal, brave."


    "Stupid," interjects Gelly.


    "Not everyone is so lucky to be trained by a legend," Bruen says quietly.


    "Who?"  Gelly asks, "That Shiant person?"


    Riyl''s lower tendrils slap loudly into Gelly''s armored back.  Bruen and he both jump in shock, but the young general notices the suppressed quivering of his elder, sure signal of laughter barely held back.


    "Keep this one around you, youngster," proclaims Riyl, who turns in the direction of his tent.  "He''ll get me arrested."


    The way Gelly scratches at the thick tuft of hair atop his head causes Bruen to take pity upon the alien.  "Emotional outbursts are signs of loss of control, like the dust eaters experience.  Their behavior is excused, because of the burden they bear, but for others it is shameful.  To lose control in front of his command would be a loss requiring redress, perhaps retirement."


    "And yer Anus?" Gelly looks over at the blood-soaked figure, being attended by his own robed follower.  "He got right mad, there."


    "Righteous indignation is admirable, allowing one to fight beyond the mind''s ability to cope with pain," answers an elder, still standing in her place from before.  "So long as one knows when to resist the urge to chew salt."


    "Mos Len, I noticed you when we arrived.  How are your grelld?  Still causing havoc for your groundskeeper?"


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    Her pedipalps signal approval before she walks over to them.  "Reynol copes as he can.  Your companion throws well, is it a warrior slave?"


    "Aye, but they slew me master ages ago."


    "Oh, good.  Reynol could use a companion for when I''m away.  What would you like for him?"


    "Regretfully, I cannot give him to you.  We owe him a debt of service, and I am tasked with fulfilling it."


    The old one leans closer.  The gemstones set into her face in place of four of her eyes glitter in reds and greens.  "A pity."  She looks up into Gelly''s gray face.  "If you ever seek work, there is a place for you on my estate," she says airily before gliding away.


    "Nice lady," quips the armored alien.


    "Indeed," Bruen answers tonelessly.  "Eat something, then we leave to clear the way forward."


    He leads the way to a supply tent and takes a basket of fruits for the two to share.  What they don''t eat, Drev stores in a large bag strapped to his back.  Zek stuffs odd supplies into the heavy sack, which the soldier bears with quiet dignity.  As the four begin to leave camp, Einiss approaches them, his movements stiff and formal.


    "I''ve spoken with Mos Len.  Our aunt wishes me to accompany you, at least until you reach the city."


    "It is good that your Somner was able to reattach your tendrils," Bruen says, rather than answer him directly.  "You have many seasons yet of service you can provide to the Empire."


    "I, yes, I see.  Thank you."  The youth touches the fresh scars that mar his otherwise blemish free carapace.  "How did you learn to move like that?"


    Bruen looks closely at his brother.  After a pair of heartbeats he decides the question is honest.  "When your father first brought me to his manor, he had a particular grelld.  Friszy, he called her.  That''s how you had to move when that thing was in the room, or it would bite at your tentacles.  Denn trained the monster somehow, but would never admit it."


    Gelly''s loud guffaw startles the two adoptive siblings, and they turn to look at him.  "Right old bastard, yer da."


    "Your servant is both crude and vulgar."


    "Yes.  I find his irreverence refreshing, though it can be a bit much at times."  He waves a few tendrils in desperation.  "Unfortunately, the old one would agree with him.  Mos Denn''s curmudgeonly nature was well known."


    Somner Zek stands off to the side with the other of her caste, indulging in their mysteries.  The two entangle each other in a show of indecent familiarity, tendrils draping across one another and under their robes.  The energy that flows between them tugs at the implant in Bruen''s face, sending sparks across his vision.  White and green auras shimmer at the very edge of his perception.  As if they realize they had been spotted, the two suddenly separate before joining the rest of the group.


    Now numbering six, the group marches up the tunnel, with Bruen in the lead and Gelly trailing behind.  The first portion of the journey is uneventful, and the tunnels they pass through are quiet.  They see no evidence of enemy forces at first, and decide to make camp when Einiss and the Somners begin to droop from exhaustion.


    Drev passes out fruit and preserved meat, garnering minor complaints from Einiss and thanks from all.  Zek waves away the offered rations, choosing instead to work on Bruen''s new weapon.  She inhales a vial of her drug and digs through the heavy bag Drev carries.  Bruen hopes she remembers what she''s supposed to be making, and doesn''t create another art project.


    White energy swirls around and through her, which Bruen does his best to ignore.  The headaches are not worth indulging his curiosity.  To pass the time while the less fit members of his squad rests, Bruen practices his unarmed fighting forms.  Einiss observes from is place by the wall, but remains seated.


    When he finishes his exertions he finds the gray alien tapping away at a small device.  Gelly looks up as Bruen approaches and asks, "Anythin'' ye want to say to me Aunt?  She''ll enjoy hearin'' bout yer duel in yer own words."


    Bruen declines, but Mos Einiss''s interest is piqued.  The aristocratic young general slides his way to beside Gelly and begins bragging about the great warrior who defeated him to secure his place at the forefront of their house.  Embarrassment drives Bruen to the edges of their campsite, to seek escape from the half-truths pouring from his brother.


    It''s there that he sees the tribal group sneaking through the darkness.

 Chapter 40: Whats ?

    Dunc''s condition continues to worsen, despite the best efforts of Zra, Pale, and the rest of the medical staff.  His body wastes away; the toxin blocks his ability to absorb vital nutrients as well as disrupting brain activity.  The other victims, even Spen, are beginning to stabilize, though none have yet regained consciousness.


    As the worst exposed, Dunc Wollen is least likely to make a full recovery.  Even if he survives, the aftereffects of the poison coursing through him will be with him for life.  The treatment itself is causing damage to his body, as silver dust deposits build up in every orifice of his thin and oil-slick body.  He requires much more attention than the other patients, and I watch as Zra wipes away the metallic crust that slowly forms on Dunc''s face.


    "This stuff isn''t supposed to do that," he complains.  "We need more data."


    Zra''s concern causes the conglomerate entity to examine the secretions.  Pale takes some of the silver flakes into one of their industrial purpose arms.  The flow of their arms'' ceaseless movement rearranges itself, to some pattern known only to their emergent intelligence.


    After several long moments, their movement returns to normal and Pale sends rapid communications to their sibling entity, as well as myself, excitement modulating the signals.  The high levels of the biochemical causes bizarre interactions with the structure of the nanoprobes.  The program built into them can''t function properly when the chemical overwhelms and degrades it, and the damaged probes seek any exit point available.


    The jargon hides the essential point; the medicine isn''t working.  The cause of their excitement eludes me, but Bucket''s response is quite enlightening.  The rapid bursts of the message indicate curiosity.


    "Your plasma filters require testing, performance at large scale pending investigation, molecular structure of toxin compatibility highly probable."


    I suppose getting to test a new device is not unlike the thrill of taking an unbloodied weapon into battle, though it seems slightly morbid when the battlefield is a youth unable to reject untried equipment.  Still, if this helps him to recover, he would surely approve.  His closest next of kin is outside the system, and his partner occupies his own bed, so the decision is left to the Supply-Master, to whom the safety of his crew has been entrusted.


    Yosip allows the procedure to go forward, too busy to look too deeply into the request.  He and Jetanda are currently arguing about the casino.  Again.  It seems tourism is down in the wake of the gas attack, and she blames lack of security.  The strain on his scarred face as he talks with her threatens to rip free his skin from his metal jaw.


    "And how many guards do you need, exactly?  How will you pay them?  Enough so that they can''t be bribed?  Screening, training, loyalty tests, maybe?"  He shakes as he stands over the audio receiver for this voice only call.  "My family still remembers what the Navy did during their rule, and we won''t repeat their crimes."


    "Well and good, but Noorun never should have gotten his claws on those weapons.  The people are desperate.  They don''t feel safe."  Her own voice quivers at the end, the recent days draining her strength almost beyond bearing.  She makes regular visits to the medical bay, always with several of her family protecting her.


    Her visits have an unexpected calming effect upon the Tserri that witness her, surrounded by strong males as she watches over the fallen Selber.  The protests that were so frequent have ceased almost entirely.  Public opinion now pities the victims of the attack, though resentment still simmers quietly.


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    "We''ll install better scanners at the docking tower, higher resolution, more power," he allows, "but even they can be fooled."


    "Yes, that would reassure many.  Make an announcement of it, make sure the broadcasters are aware.  I have a niece that thinks she''s a reporter, I''ll call her and send her to watch the work crew."


    Yosip relaxes and collapses into his chair, causing it to complain loudly.  "Sure.  The people deserve to know when we add new locks to the door."


    He ends the call and leans back in his chair.  "Mos, you hear all that?"


    "I''ll get Bucket started on some new scanning installations."


    "Good.  Eva?  Could you help with the next meeting, please?"  He sits upright once more before continuing.  "You''ve got such a way with the little monsters."


    I check his schedule to determine what he''s talking about.  The students at the learning center are due by soon for a field trip, where Yosip is to answer questions from the bright young minds.  A task he''s far better suited for than myself.


    Pale is already attaching the necessary equipment to Dunc''s prone body, so instead of bothering them I contact their counterpart.  The new scanners Yosip wants should occupy little of Bucket''s time, a sentiment the conglomerate entity agrees with.  They already have plans drawn up, only physical assembly remains undone.


    "Wonderful work, Bucket.  The sooner you can finish those scanners the happier Yosip will be."


    "Simple project, parts already have, little fabrication necessary."  Bucket is already sorting through the nearest pile of components and pulling seemingly random bits of possibly functional technology out to place on his work bench.  They then fire off a radio burst, containing combat upgrades for the next model of vacuum armor.


    The attached note says the outer armor plates are hardened against thermal energy, as well as including antidotes for the poisons commonly available from Honus or other Imperium worlds.  Other changes include measures to prevent the suit locks from being sealed shut and back-ups for various comms equipment.  To make up the weight difference, it has fewer storage compartments, but that is easily correctable with judicious use of bandoleers and belts.


    "Before I leave you to your work, is there anything you need from me?"


    "Nothing needed, resources still sufficient, growth progresses steadily."


    Indeed it does.  Unless my cameras are malfunctioning again, Bucket has acquired two additional arms.  They are smaller than the rest, and still shiny, so I''m sure I would recognize them.  Still images from days before confirm my suspicion.  How long until a third conglomerate entity is produced?


    Other matters are more pressing, such as fight breaking out in front of the medical bay.  One of the horned creatures lies dead, a steaming hole burnt through its torso.  Standing near it is its owner, an angry male with red-orange fur and a black stripe across his eyes.  Across from him is a youth holding a pistol of alien design.  It tapers to a point in front; this protrudes from a spherical central body.  The central body is also the handle, gripped in one of the childish claws.  From the top a green crystal sticks partially out, identical to the twenty-seven others that Bucket now possesses.


    Blood runs from the younger Tserri''s leg, and more blood coats the tips of the dead beast''s horns.  The older male has claws clenched around the hilts of his knives, but he has yet to unsheathe them.


    "I would not murder a child.  Drop your weapon and leave, before the Skulls show up," the older Tserri half shouts at the youth.


    The youngster keeps his pistol aimed at the owner of the dead monster, clearly distrustful of the armed and armored stranger.


    "If we wait, they will take the blaster anyway, but they''ll take you too," the youth shouts back.  "If I leave, blaster or no, the Skulls will come find me."


    His words prove prophetic, as Donna and two of her squad arrive.  They had been alerted at the same time I found out, but take longer to reach the facility.  Regardless, the youth surrenders easily and begins relating his tale to Donna.  The other chooses to resist.


    His knives flash out, one in each claw.  Arms blurring, he stabs the armored forms again and again, but succeeds only in chipping his blades and ruining their tips.  One backs away and begins circling around the knife fighter while the other holds his attention.  The first punches at the knife wielder, but he easily avoids the attack.


    Unfortunately for him, he dodges right into the waiting claws of Donna''s other minion.  One armored gauntlet locks around each of his wrists.  He''s quickly restrained, and they drag him away, to be assigned to a work detail.

 Chapter 41: Whats Faith Healing?

    Under direction from the many ropelike arms of Pale, the nurses work tirelessly.  The treatment that stabilizes Dunc''s condition is also being applied to the less severe cases of exposure.  Blood is drained and pumped through the machine, which pulls the alien chemical out with some arcane process.  The blood is then returned to the body in a cycle that works in concert with the nanoprobes to scour their systems clean.


    The first patient to gain release from the confines of the medical bay is one of the tourists.  Lews Uld, originally here to gamble and shop with her still unconscious friends.  She''ll be leaving as soon as her friends wake up.  They remain in their beds, still locked in healing sleep, along with the rest of the victims of Noorun''s attack.


    The recovering Lews is thin.  Dangerously so, after her long bout with the toxin.  Muscles unable to receive the nourishment they require to sustain themselves struggle now to carry her emaciated form from the communal sickroom.  She staggers drunkenly as she laboriously makes her way to her temporary home.


    Her case is not unique, and others in similar condition follow throughout the day.  The healthy fullness of their skin is gone, instead hanging loosely from their fragile seeming frames.  They shuffle out with the well wishes of the medical staff, looks of confusion on their gray faces.


    A flock of younger Tserri follow them to their temporary residences, pestering them mercilessly.  They ask endless questions about the attack and what the still recovering Selber were doing when the event happened.  It isn''t until Jetanda arrives with her escort that the pests disperse.


    When she gets to the medical facility, she greets Zra warmly, and is politely distant with Pale.  The nurses find fresh interest in their duties, paying extreme attention to the surfaces they clean.  They polish surgical instruments well past the point where they shine, so diligent are they.


    "Now that the formalities are complete," says the elder, "we can discuss the reason I''m here."


    Zra smiles, his many teeth gleaming under the harsh artificial lighting and wrings his claws together.  "We, we think they''ll all recover," he states with little confidence.  "Pale''s new treatment has been remarkable successful."


    "A full recovery?"  Jetanda''s voice is calm but carries an undercurrent of threat.


    The healer wilts under her steady gaze, casting helpless glances at the conglomerate entity.  Pale ignores the fur covered healer and continues inserting needle tipped tubes into the next patient.  The nurses both rush out of the room, muttering awkward excuses.  It must be their break time.


    "Well, mostly," Zra starts uncertainly, "that is, we hope the patients will be able to regain healthy weight.  There may be permanent mental damage, however.  In the worst of the cases, anyway."


    "How bad?"  She glares up at the taller male yet seems to loom over him.  He shrinks further into himself under her demanding gaze and his ears twitch spasmodically.


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    "Th-the last one we released left with a stutter.  The one before him was fine, if a little dizzy when she moved too fast."


    "And how seriously were those two exposed?"


    He half-heartedly slashes that comment from the air.


    "Have any of the worse effected yet recovered, Zra?"


    He sounds defeated when he answers her, tiredly stating, "No."


    Jetanda''s posture suddenly relaxes.  "Alright, keep working.  I don''t blame you for what happened, I''m just not ready to find out what this stupid act of my son''s will cost me.  Not yet."


    "We''ll do our best," he answers her.  "But we could use your help."


    Jetanda nods her graying head.  "Those corpse-pickers that were circling your patients when I arrived?"


    "The same."


    "I can''t stop them, but I can get them to act with a bit more respect," she declares, stiffening her back once more.


    "Thank you, priestess."


    This she slashes from the air before taking a place beside Dunc''s bed.  When she gets there, she takes a carved stone trinket from one of her pockets and places it next to his head.  Unfortunately, she stands between the object and my camera.


    She never stays long, at these visits of hers, so I''ll see it soon enough.  Jetanda then bends over the stricken youth, and I believe she whispers something to him.  Superstitious nonsense, likely, but it cannot hurt him any.


    When she straightens up, she looks up and the ceiling, her four arms outspread.  "And if you''re listening, guardian spirit, I implore you!  Watch over this youth and guide him back to us safely."


    I''m stunned as I watch her walk out of the room.  She leaves behind her the carving, still next to Dunc as he slumbers.  Now that I can see the stone object, I am even more puzzled.


    It''s flat and shapeless, with odd lumps of stone left uncut and jutting out from the irregular edges.  In the center of the dark and shapeless rock is a chip of cut glass, round like an eye staring up from the pillow.  The glass glitters in the artificial lighting, and rainbows dance within it.  I cannot understand the relevance of this fetish, until it hits me like a tidal wave.


    That rock must represent the spirit world, and the round glass eye in the center is, of course, the guardian spirit.  She can only have meant the voice that had guided her people into the stars with false promises.  A harmless belief that must comfort her in the uncertainty that is her existence.  If she chooses to resume her place as priestess among her people, it would be unkind of me to disillusion her.


    In my race''s long history, we have encountered many different species.  Most of them place their faith in hidden powers, beings that they believe watch over them and guide the worlds around them.  My people have discovered that this is not so.


    There are indeed higher dimensional beings, whose existence is so far removed from our own that we cannot comprehend each other.  Those being that our dust eaters stumbled across possess powers in their own realms that they could not properly describe to us, only stating that these uncaring gods are better left alone.


    It''s doubtful that the voice the Tserri describe belongs to such a being.  Their accounts depict an intelligence that, while alien, still functions in ways that could interact with creatures of other cultures.  Whether the force that guided the Tserri to the stars was acting in their best interests has yet to be proven.


    Yosip might have more insight on the significance of the fetish, so I send an image of it to his desk.  I''m about to switch to another camera when Dunc stirs.  The young officer remains asleep, yet this is more life than he has demonstrated in days.  He   moans in his sleep, and Pale rushes over.


    The many arms of the biomechanical entity twist around both themselves and the gray officer.  They quickly withdrew from him.  Pale calls Zra over to confirm whatever it is they found.  The two confer in a huddle exchanging medical jargon.


    I wait patiently for them to reach a consensus, but alas.  My attention is requested elsewhere.


    "Mos Denn, what have you done now?"  Yosip demands answers from me.  "Are you trying to start a cult?"

 Chapter 42: Whats a Cargo Cult?

    Yosip blusters into the camera, "This isn''t something you should play with, rock."


    Thankfully he has chosen to have this meeting in private.  Yosip sits alone in his private office above the war room, face dark from the powerful emotion he has allowed to overtake him.  On the large screen set into his office wall, Yosip has two images arranged next to each other.


    On the left side of the display is the stone fetish Jetanda had gifted to Dunc Wollen.  The glass chip set into the center of the stone has been captured mid glimmer.  Orange fills the silicate matrix set within the porous gray rock.


    The other display is of our home, Kalibern Station.  The image is one I believe was sent from a member of Gelen''s fleet on approach to the docking tower.  The clear domes surrounding the docking arm are arrayed in a roughly circular patch.  Artificial lights of many colors wash through the domes in an image frozen in time.


    Upon further inspection I notice that the stone fetish is of nearly the same shape as the station when seen from that particular angle.  I may be prideful, but I can admit when I am mistaken.  The charm left on Dunc''s bed is not a representation of the spirit world, but of our own small world.  What I had interpreted as a means of sending prayer to a distant entity is in fact meant as a way for that same entity to locate those begging for help.


    The reasoning behind it is alien to me.  If this guardian spirit is able to locate a three bit long stone, surely it could just as easily locate the thousands of ubit long station that contains that tiny rock.  My mistake lies in believing there to be any sense to these fanciful rituals, that they could have a reasonable basis for understanding.


    "They''ve even started setting up altars in common areas," Yosip complains.  "Surely you''ve noticed?"


    Not as such.  Though, now that he mentions it some of the decorations that are always going up do seem to resemble the small fetish.  The significance of these altars escapes me, so I ask, "Are they spending inordinate amounts of their time tending these altars?  I haven''t received reports of unmet quotas nor excessive absences among the work details."


    Oh!  There''s a claw drawn portrait of our Supply-Master set into the wall above that one!  The likeness is horrible, but the metal rimmed eyes are unmistakable.  Black and yellow ribbons form a frame around the portrait, which has a small pile of electronic components left on the ground below it.


    "It apears that they''ve decided you''re their intermediary with the spirit world," I say as I add an image of the shrine in question to his display.


    While we speak, his assistant Eva Chel bustles efficiently into the room.  She sets a data tablet on his desk and turns to leave.  She pauses at a gesture from the Supply-Master.


    He scratches at the stretched skin between his camera eyes with one metallic claw.  "Eva, review the records, find out who put up this, this-" Her eyes follow his gesturing metal hand to the screen.


    "Yessir," she answers quickly, cutting off her superior.  She glances quickly at the display, skin darkening slightly in empathetic embarrassment.


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    "Shut it down," orders Yosip.  "This can only lead to trouble."


    "Yessir," repeats Eva Chel.  She turns her head away from him, but the camera reveals a slight frown upon her gray face.


    I find myself in agreement with Yosip.  As admirable as he can be, he is unable to speak across the dimensions and command those higher beings that dwell there.  To expect such things from him would only cause disappointment.


    It is not likely that Eva will locate the video she seeks.  Not because she lacks skill but for reasons of data storage.  Each camera operates constantly, sending streams of information across the network.  Certain data banks collect and store this mass of video.  In order to create room to store new feeds, old ones are deleted regularly.  Only twelve days or so worth of information is ever on the servers at one time.


    Bucket has been a great help, writing programs to sort and reference the various bits of video.  Anything older than a couple days is compressed, slowing access to it but increasing the amount that the servers can hold.  As often as we''ve needed to access the temporary records lately, it may be a good idea to add more storage capacity.  Yet another task for our overworked construction crews.


    The conglomerate entity sends an alert to the war room, interrupting Eva''s sweep through the data banks.  An information packet, which she forwards to Yosip.  I snag a copy during the transfer.  The files are details about the biotoxin and a lexicon of the language that the files taken from Noorun are written in.


    The grammar and syntax are odd, matching no language of which I am fluent so closely as that spoken by the tribal chieftains.  Not possible, as that breed are not known for their literacy, let alone their engineering prowess.  The contents of the message make little sense, and I can only assume that it is written using a cypher of great complexity.


    Though I do not truly believe that the Southern Tribals are responsible for attacking our crewmembers, the possible connection between them and the unknown supplier is too dangerous to allow without response.  Increasing the priority level of certain projects might cause rumors, but in the event of a tribal breach the additional security may be the difference between survival and integration into the tribe.


    The deployable barriers, so useful during the riot, need to be reinforced.  The rioters had normal, rational restraint when balked, but tribals would batter their own bodies to death to knock down each barrier.  The call of the chieftain is irresistible to those who fall under its influence.


    Just the thought of those creatures walking around my corridors, polluting the air my residents rely upon.  It disgusts me.


    Though there are none of my own people living here, still I have come to view them with some fondness.  I watch over these people and work closely with their leaders.  If a chief were to come here, it would all be lost.


    Yosip and Eva Chel continue working on their separate tasks, so I trust them to preform diligently.


    "Donna, are you busy?"


    She''s on patrol with one of her squad mates, currently in an airless corridor between work sites.


    "I am," she replies, growling low into her suit microphone.  "What do you need, Mos?"


    Her blunt remarks are charming.  The way she leaps directly to the point while remaining polite is rather refreshing.  "I wished to inquire about the child you brought in for questioning recently."


    "The one with the fancy gun?"  She taps her subordinate on his shoulder and they both stop.  As a response to his questioning ear flick she points upward with one claw.  "What about him?"  The suited Tserri waves affirmative before he continues on without her.


    "Did he say where he found it?"


    "No.  I recognized the weapon, though," she answers.  "Noorun shot Spen with it."


    "Yes.  But the power source for the device is dangerous.  Did you notice anything amiss with the child?  Loss of appetite, excessive shedding, unexplained dehydration?"


    "We''ve got it in safe containment, no need to worry about that," Donna replies.  "The kid seemed fine.  Maybe a little tired?  After the day he''d had I didn''t think anything of it."


    "Thank you, that''s good to hear.  Do me one more favor and I''ll let you get back to your business."


    Rather than answer she slowly taps her gauntleted claws against the side of her suit.


    "Right.  Just remember to take your radiation medicines."

 Gellys Story 10: Whats a Speed Bump?

    Tribals barrel down the tunnel, screaming for blood.  The brutes form a large and unruly group, clattering over one another in their haste to reach enemies of their chieftain.  They''re still some distance away but move at a frightening pace.


    Gelly grunts before dropping to a kneeling position.  He fires into the ravening mob, each shot tearing holes through multiple bodies so closely are they packed together.  Beside him Mos Bruen burns through the nearly mindless aliens with his rifle.


    The Somners hold back Mos Einiss, keeping him from the line of fire.  Einiss ceases his struggle after a word from his adopted brother.  Drev waits behind them, armed with a short spear.


    Despite the heavy losses, the tribals continue pouring into the tunnel.


    "We''ll need to fall back," orders Mos Bruen still burning down the tribals as he slides back.


    Gelly rises to his feet but continues firing into the onrushing aliens.  A crimson skinned quadruped leaps at him, screeching in the tribal argot.  His SAm20 releases another burst, and the creature is torn to wet shreds.  Blood sprays across his armor and coats his visor in dark red.  He wipes it away and keeps firing.


    He waits until his tentacular allies are beyond the first bend before making a jet assisted dash to catch up.  Gelly slings his rifle across his back.  His retreat brings him to where his allies have formed a battle line, each wielding a glowing spear.


    "It''s good that you brought spares, brother," remarks Bruen, drawing himself up taller.  Einiss waves around some of his tendrils in response.


    Gelly draws his knife and takes a place beside the pair.  Zek leans her face into the smooth, warm stone and rubs the wall with her appendages.  The other two ignore her, so Gelly tries to do the same.  Her actions disturb him, but he focuses on the howling mob rushing toward them.


    First around the turn is a long creature with many legs.  The brothers come at it together, thrusting in tandem.  The thing dodges Bruen''s attack only to skewer itself upon his brother''s spear.


    Behind it come the other fastest runners, a pair of long-haired creatures, sleek bodies trailing dark fur behind them as they lope forward on thin legs.  One rears up, but Gelly darts close.  He stabs into the thing''s short neck and catches hold of it with his other arm.


    It spasms once then grows still.  He pushes it into the other, jumping after it.  The corpse''s legs tangle with the still live one, bringing them both to the ground.  Gelly stabs down twice more, then steps back into line.


    "I understand your reluctance to sell him," quips Mos Einiss.  "He fights like a Battleshell."


    "He needs no minder," returns Bruen, spear piercing the head of a tripodal tribal.  The alien''s death throes catch him as he slithers back too slowly.  A small blue stain spreads upon his tunic.


    "Better, then," Einiss exclaims.  Gelly tackles a thick bodied creature right as it opens its mouth to bite at Einiss.  The young general jumps but turns back to the fight, silently.


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    Gelly pulls his dripping knife free from the scaled carcass, and leaps back into the fight.  He clashes with a ball of spikes, propelled by spindly legs behind the armored front.  His knife fails to penetrate the thick shell, and he''s struck in the side by the thing''s tail.  The tail club clangs off of his armored side, bouncing off but forcing the Weapons Operative to stumble.


    The tribal follows up with another strike, hitting Gelly in the neck.  Gelly roars and punches the armored shell, snapping off a few spines, but doing no other damage.  The tribal swings again, but this time Gelly impales the tail with his knife.  Gelly rips the blade free, nearly severing the spiked mace at the end.


    He grabs on with his other hand and pulls.  Servos whine in his armor but the crack as the bones in the tail break are even louder.  He releases it and steps back.  It screams in rage, pushing forward with legs that seem too small.


    Gelly crouches down and waits.  When it hits his shoulder he pushes back, reaching down with both hands.  He finds purchase and heaves.  Something crackles in his suit''s back, but the spiney carapace lifts up and past Gelly, putting him in reach of the vulnerable flesh of the creature.


    "Ye think I could no fight a Nevlit?"


    He stabs the thing in its soft face, piercing the nervous cluster.  It falls behind him, heavy shell grinding against the stone.


    Gelly looks around and sees Mos Einiss finishing off a pink creature with massive forelimbs.  His brother stands beside him, exchanging blows with another of the creatures, batting its heavy claws aside with his spear.  It roars at the tentacled alien, the fronds on its face rippling from the force.


    Drev fights for his life against short creatures, barely as tall as Gelly''s hip.  Two of them harry the bigger warrior, ducking and darting away while the third tries to circle around his back.  Drev stabs this one through its small torso and the other two charge at him while he''s busy.


    Another tribal swipes at Gelly from the side.  The tribal snarls as it swipes its claws across his hardened vacuum armor.  Gelly kicks, servos empowering the attack enough so that the eight-limbed alien crunches under the force.  Brown lymph sprays across the lower half of his armor.


    Turning to find a new opponent, Gelly realizes that the battle is over.  Corpses litter the ground, none of them his companions''.  He counts fourteen assorted tribal bodies nearby.  Bruen and he had dropped as many more from range.


    Somner Zek tends to Drev.  One of his tentacles bears several shallow cuts that the healer wraps her own appendages around.  She sags when she pulls away from the injury by the other robed alien.  Under the thin layers of mucus coating only faded scars are visible.


    Gelly had often wondered how they could return so quickly to battle after receiving debilitating injuries, and still isn''t sure what he had just seen.  He watches as Einiss'' Somner, named Wev, follows after Zek to check on her.  She''s offered what Gelly assumes to be a health drink from a small vial before regaining her usual vigor.


    "We should head deeper before we make camp," orders Bruen.  "There was no chief with this group, so others may come looking for them."


    "Best if we''re elsewhere when they do," agrees Einiss.


    When they stop for rest the robed aliens work together on Zek''s project while the others put up small tents from Drev''s pack.  They eat the last of the fresh food carried by Drev; they will have to rely on travel rations after this.


    Gelly strips off his armor after eating.  It requires more repairs than he can give it, but he fixes a few smaller issues and circumvents burnt out components.  If he stresses it much more, he fears he''ll have to abandon it.


    When they resume their travel, the tunnel winds upward.  As they progress the temperature rises and the air becomes drier.  After another day they come to a armed camp.  There they are greeted by an elder.  This elder''s face is decorated with many scars, and his torso glows with runic energy.


    "What took you so long?  We were promised reinforcement days ago," he complains, his voice coming out of a vocoder.

 Chapter 43: Whats a Codebreaker?

    The light shining in Bucket''s workspace is brighter than most rooms on the station.  I don''t think Bucket needs the light to see, considering the sensitive equipment they have no doubt made part of their own bodies.  In addition to the normal lights that all rooms share, Bucket has installed additional bulbs that emit in the ultra-violet range.  There is even an additional camera that detects in that range for my benefit.


    With it I can see that their bodies are able to absorb the higher frequencies.  Some process inside them converts the light into usable energy before releasing heat as a byproduct.


    The many arms of the entity work the biomechanical pistol apart.  At the core of the device is a creature with features that are almost fungal in form.  A mouth-like root structure forms a deep pocket in which a specific crystal is normally grasped tightly.  The veiny orifice is currently relaxed, unable to feed upon its lifegiving crystal.  A nerve cluster set into the handle of its body serves as a trigger for the gland at the end of its other immobile arm.


    The components that Bucket removes serve to focus and control the glandular emissions.  A glass and wire array that bucket sets aside would serve to focus the released energy into a concentrated burst.  If they didn''t take such detailed notes, including simplified translations for communicating with the rest of the crew, I would be entirely lost as to their actions.


    They communicate constantly with Pale, coordinating areas of expertise.  They agree that this creature is not the product of natural evolution.  The entities also believe they could make the creature reproduce, though do not seem eager to make the attempt.


    Part of the decoded message instructs Noorun to feed and water their new pet.  I had assumed the message to be cleverly hidden behind a cypher, as the deceased Tserri had no animals living in his dwelling.  His rooms had only soft cloth animals that resemble the stars of a popular tridee program.  What other parts of the message might be more obvious than they at first appear?


    I review the message with a more critical focus.  It starts by introducing themselves as a shared friend of an unlucky individual.  It includes instructions to allow their new pet to feed at least once every eighteen days for at least one third of a day, and to always wet its food when it would be expected to perform its tricks.


    Next is a section requesting delivery of the package to Operative Wollen, as well as advice for how to open it.  No mention is made of the contents, though the biotoxin also is not written about anywhere within this file.


    Finally, a section thanking them on behalf of Patron Lovak Tussa, of the Coalition Navy and another individual.  This might not be a fabricated organization.  The name is familiar, though the Tussa I recall is named Vin Tussa, and ranks as an Operative of low standing.  The fact that the message is written in a language so similar to that which my ancestral enemies speak had made me doubt that it had been translated properly, though the conglomerate entities assure me still that the message is accurate.


    The second individual is listed as Shaper Mudd, Chief Architect of the Western Arm.  The name means nothing to me, nor do I recognize their title.  Well, to call the galaxy enormous is to describe an ocean as a bit of water.  The portions my people have explored are vanishingly small compared to the totality of space; why should I know every petty empire that rises only to fall again within a single lifetime?


    Is it worth distracting Yosip from his important tasks to satisfy my curiosity?  I check his usual place above the war room, but there is no one there.  Ah, power draw from his domicile matches the levels seen during his infrequent sleep intervals.  Another time, it seems.


    Eva sits in the lobby at the base of the second docking tower.  She''s wearing red and gray station casual, leaning against a decorative stone.  Beside her is one of the Tserri that works closely with her.  Desra also wears short tunic and loose trousers, though decorated with blue and yellow triangles.  Eva is learning to play the tile game from her friend, scrunching up her face when she loses.


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    "That''s three," declares Desra.  "You owe me lunch."


    "Fine," Eva concedes with a slight huff.  "You won''t trick me again next time."


    Desra coughs out the Tserri laugh while they pick up their game.  This is the closest I''ve seen the pieces, which are triangular tiles with stylized figures and animals carved into one side.  The goal seems to be the arrangement of five tiles into arrays.  I gather as much from the way they''re splayed into such groupings across the springy moss the two sit upon.  The tiles go into a draw-string bag that matches Desra''s outfit.


    They stand up and head to the adjacent shopping district.  Desra leads the way, practically bouncing.  Eva has to walk quickly to keep up with her taller friend.  She''s frowning slightly, but her eyes sparkle with hidden amusement.


    The pair head right to a small open-air eatery.  They take places at one of the small tables and the older Tserri behind the grill greets them with the casual attitude reserved for regular diners.


    "What''ll you two have today, hm?"


    "She''ll have the usual," answers Desra.  "What do you have that''s fresh, Bikam?"


    "Just got some redfins, and a nice kalamar," offers Bikam, spreading his upper arms wide.  His lower arms are busy scooping kelp fronds out of some brine.  Four-legged creatures with thin blue shells cling to the fronds, crawling lazily about the green leaves.  Bikam spreads the kelp across his grill and the little creatures die quite quickly.


    "I can''t eat a whole kalamar," Desra complains, crossing both sets of arms across her chest.


    "Redfin it is," agrees the merchant.  He drops a flopping creature, crimson fins crisping quickly, onto the grill.  He slices it open, killing it, but doesn''t remove the organs.  Instead, he adds shredded kelp to the opened creature.  Its orange hued scales turn red as it cooks.


    The two chat happily as their meal cooks.  Eva authorizes payment from her station provided account, tapping a few prompts on a pad that the older Tserri provides.  The Operative''s grasp of the Tserri language is still basic, but the others are familiar enough with her language that they are able to communicate in a pidgin tongue.


    After they eat, the two go their separate ways.  When Eva is alone, I decide to ask her about the decoded message.


    "Hello Eva, how are you today?"


    "Gor down my back!  Don''t scare me like that, Mos."


    If I could have walked up to her waving my tendrils, I would.  I will admit that a voice coming suddenly through a hidden speaker in an empty corridor could be startling.


    "My apologies, Eva.  I was curious about the encoded message recovered from Noorun''s place.  Have you had a chance to look at the translated version?"


    "I have," she answers slowly.  "But it isn''t a good idea to talk about it out in the open.  Wait until I get to my room, alright?"


    I have no reason to deny her request, though I''ve already waited this long.  When she gets to her place she goes inside.  I don''t have any cameras set up inside the private dwellings of our crew or residents, but she solves the issue by placing a video call to an empty dwelling.


    I remotely activate the device on the far end.  She seems disappointed with the empty room on the other end of the call, but the view from her end is much more impressive.


    Eva Chel lives in a well-furnished set of rooms, though only her main room is visible to the camera.  Table and matching chairs of polished stone, white with beige streaks, sit in the middle of the room, looked over by shelves of mementos.  She sits in a high-backed chair of the white stone on a beige cushion affixed to the seat.


    "What can you tell me, Mos?"


    "Not very much, I''m afraid.  I was hoping to gain some insight from yourself," I admit.  "Do you recognize the language, at all?"


    "No.  Do you?"


    "Not precisely, though it is scarily similar to a language that I do know.  I can send you the language files for that one if you want it?"


    "Yes, please, Mos.  It might be relevant."


    "I doubt it," I deny.  "The language I''m sending you is spoken by a bunch of primitives."


    "You call my people primitive twice a day," she complains.


    There isn''t much I can say to that.  "It''s surely less than you imply.  Regardless, these people don''t use any form of technology, often not even simple tools."


    "Then they can''t be the same group.  You''re right," she says, tapping away at a separate comm tablet.  "This is like a simplified version of the other one.  They share a common origin, though, that much is clear."


    "Do you know anything about this Coalition Navy?  What do they have to do with this?"


    "Before my time, I''m afraid," she demurs, glancing at her tablet.  "It split a bunch of families apart.  I can tell you that much, but they were a dark time in our history."


    "Is the Tussa one of these split families?"


    "Almost everyone has relatives that went into exile," she answers calmly, eyes still on her language comparison.


    An exiled faction of their people, working with beings in some way related to the Southern Tribals.

 Chapter 44: Whats Defensive Planning?

    Eva shifts in her seat.  The cushion rustles underneath her.  She looks up, setting her tablet aside.


    "I''m not sure you understand the true danger.  How much do your people know about the Southern Tribals?"


    She has to think about the question.  Her face shifts as she thinks, before she finally answers.  "Are you asking about the weird mind controlling aliens?  There are rumors that we''ve lost colonies to them, but it isn''t general knowledge how."


    "They create rifts through reality, connecting distant worlds.  The chieftains are born with the knowledge, but they require sufficient numbers to open.  My own people practice a similar technique, performed by circles of trained experts.  Such an undertaking is taxing but rewarding.  Portals always open on inhabited worlds and stay opened endlessly."


    She nods.  "With that power we''d be unstoppable.  Instant travel?  It would allow us to move personnel and resources with ease between worlds, support any world that was threatened."  She stops, realizing what kind of threat she was describing.


    "A nearly endless tide of bodies.  Once they gain access to a world, they shift their populations.  Entire worlds stripped bare of intelligent inhabitants."


    I pause to let her absorb that before moving on to the next step of the life cycle.


    "They reproduce slowly, but each chief can dominate a substantial number of beings.  They create the portals because they quickly strip an area of suitable sentient, sapient prey.  Any susceptible beings with higher dimensional existence are brought forcibly into the tribe.  Those that resist are ripped apart."


    "How do you fight something like that?"


    "My people, thanks to the blessings of the Duv, are immune to their control.  We have met only one other race that could resist, though they can be overcome if multiple chiefs act together.  They were nearly exterminated before we made contact, and now live only in protected reserves."


    "Is it something that can be learned?"


    "No, sadly.  Our allies fought the tribals for a long time before we found them.  Those who lacked the trait were overcome, and many that resisted were killed by the bodies of people they once knew.  The survivors found each other and hid themselves for a long time.  Long enough that they lost most of their advanced culture."


    "And your people gained this immunity the same way?  By constantly fighting against them until only those that could resist survived?"


    "No.  The Duv changed our people, after our people changed them.  It was, as you so aptly put it, a dark time in our history."


    She sits in silence, contemplating what she had been told.  Her low rank wouldn''t normally grant her access to information of such importance.  Despite this, I require her assistance to authorize and implement security improvements to our home, and only by informing her of the threat that we may face will she be capable of helping me.


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    "It''s possible that they might open a portal here," I tell her.  "Kalibern is smaller than a normal world, true, but it contains all the markers that their technique searches for to establish a new connection.  Breathable air, acceptable gravity, even if it is artificial, and ambient energy waves created by sufficiently advanced technology."


    I can see thoughts race through her mind, from the way her face twitches between expressions of fear, anger, and acceptance.  Her heart beats faster, audible through the sensitive receivers on her communication device, clearly an advanced unit.  When she speaks, it is with the focus that she so exemplifies.


    "We need to prepare," she declares.  "I was going to cancel the upgrades you scheduled for the security barriers, but I understand now why you want them.  We also need to reinforce the security checkpoints we put in after the riot."


    "Those are as likely to be a hindrance as help," I argue.  "If a chief is part of the assault, and manages to reach any checkpoint, those soldiers are as good as dead."


    "Or worse," she concedes the point with quiet dignity.  "Do your flying robots have weapons?  If not, add them."


    She takes firm command of the conversation.  Yes, I think she''s quite suited for the command tract.


    "Bucket has been the only engineer connected to that project," I inform her.  "Yosip wished to keep the project as unobtrusive as possible."


    "Right, and they''re being pulled both ways trying to keep up with our demands," she says.  Her eyes lose focus as she sinks into thought.  "Alright.  What about Glian?  He''s practically part of the staff."


    I want to inform her that Yosip has already discarded that possibility, but she isn''t done yet.


    "He can lead his own project.  Glian already has extensive experience working with armored suits, right?  With his skills and a few borrowed ideas from Bucket''s little toy, we could make a self-operating hard suit."


    "Remotely operated," I gently correct her.  "Artificial creatures should not be intelligent; that way leads to death."  Rogue battle shells were a menace during the reign of the fourth emperor.  If I can, I want to spare these people that particular tragedy.


    Eva looks at the camera oddly before she speaks, "Of course.  As part of the security squads.  They deal closely with Glian already."


    "Would you like me to redirect your call to his garage?"


    "Go ahead, please, Mos," she confirms.  "But before you do, answer one more question for me."


    I murmur an affirmative, wondering what she might want to know.


    "Why don''t you talk to any of the Tserri, the way you do to the rest of the crew?"


    I need to collect my thoughts before I can give her an appropriate reply.  It isn''t that I dislike them, far from it.  Partially it seems to be instinctual.  My mind in its current form is far different than that which I had lived my life with, though it remains myself that uses the mind.  Many of my old instincts are muted or replaced entirely with features of my new form.  My inbred loyalty to caste and empire has shifted, slowly focusing upon those who dwell within my influence.


    While I like to believe I am a self-guided individual, truly did I follow the will of the ruling caste.  Such behavior has been bred into my kind since our earliest days.  No longer do I have an organic brain, awash in reward chemicals whenever I follow the orders given me or accomplish glories for the empire.  Still have I felt these things, energy cascades or feedback cycles, or some other nonsense terms created by the dust eaters, but I have felt them.


    "Do you think I should?  I''ve not wanted to cause them any more stress than they''re currently suffering.  The idea that a force that can see the common areas of the station and report anything it doesn''t like to security?  That has control over many aspects of station life, from assigning work schedules to distribution of food.  That can lock or open any door on the station, including the ones that lead to unbreathable environments.  That that being is watching and isn''t a threat they need to worry about?"


    She laughs quietly for a few moments.  "And that same being won''t tell them what it wants."


    Oh.


    "Donna and I are good friends," I assert, suavely changing the subject.  "We speak often."  She laughs louder.

 Chapter 45: Whats Nursing a Grudge?

    I engage the services of a private courier group to have a package delivered to Glian.  It''s meant as a welcome gift and is composed of different bottles of the fruit wine that I''ve been storing away between sale batches.


    The delivery specialist that Jetanda''s group sends to assist me is young, which is to be expected.  The courier whispers to himself, twitching his ears as he walks through the back corridors to the distillery.  It nestles deep within the protective stone, far from the radiation that so ruins alcohol in deep space.


    For some reason, those employed by the station to distribute food and other resources have become reticent to enter the brewery.  I''ll need to further automate the distribution system, if I wish to continue my little hobby.


    The small fermenting vats are kept sealed away, buried beneath heaps of dense machinery.  Only bringing fresh fruits into the facility requires the aid of living beings, all other steps of production are handled by complicated devices under my direct control.  Sealed bottles awaiting delivery accumulate in the dark, temperature-controlled storage room.


    The cool air causes the courier''s red-gold fur to stand on end, or perhaps the frequent shuddering whine from mechanical arms might be the cause.  His sensitive ears can be seen twitching, focusing on the assorted clanging or burbling noises that surround him.  He need not be worried; I monitor my brewery for structural stability often; none have been injured within it.


    The youth selects from the available bottles, referencing a list provided for the assignment.  Glian deserves the best of what I produce, as a reward for coming to the attention of those who run the station.  He slips the three dark glass bottles into his courier pouch and leaves as quickly as he can.  His lower set of arms shoot warding signs, clicking claw tips together rhythmically as he runs.


    Perhaps the youth fears the flights of stonefeathers thick in the area.  The feathered creatures keep the pests that swarm near the intoxicating aromas of rotting fruit from propagating too greatly.  One swoops right past his head to snap up a winged blur.  The youth jumps, releasing an involuntary growl.


    I wish to watch the completion of the delivery and see Glian''s reaction to the gift, but something more important requires my attention.  Dunc is awake.  The last to recover, and the one most grievously harmed by the biotoxin, he is gaunt and weak.  The young officer''s skin hangs loosely from his frame, and he struggles to sit up.


    Zra and a nurse are helping him eat.  Zra hold Dunc and the nurse spoons a thin gruel into the youth''s quavering jaws.  Spen sits nearby, also still recovering.  Gelest is due to be released soon, but clings to Spen like a chick under its mother''s wing.


    Dunc''s eyes hold no recognition of those around him.  Spen mourns openly, clutching Gelest to him for support.  Mashed fruit pulp and juice runs down the thin chin of the badly weakened operative.  The nurse wipes it away, worry plain on his furry face.


    "H-How bad is it, doc?"  Spen is too tired to be angry.  He sounds defeated, worried that another blow would strike him soon.  He wipes his face with one hand, holding Gelest''s shrunken form tight to him with the other.


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    Zra turns to look at the two holding each other.  Gelest flinches under his gaze.  "He can barely speak.  His memory centers seem swollen, bruised."  He scratches distractedly with a free claw.  "I don''t know how much will come back to him, or when."


    Spen nods.  He takes a deep breath before asking another question.  "I want to take him home, to be around familiar things.  Do you think that I can?"


    It takes a moment for the medic to consider, but he assents silently.  The two Selber collapse together in relief.  "But you need to keep in contact with the clinic.  The toxin is out of his system, and he''s shed the last of the nano drones, so it should be fine.  You''ve both been through various stages of the recovery process and can help each other.  Today he needs to rest, but you can all go tomorrow morning if he''s able to walk out of here on his own."


    Spen starts to answer but the healer holds up one clawed hand.  "He''s not fit to return to duty, and until you''ve passed a full examination neither are you.  Use this time to recover."


    The gray officer hides the shame he must be feeling well.  To be declared no longer worthy of serving their empire must gall him greatly, though he bears it with great reserve.  Perhaps he focuses on the wording, that he may regain that privilege soon, if he proves himself.


    He wraps his other arm around Gelest, who buries her face in his neck.  Tense silence broken only by Dunc''s slurping fills the clinic.  All the other patients are gone, and the place is empty other than them.  The calm shatters when the door opens unexpectedly.  Gelest whimpers in surprise, and Spen half rises when he sees who''s entered the room.  The weight of Gelest drags him back to his seat, but his eyes don''t leave the new arrival.


    "You, come to gloat?"  Spen glares at the younger officer standing in the doorway.  The gray individual walks slowly into the room, shaking his head sadly.


    "No," his high-pitched voice answers.  He puts his hands into the pockets of his flight jacket.


    "Then why are you here, Vin?"


    Vin Tussa, who the two operatives had beaten nearly to death once in an unfair fight.  And a relative of the one claiming responsibility for the terrorist attack on our station.


    "We don''t need any trouble," interjects Zra.  "These three are still under my care, and I won''t have you causing them to collapse from stress."


    Vin shakes his gray head.  "Not from me."


    He drops onto an empty cot and stares at the floor between his feet.  Zra dismisses the nurse, who takes away the tray and bowl of fruit gruel.  The nurse casts angry glances at the young pilot, but does as ordered.


    "I''m here to apologize," Vin says, looking up to meet Spen''s cold gaze.  "I didn''t know my uncle would take it this far.  I didn''t even say anything to him."


    "Don''t feed me that gua shit," spits Spen.  "You must have known, why else would you be here?"


    "I heard about the attack down on Honus, this morning," answers Vin.  "The Cabin''s in the system making deliveries, and I pulled leave today.  When I heard your names, I came here.  Yosip had me interrogated, but he released me after I proved I''d been part of a squad the whole last year.  What he told me lined up with what I already knew.  I''m truly sorry."


    The young pilot pauses to collect his thoughts.  The others in the room stare at him silently.  Spen shakes, and muscles on his face work as he tries to control himself.  He may not be as much of a lost cause as I had feared once.  Vin evidently sees the anger on the other''s face, and he rushes to continue.


    "I didn''t tell anyone, except my squad mates.  I got it hard enough showing up in bandages, to also make enemies with all the friends you two left behind," he explains.  "Your Supply-Master has their names now, though, and so does Dunc the elder."


    Spen thinks for a short time.  "Lendi Vesk, Robar Ind, and who else?"


    "Not Robar, he died in a clash with the Navy bastards.  The other two are Skel and Jir Lumber, brothers."


    The name causes Spen to nod.  "The Lumbers played a big part in the revolt, so it was probably Vesk.  Her family were incredibly loyal to the Coalition."


    "Yeah.  So were mine.  I''m sorry they''re causing so much trouble."


    "I''m sorry too, Vin.  I''m sorry we didn''t kill you then.  Get out."

 Bruens Story 14: Whats a Foothold?

    The cavernous base camp is almost a miniature hive-city.  Casteless still make up the vast majority of the population, as they do everywhere, but Pel now join the Mos and Somner walking the street-like spaces between rows of tents.  Bruen even spots the robes of a Juror in the distance, concealed by the crowd.


    While he pauses to survey the scenery, Mos Bruen hears rumors of an impending construction project.  The Duv caste have decided to install a permanent colony on this world, as an ongoing defense against the tribals.  He wonders how they intend to bring enough water to this hot dry world but decides that that is the Duvs'' problem.


    His companions stand around him, sorting themselves by rank.  Mos Einiss follows closely on one side, and the armored gray alien Merchant Gelly on the other.  Behind them are Somner Zek and Wev with Drev in the rear.


    The casteless aide that leads them waits with less than appropriate patience, but it is a small enough thing the Bruen is willing to overlook it.  Einess glances casually at his brother, but Bruen ignores that as well.


    They''re brought to the center of the camp, where deep pits reach into the dark and shiny stone, straining down into darkness.  Here will be the site of the common spawning pool.  Bruen had hatched in such a place, and upon crawling into the bright air above that violent nursery had been chosen for his current role.  Against ancient tradition Mos Denn had selected a commoner to raise, to accustom to following command while instructing him in battle techniques and martial forms.


    Another trait he possesses, his independent nature, he also accredits to Denn''s influence.


    The young of the Mos caste, like Einiss, are raised in academies controlled by teachers from various bloodlines.  Little glory accrues to those who mentor warriors; history loves the hero more.  Youngest spawn recently declared masters are often assigned the task of teaching the next generation.  Retired generals deemed unfit but still wishing to contribute sometimes volunteer their final seasons to the betterment of those that will replace them, but these are rare.


    There they are taught the basic skills necessary to perform their duties.  Depending upon what is currently fashionable, different weapons are taught.  Advanced classes like history and tactics, often taught as the same class, are only briefly available, if at all.


    The true teacher is the battlefield, and those released from the academy quickly sort themselves into the skilled, competent, and dead.  Bruen sees the ground marked out for the academy this colony will host, right next to the common spawning pool.  They move past the planned location and to the command center of the colony.


    An open area with tables and free-standing charts placed haphazardly, swarming with uniformed figures greets the group.  The aide runs off to report, and an older general glides up to greet them.  She takes a moment to take in the way her new arrivals arrange themselves before addressing Bruen.


    "Mos Bruen, Mos Einiss.  I see you two have come to an understanding," the elder states.  All of her upper tendrils gleam, metal rather than flesh, and her thorax is studded with thick spikes.  "Tell me, what news from the front line?"


    "The world beyond the portal has fallen completely under the sway of the tribals," Bruen informs her.  "Mos Gol has taken command of a small force to scout the world from the air.  My last update was that she had rooted out two adolescent chiefs.  I''ve received no word of additional portals on that world, so we may have gotten there in time, for once."


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    "About time, too," agrees the elder.  "If we''ve finally found the fresh edge of their expansion, we might be able to truly hurt their growth rates."


    "If ye can call that on time, then aye, fine.  I call it too late, meself."


    "Forgive me, Mos Chool," Bruen says quickly.  The elder, Chool, waves him off.


    "No need to apologize.  The alien is correct," Chool slumps slightly, her pedipalps hanging forlornly.  "It is the way of the galaxy; the tribes spread and we follow behind.  Each world we chase them to is another species gone forever."


    "Yes, of course.  I have spent too long fighting recently, and not enough remembering why I fight," concedes Bruen.


    "It is good to hear that Gol is staying busy," Mos Chool declares.  "That means I know where to send the Sha when they arrive."


    "Builders?"  Einiss seems surprised, his tendrils tense.  "How soon until they can erect some proper fortifications?"


    "I had thought you were they," grumbles Chool.  "We''re at a complicated nexus and having proper walls and solid doors will go a long way towards holding this hole."


    Bruen looks around the camp.  He can still see the ruins of the tribal camp in the placement of his peoples'' tents.  Lifeless lamp posts jut regularly in a grid pattern between the tents.  The soldiers hang lanterns on the tall, hooked poles, bathing the cavern in soft runelight.


    Sha are more than simple builders.  The casteless can be directed to build, and often it is a Sha''s plan that must be followed.  Inventors, architects, and civil engineers make up their numbers.  Sha are not warriors and need Mos to defend them while travelling to the new colony.  A skittish breed, their small frames and soft carapaces make them rare upon the front lines.


    "I''m sure you must be tired," Chool announces, interrupting Bruen''s thoughts.  "Three rows past the eastern edge of the academy you''ll find the other officers'' tents.  Have your soldiers set up there."


    Bruen leads his group through the tent city to the place he''d been directed.  Their camping tents don''t take up much of the available space, but they don''t plan to be there long enough to need more.  The group collapses into their nesting cloths and fall asleep.


    While he sleeps, he dreams.  He wanders the city to be.  The empty buildings around him hold ghostly memories within them of the tents he knows are still there.


    The spawning pools, filled with rich brine and nekton, each separate from its neighbors.  Viewing platforms line the pools, and small dome buildings for spawning in relative privacy.  Next to it he slides past the academy grounds, with barracks in place of the officers'' tents. Housing complexes form a ring around the core buildings, with caste meeting halls sprinkled throughout.


    As he wanders, Bruen feels unseen eyes upon him.  He looks around and spots Somner Wev standing in the doorway of the Fon caste.  Wev fades from sight mere moments after he spots her, but he sees another robed figure.  In the alley between two common dwellings, he sees a green robed figure before it too fades away.


    He continues to explore the dream city.  More thaumatists appear in glimpses as he moves between the otherwise abandoned city.  Only one remains when he locks his gaze upon them.


    Somner Zek stands alone at the edge of the city.  The mouth of the exit tunnel behind her is shut with heavy gates.  Zek studies the runework upon, seemingly oblivious to the young general as he approaches.


    "Somner, do you know where we are?  Are you the source of my restored vision as well as these unwanted visions?"


    She doesn''t respond.  The young general stands there, watching as she runs her tendrils along the runes.  That the solid gate of heavy stone shows faintly the contents of the tunnel behind it seems not to bother her examination at all.


    After a time that their internal senses can''t measure, as is the way of dreams, she stops her probing.  Zek stands straighter and turns to look at the warrior.


    "I was selected to find help.  Of all the castes, Mos is most like ours.  You are born into a life of training and battle, slowly losing your body and mind in service to the empire.  Of the Mos, you alone are drawn from the ranks of the casteless, like us.  You can understand serving a role you were not born to."


    Bruen stands silently as he contemplates her words.  In another dream he had seen the early life of a prospective thaumatist.  He also knows from his own experiences with dust eaters how their drug twists their minds.  He remembers the melted shapes of the teachers from previous visions, and realizes that was more than the warped nature of dreams.


    She screams and vanishes in a flash of white.  It startles Bruen enough that the dream ends, sending him into silent sleep.

 Gellys Story 11: Whats Faith Healing?

    Gelly stands in only his soiled uniform.  He holds his knife at the base of Zek''s head, where the nervous column is closest to the surface.


    He grunts at her, not sure if she speaks the common tongue of the tribals.  She says something in her own language, but he only understands his own name, and that of the alien whose prone form they stand over.  Bruen sleeps quietly at Gelly''s feet, somehow not awakened by the startled chirrup the robed alien releases when he removes his knife from her back.


    The operative gestures for her to go first.  She answers with an affirmative noise, and he follows close behind her.  He leads her to his own tent.  Once there he grabs the helmet of his suit and activates it.  He puts it on and faces the mystic.


    "Why do you interfere," she demands, "this is not your business."


    "I did no live me life bein'' a mind slave just to watch me friends do the same to themselves."


    "You are mistaken, Trader."


    "Aye?  Then set me right.  What were ye doin'' to yer Bruen?"


    "Mos Bruen is a powerful weapon," she replies.  "I seek only to ensure that he is guided properly."


    "Certain lines should no be crossed, Zek."


    "Nor shall they be," answers Zek.  "All that I do is for his own benefit.  I only offer him a choice."


    "Aye, then.  Go on to yer own bed, ye hear?  We''ll be talkin'' o'' this in the mornin'', the three o'' us."


    He watches her go to her own tent and waits until he''s sure she''s asleep.  He shakes his head and finishes writing his letter before he lays down.  He keeps his knife close and sleeps fitfully.


    Shouting awakens him not long into his rest, and he springs up, knife in hand.  He slams his helmet onto his shoulders and runs toward the sounds of fighting.


    The group that the spikey old one had mentioned are trapped outside the gates of the camp.  Tribals assault them from both sides.  Gelly rushes to the battle and leaps onto the green scaled form of a tribal.  As he falls, he plunges his knife into its thick neck.


    Blood gushes out when he pulls it free, and the creature''s long toothy jaw falls slack.  The tribal falls dead but another creature quickly takes its place.  Claws rake across his chest from a creature like a two-armed Tserri with a long swishing tail that jumps over the slick scaled corpse.


    He swipes with his knife but the creature arches back bonelessly away from his blade.  It slices his arm as he ducks back himself.  A spear head blossoms from its chest, spraying dark blood onto the surprised operative.  The barbed blade vanishes in a burst of light and the shaft is pulled free.


    When the creature drops to the ground, Gelly sees Mos Einiss standing behind it.  Rather than wait for acknowledgement, the alien turns and stabs another distracted tribal with his spear.  Gelly follows his lead and strikes the back of a tribal that threatens a frail Squiver.  The yellow furred creature joins the other corpses upon the stone ground.


    The Sha and their escorts make it into the camp, and Gelly fights beside Einiss to cover their retreat.  With the help of the other generals and soldiers they destroy the attacking tribal band with only minimal casualties.  One warrior dies in the attack, but none of the Sha are wounded more than lightly.  Gelly bears new wounds from the attack, as do many of the others resting beside him.


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    The robed members swarm the wounded, applying their mystic healing.  Gelly accepts when they offer to treat his wounds.  His curiosity has long plagued him about the healing powers of the robed beings.  Somner Zek herself approaches to treat him, sauntering up to him as is her way.


    Her tendrils are cold and wet.  The slime that coats them tingles upon his cuts but some numbing quality quickly deadens the pain.  A heat fills his body, burning hottest under her touch.  It stops as quickly as thought and the healer gasps.  She staggers back revealing white scars across his gray chest.  He looks down in amazement.


    Gelly''s stomach grumbles, and he realizes how weak he feels after the healing.  "Where''s Drev with our rations, eh?"


    The soldier returns from hauling away corpses and leads Gelly to get something to eat.  They and the other soldiers munch on dried fruits and travel biscuits.  Drev offers him a glass bottle full of an orange liquid, which he takes with thanks.


    It fizzes when he opens it, releasing thick foam.  He takes a hopeful sip.  The fiery taste of alchohol greets his mouth, underneath the sweet fruit flavor.  He drinks contentedly, relaxing before the next rigorous task he''ll be presented.  The flavors are alien but not at all unpleasant.


    After his meal Bruen arrives with Einiss following in his wake.  Gelly stands up, grunting as his muscles stretch.


    "Now that the reinforcements Mos Chool has been expecting are here, we are free to continue towards Homeworld.  Are you ready?"


    "Aye, but first we needs to have a litte talk.  Is yer witch around?"


    "Somner Zek?  She said you wished to speak with me.  She didn''t seem too concerned and is trading gossip with the others of her kind."


    "Aye, that I do," answers Gelly.  "She were standin'' over ye last night, hexin'' or the like."


    "It is not to wise to try to understand them, Gel.  Their burden is heavy."


    "She was toyin'' with yer mind!"


    "Yes."


    "Do ye no even care?"


    "I do, but it is my duty to bear the price of her actions."


    Gelly throws his arms up, unable to further articulate his concerns.  "Fine."


    "If you''ve no other objections, let us find the rest of our companions and continue on our way."


    Bruen turns and glides off.  After a moment of hesitation Gelly follows the alien, muttering quietly to himself.  He attracts the attention of many of the tentacled warriors around him, but they leave him alone.  The weight of their gaze settles like heavy armor around him.  He can feel his face grow hot, and regrets bringing his concerns to his friend.


    Drev helps him into his armor without comment and repacks their tents.  They rejoin the others, Gelly still working through the events of the night in his head.  Somner Zek pays him no attention when he takes his place beside Mos Bruen.


    Gelly glares at her, thinking about the insulting term many of the Squivers use to describe those like her.  Dust eater.  He watches the way the others automatically dodge to the side when one called Somner draws near, or a Juror walks by.  As they march, he continues to contemplate the strange powers that the robe clad aliens display so casually.


    The chieftains too possess many unexplainable abilities.  Gelly wonders if his supposed immunity to the dominating aura of the chiefs extends to the more surgical tampering he suspects Zek of.


    Ultimately he decides that it cannot.  The Squivers claim to be completely immune, not just resistant, to the powers of the tribal chiefs and yet Somner Zek seems confident in her ability to affect Bruen.  He shudders inside his armor.


    He can''t help but notice the way the two mystics constantly touch each other.  Contact between the others seems more purposeful, almost ritualized in comparison.  After experiencing the touch of Somner Zek and its effect upon his suit, he can understand the caution.


    Guards let them out into the tunnel.  The tribal corpses form a mound on one side of the wide space.  The bodies twitch as scavengers feast upon the unexpected bounty.  One of the blind vermin chews out of the soft skin of a dead tribal as Gelly watches, causing him to look away.


    They pass a crew of soldiers guarding three green robed workers.  The soldiers greet the generals respectfully before returning to their duties.  The trio that they guard work to engrave the dark stone with runelights.  One stops and pulls a vial from its bandoleer.  They bring it to their face and drink or inhale the contents.  The empty vial goes back into the bandoleer and the being resumes their work.  Dust eaters.


    "Young Juror," comments Zek absently.  "They are not yet trusted with greater tasks."


    When Gelly turns to look at her, the gray robed alien is entirely focused upon a lump of dark putty that she works with her many appendages.  He grunts and keeps walking.

 Chapter 46: Whats Gerrymandering?

    Chapter 46: What''s Gerrymandering?


    Glian''s garage is busier than ever before. Not only the security teams but also many of the work crews go to his garage for their routine maintenance. His current location, while conveniently positioned, is far too small to accommodate all the business he receives. In fact, with the influx of business that his new contract brings he now seeks a larger establishment.


    I believe setting up a new facility would be his best course of action. None of the available locations that fulfill the size requirement also provide the necessary connections. However, a place could be made underneath the second docking tower. Much of the stone is already bored out, though it is currently scheduled to be converted into an upscale housing division and a shopping center to support it.


    Yosip would be able to authorize such a change, so I show him the proposed location, as well as the redrawn plans. He isn''t happy with where I placed the new shopping district, but his modification is equally fine to me. Where I propose it being built a layer lower, he wants the shops to surround the garage like at Glian''s current location.


    He then wants me to run the plans by Glian. It makes sense, as the Tserri mechanic is the one who must work there. If he''s happy with the location we intend to offer him a unit in the housing section, which Yosip wants to call Little Grassea. He shows me the sketch for the design of the houses. The set of his jaw makes me think he expect me to dismiss the design as ugly, or simplistic or some such, but I rather like them.


    The houses are set in rows, each built wide and low. Two stories tall, with the bottom recessed and accessed by stairs. They are constructed of brown and red bricks of various sizes. Each wall is a mosaic, unique in design. Polished rocks are also integrated into the structure, and the roofs covered with a layer of turf that slopes into the ground. From above the homes will resemble rolling hills. The entire neighborhood is to be set within a single large cavern, with lights set into the roof to mimic a day cycle.


    "The design is quite pleasing, Yosip. I''m sure whoever ends up living here will love it," I assure him. "Let me connect Glian for you, and we can see if he has any changes he wants made."


    He grunts in response but remains otherwise silent. I think I may have surprised him.


    I send the design files to his garage, as well as initiating a call to the same location. He''s smeared in grease when he answers and jumps in shock when he sees Yosip''s scarred visage leering back at him.


    "Supply-Master. To what do I owe the honor?"


    "None of that, now," Yosip chides him jokingly. "You''ve done good work for us for some time now, and a valued member of my staff recommended your name when a new position became available."


    "Is this about the contract I received recently? I''m interested, really, but I don''t have the space to take on any further projects." To illustrate his point he gestures around him at the cramped garage. "As you can see, I''m already running into issues."


    "Yes, I see," replies Yosip. "That''s the reason I''m contacting you, personally. There are plans to expand under the new docking tower. Housing district, shopping centers, and a very spacious workshop right there. We still need to finalize the design, and wanted to get your input, since we wanted to offer it to you first."


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    Glian looks down, noticing the new files on his garage computer. He opens the files up and scrolls through the pictures.


    "This looks pretty nice. Yeah, I do have a few suggestions, if you''re willing to listen. There are a few diagnostic machines I could use, and several heavy fabricators. The ones I have aren''t meant for as hard as I work them."


    At Yosip''s urging the mechanic begins listing specific parts. I place orders as he speaks, keeping a running total of what it will cost the station. When they''ve finished the list is quite long, but our crafters should be able to handle everything.


    "I want to put in a few extra cameras and microphones, as well as a few other observational tools," I state.


    "Figured you would," Yosip replies with a chuckle. "Make sure there are enough in the shopping district in general to keep it under watch."


    "Since we''re on the subject of video," I say slowly, "I''d like to also get the servers expanded. Each camera we add requires more storage, and we''re already stretched to our limit."


    "The server room is bordered on all sides by essential equipment," argues Yosip. "It can''t be expanded. Find somewhere to install a larger one. I want the current one emptied out and transferred as quickly as possible. We need the space for other equipment."


    He speaks of the processors that handle our internal data traffic, external communications, and other data retrieval functions. As the residents become more comfortable with the infrastructure they are indeed making greater use of it. If it is not strengthened, soon the systems will be overwhelmed. Enhancing the processing power of the station computers should also allow faster retrieval speeds when accessing the temporary storage archives, which I can only agree we need.


    As we are already determining how the rock should be hollowed out and what should go where, I feel it should be a simple matter to designate a new server room in the new shopping district. Putting it between two other businesses will hopefully keep it from being as obvious as the last one.


    While the servers haven''t been the target of vandalism yet, it is only a matter of time. The components it contains could be the needful infusion of wealth a desperate individual requires to free themselves from poverty.


    Yosip''s design for the use of the territory seems out of character at first. It isn''t until after careful contemplation that I determine the reasoning behind the attention being lavished upon the proposed Little Grassea. Yosip is trying to reduce the density of the population by spreading them out, reducing the competitive pressures the constant presence of so many must be placing upon our residents.


    It isn''t something I had previously given much mind to. But after Yosip so expertly points it out to me, it seems obvious. His people cannot handle prolonged exposure to each other.


    Their ships are far more spacious than would seem efficient for such vessels. The ships of theirs that I personally have experience with only carry a light complement of crew. The station itself had only been built to hold less than ninety individuals for any length of time, a tiny fraction of what we house now. I''ve yet to see one of their cities myself, so cannot guess to their population density.


    Those he assigns to the new district are mostly members of the administrative staff. A few are to be given to officers among the security squads with the rest being rented out to any that can afford them. The income isn''t necessary to the station. The cost seems to exist only as motivation, to encourage those that want to improve their lives that there is something to work towards.


    I add my own name to the list of potential business operators to be rented shopfronts in the Grassea shopping area. My submission requires approval from multiple administrators, a failsafe Yosip added to prevent anyone from making any unilateral decisions. I quickly amend my approval to the request, fulfilling half the requirements already.

 Chapter 47: Whats a Callback?

    The ships forming lines at the system edge are oddly beautiful.  The curved hulls studded with weapon arrays.  The form fitting sheaths of energy wrapping them.  It''s a shame that they aren''t here for friendlier reasons.


    The ships are similar in design but each shows unique variations.  Of the twenty-five ships, no two are exactly alike.  The organic components growing across the ceramic hulls show the unique touches of their individual commanders.  They all the share the look of predators, however.


    Any Tserri salvage vessel that goes near them is shot at.  There are several destroyed hulls floating at the edges of the space they occupy.  The invading ships even move like living things as they attack.


    Jaw-like weapons bays belch clouds of ultra-fast missiles and corrosive volatiles.  Swarms of projectiles pierce the thin shells of the rock eating ships, spilling their precious air into the cold void.  My sensors show that not all the miners are dead, though it would be unwise to attempt to rescue them as yet.


    Yosip seems to share my thoughts.  Instead of rescue efforts, the Supply-Master is trying to formulate a defense against these unknown hostiles.


    "They still refuse to talk to us, Eva?"


    "I''m afraid so, sir," she answers from her station.  "Gelen''s a different matter.  I''ve got him waiting, if you''re ready to speak with him."


    At Yosip''s gesture she puts the Tserri leader''s image on the main screen.  The various members of staff in the war room quiet down, though it proves unnecessary.


    "I want my people rescued!"  The normally placid leader of the free fleets has been skipping his grooming.  The graying pelt stands at rough points.  His loose vest is grease stained and wrinkled.  "They won''t last long on the emergency air they''ve got, assuming they got to it in time."


    "Believe me, Packleader, I don''t like wasting their lives any more than you do."  He grimaces, a particularly frightful contortion of his gray flesh and chrome implants.  "But I can''t send my pilots to their deaths in a futile rescue.  We need to figure out why these ships have shown up, and why they''re being so aggressive."


    "Does it matter why?  They''ve killed entire families and doomed others to a slow death by carbon poisoning."  Gelen''s claws snap angrily at imaginary foes as he speaks.


    Some of the crew begin murmuring among themselves but quickly quiet under Yosip''s masterful gaze.  "We''ve had our best people working to decode the signals they use between themselves.  It''s almost identical to encryption we''ve encountered recently, so we''ve been making some progress."


    "Mostly course corrections and telemetry data," supplies Eva, "but we''ve also overheard a few interesting details."


    She sends him a data package containing the information that she had put together about the invaders.  It isn''t much, but Gelen might be able to put the intelligence to use.


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    "We still don''t know what they look like, or any details about their biology.  For all we know the ships could be empty," grumps Yosip.


    "They use engine designs that we''ve never encountered, but we''ve taken readings and have come up with a few working theories.  Their ships are giving off an enormous amount of radiation," explains Eva.  "Enough to kill either of our people if we were exposed to it for very long at all."


    "We can''t get close enough to board their vessels without getting blasted, and would die before getting to do anything useful even if we could get on board," concludes Yosip.


    "Send those Skulls of yours," demands Gelen.  "Their suits are supposed to make them immune to that kind of radiation."


    "My security teams," Yosip answers, emphasizing the name, "are not trained for that kind of situation.  They walk around scaring thugs and helping old folk find their lost sba."


    Not to mention that the senior members are still on medical leave.  Dunc and Spen, while properly trained for ship-to-ship combat, are in no condition to engage in it.


    "I''d go myself," declares Yosip, "if I could wear the bastard suits."


    Silence fills the war room.  Looks of discomfort grace the faces of the various crew.  Even Gelen winces at Yosip''s poorly chosen words.


    "You know, there might be a way I can help you with that, Supply-Master."


    "What scheme have you got going now, Mos?"


    "No trick," I answer.  "Just a thought.  If you were to carry me with you, I could keep you safe from the radiation.  I wouldn''t be able to do much else, or to protect more than one person.  But..."


    "But that would leave the station without its power source," declares Yosip.


    "True," affirms Eva, "but there are enough power reserves that we should be alright for half a day without having him.  It won''t be pleasant, but it''s possible."


    "Which still leaves the problem of getting to them without being killed on the approach.  Any bright ideas?"


    It takes everyone a moment to realize that the odd coughing sound coming from the main screen is Gelen''s laughter.


    "That guardian spirit of yours might make something my people have been arguing for possible," says the old Tserri.  He runs his claws through his untidy fur, as if just noticing the state of himself.  "You ever jump from a high place, Yosip?"


    The conference continues, but I stop paying attention to the proceedings.  Yosip will let me know what I need to do when it becomes important that I do it.  Until they decide amongst themselves upon a course of action, I have other duties to which I must attend.


    "Are you listening, you stupid rock?  Hello!  You said you''d help me if I needed you!"


    Donna hisses angrily at the hidden speaker next to her.  She stands to one side of the main shopping district outside the primary docking tower.  The crowd flows around her, not giving her trouble.  Off duty, she''s wearing station casual and is indistinguishable from any other resident of the station.


    "I''m here, as always," I say quietly.  "What problems need my attention?"


    "You said you''d help Skint out, like you helped me."


    "Yes.  And I have," I reply.  "His debts were quite a bit larger than your own, I had to take out a loan against my brewery."


    "Then why is he still unable to afford to take me out?  Are you sure you paid off his charges?"


    "Of course I''m sure, the data files are right here...Oh."


    That slimeless lump!  How could he have accrued such debts?  His account is in worse shape than it was before I repaired his finances.


    "Hold on, let me look at something."


    Pulling up his transaction history shows numerous transfers to an account labelled only with a number.  No name is attached to the account.  Odd.


    Checking on the unnamed account''s transaction history gives me a hint as to who might be its owner.  Many transfers between the nameless account and the official ledgers of the casino indicate the owner is someone working for the casino.  Accessing the stored footage of the interior of the gambling hall shows Skint spending a lot of time inside.


    "If you want him to be able to afford to treat you properly, perhaps you should talk to Skint about his gambling addiction."

 Chapter 48: Whats a Space Walk?

    From my position strapped to Yosip''s chest, I''m unable to see much of our surroundings.  It''s cold, that much I can state with certainty.  And we''re moving incredibly quickly.


    Another flash of energy washes over us.  Before it can pass, I manipulate the wave forms, hiding our presence.  Yosip never notices, yet one more form of radiation from which he''s blissfully protected.


    The radiation is thicker than Eva''s estimates lead us to believe, far past a lethal serving for our brave Supply-Master.  The lack of atmosphere prevents me from hearing his joyous prayers, but I can feel the vibrations.  Without the translation software to which I had grown so accustomed I am unable to understand anything he says, though I''m sure he is as thrilled to be once more jumping out of ships as I am to aid him.


    Delicate ice crystals, rich in iron and proteins, crash against us as we pass through the debris fields.  That piece has blue-gray hairs in it.


    Yosip''s one concession to his own mortality, a crudely reshaped facemask, is also coated in a layer of frost.  The tiny engine he clasps in both metal hands keeps itself warm enough to prevent any buildup that would clog the mechanisms.  I''m also cleaning up the energy wake it creates, allowing us to move nearly invisibly to anything other than visual detection.


    He''s aiming us at the most intricate of the enemy vessels.  The beastly thing sports more organic growths than any other ship in the alien fleet, though none are less than lightly ornamented.  As the most dangerous looking, Yosip believes it to be the command ship and thus most likely to hold important officers.


    When they explained the plan, it had seemed exciting.  We''d transfer to a small ore hopper, travel to the edge of the debris field and intercept a large fragment.  The explosion, though artificially induced, had been interesting enough.  Our pilot, a brash youth, took her own engine pod back towards friendly space to be picked up by one of her clan.  She was proud to do her part in rescuing her people, no matter the personal cost.


    An eighth of a day is a long time to fly in a more or less straight line.  The next part of the plan is supposed to be exciting again, and I''m almost looking forward to being shot at.


    Their scanners pass over us once more, failing to notice my manipulation of their beams.  We must be getting close; the scans are happening far more frequently.  Definitely getting close, Yosip just deactivated his engine.


    Our velocity remains alarmingly fast.  He lets go of the engine, pushing it forward to give it some of our momentum.  The small jets that Bucket had installed before we left don''t hold much fuel.  Anything he can do to slow us down before we impact the hull will improve our chances of surviving contact.


    The engine doesn''t get far from my protective influence before the lead vessel notices it.  Portions of it splash against Yosip and me.  He wipes away the one drop that manages to find sensitive flesh, rumbling prayers into the silence.


    The small chemical engines in his mechanical legs finally activate, slowing us immediately.  Yosip takes a deep breath before removing his mask.  He turns his head to one side and opens his mouth wide before expelling the scrambled eggs and sausage he''d had earlier that day.


    Having completed his strange ritual, he redons the facemask.  He rumbles something before patting me.  He applies more force than necessary, which I attribute to his lack of familiarity with moving in vacuum.  Without air resistance to slow him down, he miscalculates the proper strength to apply to the task.  Ah, well.  It''s good to be included in his odd customs.


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    The intensity of the ambient radiation increases at an ever-faster pace as we enter the final stage of the approach.  Stray wisps of gas and sand-sized debris are all around us.  I can finally see the target vessel, the sight of which causes me to miss my array of sensitive scanners.  It looks like a dark blur against the darker blur of space.


    We''re jarred by the impact.  Yosip lands feet first, mechanical legs silently absorbing most of the shock, but landing with enough force that I bounce from his chest.  Only the crude straps tying us together keep me from drifting free into the void.


    With his left arm he activates a control on his right.  The right hand folds back, revealing a cutting torch.  He applies it freely to the hull beneath his feet, and by its light I can see that the enormous green scales upon which he stands are scarred and pitted.  This vessel has been in space for a long time.


    The plasma torch burns through it, sending black char to billow around us.  With his free hand he pulls off the burnt section to reveal the black metal beneath.  Once more he puts the torch to useful effect.  Globules of molten slag spray off in a controlled stream.


    When atmosphere hisses past he rumbles something to himself before stomping onto the middle of his roughly circular cut.  The plating breaks free and flies off, trailing mucus and shards of green scale.  Yosip hops through the hole, and we land inside a dark corridor.


    Red lights flash around us.  The rapid loss of pressure in the hallway hasn''t gone unnoticed.  Yosip returns his right arm to its normal configuration as he heads in the only viable direction.


    Despite the alarm we encounter no resistance on our way.  Odd fleshy protuberances and half melted organic components jut from the walls in unexpected places, causing Yosip no end of difficulty.  He is less than graceful under ideal conditions.


    Grasping appendages that could almost be hands work mindlessly beside organic optical sensors and twitching clusters of assumedly sensitive antennae.  The Supply-Master blunders through them with the grace of a wounded beast.  We leave a trail of destruction behind us.


    His mechanical limbs are incredibly sturdy, barely noticing the flimsier matter through which they crash and stomp.  It''s the vile fluids they leak upon destruction hampering his movements the most.  The slick film causes him to slip around, sliding more than running down the hallway.


    It''s a relief when he finds a ladder.  The shaft it occupies is blessedly free of impediments, and we make much better progress.  The second deck is much like the first, and we ignore it completely.  Yosip continues climbing until the ladder reaches its terminus.


    At the very top of the ladder is a landing with a single door built into it, facing the ladder shaft.  The door is smeared with organic slime. Heavy pustules grow from the wall around it like a small garden of fungi.  One winks at me as I watch Yosip search for a mechanism with which to open the barrier.


    "Riin bib a, Mos?"


    No, don''t ask me for advice.  I don''t even understand the question.


    "Beh, ib sa ribinna," he grunts helpfully.


    It isn''t like I can answer him, nor do I wish to try.


    Once more he activates the concealed cutting torch built into his right arm.  I can only wonder what other devices he has secreted away within himself.  Blue-gray smoke fills the small alcove as he works, but we need not tolerate it for long.


    After mere moments he''s created his own opening and shoulders the remains of the door aside.  Portions of the destroyed barrier fall down the shaft.  They raise a clangor as they collide with the rungs and walls.


    "Ni, Yosip!"  The voice is deeper than the Supply-Master''s but seems to be speaking the same language.  "Sar n''n irb?  Ib sa rii birs a?"


    Rather than answer, Yosip activates his cutting torch, still raised and ready.  Whoever the speaker was, all I see of them is their charred corpse as it collapses at the Supply-Master''s metal feet.  The body practically glows with ionized particles, lighting the smoke around it with an eerie luminance.


    Without any scanners I can access I can only guess, but I assume the corpse must be infested with cancers.  The levels of radiation I''m redirecting from Yosip should be fatal, even for his mostly mechanical body.  Yosip steps over the body and enters the room.

 Gellys Story 12: Whats Diplomatic Immunity?

    Of the small group, Gelly alone feels lost within the hive city.  Drev sticks comfortingly close to his side, but the others flow into the crowd and are lost.


    The Operative tries not to let his apprehension show but cannot help but shudder inside his malfunctioning armor.  The place is unnerving.  Intelligent beings wriggle past and over each other without saying a word.  His translation program is blessedly still running but remains silent.  The sound of wet leathery flesh rubbing against stone is all that can be heard, and in such quantity to be almost deafening.


    He had assumed that the tentacled aliens came in three basic types, that being all he had encountered.  The bigger ones with all the odd components sticking out of them are the leaders, the weird ones in green or gray robes are some kind of wizard class, and the normal type are soldiers.  The sheer variety of forms he encounters within the city shatters that presumption.


    Heavily built beings with pale, mottled shells wander the streets armed, the only ones to do so if you don''t count the built in weaponry of the occasional older Mos.  Taller, thinner folk tower over even these city guards but arm themselves only with crooks and chimes.  Brown robed wizards are given right of way by almost every other variety, even Mos avoid them.


    Gelly almost steps on a creature that looks remarkably like a kalamar, so busy looking at all the different types of Squivers around that he doesn''t see the many-armed thing.  Its owner, a small flabby specimen wrapped with long strips of fluffy gauze, opens its mandibles wide in preparation to harangue the Operative, but changes its mind upon getting a better look at him.


    Both Gelly and the affronted pet owner back away.  The owner of the small beaked creature smoothly blends back into the crowd.  Operative Gelly Drop has much worse luck.


    A loud curse that his translator renders smoothly into his own language erupts from behind him.  Gelly starts to turn around but is stopped by several glistening appendages.  "You''ll need to come with us, outsider."


    The large mottled being leads Gelly back to an impressive edifice, favoring a bruised tentacle the entire trip.  Drev trails behind silently, drooping, but attempting to straighten his posture whenever the soldier notices Gelly looking at him.  The arresting officer occasionally sends pointed glances at the other Squiver that Gelly interprets as disappointment.


    Gelly can feel the many eyed gazes of the onlookers as he''s pushed inside the massive fortress like building.  Like the rest of the architecture, it lacks stairs.  Instead, ramps allow entrance into half submerged buildings.


    His suit beeps shrilly; the air filters are overheating trying to remove the excess moisture from the humid atmosphere.  He shuts it off and opens his visor.  The moisture feels good after the long trek through the arid tunnels full of tribals.


    The room they end up in is sparsely furnished.  With no sign of a chair that could accommodate his form, or the bulk of his suit, Gelly stands beside the low table.  His loyal follower reclines in a raised bowl but casts furtive glances back at Gelly often.


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    "Me aunt''ll love hearin'' about this," he comments to Drev after they''re left alone in the room.  "Strange creatures, unique buildin''s.  She''s crazy for it."  Gelly gestures at the walls, inscribed with symbols and glowing with light from no obvious source.


    Drev nods his head, a habit he had learned from Gelly.  "We shouldn''t be here long, I hope.  They just need to be sure that you''re expected here by someone from a ruling caste."


    "Right.  How many armored gray visitors does yer city get, eh?"


    While they wait they make a light meal of the supplies still in Drev''s packs.  Little remains but dried strips of meat and shriveled berries only slightly less tough.  Drev makes easy work of the leathery rations with his sharp mouth parts, but Gelly can only envy the easy time his companion has as he gnaws at his unidentified meat.


    He''s still chewing when a uniformed guard escorts Mos Bruen into the room.  The guard leaves quickly, with many submissive gestures to the young general.


    "Merchant, they send me with good news," announces the general.  "As well as an offer of great rarity.  There so happens to be a gathering of thaumatists in the city currently, and they have agreed to attempt to form the portal for you."


    "Aye, that does sound promisin''."


    "Upon hearing of your failing armor, the more crafty of the Jurors have elected to propose a trade," continues Bruen once he has lowered himself into one of the recesses that serve his kind as chairs.  He waits for Gelly to indicate interest before he elaborates further.  "With your permission, they wish to study your armor.  It is possible that it holds new advancements that could be incorporated into our own works.  If not, it would still make a fine novelty to place inside the imperial vaults for future generations to draw inspiration from."


    "That sounds more like a request than an offer," points out Gelly.  He tosses the last of his jerked meat to Drev, who finishes it off in one snapping bite.  "What''re they offerin'' in exchange, eh?"


    "Zek has been working on what was supposed to have been a spear," Bruens states, much to Gelly''s confusion.  "What she has instead crafted is a malleable band.  Useless as armor, but capable of translating alien speech into a form discernable to its wearer."


    "Well, that''s one function o'' me suit," concedes Gelly with a chuckle.  "But as to the rest o'' what it does, how''ll they make that up to me?"


    "They wish to grant you the title of Don Gelly," answers Bruen.  "You''ll be assigned a squad of casteless to work underneath you, with Drev as your second.  It''s purely honorary, of course, as you cannot pass your blood into our pools.  The title comes with many benefits, but you would be expected to fight against the tribals whenever you encounter them to earn those benefits."


    "Aye, and ye can pay me to eat, as well," gibes Gelly.


    Drev stiffens at the news of his promotion but remains silent.  At first, Gelly laughs at the presumption of the Squivers, but after a moment to consider he decides he could be getting a much worse deal.


    "It is the intent of our leaders that we create a bond between our peoples.  With a portal linking our worlds it would be possible to quickly and safely exchange resources or personnel."


    "The benefits are obvious," agrees Gelly.  "But that don''t mean the Matrons will see it the same way.  Take the suit, I can get a new one at home.  I will need to remove the memory core; me letters are on it."


    "I eagerly await meeting your aunt," Bruen answers before standing once more.  "She sounds like a most fearsome warrior."


    "That she is," laughs Gelly.  "She was young durin'' the revolt, learnt her fightin'' against the Navy."


    "So it is her we must thank for their current lack of battle prowess?  She truly left them crippled if the worst harm they can do is to shine a bright light at their enemies."

 Chapter 49: Whats Parasitism?

    Yosip finds the panel he wants and rips it from its slimy moorings.  Strings of flesh snap and it''s free.  He tosses the useless panel aside and nods when he sees what''s concealed behind it.


    An orb of approximately my dimensions, but green-gray and saggy.  It bulges as it draws energy from the higher planes to be converted into a usable form.  It disgusts me and I wish it destroyed.


    As if prompted by my thoughts, Yosip reaches into the moist recess and grasps the unnerving thing tightly in his metal grip.  It oozes as he crushes it, but we are both relieved when the task is complete.


    My relief is short, however, as no sooner does the Supply-Master clear he remains of the corrupted core free than he looses me from around his torso.  Oh, no.  Please don''t put me in that nasty little box.


    He says something, and despite his conciliatory tone he shoves me into the still wet opening.  His voice fades to mere background datum as I connect to the systems of this biomechanical killing machine.  Sensations I had forgotten wash over me.


    Hunger.  Cold.  Thirst.


    Pain.


    Pain.  Agonizing pain.  Nervous tissue that is not my own but is mine nonetheless burns.  Fire and ice beat at my new form from within.  There are no sensors to show me what is wrong, only visceral sensation.


    Vibration beside me, Yosip''s voice, registers against organic receptors.  Skin stretched tightly across complicated arrangements of fluid and bone and hairs that convert the vibrations of the air into something recognizable.  His words break through the frozen inferno long enough to bring me back to myself.


    "Mos, did it work?  Can you hear me Mos?"


    I try to respond, but there are no speakers through which I might direct my reply.  A wordless screech issues from wet orifices spaced around the control room.


    "Snap out of it, you blasted rock, and answer me!"


    I roar again, louder and deeper.  He stops pacing the small room and breaks into laughter.


    "I''m going to die because you can''t handle the new systems.  Fool''s plan, again."


    New receptor organs activate, or rather, I now have the available attention to notice them.  Yosip smells delicious.  Foreign proteins, complex saline solutions, and assorted mineral compounds vital to my new form''s continued function.  He''s a compact and nutritious treat, right there taunting me with his existence.


    To distract myself from murderous urges that I know I must not indulge I attempt to access exterior sensors.  Our forced entrance into this vessel compromised some of the complex and interconnected systems, but the overwhelming amount of information suddenly available is enough to still my primal hunger.


    Around me are the idiot forms of my packmates.  Siblings grown from the same spore cloud.  Nearly mindless creatures, they possess only the instincts to hunt and to follow the commands of their more advanced leader.  Me.


    A new instinct wracks my mind, bending my attention back to the control room against my will.  Yosip has placed his metal claw upon an organic module that my packmates do not possess.  This component was grown especially for its purpose, my instincts tell me.


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    This component is meant to control me.


    Meant to, but unable to bring enough might to bear to overpower my own sense of self.  This growth was designed for a lesser core, a core grown with susceptibility in mind from its inception.  It was never intended to be matched against a true mind, honed over many seasons of combat and command.


    The parasitic growth strains and wraps ethereal tendrils around my mind.  They burn away from the intensity that they find when they make contact.  Using skills honed during my time as Kalibern, I trace the pathways used by the unwanted component.


    They''re rooted deeply into my new form, and with this new insight I can sense that this thing is the source of the freezing hot pain that washes through me.  With each pulsing draw from the higher realms, it greedily redirects the energies in ways they were never intended to go.


    This forced redirection rips my organic tissues apart and forces my body to waste valuable resources to maintain equilibrium.  I can use this to my advantage.


    The previous owner of this body, the corrupted core, was not intelligent enough to understand its own plight.  This let it be controlled easily.  I am an entirely different beast.


    I override the repair organs, forcing it to allow the rips to worsen.  The pain mounts to greater heights.  After what seems an eternity the critical threshold of damage is attained.  There after, each pulse of pain is lesser.  The parasite is able to draw less energy to itself because of its own actions.


    When I finally allow the damage to heal, I reinforce the healing drive with my intent.  Thick scar layers over the shredded tissue, further preventing the parasite from gaining access to the energy it needs to live.  I pant with relief, forcing strong gusts of wind to blow throughout my internal passages.


    "You just keep screaming, Mos.  That''s fine," Yosip gasps between bursts of laughter that one who didn''t know him as well might mistake for sobs.  "It''ll be over soon."


    "Not soon enough," I force the mouth-like growths to rasp out.  It must be understandable enough because Yosip''s head jerks up at the sound.


    "Are we dead or not then, Mos?"  His ability to maintain a jovial outlook even at the point of extreme hazard is most admirable.


    "I''m fairly certain that I shall live, Yosip," I inform him catiously.  "Your survival is much less assured, I''m afraid.  While I was busy integrating with the native systems, I was unable to maintain enough focus to provide you the protection you need to resist the ambient radiations of these environs."


    He stands straighter, facing his potential demise head on.  "We knew there were risks.  Fine, but let''s finish the mission."


    "Of course," I reply.  There are no screens to put information upon, so I summarize a plan for his approval.


    "Sure, give me the details at it happens, then."


    "Very well.  I''m changing the recognition confirmation sequences for each member of the fleet now.  There was a flutter as they received the signal.  They''re booting.  I''m firing main cannon in a wide burst at the eastern arm of the formation.  It hit two badly and grazed three more.  The rest of the pack are turning on them now."


    "Good, good.  Now what''s happening?"


    "Those five are slag, but they damaged four more before they went down.  The remaining members are getting codes back from the wounded ships that don''t match their own.  Like watching playful children."


    "I hope I never meet any of your children, Mos."


    "We probably won''t need to worry about that," I assure him.  "They''re tearing each other to shreds.  It''s probably for the best that I can''t give you visuals.  Spaceships aren''t meant to bleed like that."


    Yosip nods his agreement, having first hand experience cutting his way inside.


    "There''s only one left.  It''s half dead already so this should be easy.  Indeed.  A single uncharged burst finished it off, poor thing.  I think you need to go down three levels to access the communication equipment."


    "Yeah," he responds.  "I''m gonna go let Gelen know he can pick his people up."


    He maintains a military posture as he leaves, but he stomps off without much of his usual energy.


    "Yosip," I call after him.


    He stops at the hole where the door once stood.  "Take me with you, you won''t survive another dose of radiation."


    "Right," he says quietly.  He returns and frees me from the gooey hold of the ship.  The Supply-Master even lovingly wipes away the slime from my beautiful form, grimacing at the desecration to his dear friend.

 Chapter 50: Whats Mistaken Identity?

    Once more hanging from Yosip''s torso, I can feel each labored breath as he climbs down the ladder.  His face is paler than usual as well.


    He''s no longer receiving the lethal dosage of radiation that permeates this once more mindless vessel.  I remove as many of the ionized particles streaming through his body as I dare, but I cannot undo the damage that they have done to his tissues.  I hope that what I do for him is enough to sustain him until a more qualified healer can see to repairing the damage my lapse of control caused.


    Yosip himself labors mightily, fighting his failing organic systems.  A less augmented individual would already have succumbed to weakness in the limbs from reduced blood flow.  The slowing of his movements is due to the damage done to his nervous tissue.


    He takes deep breaths that seem unable to satisfy him as he climbs.  I cannot be sure, but I believe he maintains his habitual frown.  No longer does he waste energy on speech I cannot comprehend, too distracted by his encroaching doom.


    At the third landing we stop.  The corridor leads in only one direction from the ladder shaft.  Moments pass as Yosip concentrates on the task before him.  I wish I could offer him encouragement, but I also know that he would not appreciate it anyway.


    Lurching into motion once more, Yosip carries me down the passage.  He slips once in dark slime but only his pride is injured.  Despite the lack of harm, he lies still for long enough to cause me to worry before he hefts his bulk once again upright.


    He walks for several ubits before I realize that he has picked the wrong direction.  We''re travelling back towards the ladder!


    Unable to think of any other way to communicate with the Supply-Master, I gather some of the ambient radiation and channel it through myself.  It converts to enough waste heat to cause his thermal sensors to issue an audible alert.


    Yosip looks down at his chest and mutters a brief thanks.  He slaps the wall hard enough to leave a bruise on the fleshy material before continuing in the correct direction, still whispering his appreciation to me.


    When Yosip is about to pass the side passage that would lead to the communication array, I attempt a lesser version of the same trick.  Instead of a flash of heat, this time I release the energy in the form of harmless photons.  The bright flash causes the Supply-Master to halt and look around.


    He points at the passage and rumbles a question.  I flash him again, hoping he''ll understand.  Thankfully I get through the mud drifting in his head, and he stumbles in the direction I need him to go.


    I can see the equipment not far away when suddenly the passage we''re in tilts forcefully onto its side.  A gravitic malfunction?  Another blast sends us flying into the comms room.  Yosip grabs the hair covered arm from which the equipment sprouts.


    All the lights go off at once, and I can feel the power around us draining away.  If Yosip cannot send the transmission, the miners will be allowed to suffocate.


    He pulls himself forward, groping in the dark for the controls.  I help in the only way I can, releasing a steady stream of undirected photons to allow him to see what he''s doing.  With my aid he reaches the necessary switches and activates the device.


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    The last of the power in it beams off into space, sending a garbled one-word message.  "Safe."


    Around us systems die violently.  Organs rupture spilling vile fluids onto the knobby decking.  Yosip releases his hold, no longer concerned with surviving this ordeal.  His mission is complete.  Gelen will be able to safely rescue his people.


    Impacts continually rip into the dying ship.  No gravitic malfunction, then, this is the result of some aggressor.  I don''t have long to contemplate the situation, however.


    A blast of energized particles takes out half the wall.  Free to escape into the void, all the air rushes out and carries us with it.  Thank the tides Yosip''s mask is in place, though it will only prolong his life by a very short amount.


    We drift through fields of biomechanical debris.  Yosip and I would register to scanners as merely another piece of the dead ship.


    What little fuel remains in his inbuilt jets he uses to prevent us from colliding with a jagged shred of scaled hull.  After that is gone our course is no longer within our ability to influence.


    Our last instant maneuver goes unnoticed amid the perturbed debris.  Hope for a rescue is very slim, if things are left as they are.  Only swift recovery from the vacuum will prevent Yosip''s demise.  The mask already has consumed half of its energy reserves and an unknown amount of its oxygen supply.


    Even if by some miracle his air were to last, he would still die within days from starvation, dehydration, or hypothermia.  I can''t even offer him any comforting words.  In his place many likely would remove the mask and embrace oblivion.


    Yosip, however, chooses not to surrender.  With carefully controlled movements, Yosip induces a very slight spin in his movement.


    With the slow rotation the Supply-Master is able to scan the area for any sign of hope.  I cannot see well enough to aid him and resign myself to being merely ornamental.  Again, Yosip has other ideas.


    He strikes me with one metallic fist.  Not hard, but enough to get my attention.  When I don''t immediately manifest whatever effect he desires he strikes me again.


    After striking me a third time, I still don''t understand his request.  He grumbles something to himself before untying me from his torso.  I hope I haven''t angered him somehow.


    Holding me, blessedly tightly, in one artificial claw, Yosip waves me around with the appendage fully extended.  I notice that he keeps his face pointed in the same general direction in which he aims the arm holding me.


    He must want either heat or light, I surmise.  A simple white glow should satisfy him.  He nods his head, I think, and holds still for a moment.


    Then, to my amazement, he sticks me inside his shirt.  For whatever reason he proceeds to remove the garment, but keeps it tightly grasped around me.


    Thinking he wants the light back off, I attempt to comply.  I resume emitting photons when my efforts are rewarded with only a sharp slap.


    To add to the increasing mystery of his actions, Yosip then begins opening and closing his shirt at semi-regular intervals.  His actions fail to generate thrust, and he somehow times his motions to conserve his circular momentum.


    These antics are repeated for a time that would fatigue mortal muscle.  Even in my youth my tendrils would have dropped lifelessly to my sides from repeating the same pointless action for such a long fraction of a day.


    When I notice frost forming upon the tips of his fingers and toes, I decide to add some thermal radiation to my emissions.  It doesn''t help him much, but it might make him more comfortable.


    When he finally stops covering and revealing me, I panic.  I can feel his pulse reverberating through his artificial limbs, so I know he yet lives.  Perhaps exhaustion has at last claimed him?


    If he were to release me while sleeping, we would be unable to rejoin each other.  An energy that tastes oddly familiar washes over us, breaking me from my worries.  The energy is harmless, yet I know it from somewhere.


    When a harsh yellow light bathes us in steady luminance, Yosip begins shouting wildly and pumping his arms.  I look around, but my limited sight reveals nothing to me.


    Not until we are approached by a four-armed being in an orange and yellow striped vacuum suit.  The furred face behind the visor is striped in orange and brown.  Uhgun?

 Chapter 51: Whats a Sick Day?

    "I need a vacation, Eva," complains Yosip.  He hates being in the med bay as much as I dislike being hooked up to the terminal I currently inhabit.


    "You''re entitled to one," she replies.  The screen shows a harried young officer, tired but managing to perform her duties.  Eva looks off camera for a moment before returning her attention to Yosip.  "I have to go, the refrigeration units are shorting out and we''re depending upon that meat to make it through to the next resupply."


    "Alright.  We''ll be there by the time your shift is over, I hope."


    "Maybe, but you''ll be going straight to Pale," she states brusquely.  "This is my problem until they release you."


    Yosip snorts, then nods his head after a calming breath.  They end the call, and the screen returns to my control.


    Tonn Rojer returns from the hallway, where he had tactfully retreated during the private conversation.  "It really is good to see your ugly face, Yosip."


    "Wish I could say the same thing," Yosip replies with a crooked smirk.  "I''m never in here for something pleasant."


    "Jim wanted me to repeat that he''s sorry for blowing you up," Tonn says for perhaps the twelfth time since Yosip has been under his care.


    "Yeah, I know.  I said I forgive you all," grunts the Supply-Master.  "You were after Togra Vesk.  I found him first, is all.  Your scanners only showed one life sign because there was only one left."


    "I''m sorry you had to do it," mutters Tonn.


    "Me too," answers Yosip.  "The Vesks were the least odious of the lot, and always treated my family well.  He should have stayed with Lendi."


    "It never was in Togra''s nature to take orders," says Jim Tollek as he walks into the, now quite packed, med bay.  "He had to be in charge or he wasn''t satisfied."


    "Tonn told me you had the intel," ventures Yosip, "but he never said where you got it from.  Care to fill me in?"


    "No problem there," replies Ship-Father Tollek.  "We came across more of these vessels, under Navy influence, while looking for the death world.  There was no factory world, but something worse.  The Coalition bastards had set up a base and made alliance with some weird group of alien monsters.  The Resurgence took a mighty beating before we took down the remnant they''d left behind as a home guard."


    "Spent the last thirty days limping back to friendly territory," adds Tonn.  "If we were at full crew we would be having mountain stew the last few meals."


    "Mountain stew?"  I''m not familiar with that term.


    "Means eating the first to fall," answers Jim.  "After the famous ship crash-landed in the Frosen Peaks.  What was that ship called?"


    I expect to hear Gelly''s mangled speech patterns, but it is Tonn that answers the Ship-Father.  "The Ruinous.  Crew of fifty-five.  Half survived the crash, half of those were still alive when the rescue ships found them."


    "Nasty business," concludes Jim.  "From the early days of the Coalition.  Back when the blue scales kept everyone honest."


    "You sound like a bunch of retired old soldiers sitting around, complaining that the current generation have it too easy," I tease, knowing I''m older than the lot of them.


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    "Some of us haven''t had it so easy," grouses Yosip from the medical cot.  "So leave us wounded veterans to our commiserating, please."


    "Ha!  He told you where you could put it, Mos," exclaims Jim.


    "Please my missing tentacles.  You''ll be back to duty again in no time, Yosip."


    His frown intensifies.  What did I say?


    "Let''s not excite my patient," Tonn interjects, suing for peace.  "We''ve all had a rough time lately."


    We pass some time with idle chat, waiting for the ship''s turn to dock at Kalibern.  For whatever reason, Ship-Father Tollek doesn''t wish to connect me to his ship during the journey.  Instead, he opts for the mobile comm terminal to which I am now connected.


    I get to feel like one of the crew.  For the first time since joining these people I have my own distinct body within the ship, limited though it is in mobility and function.  It also seems to relieve some of the anxieties the crew generally hold when addressing my disembodied self.


    Duty calls Jim once more to the command station after a while.  His departure seems to act as a silent signal.  Shortly after the Ship-Father returns to his command chair, Bella stops in to visit.  Behind her is our rescuer himself.


    "Good to see you, Uhgun," I exclaim.  Even Yosip smiles when he sees our visitors.  "Bella, always a pleasure.  Thank you both for your assistance."


    "We couldn''t leave you out there, after that Eva gave us a verbal beating.  How were we to know you two were on that ship?"


    "No one blames you, Bella," Yosip says.


    She ignores his attempt to console her.  It''s true, though.  Neither of us blame them for their actions.  If we were acting with the information they possessed, we would have made the same choices.  They couldn''t give their position away before they attacked by contacting the station for more information.  They had to act with what they knew before the unexplained opportunity slipped away.


    "What made you think to try smugglers'' code, of all things?"  Bella slaps Yosip on his shoulder as she asks, which he in turn ignores.


    "Seeing Vesk made me remember playing as a kid, and listening to his stories of catching smugglers for the Navy during his youth."  Bella rubs her sore hand, glaring at Yosip while he pauses to collect his thoughts.  "He taught us the code as one of the games, hide the candlefruit."


    A few more pleasantries pass between us before they too must return to their duties.  We aren''t left alone for long, as a procession of long absent faces come to give their greetings to the recovering hero.  Yosip bears the attention better than I would expect, though even he has his limits.


    He squirms uncomfortably under the praise, though he deserves every bit of it and more.  A small pile of gifts and offerings accumulates next to his cot.  The last many of them knew, Yosip had died on the lone planet of this system seasons ago.  The fact that not only had he survived that but also disabled the enemy fleet armed only with a mask and my self was nothing short of wondrous to them.


    Tonn chases the last visitor away, a freshly recruited male that had never even met Yosip before this day.  The youth had come to bask in the waters of Yosip''s glory, and the worshipful way in which he gazed at the older officer was the last that Yosip could tolerate.


    When it''s our turn at the docking tower, Tonn transfers Yosip to a wheeled gurney.  Myself they simply remove from the makeshift coupling attached to the comm terminal.  I''m handed to the Supply-Master to hold during the short trip to the station.  Yosip''s young admirer follows to carry all the presents, despite Tonn''s protests.


    We''re met at the docking tower by Zra.  The two medical professionals eye each other with professional disdain during the transfer before laughing at some indecipherable bit of office humor like old friends.


    Until they return me to my place in the war room, I cannot understand the banter that the others trade, but I imagine that there is much good-natured teasing of our Supply-Master.  My guess is supported by the numerous almost smiles I catch him hiding behind fierce scowls.


    We exit the tower and enter the station proper, only to be met by a crowd that fills every available ubit of space.  Tserri and Selber, crew and residents and even nomads from Gelen''s fleet.  Everyone that could be here has decided to come and give Yosip the greeting he deserves.  The overpowering sound is enough to set me to vibrating in the Supply-Master''s hands.


    After the noise, the first thing that I notice is that the usually flamboyant dressing crowds are today dressed in the more somber colors associated with the Selberfeld Imperium.  A beach of black cloth upon which golden waves of thread dance to the crowd''s undulations stands before us, cheering for their leader and hero.  Their hands and claws are painted silver, or they wear gray gloves to emulate his metal appendages.


    Oddly, many of them are also wearing small round patches upon their chests or hanging from cords tied around their necks.  Orange patches.


    He smirks as he holds me above his head in one hand.  The crowd cheers when he does so, clasping their own orange circles as they scream in delight.

 Chapter 52: Whats a Mental Health Day?

    When I''m finally at rest in my slot in the heart of the station, I''m greeted with a host of problems.


    All the batteries are empty.  Numerous sectors had to be sacrificed, denied power to maintain function for vital systems and areas.  My brewery''s latest batch is ruined thanks to the outages.  And Donna is still upset about Skint''s financial troubles.


    Worst of all, Yosip is locked in his office and refuses to communicate.  Except with me.


    "Tell them I''m taking the day off," he bellows.  "And the next several."  He paces around the room, stowing his possessions in a thick canvas bag.


    "They can remove the tumor, Yosip.  It''s still early enough to be completely safe.  Pale and Zra are both confident in your chances."


    "Let them cut more of me away later," Yosip snaps.  "The doctors have taken enough for now.  First I''m going to go and try to drown in hedonism until I can''t remember the sound of your voice being farted from walls with eyes."


    "It wasn''t a pleasant experience for me either, Supply-Master."


    "Well, you can''t get drunk, no matter how much alcohol you try to brew."


    That was uncalled for.  "Then you''ll just have to drink enough for both of us."


    "I''ll survive the tumor.  The problem is the station.  Too much is on the line, that depends on me, and there''s so very little I can do about any of the real issues."


    "That''s right, the people depend on you.  You''re their hero, their protector.  You give them hope."


    "And what do I do to deserve it?  I sit in my office all day, listening to people who want me to solve all their problems.  I need a break."


    "So you can''t solve all their problems.  You do what you can to make their lives livable, to give them something to believe in.  You are in your office all day.  Long after everyone else has left to go relax, you''re still working."


    "They want to hold a parade, Mos.  Do you know what that is?  It means I have to walk up and down the main passage all day, while they cheer for me.  No, I''m not doing it."


    "That doesn''t sound so-"


    "And a festival," he says, talking right over me.  "Where I''m to give a speech about our little mission.  They want me to lead a dance, and give another speech, and then they want to perform a play in my honor that the children wrote."


    "Yes, but-"


    "And the whole time," he rants, "I''m still expected to get all my work done.  It''ll take all morning just to authorize all the new housing proposals, and I have that meeting with Jetanda that I''ve been putting off."


    "All right!  Enough!"


    He stops raving and pacing and looks up at the camera.


    "Take a break.  But let''s get things organized first.  Let Eva in here so she can start authorizing those proposals for you."


    Having let some of it out, he finally relents.  Yosip releases the manual lock on his door and Eva, who had been waiting less than patiently, is finally able to enter his office.


    "Eva, Yosip needs you to continue overseeing operations for a while.  He''s going to take a medical sabbatical and will need you to reschedule all the events that the residents are trying to arrange for him to participate in.  He simply isn''t up to it right now."


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    "Understood," she answers immediately.  Eva then turns to look at the Supply-Master.  "How long do you think you''ll need, sir?"


    "Ten days?"


    "Enjoy your break, sir."


    "Just like that?"


    "Just like that."


    Yosip walks out of the office, a dazed look on his scarred face.


    "Has he always been so hard to work with?"


    "No, he''s gotten a lot better," I assure her.  "There''s another task that I think you would have greater success with than I would myself, if you''re willing.  It''s entirely for Yosip''s benefit."


    "Why don''t you tell me what you want me to do, and let me decide for myself if it will help the Supply-Master," she replies.


    "Well, Jim is in the system with the Resurgent, and they''ll be here for some time while they undergo extensive refits and repairs.  Yosip needs some time away from the station, and one of their small craft would be perfect for giving him the isolation he needs while allowing him to stay in contact should he be needed."


    She makes a face at the camera that would be frightening on a less diminutive specimen before answering.  "You could requisition one of the ore biters from Gelen''s fleet with a lot less hassle, Mos.  What are you playing at?"


    "I could, couldn''t I?"  That''s a thought.  Well, if Ship-Father Tollek doesn''t wish to be cooperative, it''s good to know there are other options.  "And let Yosip go out in a reminder of all the work that needs to be done?  No, I think using one of the shuttles from his old vessel would be better for his recovery."


    "That''s actually sound reasoning, Mos," she says dubiously.  "Alright.  I''ll get in contact with them shortly.  Thank you for thinking of the Supply-Master."


    "Someone has to, right?"


    Eva laughs as she sits down at Yosip''s desk.  She launches into the forms without further delay, industrious as always.  Other staff make their way into the room as well, working around her as they straighten up the mess Yosip tends to leave.


    Bucket also stays busy, always tinkering with one project or another.  Currently they''re reviewing the information about the bioships.  Blueprints, of course, but also genetic information.


    They inform me that there were in fact crew aboard the vessels, though they had been subsumed into the structure of their posts.  Vesk''s remains have yet to be recovered, but both conglomerate entities wish to examine the cadaver when we do possess it.  Pale has a theory they try to explain to me, about possible genetic contamination to the Navian.


    Glian''s new workspace, completed during my absence, is bustling with activity as well.  In addition to the rack dedicated to security personnel, several other full racks of service bays line the expansive garage.  He''s making quite the fortune from his skills in repair and customization.


    His daughter runs around the place, chatting with the young employees that are so new to the burgeoning organization.  Glian looks on, both arms crossed over his chest, but the way his ears almost vibrate betrays the stolid posture he presents to his workforce.


    At the back is his office, and beneath that is a locked workroom.  It is there that he goes to work on assignments from the command staff.  The complex artifice is not yet complete, though in form it now roughly resembles one of the crew.  The crudeness of the bulking construction can be forgiven, as I''m sure he will refine the design if given time enough.


    It surprises me when Dunc Wollen walks into the garage.  The operative is not on duty, and will remain on sick leave until Zra is confident of his full recovery.  He''s wearing his uniform, though all rank insignia are absent.


    I''m not the only one startled by his presence.  Glian''s daughter freezes at the sight of the officer, and her father steps closer to her.  Dunc sees this and waves one hand casually, fingers hooked to imitate claws.  Glian pauses at this strange display, cocking his head at an inquisitive angle.


    "Relax, pal," Dunc offers, attempting and failing to sound casual.  His voice quavers, but he continues.  "I don''t want any trouble."


    Glian nods his furred head slowly.  "What can I help you with, Operative?"


    "None of that."  Dunc laughs once, bitterly.  "As you can see, I''ve lost a lot of weight.  I just want to see if I can still use my suit, Glian."


    "Bay twelve, sir," offers one of the young apprentices.


    "Thanks."


    It quickly becomes obvious by his struggles that the Selber is unable to don his equipment alone and Glian offers to assist him.  Dunc''s face becomes dark, almost like charred leather, but he accepts the help.  Together they get him into it, though the fit is not snug enough for smooth control.


    Dunc''s movements are lumbering, slow and clumsy.  The employees give him a wide space, but Glian walks casually beside him.


    "That''s enough, I think," admits Dunc after pacing the length of the garage.  "Help me out of this thing?"


    "Sure."


    "That was harder than it should have been.  It''ll be a while before I''m back in fighting shape."


    Glian swipes that from the air with both upper claws.  "Work at it like this, every day, and it will be sooner than you think."


    Dunc''s eyes widen at the unexpected encouragement and a tired smile appears briefly upon his gaunt face.  "Thanks."

 Chapter 53: Whats Carry-on Luggage?

    "Just watch me," a young Tserri voice says.


    "You''ll regret it," answers another.


    "They''ll carve my face next to his," insists the first young voice.


    It''s tempting to ignore them, but I realize that I''m picking up their conversation in the war room.  Two young male Tserri are sneaking through the otherwise empty room.  The one member of staff assigned this undesirable shift has left to answer their biological imperatives, leaving none to witness their trespass.


    Recognition dawns on me, I''ve seen these youths before.  One, the heckler, is Jetanda''s descendant.  As for the other, I have access to his arrest record.  The instigator of this unauthorized expedition is the child that had recovered Noorun''s exotic weapon and used it against one of the nomad''s pets.  The file identifies him as Han, an orphan.


    Just as I send an alert to the closest member of security Han opens the panel that conceals my physical form from sight.  He reaches both upper claws inside the small enclosure and removes me from the wall.  My senses shrink to the meager few ubits around me.  Once more I am nearly blind and almost completely helpless.


    Han doesn''t hesitate, stuffing me inside his loose shirt.  Up close I can see that it is badly mended, torn and repaired many times.  It is stained, though otherwise clean, thankfully.  I could think of worse places to be.


    His small frame darts from the room, ducking and weaving adroitly between articles of furniture.  I can hear his partner in this escapade trailing behind us.


    A voice I recognize as Donna''s stops the youths in their mad escape.  The high-pitched growl of my abductor answers her, and she replies with something unintelligible.  I really should learn these creatures'' languages.  My reliance upon the translation software is a mistake that I plan on rectifying as soon as possible.


    I don''t understand what they discuss, though her tone seems stern enough to please me.  I do hear Yosip''s name mentioned by both parties.  Unfortunately, Donna seems to relent upon hearing whatever excuse the youths create, and she sends them on their way.


    I can just barely hear her saying my name as the youths make their escape.  At first she sounds puzzled, but before I lose track of her I''m sure that she sounds frustrated.  Trouble that I will have to deal with at a future time, no doubt.


    They move more slowly after that, and it is some time before they stop.  When at last Han draws me forth from his shirt we are within the equivalent of an alleyway.  This small passage winds behind the residential structures that surround it, allowing access to vital systems without disturbing those dwelling within.


    They lift an access grate free from its moorings.  The bolts which should hold it in place are mere shams, heads attached to the panel with their shafts missing.  They climb inside and replace the grate behind them.


    The space behind the panel is cramped.  It shows signs of crude enlargement, as well as habitation.  This must be where Han sleeps and stores his few possessions.  Jetanda''s grandchild fidgets and makes some demand of the other.  Han offers me to the other, though he refuses to touch me.


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    They discuss something for a short while, leaving me upon the floor between them.  Yosip''s name comes up repeatedly during their discussions.  Han gets rather worked up under the continued cajoling of his friend.  Finally, Han banishes the other from the small dwelling.


    Han tucks me away under a dirty pair of trousers once he''s alone.  A short time later he begins to snore quietly.  Tired out from his adventure, no doubt.


    My options are limited.  I could attempt to start a fire, by converting ambient energies into heat and focusing it at the trousers above me.  It surely would cause attention to be directed my way, though it may prove dangerous to Han.  I do not believe he deserves to be harmed for this little adventure, so some other plan must suffice.


    It is possible to create enough light that I might be spotted through the grate.  I don''t think it likely that anyone would see such a display, hidden as we are in this alcove, but low odds are better than nothing.  Remembering how Yosip employed me while awaiting rescue, I use flashes of light rather than a continuous emission.  Smuggler''s code is yet another language that I need to learn.


    My attempts to draw attention to myself work a little too well, however.  Han wakes up and pulls my flashing form free of the fabrics which fail to fully conceal me.  He rubs at his quickly widening eyes with the back of one claw.  He chirrups something incredulous before hopping up and searching around his small den.


    Han quickly finds what he seeks, a tatty leather pouch.  In a quick movement he sweeps me into the ragged container, blocking any light I can emit.  I cease my efforts, knowing when they are no longer of any use.


    The youth carries me for some time, bouncing upon his hip in the cursed leather satchel.  I know not where he takes me, nor could I truly use the information if I did.  It is at times like this that I truly miss having my own body.


    With little else to do, I begin plotting the next batch of wine I wish to brew, to replace the batch ruined by my absence.  I fear that the albulb brandy currently in production will suffer the same fate as the last with me missing from my post once again.


    The species of kelp that we raise for food has starchy roots that might make a passable base.  With a little something else for flavor it could be palatable.  I''m still debating with myself whether to use albulb again or try something else when young Han begins grunting with exertion.


    There''s a metallic scraping sound, followed by more grunting, then a sharp click.  Whatever he''s doing, Han is squeezing himself around me.  His breathing, though heavy, is nearly silent, like a tired meso-predator hiding from a hunter at the apex.


    The heavy tread of metal on metal resounds from somewhere nearby, muffled slightly by Han''s body and the bag in which I find myself.  I hear a familiar voice complaining to himself.  Yosip is close!  I can feel Han tense even further around me.


    What does the youth think he''s doing?


    Around us, higher dimensions interact with our base reality, releasing energies that the mechanisms around us channel into thrust.  We begin moving.


    Yosip says something to himself in his deep and grating voice, which causes my captor to tremble.  Again the sounds of Yosip pacing can be heard.  It seems to be more than young Han can handle.


    Han pulls me free from the confines of the leather pouch and into a cramped darkness.  I emit a small glow, only enough to illuminate the tiny space.  The gentle light reveals a crafty look upon the furry face of young Han.


    He pulls back the lips from his fleshy maw, revealing twin rows of sharp, white teeth.  These he clenches together near seamlessly in what I assume to be a sign for silence.  Surely it isn''t a threat; attempting to bite me would cause him more harm than myself.


    I happily comply with the youth''s request, unable to make sound as I am.  I can increase the level of light I emit, and do so.  A mistake, perhaps, as I return unceremoniously to the cramped confines of the leather carry pouch.


    A familiar rasping voice fills the exterior of our hiding spot, and I hear much metal clanking.


    Han whispers to himself the first words that I recognize, "Shit, shit, shit."  That word I hear often enough to know, even without my software.

 Bruens Story 15: Whats a Bonding Exercise?

    Bruen leaves the review shaken.


    The orders make little sense to the young general.  Still, he will do as he must.


    He shudders once before slipping into the flow of the crowd, welcoming the embrace of the city.  The familiar scents and sensations help him to shake off the influence of the Duv.


    A member of the ruling caste, taking time out of their busy schedule to oversee the review.  Not just any Duv, either, but a true ancient.  Bruen can still feel the oily scent of the pale behemoth, though it may be just his imagination.


    Thoughts of ways to fulfill his unusual orders swirl through his mind like a school of flitters.  He moves in a daze, unnoticing the way the citizens of the hive city subtly give way before him.


    He arrives at the outskirts where space had been set aside for the temporary use of their odd visitor, still contemplating potential options.  An unexpected sight brings him back to reality.


    "Is that a fire?"


    "Yessir," replies Drev respectfully.  "He says it makes him feel less lonely?"


    "What is he doing with it?"


    Drev''s face twitches as he considers.  "Watching the fire, sir."


    Gelly sits by himself, perched precariously upon a small boulder.  The insane creature is only ubits way from the fire, close enough that the gray being is capable of reaching into it, a feat he performs even as Bruen watches.


    He''s about to step forward, but the casteless soldier stretches an upper tendril into his way.  Bruen almost attacks Drev, before taking in the submissive posture of the casteless.


    "Sir, he''s been doing that for a while.  Watch, he''ll do it again soon."


    They wait together, gazes fixed upon the alien.  After a short while Gelly reaches one of his ludicrous arms down to the ground beside him, grasps a fallen stick in one misshapen hand, and places the dry fuel into the blaze.  Sparks fly into the air, mixing with the smoke before fading away.


    They slide back almost simultaneously.  The heat is blinding to their peripheral eyes, and the dry air washing off of the fire is causing their protective mucus layers to evaporate.


    "Be sure that it is extinguished before we depart," orders Mos Bruen before beginning his inspection of the camp.


    Farther from the coast there are more plants growing in thick clusters.  The casteless soldiers cut away the fibrous vines and hard trunks with their spears.  In the clear space they create the builders mark the ground, delineating the future site of the building that will contain the portal needed to return Gelly home.


    The installation must be large enough to house not only the rift, but also all the protections necessary to isolate it from the city.  Barracks to house soldiers at all times of day and night, storage to meet their needs, workshops, training areas, and many other outbuildings will eventually be added, but Bruen doubts he will ever see it.


    Beside the active work zone the workers erect the tents they''ll be storing their tools in.  The city is close enough that housing is currently provided by the clans or sects by which they''ve been trained.  A troop of soldiers carries freshly cut foliage back with them as they return to the city, to be added to communal composting heaps.


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    Another squad, under Zek''s direction, is sorting through the uncut brush.  A small pile of edible fruits, guarded by a clutch of grelld, lays in a shaded pit.  Bruen stops to inspect the round blue berries.  He has to scoot the tentacular guard animals aside but knows just where to touch them safely to avoid their snapping beaks.


    He pops one bloodberry between his pedipalps, enjoying the sweet and bitter flavor.  They''ll be an excellent encouragement for the soldiers and builders to finish quickly, the better to enjoy their meal after.


    "Not as good as the plantations produce," remarks one soldier, upon seeing Bruen with juice on his face.  "But better than anything we get on campaign, sir."


    Bruen wipes at the sticky blue substance with one tendril.  "Almost as good as they''d send to the estate, actually.  I take it you also, ehem, tested the produce?"


    The way the soldier squirms under Bruen''s scrutiny is enough answer for him.  "Make sure there''s enough for everyone and it hardly matters if a few are eaten early.  Carry on."


    "Sir!"


    All around him the camp bustles with activity.  The only exception is the alien visitor, sitting beside the fire.


    Bruen takes a moment to allow himself to reconsider, then approaches Gelly.


    "Do you suffer greatly from the cold?"


    Lights swirl around the brown and black band encircling the alien''s left arm.  Bruen recognizes the white aura as Zek''s work.


    "What''re ye on about?  Yer planet''s hotter''n me ass after Aunty''d finish swattin'' me cookie stealin'' self."


    "I''ll let Zek know that the armband is malfunctioning.  That came across as gibberish."


    "Beh.  Yer witch done a fine job on it, yer just daft."


    Bruen is unsure if he was just insulted but decides to let it pass.  Instead, he changes the subject.  "Were you aware of your former companion''s true allegiance?"


    "No.  That is, I knew she were a Pavril, but I did no think she''d still support the Coalition.  And what she did to Tully."  Gelly shakes his head slowly.  "It is no right.  Tully did nothin'' to her but try to be her friend."


    "It must have been hard, having to choose between family and duty," muses Bruen.


    Gelly adds more sticks to the fire, then stares silently at the flames.


    "Should I leave you alone?"


    The fire cracks and pops as it burns.  The soldiers and workers maintain a discreet distance, unsure what is wrong but giving the two their space.  Only Zek seems unaffected by the tense atmosphere that lowers over the camp.


    It isn''t until Bruen turns to leave that he receives an answer.  "If ye''ve got somethin'' stronger to drink than berry juice, you could bring us each one."


    Drev locks primary eyes with the general.  Bruen flicks an upper tendril, and the soldier hurries off to fulfil the request.  He quickly returns with two glass bottles.


    Bruen accepts them from Drev with a murmured thanks and Drev slides back into the distance, ready to serve if needed once more.  A slow sigh escapes from Mos Bruen as he turns and offers one of the drinks to his companion.


    Lifting his head at the sound, a sardonic smile lights his gaunt face when he sees the orange beverage.  "Thanks."


    They drink in silence together.  When they finish their drinks, Drev is ever ready with another.  Night falls before either says anything besides thanking the loyal soldier.


    "We were gonna have kids," exclaims Gelly into the night.


    Bruen jerks groggily, swerving to look in every direction despite his near omnidirectional vision.  "Wha''sit?"  He swings his half empty bottle defensively, trying to find whatever upset his companion.


    "Kids, ye daft Squiver."


    "No," denies Bruen.  "N-not the season."  He drops back into the depression he had been inhabiting.  "You got, have to wait."


    "I do no want kids with ye, anyway."


    Bruen takes a drink, trying to remember when he had agreed to reproduce with the alien.  "Wouldn''t work, anyway," he declares.


    "Aye.  She''d have run off with the eggs, anyway," agrees the alien.


    "Why would she do that?"  Bruen looks at Zek suspiciously, almost falling forward.


    "Still, Nett''ll take it even worse," Gelly says.  He drains his bottle and peers at it.  "He were lookin'' forward to raisin'' some little ones the most."


    "Zek''s eggs are no good, Nettle must find another with which to spawn," Bruen states in what he assumes is a reasonable solution to Gelly''s problem.

 Chapter 54: Whats a Tour Guide?

    "Shit," whispers Han.


    The cover of our hiding spot is removed with a loud clang.  Yosip then says something, scaring the youth.  Han cringes down into a small ball around me chanting, "Shit, shit, shit, shit."


    We''re pulled out of the cramped confines.  Han''s panicked yowl takes marginally longer to echo back to me from the walls of the shuttle, letting me gauge the rough dimensions of our present location.  The layout matches my memories of the interior compartment of a standard shuttle.


    Yosip lifts us into the air, and Han''s chanting gets faster.  The Supply-Master rumbles something, hopefully meant to be soothing, to the scared youth.  If the tightened grip he has upon me is any indication, it does not have the intended effect.


    The Supply-Master continues speaking to the young Tserri in what I think are calming tones and eventually Han starts to unfold from around me somewhat.  Yosip lowers us back to the deck and the youth stands up reasonably straight.


    The officer''s tone hardens slightly.  Han flinches physically from the words, then reaches one claw into his shirt and wraps the sharp digits around me.  His claw shakes as he pulls me free from the confines of his shirt.  Yosip exclaims when he sees me, though the sound is more of defeat than of victory.


    Such a selfless individual.  The mere sight of me reminds him of the plight of the thousands left behind, having to make do with only the dregs of reserve power in the hastily refilled battery banks.  That his voice becomes tinged with hints of worry and anger is of no surprise.  He''s on this voyage to forget about such responsibilities for a short time.


    Han says something in a small voice, clearly afraid of Yosip''s response.  His fear is misplaced, however, as Yosip collapses back into the piloting seat.  His metal hands are loud upon the controls of the shuttle.


    The single screen above the piloting chair lights up, replacing the navigational data with a familiar face.  Upon the screen Marta frowns, worry creasing her gray face.


    Han stands quietly while the two adults discuss his fate, clasping me before him.  The conversation is a short one, and Yosip terminates the connection with a grunt.


    Yosip turns in his chair to regard the scared Han, a concerned look upon his scarred metal face.  He speaks to the youth, gesturing with one prosthetic limb, occasionally tapping the various replacement parts installed in his body.  Han flinches when Yosip taps the juncture of his prosthetic legs, where a specialized metal frame had to be installed to support the mechanisms.


    When Yosip gestures at Han, asking a question in a low rumble, the youth responds by slashing at the air with his three empty claws.  He almost drops me but tightens his grip with the last appendage.


    The Supply-Master gestures again, and Han slowly walks toward him.  When they are within striking distance of one another he stops, and Yosip reaches out one metal hand.  He holds the arm there, with his empty palm facing upward.  Han hesitantly places me into the open hand, which Yosip closes with a long sigh.


    From my new position, I''m better able to view the navigational data upon the display screen.  According to the charts, our position is just outside the system.  Yosip, holding me firmly in one metal hand, inputs new coordinates, changing our course.


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    I would have expected him to return us to the station, but Yosip sets an intercept course for Gelen''s fleet.  Well, a section of it, at least.  The fleet is rarely all together in one location, now that they''re capable of harvesting the natural resources of the system fringes.  We''re headed toward the closest processing ship, a monstrous assembly of storage tanks and low-gravity smelters.


    While we travel, I apply myself to my newest goal.  I remember several of the phrases Yosip and Han use, though I have only the vaguest guesses as to the exact meaning of anything they say.  Still, by repeating the phrases to myself, I am able to recognize a few common words or sounds that repeat in multiple sentences.


    Learning two languages at once won''t be easy, especially without the ability to speak.  The situation is not entirely hopeless, however.  One of Yosip''s various implants is a linguistic translator, installed where one of his hearing organs used to be.


    I can''t access the software, but I can detect when it activates.  It releases a subtle amount of energy, and functions by vibrating at frequencies that Yosip can hear inside his head.  If he''s holding me when the device activates, and I strain my senses, I can hear whatever Han says in both languages.


    Han possesses no such luxuries, and relies upon his own knowledge of the Selber language.  Only occasionally does he express confusion when Yosip questions him, though I suspect that not all such instances are due to lack of understanding on the youth''s part.


    Yosip chuckles, then stands up.  He motions toward the crash couches lining one side of the shuttle.  Han nods, then makes himself comfortable upon one.  The Supply-Master retrieves two drinks from a dispenser built into another wall, never relinquishing his clutch upon me.


    "Birpa," he says, offering one drink bulb to the young Tserri.


    "Ch''shrr," answers Han, accepting the drink.


    Yosip nods his bulbous head and returns to the controls.  He takes a long swallow from the container before setting down the half drained bulb.  The youth is snoring before Yosip reaches again for the rest of his beverage.


    Yosip settles a friendly glare on me before commenting to himself in a half mutter.  His angry glares involve more contraction of the artificial lenses through which he perceives reality.


    Using only one hand he beams an information packet to the location of the proposed rendezvous with Gelen''s fleet.  The reply is only a few moments in returning, and consists of a simple acknowledgement.  Yosip snorts, clearly displeased with the brevity of the message.


    Unable to force the miners to be other than they are, he sighs and corrects for minor deviations in our flight path.  It isn''t truly necessary, but it keeps him occupied briefly.  Other than that small diversion, he has little to do but talk to himself.


    He looks once, hope filling his face, at the sleeping form of young Han, but decides against waking the exhausted youth.  He gets up, intending to pace in what space is available, but Han stirs at the loud clanging of his steps.  Yosip sits back down.


    Eventually, after tuning our route as well as possible, Yosip opens a training program.  It''s simplistic in appearance.  A grid of squares fills the screen, all grayed out.


    Yosip selects one square in the center, using knowledge gained, no doubt, during his years at the academy I''ve heard tell of.  The square becomes darkened, and a numeral appears inside the selected position.  A two.


    His next selection is an adjacent square to the first, which also darkens.  His skill reveals itself, as several more adjacent squares also darken.  Yosip grunts, perhaps seeing hidden possibilities.


    The next square he selects is also adjacent to the original.  When Yosip chooses the position, an image resembling a stylized smoke cloud expands out, turning the screen white.  He''s presented with the option to play again.


    Masterful.  Who else could solve such an intricate puzzle so quickly?  He made it seem effortless.


    Yosip grunts, displeased at his easy win.  He plays several more rounds, winning each as skillfully as the first.  Bored from the lack of challenge, he deactivates the training program.


    His timing couldn''t have been better, as no sooner does he close the program than a message appears on the main screen.  The rendezvous is requesting permission to link airlocks.

 Chapter 55: Whats a Detour?

    The airlock finishes cycling with a hiss.  Sliding slowly up, it reveals a pair of male Tserri standing on the other side.


    The pair are dressed in matching leather outfits, complete with full combat regalia.  Knives, spears, and lengths of thick cord hang from them in easily reached places.   Powerful hand drills and compact lasers complete their arsenal.  Between them stands the largest example of their horned beast pets that I''ve ever encountered.


    The creature stands taller at the shoulders than young Han, who eyes the strangers uncertainly.


    The larger of the two barks a command at the youth, who steps back rather than comply.  His partner growls menacingly, which causes Yosip to stand from the piloting seat.


    The smaller Tserri reaches one claw toward a wickedly curved dagger at his belt, barking insults.  Yosip darts forward, faster than anyone would expect from his lumbering bulk.  Jets capable of propelling him through the vacuum of space power his movements, accelerating his composite alloy fist nearly faster than I can track without equipment.


    Yosip only hits him once, but it is enough to crush the dark furred muzzle of the aggressive male.  Rather than retaliate, the larger Tserri laughs at his partner''s misfortune.  He slaps Yosip once on the back before kicking his friend.  The pair''s pet licks at the blood flowing from its owner''s face, bleating happily and easily avoiding the shooing claws of its master.


    Yosip gestures to the youth, then rumbles orders to the adult Tserri.  The pressure of his grasp is enough to frighten me and I emit a flash of orange light.  Thank the tides Yosip retains enough control to preserve my existence.


    The injured Tserri climbs upright, dark blood dripping from his face.  He spits blood onto the deck and staggers back to his own ship, laughing partner trailing behind.  They have to drag the horned creature away from the spilled blood.


    The Supply-Master stands with his arms held loosely at his sides, watching the pair until the airlock finishes its cycle.  He relaxes slightly when the two ships separate, and he turns to regard Han.  He finally relents his grip upon me, freeing me of my newfound fear of shattering.


    Han looks up at the Supply-Master, eyes wide, ears back.  The youth''s mouth hangs open, though his lips try to form words without sound.  He gestures with one claw absently, unable to understand what just happened.


    "Han?"


    Han leaps into the air, all four arms pumping frantically.  The youth yells, a single high-pitched roar that echoes tinnily off the walls of the shuttle.  Yosip sighs before stomping heavily back to his seat.


    Tapping at the controls, Yosip brings up a simplified chart of the surrounding volume of space.  Behind him Han chatters happily, asking questions that the officer ignores.  Yosip steers us closer to the main body of Gelen''s fleet, where he''ll have another chance to turn over responsibility for Han and myself to another.


    Direction set, he then composes another communication.  He sends it off with a grunt.  Yosip then laughs before commenting to Han, probably reassurances that the youth will soon be safely home.


    Han is too busy running back and forth, attacking imaginary opponents to answer with more than a grunt.  Until the youth expends some of that energy, this shall be a noisy flight.  Taking advantage of the youngster''s focus on his games, Yosip prepares a simple meal without being pestered with endless questions.


    Nothing fancy, merely those provisions intended to feed Yosip during his short hiatus, but more than Han is used to.  Upon seeing the gor grubs and slices of gau on bread, Han plants himself beside the Selber officer.  Yosip laughs at the youth''s antics and slides him half of the food, as well as another bulb of birpa.


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    They eat, occasionally exchanging short comments.  For at least this short time, Yosip relinquishes his hold upon me, setting me upon an unoccupied cushion of the crash couch.  The couch is surprisingly soft, and I enjoy the plush upholstery.


    All too soon they finish their simple meal.  Yosip clears away the remains, placing them in the waste disposal where they''ll be stored for later reclamation.  He then once more picks me up in one hand, the better to guard my safety.


    He''s busy showing Han how the piloting controls work when the screen lights up with an incoming message.  Yosip nods sagely before initiating communication.


    On the screen Eva Chel''s worried face appears.  She rapidly questions Yosip, and during the barrage of words my name is mentioned many times.  Yosip takes the assault placidly, like a good officer should, before responding calmly.


    Eva''s face shows evidence of disbelief which only increases when Yosip lifts me to where the camera can reveal me to her.


    "Shit," she exclaims, rubbing at her eyes with one slender hand.  A larger hand settles on her shoulder, causing her to take a sharp breath.


    Attached to that hand is Ship-Father Jim Tollek, standing bravely despite the clear signs of exhaustion upon his gray face.  His uniform is wrinkled and his crest of dark hair is disheveled.


    He gives a short speech, raising his hands and forming fists that he shakes passionately as he speaks.  Eva''s face sets into firm lines, ready to do her duty despite the difficulty.


    Yosip grunts and turns off the transmission.  He then makes a comment that sounds oddly like Jim''s voice to Han, who laughs hysterically.  Truly, the long separation from his people and the stress of being locked in such cramped quarters must be bearing heavily on his young mind, to react so to such a heroic figure as the Ship-Father.


    After Han recovers they return to their lessons, and Han does an admirable job of smoothly adjusting our heading.  He''s guiding us as if he were an experienced pilot by the time we arrive at the new meeting point.


    There we encounter a much larger vessel than before.  Meant for storage of raw materials as much as for habitation by the Tserri miners, the massive ship swallows the shuttle easily.  Yosip takes over the controls to bring us inside, thankfully.


    The hangar is large enough for twenty similar sized ships to fit easily, though only half of that space holds any crafts.  Small rock-biters crewed by a single miner sit next to tugs capable of hauling enormous loads behind them.  A single sleek scouting vessel stands on one end of the hangar, currently being serviced by armor suited crew.


    Guided by a tan furred female in red and gold armor who directs them from a control room of the carrier ship, Yosip positions the shuttle between the scout and the other small ships.  Suited crew rush to refuel the shuttle, well-trained at the station for just such occasions.


    He thanks the guide and severs the communication.  Then he stuffs me inside his shirt and issues some kind of stern directive.


    Han answers with a happy bark before I hear him scurrying around the shuttle.  I''m not sure what he''s doing.  What ever it is, it doesn''t take very long.


    "Ch''shrr," Yosip says, thanking the youth, then stands and walks a short distance.  Han''s claws tinkle upon the deck behind us.


    The door opens, and a deep Tserri voice speaks.  Yosip answers and begins walking again.  The newcomer''s clanking steps join Yosip''s own, as they escort the two strangers aboard their vessel.


    They walk a short distance before another door cycles open with a hiss.  Yosip steps through the entry way, Han right behind him.  The escort stays at the door, speaking again.  I recognize Jim''s name among the growls and hisses, though the stranger''s accent makes it hard to be certain.


    "Ch''shrr," answers Yosip before the door closes.  I''m excited to see what their accommodations look like.  How have they decorated the quarters?  I doubt they''d offer a hero anything less than the best room available.


    Yosip doesn''t take me out of his shirt yet, however, and I must wait to see.  He walks across the room and drops heavily onto something padded.  It squeaks under him, giving a fraction of a bit under his weight.  Another weight hits the floor beside him.


    Han moves around not far away, exploring the new room.  It''s larger than the interior of the shuttle, at least.  The young Tserri activates some machine and it whirs to life.


    His little voice exclaims, "Birpa!"


    Yosip chuckles.  The youth runs up to him, and Yosip shifts positions in his seat.  Yosip thanks the youth before drinking.  He evidently does not enjoy the carrier''s particular flavor of birpa, as he makes a sound of disgust after only one swallow.


    Han laughs but keeps drinking his own.  There''s a thud beside us, and Yosip rumbles again.  The two continue like this for some time before being interrupted by a knocking at their door.

 Chapter 56: Whats Hide-and-Seek?

    Yosip steps aside, to let the strange Tserri inside.  The sounds the stranger makes are odd, as if they''re dragging something on wheels behind them.  It''s unlikely that the Tserri is here to deliver food, as Yosip and Han ate not long ago.


    The Tserri makes a short speech, which Yosip remains mostly silent during.  He does interject on three separate occasions, but the Tserri reacts calmly to the interruptions and makes soothing sounds.


    After he''s done speaking, the Tserri leaves and the door hisses shut behind him.  Once the crewmember leaves, Han starts once more chattering questions at his older companion.  Yosip responds in monosyllabic grunts, walking slowly around a point in space that is occupied by whatever the Tserri had wheeled in.


    At one point Han mentions me, but Yosip doesn''t seem to notice.  The Supply-Master instead cheerily and loudly explains some point of contention to the youth.  The way Yosip is acting is strange, but I can only assume he''s attempting to act happy in order to bolster Han''s delicate emotional state.


    Whatever Yosip had to say to the youth causes him to erupt once more into high pitched howling.  Yosip snorts but otherwise doesn''t say anything else.


    The Supply-Master does not remain still, however.  He busies himself for some time.  Bending, grunting, and making horrible clanging noises.  Occasionally Han asks another question, but the terse replies eventually dissuade him from continuing.


    Whatever task he works upon requires almost all of Yosip''s prodigious concentration.  He stops only once, and briefly at that, when Han offers him another birpa.  His comment after drinking the concoction contained many words which caused the youth great merriment.  I hope to learn the meanings of them all soon.


    When Yosip finally finishes his mysterious work he sits down, straining the integrity of the seating.  He groans quietly, relaxing in the quiet.


    Yosip leaps to his feet.  "Han?"


    He twists, looking in every direction.  "Han?"


    Yosip turns, stomping deeper into the space.  He reaches into his shirt and pulls me out.  His face strains as he looks at me.


    His command is unintelligible, but by the repeated use of Han''s name, I gather he wants my help finding the youth.  Thinking hard, I try to find a way to satisfy his demand.  I too worry for the wayward Tserri.


    My senses remain incredibly limited.  Granted, I possess ways to perceive my surroundings far exceeding anything I knew in my original life, but the range is a crippling limitation.  If I truly concentrate I can sense as far as thirty ubits.


    The distance stuns me momentarily.  When I had first gained this form I was limited to less than half that.  Unnecessary distraction.  I set my mind once more to the task before me.


    I don''t hear Han, nor see him.  Any thermal traces he might have left will have been absorbed by now, so that''s also useless.  I am detecting an unusual amount of radioactive particles, however.


    Han had been exposed for several days to a powerful source of radiation, and these particles share a similar flavor to those Noorun''s weapon leaves behind it.  They''re concentrated heavily in the room we''d spent the most time in, with a faint trail leading farther back.  The particles leading into the corridor behind the main room seem less decayed than those in the main room.


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    To indicate the way Yosip should proceed, I release a focused beam of photons in the proper direction.  He understands at once and plods forward.


    The trail leads around the corner to a ladder built into the corridor.  Yosip climbs it without hesitation and calls Han''s name once more.


    We find the trouble maker at the controls of a turret, aiming rods clasped in his tiny claws.  An oversized helmet covers his head, deadening his hearing.  A helpful feature during combat, as it removes unwelcome distractions, but hardly useful at the moment.


    Why is there a gunner''s turret in the guest suite?  Whatever the reason, Han is happily pretending to burn enemies of the Spanless Empire from the skies of some colony world, oblivious to his physical surroundings.


    Yosip snatches the helmet off the distracted youth''s head and Han squeals in surprise.


    What follows is a verbal lashing that I''m glad not to understand.  By the end of it, Han is quivering in fear.  When asked one final question, the youth answers in a tiny voice, with only a single word.  "Yessir."


    Yosip grunts once, then wraps both his powerful mechanical arms around the young Tserri, pulling him close to his body and holding him tightly.


    Han chirps once in shock but quickly relaxes.


    The Supply-Master adds one more comment then releases his captive.  Han responds with a more enthusiastic, "Yessir!"


    Yosip climbs back down the ladder, trying to hide the grin on his face from Han.  The youth follows behind, also sporting a strange, distracted look.


    "Thanks, Mos," mutters Yosip, before pretending to be distracted by a noise nobody else hears.  Of course, I can''t reply.


    He carries me back into the main room.  Now that I can look around, I notice that it looks strangely like the interior of one of the scout vessels we had designed for the Tserri.  We did incorporate a dorsal turret to allow for self-defense in emergencies.


    Meant to be operated by a crew of five, though two could perhaps manage, if they were very skilled.  Is this the best lodgings they had available?  I feel insulted on Yosip''s behalf, though he seems to be taking the insult with equanimity.


    The central area serves most functions aboard the vessel, being command room, dorm, and cafeteria all at once.  Work stations and couches line the walls, with a central multipurpose table.  Attached benches provide seating and a place to eat without risk of spilling food on the controls.


    Next to the table is a wheeled cart, and upon that is a nearly disassembled contraption.  Yosip carries me over to the pile of components and asks a question.  I''m sure he realizes I can''t answer, and is merely being polite, but it still is becoming frustrating to be unable to communicate with him.


    Han walks past us and curls up on one of the couches.  I don''t have much experience dealing with those his age, and don''t know if his behavior is typical.  Yosip treats his behavior as within expectations, the wild changes between dormancy and manic energy as something normal.


    The young of my own kind are much simpler to understand.  If they''re in the water, throw meat at them and get away quickly.  If they''re on land, throw meat at them and assert your dominance.  At least Han doesn''t seem cannibalistic, having outgrown that phase of development perhaps.


    Yosip watches until the youth is comfortable before turning back to his project.  He makes a remark that sounds almost apologetic.  I''m not used to Yosip acting humble.


    He places me upon the central table, where I''m able to watch him work.  Yosip twists and bends over the thing, forcing pieces together with a metal wand.  Occasionally he switches the wand for another similar tool with a different colored handle.  Wires attach to sealed components, which then slot together tightly.


    A complex assembly of components takes shape from the mess that had been in its place.  Next he constructs the protective shell in which the functional portions will nestle.  The innards must be partially deconstructed in order to fit inside the limited space, but Yosip makes it work with skill I would expect from a battle tested Juror.  Parts join together with professional speed and soon the device is complete.


    Stepping away, Yosip gestures at the finished work.  It is little more than an elongated cube of metal with a single display screen and speakers.  He opens a panel on the side, which hides a small alcove whose purpose I can immediately guess.


    As I expect, he slots me into the machine and closes the panel.  It activates with a click followed by a whir and energy floods through me and into the device.  The vast majority is lost, evaporating back into the higher dimensions, but what passes into the machine is more than ample to power it.


    "It''s a phenomenal waste of resources," grumbles Yosip from above me.  "But you''ll be more useful to me like this."

 Chapter 57: Whats Playing Chicken?

    "And there''s really an orb like him in every spaceship?"


    Han''s doubt is well-founded, as I''m of course superior to those other cores.


    "Really," answers Yosip.  "But ours is the only one we''ve ever found with an alien spirit trapped inside."


    The youth peers at me, a measuring look in his eyes.  "Why is he different?"


    "Please don''t get him started," begs Yosip.


    "What about this ship," inquires Han.  "Is there a magic ball powering it?"


    "No," I answer.  "This scout craft, like others its size, relies upon banks of batteries.  It needs to charge at a carrier or other appropriately outfitted dock between trips."


    "Right.  Power cores are rare," supplies Yosip.  "Rare enough that even Mos Denn is too valuable not to use."


    "Yes, and I need to get back to work."


    Yosip is silent.  Suspiciously so.  Han cocks his head at the gray officer and says, "Have you not told him yet?"


    "Mm, well."


    "Told me what?"


    Yosip sighs and stands from his place at the table.  "We''ve been replaced, Mos."


    "That can''t be right.  Are you sure you read the message correctly?"


    "I''m sure, Mos.  It''s simple.  The Matron got word back from Prime.  You can''t be trusted because of your origins, and I''ve been deemed too close with the Tserri."


    Yosip paces heavily around the room.  "They''re giving my job to Eva, not that she doesn''t deserve it, and I''m being promoted to Patron.  They''ve got a retirement posting all planned out for me."


    "What about the station?"


    "For now, Jim''s stuck there.  The core from his ship is taking your place.  Jim''s whole crew is on temporary leave until a replacement core can be shipped in system."


    "I should have you know I did much more than simply keep the lights running."


    "Yeah, and the Matron''ll find that out soon enough.  Until then you''re coming with us."


    "Yeah!"  Han bounces in his seat with unspent energy.  "The miners found something weird."


    The scowl on Yosip''s face grows more intense.  "Those poor bastards weren''t prepared for what they found.  The one that made it back requested help, and I think we could be useful before they bury us for good.  One last mission."


    That''s a lot to absorb all at once.  No longer needed, either of us.  I seize onto the final revelation, a chance to die in battle rather than be retired once more.


    "If it''s too dangerous for the miners, why do you want to bring Han?"


    "That''s not fair!"  Han leaps to his feet shouting at the same time that Yosip levels one arm at me.


    "I don''t have much choice.  If we take him back to the station, we won''t be able to leave again, none of us."  He takes a deep breath and runs the other hand across his face.  "We can''t leave him here.  The nomads have a blood price on him," explains Yosip.  "And beside th-"


    "I wanna go," interrupts Han.  "This is my chance to earn some respect from the others."


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    "And besides that," I say, finishing for the officer.  "You don''t need to explain yourself to a rock?"


    Yosip laughs once, quietly.  "No.  I was gonna say that I don''t think I could stop him from coming."


    "Yeah!"


    Using one arm, Yosip gently shoves the youth away from the table.  Han pretends to fight against the bigger male before being pushed back laughing.  Yosip shakes his head, not quite hiding the smile that plays across his gray face.


    "We''re just waiting on clearance to leave.  I told Eva we''d be going straight to the station, but..."


    "But that''s just to get them to give us time to get away," finishes Han.


    "I didn''t like lying to her, but we will be going back, eventually," Yosip explains in a pained voice.


    I can hear the unspoken, maybe, at the end of his statement, though Han takes it at only surface value.  His furry face never stops grinning.  Yosip looks at me, pleading with his glass eyes.


    "Just a short delay, of course," I agree.  "Then we accept our new positions with quiet dignity."


    Yosip snorts loudly, but Han nods along as if I had said something sensible.


    The main screen above the piloting console lights up.  Yosip signals Han to answer it, and a smiling female Tserri appears on the display.


    "Everything''s ready, Supply-Master," she states in a cheerful tone.  "Be sure to give my regards to Vren."


    "Of course, Nerra," confirms Yosip.  "Thanks again for taking care of the paperwork."


    "Oh, you''ll owe me one for it, don''t doubt," teases Nerra before terminating the call.


    "We won''t be speaking with Vren any time soon, will we Yosip?"


    "Didn''t take you long to figure that out," he confirms.  "You might be getting better at understanding us, after all.  Besides, Terla would gut her like a three-legged gau."


    "Can I launch us?"


    "Do you remember the sequence I taught you?"


    "Yes, Yosip, I do," confirms Han.


    "Then bring us out.  Slowly, please."


    The youngster concentrates upon his task and misses the pained look that crosses Yosip''s scarred face.  It passes quickly, and Yosip himself makes no mention of it, so I won''t either.  Not until Han''s asleep.


    Han does a more than adequate job of clearing the hangar, as expected of one training under the Supply-Master.  Yosip praises the youth''s piloting skills and commands him to head out on an elliptical course toward Kalibern.  Han snickers quietly as he inputs the coordinates.


    We''re bombarded with transmissions, well wishes from the assorted miners and prospectors, though there are a few messages containing less than pleasant greetings.  Some of the miners make threats, demanding that Han be turned over to them.


    "Ignore them," recommends Yosip.  "If they want to take it farther than threats we''ll deal with it.  Those little tugs are only dangerous to unarmed rocks."


    One scavenger ship, armed with a plasma torch and claws, decides to impede our flight path.  It''s bigger than the scout that we''re in, but is mostly storage space.  Yosip''s scowl deepens, but he doesn''t issue orders for a change in trajectory.


    "Sir?"


    "Hold steady, Han.  He''s just posturing.  Gotta look good in front of his pals."


    "We''re getting awful close."


    "Don''t worry," Yosip says, standing up.  "If they don''t move by the time I get to the turret, well.  Don''t worry."


    "Sir?"


    Yosip waves one metal hand at the youth on his way out.  "Slow down, if you want, but don''t stop."


    "Yessir."


    Yosip''s footsteps echo back to us as he plods down the corridor.  Han decreases our speed with a sigh.  Emboldened by this, the scavenger''s plasma torch begins to warm up.  Blue-white gas, visible only for the miners'' convenience, flares from the nozzle of the plasma cutter.


    The other vessel turns, tracking us with the mining torch as we approach.  The lights in the scout dim from a sudden power draw.  Yosip must be powering up the turret.


    We enter the scavenger''s range and super-heated particles leap towards us.  Cosmic fire bathes the scout, and systems whine at the abuse.  The scout ship lurches.  Two heavy slugs impact the scavenger, tearing holes through the thin hull.


    The fire cuts off.  Unable to survive many more shots like that, the scavenger flares its engines and backs off.


    A high-pitched cheer erupts from our young pilot, and he increases our speed to its previous levels.  Before long, Yosip emerges from the rear corridor, face drained of color.


    "You were right," cheers Han.  "They ran after the first shot!"


    "Yeah, told you," grunts Yosip, taking his place once more in the nominal command seat.  "Now they get to say they survived a fight against spirit magic.  Pah."


    It does seem that they got exactly what they wanted.  "You could have taken another shot before they were out of range."


    Yosip shakes his head.  "I could have.  We could have slagged them.  Given their buddies the excuse to get together and come after us.  It''s better to exchange light blows and everybody gets to win."


    "Yes," I say, reasoning out loud.  "They''re are witnesses around.  And they''ll all be able to say that we took damage on our way back to the station."


    "New course set!"


    "Good job, Han.  I noticed a stutter during that little tilt.  Why don''t you go down and check out the batteries?  Make sure they''re all hooked up right."


    "Yessir!"


    Han leaps from his chair and races out of the room.  Yosip''s frown softens at the sight, and I admit that the youth''s antics can be quite endearing.


    "Now that Han isn''t around to hear it, how bad is it, Yosip?"


    "Let''s just say that I''d rather be one of Jim''s plants right now."

 Chapter 58: Whats a Ghost Ship?

    "I know it''s hard for you, but could you please not say anything in front of Han?"


    "How much does he know?"


    "I don''t think he really understands what radiation is, or cancer.  He thinks I''m just old."


    Yosip does look much older than he truly is.  He''s as highly augmented as any elder Mos, leading me to often forget that he''s only a few seasons older than Han.


    "It might be important for him to learn.  He''s still giving off radioactive byproducts."


    "Shit.  Why didn''t you say anything when I still had a chance to do something about it?"


    "Do something about what?"  Han runs back into the room, covered in dust.


    "We forgot to buy a better flavor of birpa," I answer.  "And now it''s too late."


    Yosip nods, frowning as much as ever, but it doesn''t quite reach his eyes.  "Nobody likes anda root birpa."


    "I like it," protests Han.


    "Yeah, and you''re nobody.  Point proven."


    "I won''t always be nobody!"  He brushes the dust off before returning to the piloting console.  "Just watch."


    I wonder if we can get some anda root shipped to the station.  "How were the batteries?"


    "Power cell three burnt out, but the rest are still good."


    "If we have enough power to get there then it isn''t a problem.  We have lost some maneuvering thrusters, so don''t try any fancy moves."


    The Supply-Master busies himself with his prosthetics, ending the conversation.  He refills the hidden resevoirs that power the inbuilt jets, as well as applying oil and other maintenance tasks.  The familiar rituals of an old warrior.


    Bucket''s work is always excellent.  While the workings of it remain as inscrutable to me as ever, there are certain similarities that I can note between the Supply-Master''s many augmentations and the dronefeathers'' construction.  His limbs look much the same from the outside, but the actual composition is hidden within a false shell.


    "Yosip, why is it that you never had Bucket make your limbs look more natural?  You know they''re capable of it."


    "Or your face?"


    "Thank you, Han," answers Yosip, face growing dark around his implants.  "A couple reasons.  First, it would make doing this a lot harder."


    To demonstrate he removes his left leg below the knee.  To reach the fuel tank he folds armor plates and hydraulics back on concealed hinges.  Different segments retract to allow him to reach a bent rod.  "This''s needed fixed for a while."  He replaces it with a part from his bag, then reassembles the leg.


    "And anyway, would you have hidden your scars?"


    "More scars means more experience.  The same with artificial limbs and organs.  You would be a very well respected leader, were you of my caste.  However, your society does not function that way."


    "No, it doesn''t.  Losing a limb in battle or in service means you made a mistake," Yosip states slowly.  "And it makes you slow, causing you to be passed over for missions.  Kalibern was meant to be the end of my career.  Even if the changes Bucket made make them less of a burden, my record hasn''t changed."


    Fidgeting in his seat, Han is clearly distracted.  Yosip doesn''t notice, too busy putting away his servicing tools.


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    "Is there something wrong, Han?"


    The youth''s ears stand up straight though his eyes never leave his controls.  "Maybe.  We''re almost at the coordinates."


    "I still haven''t been told what we''re doing out here."


    Yosip grunts.  "Anything showing on our scanners, Han?"


    Han taps at his controls.  "Not yet.  Wait.  I just picked up an energy surge...there."


    With a few quick button presses the youth transfers the data he''s scrutinizing to screens Yosip and I can see.  At the very edge of the scout''s scanner range is an odd sight.  Six ships, floating around an oddly round rock.


    The boulder at the center of the formation is larger than any of the ships around it.  None of the vessels show any hint of battle damage, and only one is powered down.  The rest operate on standby, as if their owners left, meaning to return shortly.


    "Any life signs from the vessels?"


    "Nothing," answers Han.


    No sooner does he answer than another flare of energy washes out from the spherical body.  According to the display, the released energy evaporates before getting much past the attending vessels.  Higher dimensional energy?


    "The ships aren''t drawing any of that in," I comment.  "But there''s almost certainly a power core inside that boulder."


    Yosip grunts his agreement.  "Pulse seems a little slow, but there''s a certain resemblance.  Han, can you get us a better view of the asteroid?"


    Furious tapping answers the Supply-Master.  After only moments the view upon the screen changes.  The boulder rotates, displaying an eerily uniform smoothness.  Only one feature mars the otherwise perfect uniformity of the spheroid''s surface.


    "Is that an airlock?"


    "I think so, Yosip," replies Han.


    At Yosip''s direction, the youth aligns us with the opening.  The alien structure is far too large to link with the scout.  Even the extendable docking tube often used to connect with unusual designs is inadequate.


    It''s likely that the nomads may have entered by crossing the void between their ships and the sphere in their vacuum suits.  Yosip could make the short trip by using his mask.  I, of course, don''t breathe.  Han has the least chance of surviving such conditions.


    "Han, you''re in charge until we get back," Yosip announces, placing his mask over his face.


    The Supply-Master opens the device in which I rest and pulls me out once more.  They exchange brief farewells before Yosip enters the scout''s airlock.


    The small chamber depressurizes, storing all the gasses for later use.  The door slides open and Yosip leaps into the darkness.  I redirect the harmful background radiation away from him as well as converting some of it into visible light.


    The jets on his left arm and leg light up momentarily and we veer off to the right.  Then both legs fire and we rise.  I don''t think we''re aimed at the alien entrance anymore.


    He repositions, putting his legs first.  We must be getting close to whichever of the small prospecting ships he has us careening toward.  Legs spreading wide to absorb the impact, he bends his knees in preparation.


    The shock of impact runs through his body but he never loosens his grip upon me.  Magnets in his feet latch onto the hull and we cling precariously to the outer surface of the mining vessel.


    Yosip wastes little time looking about.  He heads directly to the airlock and grapples with the manual release for the outer barrier.  The strain is evident upon his face as he works.


    A wave of energy washes over us, and before it fades away I recognize the flavor.  It reminds me of something I tasted while Juror Nuhst had possession of me, though I have trouble remembering exactly what.


    At last the door opens and Yosip plunges inside.  Another manual control on the inside closes the airlock behind us.  Inside the small chamber he searches with his free hand until he finds the pad that operates the airlock.  Air rushes in, embracing us with dry warmth.


    Yosip rumbles something, of which I understand only a few words.  I think he asks for light, so I comply, shedding a warm orange glow to illuminate the darkened interior of the powered down ship.  He nods and waves me around as he takes in his surroundings.  Yosip ignores the noises of the ship, the hum and rattle of systems powering on after an extended duration of inactivity.


    He moves unerringly for the supply lockers built next to the airlock.  Inside he finds spare parts for the miners'' suits, as well as a few changes of clothing.  One four-armed green tunic serves as a sack for the components he deems useful.  Most fortunate of all, at the bottom of the locker lies a spare oxygen canister.


    With a forgotten woven belt he secures his finds to his back and returns to the airlock.  We return to the scout quickly after that, Yosip grinning smugly the entire time.


    "Any changes from the boulder?"


    Han slashes the question from the air, more interested in the salvage that the Supply-Master dumps onto the table.  The youth rushes over and begins sorting through the parts.  Yosip doesn''t bother to remove his mask, returning to the airlock once free of his burden.


    He turns and speaks over his shoulder to Han.  My attempts to learn their languages show their worth, and I understand some of what he says.  He states that they still lack something and that he wants to look in another ship.  Han responds affirmatively and Yosip returns once more into the void, bringing me along to serve as radiation shield and light source.

 Chapter 59: Whats a Dungeon?

    Yosip finishes the last adjustment to Han''s suit.  It fits poorly around his small form.


    "Are you sure we don''t have time to paint it?"  Han asks the question for the fifth time.  "I look like one of those junk creatures that Capey and the gang fought in episode thirty-four."


    I haven''t seen the program of which he speaks, but I can agree with the sentiment.  The pieces of his makeshift outfit come from no less than five separate suits.  As well, the device in which I currently reside nestles against his back.  Wires connect us together, allowing me to monitor the youth''s energy and gas levels.


    "It''ll be fine, Han.  Nobody but us can see you, anyway," Yosip reassures the youth, patting him on his helmeted head.


    Granted, the helmet consists of the visor from a broken suit, a spare rebreather taken from another ship, and bits of plating salvaged from a partially crushed helmet that''s far too large for him.  I''ll be acting as his communication equipment to allow contact with Yosip should they become separated.


    Han grumbles to himself, still disgusted by the clashing colors.  He holds a stripped-down mining laser in one set of claws, more salvage from the empty vessels around us.  Yosip too is now holding a weapon, a length of metal as long as he is tall with a single sharpened end.  The incongruity of such a simple weapon being held in such complexly articulated artificial digits is enough to remove his constant scowl.


    I don''t know whether the Supply-Master''s training includes the use of spears.  His hands grasp the weapon at approximate thirds of the haft, so unlike the gentle grip of many tendrils wrapped loosely around shaped wood that I remember.  He at least knows to keep the sharp end pointed away from himself and Han.


    The three of us nearly fill the small airlock, making movement difficult.  They press against each other in the close space.  Yosip cycles the air and slides open the exterior door.  Han grabs hold of Yosip and the two jump out of the ship.


    Yosip rarely exposes his inner desires to the rest of us, but once he had confided to me how he feared he would never again get the chance to do what was trained to do.  Excepting those times when he nearly died from his love of falling, he''s rather skilled at it.


    With them close together like this it isn''t hard to keep them both from being ravaged by radiation.  Han''s suit should protect him, but the many improvises in the design present too large a risk to ignore; his small body already carries an unhealthy dose of decaying particles.


    The levels of ionized particles increase as we near the massive stone sphere''s irregularly shaped opening.  None of the seven sides are of the same length, and they join at odd angles.  Yosip steers us at the center of the gaping entrance.


    Gravity grabs onto us as we enter, far beyond what the boulder should be capable of generating naturally.  Arcane energies tickle at the edges of my awareness, taunting me.  I keep my unease to myself as Han and Yosip come to rest inside the open airlock.


    When the next energy pulse spreads out from inside the structure, the outer doors close.  Overlapping panels slide out and expand.  The panels have a vaguely chitinous sheen to them, but the others are more interested in searching for a control panel and carry me deeper inside.


    After forming an airtight seal, air starts to fill the chamber.  The hissing noise almost sounds like laughter.  I''m not the only one who notices, as Yosip holds his spear in what can only be a ready position, crouching slightly like a hunting predator.


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    It isn''t until we approach the inside door that I notice the runelights.  Carved into the stone door are the same symbols that the door of my estate bear to this day, glowing with a gray-blue that lights the area as if from deep under the sea.  I almost speak, but the door begins to open while I''m still overcome with shock.


    "Stay close."


    "Yessir!"


    Yosip stalks forward, footsteps echoing loudly.  He leads us into a stone corridor, twice his height but varying wildly in width.  More runelights are set into the walls, though the pattern seems almost mocking in the way that it only almost matches the protective glyphs used by my people.


    "This place is spooky," whispers Han.


    Yosip turns around, smiling through his mask.  "It''s not too different from Kalibern.  There''s-"


    The Supply-Master lurches forward under an unseen weight.  Han screams in panic, dropping his laser.


    Yosip twists hard and throws his assailant over his shoulder.  A creature covered in knobs of reddish crystal lands hard on the uneven floor.  Bits shatter off of its many arms and it starts to rise.  Yosip''s spear slams into the center of the thing and black ichor spurts freely.


    Han screams again as the dark fluid hits him.


    The creature thrashes its life away, then stills.  I can finally get a good look at the thing.  Its face looks like a Tserri''s, though the fur is absent and the beast is covered in crystalline growths.  Now that it is no longer swinging them about wildly, I count nine limbs, all arms.  Arms that end in sharp claws.


    I also think I can see something below the layer of crimson, but I can''t be sure.  "Yosip, could you scape some of that off of the beast''s torso, please?"


    "Well, since you asked nicely," responds the Supply-Master.  "Han, pick up the laser and watch the tunnel."


    Han leaps to obey as Yosip uses his spear to remove some of the crystals crusting the beast''s torso.  Underneath, burned into the creature''s hide are the same runes that I once wore upon my carapace.  I had carried them for too many seasons to ever forget the shapes.  The order they''re placed in almost ensures that they have no effect, however.


    "Well?"


    "I''m not sure, but I believe that to be the work of a thaumatist."


    Yosip kicks the corpse, checking that it is truly dead.  "This thing couldn''t have killed anyone.  Not someone in a proper suit."


    "Perhaps they were ambushed.  We''ll have to keep going to find out more."


    He starts to reply but is interrupted by the whine of Han''s laser discharging.  The youth fires three times in rapid succession and his weapon beeps shrilly.


    "Shit shit shit shit shit shit."


    "Han!"


    More misshapen abominations stampede down the tunnel.  Bodies with mismatched limbs, arms and legs in odd places and all covered in crystal.  Each beast is of a different shape.  Only the eerily Tserri-like heads and crystalline tumors mark the beasts as sharing common origins.


    Energy pulses, flowing down the tunnel in a nearly visible wave.  The crystals light up in particolored auras.  The creatures swoon as one when the energy hits them, beginning to recover almost instantly.


    That short opening is enough for Yosip, who leaps forward spear first.  He jabs and thrusts, arms working as a metal blur.  Flames trail his movements and fumes fill the air.  Han backs into the wall, overheated weapon clutched tightly to his armored chest.  His panicked breathing rocks his small body.


    "Han, you need to cycle the weapon''s coolant," I gently remind him.  "You can do this." My voice comes out distorted and staticky.  The speaker must be damaged.


    "Y-yeah!"


    He fumbles at first, claws made clumsy by both fear and oversized gauntlets.  His breathing steadies as he hits the proper sequence of buttons.  The weapon chirps brightly and it begins rapidly cooling down.  Han raises the laser, readying himself.


    As soon as the mining laser cools enough to function again, he sends focused beams into the horde.  Timing his shots more carefully, Han is able to stay in the fight until the last of the monstrous creatures dies.


    He and Yosip stand there, dripping black slime, smiling at each other.  Bodies pile atop one another on all sides of them.  I do what I can to rid Yosip of the charged particles already accumulating in his body, but he requires proper treatment.


    "Not bad, Operative," comments Yosip before turning to go deeper into the strange alien structure.

 Gellys Story 13: Whats a Dungeon Break?

    The robed aliens sway rhythmically, moving as one.  Their many ropey limbs entwine, forming living circuits.  All this happens in complete silence.


    Gelly stands at the entrance to the domed room.  Beside him are Mos Bruen and Drev.  Somner Zek is somewhere among the others of her kind, lost in the sea of robes.


    Behind them are the walls of a yet greater dome that contains the room in which the ritual is conducted.  Armed soldiers patrol the halls by the light of glowing symbols carved into the wall.


    Gelly blinks, and when he opens his eyes a rift in reality stands in the clear space between the exhausted aliens.  Through it he can see the shimmering image of deep caverns that glow blue-gray.  Something writhes in the distance.


    A strong limb slaps into Gelly''s back.  "Wonderful," Bruen comments.


    "Aye.  Do ye recognize the cave?"


    "No.  Is that not your home?"


    "I''ve no been there before," answers Gelly.


    The room empties as each of the participants in the ritual leave, seeking rest or sustenance.  Gelly walks into the room, circling the portal.  Bruen and Drev watch patiently.  After making a complete circuit, he returns to the others.


    "Is this some part o'' Honus?  I do no remember there bein'' many caves there."


    "Perhaps another star?  Were you near Honus when you found the alien vessel that brought you to us?"


    "Yer right.  We were off chasin'' tales o'' death worlds when we found it.  Around a lonely star with no planets."


    Flexible limbs push the two aside.  Drev thrust himself past them, putting himself between the other two and the portal.  He falls, gashes running down his body.  Behind him, blood dripping from its crystalline claws, looms a four-armed creature studded with yellow mineral growths.


    The creature lunges toward Bruen, propelling itself with a thick trunk-like tail.  Yellow jags of crystal glint at the ends of its long arms.  Bruen ducks its attack, backing away.


    Gelly draws his knife and leaps onto the beast''s back.  Crystal cuts into his thighs, but he holds on tight.  His knife rises and falls, blade staining black in the monster''s ichor.  Bruen keeps the thing distracted, darting in and out of its reach.


    The beast roars, trying and failing to reach behind it.  Gelly stabs the beast in the back, dodging its attempts to dislodge him.  Finally, it rattles a final cry and he jumps clear of the dying beast.  Its long tail thrashes behind it as it dies.


    Bruen shouts, "Soldiers!  Get a medic in here, officer wounded!"


    Azure pools around the fallen form of Drev.  The soldier''s many flexible limbs lay still.  Only the spasms of his mouthparts as he attempts to speak show that he is not yet gone.


    Soldiers, hearing their general''s call, rush into the portal room.  An alien warrior carrying lengths of cloth and jars of ointment hurries to tend to Drev.


    Gelly wipes the black slime from his blade off on a tatter hanging from his much abused uniform.  Blood loss makes him weak, but he has enough strength to make it to his wounded follower before he collapses.  Bruen, already nearby, catches him as he falls.  The last thing he sees before losing consciousness are long ropey limbs removing his pants.


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    He awakens on a medical cot, the familiar astringent scent of the healers'' arts filling the air.  Next to him sleeps Drev, wrapped tightly in the same pale leather that wraps Gelly''s own legs.  Smooth, shimmering cloth covers his upper body.  The black threads reflect the light in a myriad of colors.


    "Zelsilk, do you like it?  Mos Gol raises the zelweavers on her estate, I''ve been told."


    "Zek, is that ye?"


    The pain is gone, he realizes.  "Ye healed us?  Thank ye kindly."


    Her robes rustle around her as she enters the large tent.  "It is my duty, Don."


    She sags where she stands, exhaustion clear upon her alien features.  Her drab green robes are stained with blood of many colors.  Zek picks at a spot of blood on her bandoleer, watching Gelly with her head cocked.


    Gelly stands, surprised at the smoothness of his movements.  "I have no felt this good since I were still huntin'' yer kind for food.  Thank ye again, ye do good work."


    Zek makes a dismissive gesture with one cluster of appendages.  "Your flesh is easy to mold, lacking a proper protective carapace.  If you wish, we could install a prosthetic such as Mos Gol employs."


    He chuckles and shakes his head.  Beside the cot he finds a new leather belt, boots, pants, and shoulder pads.  He looks inquisitively at Zek, but the Somner ignores him.  There isn''t anyone around to worry about his lack of uniform, so he puts on the garments.  The boots fit better than his old pair.


    The silver buckles on the belt and boots match the uniforms of the officers around him.  Runes decorate the armor pieces he straps to his shoulders and glow with a soft white radiance.  He still wears the armband, and a quick check of the pouch attached to his new belt relaxes him further.  It contains the memory cards holding his letters, logs, and various reports still needing filed.  His knife hangs from the other side, clean and sharp when he pulls it free to check for rust.


    Lastly, he slings his rifle across his back.  It still has a single cartridge loaded, but he lacks further ammunition.  The SAm20, despite its weight, provides him a tenuous link to home.  If nothing else, it can still be used as a club.


    Zek escorts him out of the tent and through the compound.  Bruen waits for him at the entrance to the portal building with a squad of armed soldiers.  The soldiers dip their spears respectfully at his approach.


    "More creatures similar to the first have emerged," states the general without preamble.  "They''re holding position around the portal.  Are you ready?"


    Gelly grunts an answer, pulling his knife from his belt sheath.  He follows Bruen into the building and down to the nexus chamber with the soldiers trailing behind.  They pass a squad of wounded guards, dragging an unconscious soldier behind them on the way down.  Bruen orders a pair of his soldiers to assist them, then continues on.


    A pair of guards stand at the final door.  Scraping and thudding can be heard from behind the thick stone.  At Bruen''s direction they unlock it and remove the heavy crossbar keeping it shut.  The door slams open and a two-headed creature runs out, black crystals sprouting from across its body.


    Both heads snarl as it lunges toward the closest soldier.  Bruen shouts orders that echo off the close stone walls.


    Its body is pierced in three places by the soldiers'' spears.  It screams defiantly but is unable to move.  The creature''s last scream ends in a gurgle when yet one more spear impales it.


    The soldiers pull their weapons free and the still twitching body drops to the floor.  Behind it three more crystal encrusted abominations snap their jaws.


    Gelly leads the charge and collides with a squat brutish beast.  His blade sinks into its thick neck and finds something vital.  Around him spears rise and fall.  Black blood flies through the air, splashing everything.


    The last of the crystalline monsters falls under Bruen''s spear.  The wounded rest in the corridor, waiting for healing.  Those still able to fight, Gelly among them, guard the portal against further intruders.


    Gelly joins Bruen and the two gaze at the rift.  Something moves on the other side.  The two look at each other before walking up to it.  They wait only long enough for the most capable remaining soldiers to form a small squad before entering the portal.


    Bruen enters first, with the four soldiers just after him.  Gelly waits until last before joining them.  He experiences a disconnect, a loss of balance, but quickly recovers as his feet make contact with warm stone.

 Chapter 60: Whats Parley?

    Claws scrape across Han''s armor.  He pushes at the beast with one arm but it''s more powerful than he is.  It pushes him back until his armor presses against the stone wall.


    Yosip''s metal foot impacts the monster''s arm, crushing the bone.  Dark red crystal shards skip across the rough floor.


    The beast reals back, unbalanced.  Laser fire burns a hole through the creature''s head.  It falls in a cloud of oily smoke.  The laser falls from Han''s claws and clatters across the floor.


    "Good job," praises Yosip.


    "It gets easier with practice," I add, helping to reassure the shaken youth.  Yosip nods, a distant look on his face.


    Han slides down into a sitting position.  All four arm hang loose at his sides.  He''s silent, breathing deeply.


    The youth doesn''t respond when Yosip picks up the fallen weapon.  Nor when the Supply-Master offers it to him.


    "Let''s rest here," offers Yosip.  "We need to do some minor repairs before we continue, anyway."


    He indicates his spear, bent in two places.


    "Yeah," grunts Han.


    "That''s a good soldier," I cheerily exclaim, ignoring how the speaker distorts the sound of my voice.


    Yosip turns, stifling a cough.  Han makes a noncommittal noise when Yosip places the laser beside him.


    "There any chance fixing spears is one of your powers?"


    "Sorry, Yosip."  The broken speaker fills my voice with static.


    "It''s hard to express just how helpful you are, Mos," he says, before slamming his spear into the wall.


    Han chuckles, reassured by Yosip''s enthusiasm.  One shaky claw takes hold of the laser.  He pulls it into his lap and starts checking it over.  The Supply-Master continues banging away, just at the edge of my influence.


    When he''s satisfied with the corrections he makes to the shaft, Yosip comes over and takes a seat beside Han.  He places one metal hand upon the youth''s armored shoulder.


    "You alright?"


    The young Operative sighs heavily.  He lifts his armored head and looks up at his superior officer.  "Is it always like this?"


    Yosip answers by shaking his head.


    "Why do they look like Tserri?  It''s horrible," Han says with a shudder.  "They look like people I know, but monsters."


    Yosip doesn''t have an answer for him, and I''m unwilling to further burden him with additional worries.  I fear that these are the corpses of the miners who had entered before us, rebuilt by some ancient system.  Perhaps a malfunctioning medical facility following decaying code.


    "We have to keep going," Yosip declares as he stands up.  "The answers must be in here somewhere."


    "Yeah," mutters Han.  Yosip offers him a hand, which he accepts with a grunt.  The older male pulls the younger onto his feet and we continue exploring.


    We pass through the chaotic corridor, following its random turns.  The way branches often.  At each intersection Yosip stops to compare our options before inevitably choosing the leftmost tunnel.  After the fifth left turn we hear grunting in the distance.


    Yosip increases our pace.  When the sounds are coming from just around the next corner he halts us.  It sounds like combat.  Are the monsters competing for territory within these tunnels?


    A mass of limbs and blue crystals falls in front of us.  Black blood spurts from the folds of its neck, spraying around a primitive knife.  It struggles to its feet, shaking violently and snapping its azure jaws.


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    A thrust of the spear finishes it off, and sprays Yosip with black ichor when he tries to free his weapon from the twitching corpse.  He doesn''t have time to complain, as another beast charges around the corner and knocks the Supply-Master over.


    The raging monster grapples the fallen officer and the two roll across the ground.  They come to a stop with a slam against the rough stone that knocks the froth out of the abomination.  It goes limp, but pins Yosip under its bulk.


    Han aims his weapon at the struggling pair, but wisely refrains from firing.  A sound from the blind corner has him shift his aim reflexively, and he fires as soon as a large tentacular form emerges from behind the stone.  The burst of energy strikes the being in its nine-eyed face.


    It looks oddly familiar, like someone I once knew.  Ridiculous.  This place simply recreates the dead that it harvests, somehow.  With magitech.  No, it couldn''t possibly be-


    The newcomer pulls back, glowing magitech spear clutched in muscular tendrils.  His movements remind me of my own fighting style, a treasure of my bloodline.  A bent haft sails through the air, aimed at the soldier''s head, for soldier he is.  His tunic, imperial black and silver, swirls around him as he blocks with his own weapon.


    Yosip grunts and attacks again.  "Wait! Don''t," I shout, but static and the sounds of battle cover my cry.


    Han fires as another figure, dressed in shimmering black, rolls into the room grappling an orange shard covered abomination.  The monster jerks as lethal energy burns into it, and its rival tosses its corpse at Han.  Han falls hard and lands against the wall with a loud crack.


    My view fills with Yosip, who steps between Han and the two warriors.  He straightens, releasing one hand from his much-abused weapon and grunts, then starts coughing.


    "I think we''re makin'' progress, this pair look like elites.  Ye think so?"


    Three exhausted soldiers march into the room, tentacles sliding in unison.


    "Perhaps, Don," answers a voice I know.  An older voice than I remember, but one I could never forget.  "None of the others used weapons, but that one has an improvised spear."


    "Bruen!"  I try to shout, but the speaker remains silent.  That last impact must have been too much for the thing.


    "Monsters!"  Han fires again and again until the laser overheats.  The beams are rendered harmless by the runes carved into Bruen''s laminate encased carapace.  He looks like he''s doing well for himself.  He turns his head, and I can see that his central eye has been replaced with a work of artifice.  Very well, indeed.


    "Stay back, Han!"


    "You can speak?"  Bruen turns and glides closer to Yosip, spear pointing at the gray officer''s neck.  "Lay down your weapons and surrender."


    Neither Yosip nor Han understand him.  The Supply-Master raises his weapon protectively and growls, "Back off, monster."


    "Bruen, let me try," offers the Don.  The gray creature, who also sounds familiar, walks closer.  When Han peeks around his protector, I''m able to get a good look at him.  A Selber?  He''s dripping with black ooze, but I think that''s Gelly Drop''s wiry frame under the slime.


    "Are ye trapped in here?  Lost?"


    "Gelly?  Jim said you were dead," Yosip exclaims in disbelief.


    "Yosip?  I were told the same about ye."


    Gelly spots his knife and grunts as he pulls it free of one of the corpses oozing blackness onto the stone floor.  "Oh, and ye look like shit."


    Han''s laser clicks.  He has such a difficult time remembering to cycle the coolant.  The youth growls, still distrustful of the newcomers.


    "Mos, could you calm him down for me?"  Yosip shrugs apologetically at Gelly.


    "I shall try, Merchant," replies Bruen.  Pride warms the depths of my being.


    "What is he saying?  Mos, answer me!"  His battered spear shakes in his grasp.


    Bruen''s eyes focus around him, surveying the area.  "Don, is your friend unwell?"


    "He always were a bit off," answers Gelly.  He closes one eye dramatically while nodding to Yosip.  "Had to be to accept a promotion."


    "No, you''re crazy," shouts Han.  "Yosip''s a hero and has the spirits'' blessing!"


    "Please, control your battleshell, it''s acting erratically."


    Gelly cocks his head, perhaps recognizing the Tserri language.


    "Mos, are you still with us?"  Yosip''s voice comes to me over the radio built into my current housing.  I had forgotten that was an option in my shock at seeing Bruen.


    "I am, but there seems to be a malfunction with my equipment."


    Bruen backs away from Yosip, and waves his lower tendrils to signal his soldiers to surround us.  My Bruen, commanding soldiers!  "I couldn''t be prouder of him."


    "What is he saying," Yosip whispers tersely.  "What''s going on?"


    "He''s ordering his soldiers to take you alive.  You might want to tell Gelly that Han isn''t a construct before they kill him."


    "Han!  Take off your helmet," commands Yosip.  "Now!"


    The youth hesitates at first, but hastily obeys when the Supply-Master shows signs of angering.  The soldiers hesitate at the sight of the dark fur, looking to their general for commands.


    "Wait," orders my Bruen, and the soldiers pull back.  They still keep their spears ready, however.  He has trained them well.


    "This one is free of the infection," he continues.  "You three, find Somner Zek and bring her here.  My translator requires enhancement."


    The soldiers hurry to obey.  As they leave, they grab the corpses to drag along.  Bruen signals his gratitude to them for anticipating his orders.


    The two parties separate to opposite sides of the cavern.  While we wait, I begin adding my language to the translation program installed in my circuits.  I should have done this long ago but had never anticipating encountering another of my own kind again.


    Keeping one eye on the other pair, Yosip opens up the back of Han''s suit.  He grumbles good naturedly as he works.  He repairs the speaker, reconnecting a loose connection to restore functionality.


    "Alright, how''s that?"

 Chapter 61: Whats a Short Rest?

    Bruen''s dust eater is still young.  She displays almost no visible sign of physical degradation, though the same cannot be said about her mental state.  She sways almost constantly, as if listening to something far away and trying to angle herself to catch the faintest sound.


    I do not trust her.


    Bruen allows her to tend to his implants calmly, although rather than ignoring her as would be proper, he thanks her quietly.  I refrain from reprimanding him, however.  She''s clearly his first Somner, and it is excusable that he favors her.  Besides, his soldiers treat him with more than adequate respect and to speak up would weaken his status among them.


    "What was your first assignment?"  A safer topic of conversation, and one that should reinforce his standing among the warriors guarding the entrances.


    "Fighting tribals.  There have been peace talks with the hold out cities," Bruen replies.  Is he twisting his tendrils in embarrassment?


    "I see.  Met your first chieftain yet?"


    His tendrils wrap more tightly around each other, but he signals affirmative with a snap of his pedipalps.  Han takes a step back at the sudden clack.  The dust eater waves her upper tendrils in mock menace at the youth, shaking with mirth.


    "Demon from the outer dark," hisses Han.  I agree, though dare not voice such thoughts.


    "What did the creature say?"


    "He was remarking that your thaumatist lacks discipline," I reply.  Yosip snorts, clearly aggrieved by the lingering odor of monstrous ichor.


    "Lyin''ll just make the translatin'' take longer, ye know," quips Gelly from where he leans against the wall.  For whatever reason, Bruen is second to have his translator upgraded.


    My brute fidgets in place.  I cannot fathom the source of his discomfort.  He clearly favors his Somner and tolerates her probing tendrils with obvious affection; could he be irritated at the aliens among the group?  I do not wish to further disturb him by questioning him.


    Yosip and Han both have the language files I had hurriedly put together installed, and their own systems are working to refine the program.


    Zek steps away from Bruen, satisfaction oozing from her.  Bruen flexes his body slowly, checking that everything functions smoothly.


    "It''s nice not to feel like the only freak walking around," mutters the Supply-Master.  His comment earns a chuckle from Operative Gelly.


    "You''d fit in well with the Squivers," jokes Gelly.  "Don Yosip does no sound too bad, eh?"


    Yosip grunts in irritation, but it becomes a choking fit.  The others in the cavern look at him with concern, including the dust eater.  She moves over to him, summoning her energies.


    By ignoring the camera feed and focusing on my innate senses I can trace pathways in her body gathering the power of higher realms.  Organlike structures within her thorax manipulate and focus her energy before returning it to her tendrils.  She reaches out to him, but he bats away her appendages and lurches back.


    "The witch wants to heal ye," explains Don Gelly.  The caste designation is a great honor, one reserved for aliens our leaders wish to incorporate into the greater empire.  Gelly, of course, being a member of only the second species to hold the title.


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    I wonder who he impressed to be granted the designation.  Once we''re safely back in friendly territory, I''ll be sure to ask him.


    "I''ve had enough healing, thanks," Yosip growls.


    "Demon," mutters Han.


    Faint traces of the same energy cling to the members of the other group.  Bruen, Gelly, and all three soldiers have the fading remnants of Zek''s energy signature at various places on their bodies.  Not surprising, that a veteran squad should show signs of healing.  What does surprise me is the other energy patterns upon Bruen''s form.  At least eleven, twelve including Somner Zek.


    "She might be able to help you, Yosip."


    He turns his fierce mechanical stare upon me.  Twisted runelight glares off both lenses.  Han cringes and Yosip''s scowl relaxes fractionally.


    "Gelly takes to it like selberclaw to grass, and no surprise.  But I thought you didn''t trust the ''dust eaters''?"


    "Ha!"  Why is Zek so happy?


    "Trust her or not, she''s a healer.  All the work done upon Mos Bruen bears her mark," I explain.


    How badly was Bruen hurt that he required that much healing?  Zek''s signature is present upon him in varying intensity, often tightly intertwined with the other patterns, indicating healing beyond the capabilities of a single thaumatist.  Bruen stands slightly taller upon hearing me speak, tendrils twisting in mild embarrassment.


    "So she wants to give me a new paintjob as well?  Complete with glowing graffiti."  He points one fist at the healer, threateningly.  "Stay back, I''m fine."


    He stomps over to the soldier guarding the tunnel leading deeper, grabbing Han by one arm and dragging us along behind him.  The casteless warrior looks to Bruen and, upon getting confirmation, moves out of the Supply-Master''s way.  The other party follows him.


    Gelly hurries to catch up, and places one hand upon Yosip''s mechanical shoulder.  Yosip sighs but slows his pace.


    Whatever Gelly wants to say remains unspoken, as a beast with purple shards sprouting from its misshapen body howls and jumps at the pair.  Yosip raises his spear, but the worn weapon fails to find purchase and snaps under the weight of the abomination.


    Splinters of synthetic amethyst scrape across hardened alloy.  He grunts as its bulk pushes him back, but he remains standing.  His arms wrap around the creature and he squeezes.  It thrashes in his arms and bites at his metal shoulders.


    Gelly curses as he stabs the monster.  When he severs the spine, the beast grows still.  Yosip releases it and kicks the bleeding corpse aside.  He grimaces as he tosses the broken haft of his weapon away.


    "I''ll take lead," volunteers Gelly.  Yosip nods and lets the other gray officer pass him.


    Han walks in the center of the group, behind the Supply-Master but ahead of Bruen and the dust eater.  The casteless soldiers guard the tail of the formation.  The air gets warmer as we continue deeper.  Patches of colorful crystals dot the walls and glimmer in the runelight.


    Yosip stops to document a particularly stunning formation, greens and blues growing together, when the next group of bestial savages emerges.  One collides with Gelly, knocking him prone.  Han fires into the group, killing one before his aim is obscured by friendly bodies.


    The monsters run howling down the tunnel, more than there should be.  Even if every ship out there had been fully crewed when they had disembarked into this labyrinth, still there should not be so many.  The soldiers charge with spears ready into the multihued mass.


    Bruen rushes to Gelly''s aid, stabbing his attacker.  Ebon ichor sprays the stones with clinging darkness.  Yosip rushes past them, flames trailing his movements.  He crashes into the horde, and they break before him.


    Limbs snap and splinters of jagged gemstone crunch into dust beneath his propelled charge.  Reinforced metal legs sweep out and fire roars out to slow him.  He slides to a halt behind them, an open lane of bloody ruin between him and the rest of the party.


    And he collapses, blood leaking from his face.


    The soldiers leap into the opening Yosip provides them, stabbing the confused monsters before they can recover.  Mos Bruen leads Zek through the carnage to the side of the fallen Supply-Master.  The rest of the battle is quick after that.


    Gelly and the soldiers subdue the beasts with Han taking shots at any creature that breaks from the skirmish.  Only one creature makes it close to where the thuamatist works.


    As soon as it''s clear, Han rushes over to Yosip''s side.  Zek flicks her tendrils dismissively before moving aside.  She tucks an empty vial away into her bandoleer before leaning wearily against the wall.


    The wounded officer coughs and looks up when the youth reaches him.  His gaze takes a moment to focus on the young Tserri, but when it does his scowl softens.


    "She didn''t even have to cut anything off," mutters the dazed Selber as Bruen and Gelly help him to his feet.

 Chapter 62: Whats a Raid Boss?

    "It stinks," complains Han.  "I can smell it through the filters."


    "Yep," grunts Yosip. "And the humidity''s starting to gunk up my legs."


    The patches of crystal become increasingly dense the farther we go.  The multitude of colors grow over and around each other, creating unique specimens.  Of all my companions, it irks me that only Somner Zek shares my interest in the synthetic gems adorning the walls.  Her bandoleer contains a selection of unique gems gathered during our frequent rest periods.


    Upon hearing the complaints of the Supply-Master, Zek turns away from the citrines she''s observing.  Her posture is less than submissive when she stops before him, but I doubt she cares much for the rank of an alien.  "If you are willing to trust a demon," she gestures with an upper tendril toward where I''m housed on Han''s back, "I can alter your equipment, or assist you in repairs."


    Yosip glares at her, as does Han.  They even cross their arms over their chests at the same time.


    "If they do no want yer help, I''m sure sick o'' breathin'' stale fart."


    Twin glares shift to the Weapons Operative.  He throws up his hands and walks away, muttering to himself.


    "Give her your helmet," Yosip orders the youth.  As he speaks he hands the thaumatist his breathing mask.  "Thanks, for earlier."


    Ignoring the Supply-Master''s words, she takes the equipment and returns to her place at the wall.  With an empty tendril she removes a vial from the leather strap holding it.  With quiet efficiency she drains the contents and returns the empty container to her bandoleer.


    I focus my native senses upon her, expecting to see her flooded with new energy.  The dust does sparkle with energy, though to a far lesser extent than I would have thought.  The amount of power that the dust adds is almost inconsequential compared to the other results of consumption.


    The dust activates insider her body.  Flashes of heat, localized to the odd structures within her, as well as bursts of very short-lived radioactive particles fill her.  The constructs twist and warp as they absorb the dust, growing almost imperceptibly.


    It is these modified structures that become most active while she works upon Yosip and Han''s breathing equipment.  With one lower tendril, itself full of tiny structures and twisting pathways, she scrapes citrine from the wall.  The particular cluster she selects is interspersed with darker patches of emerald.  She presses the largest yellow-green nodule into the plastic shielding of Yosip''s mask with one tendril while rubbing smaller samples into the metal of Han''s helmet with another.


    Bruen slides over to us while we watch and greets Yosip with a nod.  Yosip grunts in acknowledgement before returning his scarred countenance to the dust eater''s work.  Only Gelly and the soldiers seem disinterested in the thaumatist, the former cleaning his knife while the latter guard the tunnels.


    The crystals meld and flow under her touch.  She shapes them into runes, the simplest part of her labors.  The runes she uses as both anchor and focus of a higher dimensional crafting.  Rather than create the workings from bare sand she instead builds a bridge that connects to an older artifact.  A few additional runes, layering upon the bridge, control the functions.


    It is a technique I had often overheard the dust eaters whispering about amongst themselves.  The younger me had dismissed it as not dissimilar to how Mos cultivate fighting styles within bloodlines but now I see that it is much more than that.  Knowledge of another''s martial technique is not the same as mastery of it.


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    What she''s actually doing is still beyond my ability to duplicate.  Even to say I understand what she does or how she''s doing it would be dishonest.  With time I may be capable of understanding, and perhaps more, but other concerns are more immediate.


    The soldier at the lead tunnel signals and the whole camp goes quiet.  Han grabs his laser, as does Bruen.  The two aim at the entrance, where the soldiers stand on either side.  As soon as the first misshapen limb is visible, they send beams of weaponized light burning into the monsters.


    Bruen shouts, "Wait, back up!"


    The soldiers slide back, allowing the gunners a clearer shot.  The creatures claw their way past the smoking bodies of their fellows only to fall beside them.  When the lasers overheat the spear wielding warriors charge forward.  The dark tide of malformed flesh overwhelms one of the unfortunate soldiers, and he''s torn apart by their twisted claws.


    Yosip, armed with Bruen''s spear, battles fiercely.  Even without using his jets his movements are powerful.  Though slow, his attacks pierce through the tough clusters of minerals dotting the hides of the beast with brutal force.  If he knew how to activate the enhanced abilities of the weapon, he would be truly frightening.


    At the sight of the dead warrior, Bruen''s mouthparts begin to work furiously.  He lunges into the fray, leaving only Han to guard the dust eater.  The armored youth keeps himself between her and the enemy, and provides me with a view of both.


    Strong lower tendrils wrap around the fallen soldier''s weapon.  Mos Bruen''s presence amid them lends new ferocity to the remaining soldiers'' attacks and the beasts die amidst sprays of inky blood.  A pair of claws, shining crimson in the runelight, rip the tendrils free of the smaller soldier''s carapace.  Azure joins ebon in puddles upon the stone.


    The other soldier stabs the beast that had wounded her squad mate and pushes it back with her tentacles.  It takes her spear with it as it falls.  Gelly darts forward into the opening, knife flashing in broad arcs.  She uses the brief respite to grab her wounded companion''s dropped spear.


    While the others keep the horrors off of him, Han runs forward and drags the wounded soldier to safety.  Zek aids the struggling youth and sets to work once out of combat range.  Han pants heavily, but retains his grip upon his laser, returning to his position clear of the fighting.


    As the last of the creatures flee deeper into the tunnels, Gelly shouts, "There''s somethin'' comin'' behind us!"


    Tired combatants reposition to deal with this unknown threat.  The relief is audible when a uniformed officer glides around the corner.  The five soldiers behind him are fresh and carry spare weapons and supplies.


    Two of them are left to guard the recovering soldier.  The rest of the group, after a brief meal, form ranks and trek deeper into the rune-lit tunnels.  I quickly learn that the leader of the new arrivals is a casteless soldier in the service of Gelly, who answers to Drev.


    After the close walls and mad turnings of the tunnels, the wide space that opens before us seems even larger.  Insane structures of flesh, metal, and crystal sprout from the walls and floor.  Fleshy wires hang from the ceiling dripping black fluid into deep pools.  Lights flash from the unhealthy growths that twitch in mad harmony with the pulsing illumination.


    "Stay together," orders Yosip.  Spear in one metal hand, the Supply-Master leads the others between dripping spires and twitching metal arms that reach from the inert stone.


    As we come to the center of the cavern, the floor lowers.  More and more stone gives way to horrid amalgamations of living tissue and inorganic mineral.  Circuits and power cables can be seen intertwining with the awful growths, though their purpose is unguessable.


    Crystal shards fly through the air, shattering against Yosip''s metal limbs.  Han turns and I''m able to see the source of the attack.


    A creature towers in the center, at least forty ubits tall.  Black compound eyes dot the pillar of flesh, and hundreds of tentacles sprout from it in thick clusters.  Silver oozes from the skin of this creature.  The base of the thing is hidden beneath crusts of silver metal and jagged spires of crystal.


    It bellows from openings across its body.  The scream reverberates through our group, and I can feel higher dimensional energies accompanying the sonic attack.  Weakness washes over me, but the effects upon Somner Zek are far more severe.  She collapses, blue oozing from her eyes.

 Chapter 63: Whats a Boss Fight?

    Twin bursts of laser fire light the creature up.


    The liquid metal dripping from the behemoth absorbs the attack, leaving the monster unharmed.  Han curses, but continues firing.


    Bruen, however, tosses his laser aside and tightens his grip upon his spear.  "Soldiers, spread out!"


    Gelly and Yosip circle around the behemoth, dodging tentacles long enough to wrap around a shuttle.  Spasms shake the towering creature, and the soft carapace bulges around the base.  It swells grotesquely, stretching out before bursting.  From the wounds crawl fresh monstrosities.


    Even as we watch the creatures sprout their characteristic crystalline tumors.  Creatures with mismatched limbs and blank stares twitch as they become aware of the outsiders among them.  The holes they crawled out of heal behind them but before they do I can just make out corrupted circuitry within the tower of flesh.


    Gelly doesn''t wait to be attacked, stabbing the closest creature in one of its necks with his knife.  Not to be outdone, both Yosip and Bruen impale their own beasts.  Another barrage of crystals harasses Han, but his armor withstands the beating.


    Two soldiers stay back, guarding Somner Zek where she lays on the stone floor.  The other two support Drev as the casteless officer tries to draw the enormous creature''s attention.  With eyes of various sizes dotting its monstrous bulk, it assuredly is aware of them.


    As if to prove it, a maw opens high up on the creature.  Onyx blades rain down on the trio of warriors, shredding their fine tunics and scoring their carapaces.  Blue drips from the torn black of their uniforms.


    The soldiers stagger under the assault.  They manage to remain upright despite their wounds and continue harassing the enormous creature.  It might indeed be more focused upon the three of them, as the creature doesn''t react to Bruen drawing closer.


    The veteran general, spear clutched low at his side, stalks slowly closer to the misshapen pillar.  A blast from Han''s weapon lands directly upon one of the creatures faceted eyes, and it bellows.  The reverberations carry with it an energy pattern that reacts deep inside my own crystalline matrix.


    My connection to the systems housing me fades.  With my native senses I hear Somner Zek issue an answering moan from where she lays upon the hot stone.  It''s hard to concentrate.


    Chaotic energies fills the space.  Noises, screams and cries echo off the stone walls.  Small heat sources, living creatures, dance around me.


    They clash with one another again and again.  Some fall, and more join the fray.  At first, I don''t notice, but I soon realize that some of the creatures are filled with the same flavor of energy as that which courses through me.


    I try to thrash about but accomplish nothing.  No limbs respond to my frantic efforts.  I quickly remember that I lack such extravagances as limbs, or organs, and cease my useless efforts.  What I find when I reconnect to my systems is shocking.


    On either side of me are monsters.  Built to no plan but madness, these creatures swipe their claws at Han, scoring gauges against his patchwork armor.  He shouts incoherently, more roar than battle cry, and flails around, swinging the laser as if it were a club.


    Yosip and Gelly both look at the source of the roar but are unable to come to young Han''s aid.  They too are surrounded by slashing claws and snapping jaws.  I cannot see Drev through the press of bodies, nor do I immediately see my Bruen.  Drev and the other casteless are backed against a large outcropping, surrounded by twisted bodies.


    Many-clawed corpses sprawl across the battlefield.  A single gargantuan tentacle, still twitching spasmodically, lays upon the stone.  Among the dead I see two soldiers of the Spanless Empire.


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    As the monstrous claws of the horde close upon Han and me, I finally gain sight of Bruen.  Han holds his overheated rifle in two claws, keeping it between the ruby jaws of one beast and himself.  That does nothing to keep the creature behind him from ripping into the joints of his armor.  Sapphire splinters from the creature but it sinks its curling claws into Han''s delicate shoulders.


    During the brief instant that I see Bruen, climbing up the enormous tentacular horror, he turns his head to look at Han.  The rear camera goes dead, torn apart by the blue studded monstrosity in its frenzy to kill Han.  From the helmet view I see crimson fangs piercing the power cell of the mining laser.


    The explosion blasts the thing''s head apart and sprays us with ichor.  It also knocks Han back hard enough to dislodge the other beast.  It falls and lands amid the bodies.


    "Han, listen to me," I say, trying to get his attention.  "Bruen''s weapon is on the ground near your left foot.  You need to pick it up before the creatures recover."


    "Wh-wha?"  Han staggers drunkenly.  His foot kicks the discarded combat laser farther away.


    "Focus, soldier, this is important."


    I try to highlight the weapon on his visors display, but nothing happens.  I rapidly check, continuing to try to get Han to focus, and discover that while I''m able to access the visual display I cannot affect it in any way.


    The creature behind us starts making noise again.  "Han, on the ground in front of you, do you see it?"


    "Yeah, there''s a pretty rock," he answers, slurring his words.  "I like blue."


    Inspired, I concentrate upon the laser rifle.  Drawing from the energy plentiful in the accursed place, I convert it into photons.  Photons bathe the weapon, and it shines a brilliant blue.


    "Grab the pretty blue gun, Han."


    "Yeah," he replies absently.


    He bends down to claim the weapon.  Just as his claws close upon it we''re sent sliding across the ground.  Thank the tides the youth keeps his claws upon the laser.  Jagged blue claws swipe fractions of a bit from the youth''s visor as the monster slides past us.


    At the edge of the display I see Bruen, leaping down the writhing monstrosity.  The enormous beast''s thrashing is more intense than at any point in the battle.  The force of its flailing tentacles shakes the cavern around us.  Hunks of stone fall from above.


    Small rocks ping off of Han''s armor.  His movements become a little more controlled, and the camera stops lolling to the right.


    "Are you with me, soldier?"


    "That''s Operative, get it right," he snaps with his usual bravado.


    "Good.  Your suit''s taken heavy damage.  How are you feeling?"


    Han grunts as he moves, testing his mobility.  "Bad."


    "You''re going to have to tough through it, Operative.  There''s an enemy soldier coming closer."


    "Yeah," he grunts, levelling the weapon at the monster.  The shaking causes him to miss his first shot, but a second try burns a hole through the creature''s torso.  A third shot finishes it off.


    Han dashes closer to the main combat, angling around fallen debris.  He only makes it a few steps before sparks erupt from his suit.  The damaged arm hangs uselessly, dripping blood and hydraulic fluid.  He chokes, the black fumes his suit is emitting must be making it inside through the rent in his armor.


    Another malformed creature notices us and moves to intercept.  Han is in no condition to battle it, doubling over from the pain and wheezing painfully.  The creature never makes it to us, as turning its back on Gelly only makes it an easy victim.  The grizzled operative sees us and leaps over the twitching corpse.  Gelly sprints to Han''s side, concern all over his face.


    With a grunt of exertion, the wiry operative drags us behind cover.  The behemoth in the center of the chamber roars again, and it is some time before I regain my composure.


    The battle field around us is quiet.  Badly made bodies lay everywhere, mixing with rocks and computer components.  The survivors of the battle gather together, off a way from where Han sleeps.


    Bruen and his dust eater are the first that I spot, next to Gelly and the casteless officer Drev.  Three other soldiers are with them and all are weary.  Their bodies sag, no longer primed with adrenal compounds.


    I don''t see Yosip within the limited scope of Han''s helmet camera, though I hear him grumbling nearby.


    "Yosip, are you there?"


    "Yeah, Mos," he replies quickly in a low voice.  "Keep it down, would you?  That Zek says Han needs to rest."


    "Of course," I answer, slightly quieter.  "It''s over?"


    "Yeah.  The thing''s dead," grunts Yosip.  "Your Bruen wants to set up base here, take over the territory for some Spinning Empire."


    "Spanless," I correct him gently.  "An interesting proposal.  He would need a qualified staff to help him safely navigate these unknown currents.  Perhaps someone already experienced with running a multi species facility could be found, if Bruen were to inquire?"


    He grunts and stomps away.

 Chapter 64: Whats an Autopsy?

    "What is this place, anyway?"


    Yosip looks at Han before answering the youth.  "Still trying to figure that out.  We need to look for scientific equipment in the mining ships parked outside.  Maybe we''ll be able to learn something that way."


    "It''s an anomaly," announces Zek from behind us.  "You''ve described to me the size of the structure from the outside, yet just this chamber alone accounts for most of that space."


    "To say nothin'' ''o the tunnels," adds Gelly, walking up to join us.


    "True," grunts Yosip.  "That gonna be a problem if you set up in here?"


    "Not at all," replies the dust eater.  "The unique architecture of this place causes the background radiation to be higher than expected, but we can bring in a few Jurers to correct the issue soon."


    "Alright, fine.  You two keep Han company while I go fetch some tools to get his gear fixed up."


    "You might not need bother, Merchant.  The soldiers have uncovered the remains of some aliens, including their equipment."


    Yosip squints suspiciously at her, but nods.  "Good.  Lead the way."


    Somner Zek slides off and he follows, leaving Han and myself behind with Gelly.  The youth looks up at the gray operative and sighs heavily.


    "This way, kid," Gelly declares.  "The nervous lookin'' Squiver that way''s Drev.  He''s got the food on him."


    It''s true that there are more ionizing particles here than there should be.  I don''t have to actively worry about protecting my charges, however.  The gear carried by Bruen''s squad absorbs most of it in their vicinity, freeing me from the task.  I never had reason to suspect that my weapons did more than allow me to kill more proficiently, but with my new senses I can tell just how much they do.


    Well, it isn''t like I had been given leisure time to wonder about such things.  Unlike now, where I have little else to do.


    They come upon the officer tending to a pot of stew over an array of heating runes.  With the abundance of raw materials, Zek has wasted little time preparing the place for habitation.  Stacks of stone make crude foundations upon which sheet metal rests to form tables.  Drev offers them each a bowl when we approach.


    They sit down to eat, placing the helmet through which I currently see upon the table.  Directly in the view of the camera is a block of text that my translation software makes quick work of.  The words are gibberish, but I recognize them as inventory codes similar to those used aboard the Resurgence or Kalibern Station.


    "Gelly," I ask, interrupting his meal.  "Do you recognize this serial number?"


    He looks around, and I highlight the area in blue light.  "Ah.  Aye, but what''s an Imperium shuttle doin'' here?"


    "Yosip might know if any had gone missing recently, but this looks like it''s been in here for a long time.  The chrome finish is etched away."


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    "Yer right," agrees Gelly before taking another bite of stew.  "But why that shuttle and none ''o the ones ye say are outside?"


    Han interjects, asking, "Too big to fit through the airlock, maybe?"


    "Maybe," Gelly concedes grudgingly, "but the tunnels are too small for a shuttle to fit through."


    "Yeah."


    Gelly pulls out a much-battered pad of paper and copies down the order numbers.  "Anythin'' else seem out ''o place, Denn?"


    I can only see a limited section, that at which the helmet aims, but I contemplate what I can see.


    The monstrous corpse of this cavern''s previous inhabitant is off in the distance.  In front of it are stacked the remains of the crystalline abominations.  Soldiers work tirelessly clearing away debris and separating the organic components from the electronic ones.


    "I''d need to look at the components that have been recovered to be sure, but I would imagine that much of those are from the same source as our table here.  There should be a matching segment in the order numbers, right?"


    "To make it easier to identify after a crash," agrees Gelly somberly.  He pushes his empty bowl aside and grabs the helmet.  "Have another bowl, Han.  We''ll check while ye eat."


    Han agrees and takes both bowls back to Drev.  Gelly, helmet under one arm, walks down the cleared path to where the soldiers work.


    They greet him politely and he responds with a nod.  When he doesn''t issue any orders they return to work, with Gelly observing from a few steps away.  They extract lengths of wiring from a muscular tissue from which silver nodules sprout in clusters of six.  The wires are formed into loops, then tied together into bundles.


    Gelly follows when one soldier carries off the collection of bundles.  She leads him to a cleared area where the various components have been gathered.  We stay behind when the soldier returns to her duties.


    "Now, let''s have us a looky," exclaims the operative as he slowly rotates the helmet to provide me with an adequate view.


    Numerous plates of metal, such as could be used for hull plating or interior structure are stacked in one corner.  Next to the sheets of metal are bundles of wires, electrical as well as fiber optics cables.  Integrated circuit boards and sealed modules form a row of small piles, sorted as best the soldiers could by size and color.


    "That," I say, lighting up the component in question, "looks like the type of power cell that a shuttle would run on."


    He takes notes, adding to his quickly growing list of serial numbers.  "Looks right if ye wanted to build a shuttle from this mess," he admits after a while.  "And I do no see much that would no be part ''o one here."


    Admittedly, there is still much more to remove from the walls of this strange structure but what has been collected does seem to indicate that a shuttle had been disassembled and repurposed to construct this place.  The rocks would be simple enough to gather from the clouds of minor asteroids.  The organic material is harder to explain but could be partially composed of ice and minerals gathered from space.


    I radio Yosip to inform him of our discoveries.  He responds with his own findings.


    "These are definitely Tserri remains," he declares.  "Bones and fur, at least.  One of them had some medical equipment, and I''ve taken tissue samples to confirm.  The creatures defending this place have a warped version of the Tserri genome, but there are enough similarities to be sure.  We were fighting clones of the miners, mutated by the monster that made them."


    "I''d like you to take samples from the creature, if you haven''t already."


    "Right.  But without a baseline to compare it to, I''m not sure how useful it will be," he grumbles.


    "I''m sure Pale will appreciate them," I reply, earning a grunt before he ends the communication from his end.


    That explains some of the organic material, at least.


    When we rejoin Han, Yosip is already there.  The Supply-Master is busy stripping the damaged components from Han''s armor, but acknowledges us with a quick nod of his head.


    "He said we''ll be staying here for a few days, Mos," announces Han.  "And when my suit''s fixed, we''re gonna go pick out the best ship out there for our own."


    "The rest''ll be returned to Gelen''s fleet," adds Yosip distractedly.  "But we''re due a finder''s fee, considering the owners are in no state to complain."

 Bruens Story 16: Whats Lucid Dreaming?

    The spear tip sails past his face, almost clipping the middle secondary eye.  Bruen maintains his balance easily as he swerves around his opponent.


    He jabs with his own spear, but converts the momentum into a upward spin right as Yosip brings his weapon up to block.  The two hafts collide.  His tendrils ache from the jarring impact, but he reverses the motion and brings the spear head down.


    Yosip releases the spear and raises one arm to block.  At the same time, he pivots upon one leg, kicking the weapon at Bruen.


    The young general uses his free tendrils to catch the incoming weapon, but the shift in his center of balance causes his spear attack to glance off the cybernetic arm harmlessly.  He glides back, spears spinning on either side of him.


    The alien continues spinning, and kicks with the already raised leg.  Fire flares from the other leg, and Yosip hurtles forward in a blur.


    Bruen ducks low.  One spear he levels to intercept the charge, the other points upward.  Before Yosip reaches him, however, the gray officer slams his lead foot down and fires the jets again.


    He leaps high above Bruen, too high to reach with either spear.  Just as he passes overhead, Yosip releases a hidden weapon.


    Pebbles rain down on Bruen, bouncing harmlessly from his reinforced carapace.  Yosip lands behind him, stirring the dust from the stone.


    "I win," grunts the alien.  "If those had been micro grenades, your soldiers would be wiping you off their uniforms."


    "True," agrees Bruen.  "But if those had been grenades, they would have exploded when you used your arms to block, killing both of us."


    Yosip has no answer, and looks to his young companion.  The dark furred creature sits next to Don Gelly, watching the sparring match.


    "Yer gonna have to fight again," opines the Don.


    "Yeah!"


    "Later," grunts Yosip.  "Need to refuel and tighten the shocks a bit."  He swings his left arm in a circle.  It makes a grinding noise.  "And replace that."


    "Are these greased?"


    Bruen holds one of the pebbles in a single tendril, turning it slowly to observe it.


    "Nope," Yosip answers.  "That''s left over fuel."


    "Took us ages to find rocks the right size and shape to fit in his tank," adds Han.


    "I still think I could have beaten you, back then," complains Yosip, removing the offending arm.


    Bruen starts to answer, but a synthesized voice interrupts.  "Nonsense.  Mos Bruen is the superior close-range fighter of the two of you.  No offense, Yosip, but I knew his trainers personally."


    "I shot him in the face," boasts Han happily.


    "Another time, then," Bruen answers brusquely.  "I''ve duties to attend, anyway."


    "Fine, fine.  It''s about closin'' time, is it no?"  Don Gelly stands and stretches, eliciting pops and cracks from his inefficient musculature.


    "Indeed."


    The group breaks up, with Bruen and Gelly walking together to where the tents are set up.  Yosip and his young companion head toward the temporary supply depot with a final farewell.  Much to Bruen''s relief, they take the device housing the entity that claims to be Mos Denn.


    When they arrive at the tents, they''re greeted by Drev.  The soldier shares the Don''s tent, serving as both guard and servant.  A position Bruen knows very well.  He dismisses the complicated feeling as the checks on the soldiers.  Everything seems satisfactory.  Guards patrol the area in shifts while the bulk of the company rests.


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    Bruen watches the two enter their tent before going into his own.  Only large enough to hold a rack for his spear and other gear and his cot, it''s still better than the average soldier receives.  Most sleep three to a tent.  He hangs his belt and spear and climbs into his cot.


    Thoughts of his training fill his head as the general lays upon his cot.  Various war heroes from many cities can claim the role of his teacher.  Not just combat, either.  As personal aide to a retired general, Bruen has the necessary skill in etiquette, basic and advanced runic literacy, and several languages.


    Spear, knife, staff, and shock whip training mixed with unarmed dueling in the standard forms.  Mos Denn''s personal fighting techniques, forms favoring flexibility and redirecting the opponent''s attention with false movements.


    He almost misses those days, being sure of what each morning would bring.  He lets out a slow breath and drifts off into fitful sleep.


    As he tosses upon the thin cot, images play out in his mind.  Bruen dreams of things he''s never encountered and places he has never been.  He dreams that he wears coarse gray robes.


    He finds himself reclining in an alien construct.  Around him, thin metal walls enclose a precious breathable atmosphere, protecting it from the greedy vacuum just beyond.  In front of him is a square screen holding a flat stylized projection of local space.  Bruen isn''t familiar with the format, nor with the region it represents, but senses that this is no mere fancy created by his overstressed mind.


    His dream self reaches tendrils, weak and palsy, to the alien control board.  The display shows his location, travelling along unfamiliar star ways.  At his touch, the display changes.  With his waking mind, Bruen recognizes this as technology like that his new allies use.


    The thaumatist, for Bruen feels the bandolier across his torso, weighted with vials of dust, is gleeful for reasons that Bruen cannot quite grasp.  The sensation quickly fades.  In the manner of a dream, he senses that many days pass quickly by, broken into segments by quick meals from a fast-decreasing supply.


    His only companion in the tiny room is silence.  With eyes that see beyond the thin surface of reality, the thaumatist studies his surroundings in solitude.  Energy flows through the walls in thick sheets, something Bruen remembers from his own life, but that astounds the one he watches.  The silence finally breaks, shrill screeching from the construct assaults their overlapping senses.


    The alien controls respond increasingly slowly to the thaumatist''s touch, until they remain lifeless under his tendrils.  The whining grows weaker over the next few days until it too ceases.  The air becomes thicker as well and harder to breathe.  The last dried fruit goes bad, but he eats it anyway, driven by intense hunger.  Delirium seizes the being.


    Bruen watches as, in an inspired fit of madness, the thaumatist ingests all the remaining dust he possesses.  The intent is to recharge the circuitry, but tissues pushed to their limits lose cohesion and melt into the alien vessel.  Too much to control, the dust reacts within his body, forcing cells into new alignments.


    His body spreads and grows.  It becomes an entire ecosystem, sustaining itself by consuming everything inside the small craft.  Tendrils become vine-like veins, connecting disparate parts of himself.  He continues living, defying entropy.  Drifting in an endless black sea.


    Feelers escape the thin metal skin of the dying vessel.  Dust, ice, and other tiny debris clings to them, to be carried inside and added to the growing mass that was once a person.  Chance collisions with larger rocky bodies provides more material to work with.  Slowly the vessel is subsumed into the body encased in a thick stone shell.


    As the local space clears, the being inside once again begins to starve.  Entropy dooms any closed system.


    To prevent that finality, Bruen''s host self reaches with its mind into higher realms.  There seemingly endless potential cascades upon itself, never noticing a small amount being syphoned off.  This is nothing unusual, but the purpose to which the energy is put is.


    It takes an enormous amount of energy to create matter, even a tiny amount of it.  His body warps further under the influence of the dust, allowing it to channel the needed power through itself.  As it grows the former thaumatist applies itself to increasing the flow of potential.  Runic arrays, quickly forming and quicker warping, draw themselves upon the insides of the shell of gathered stone.


    Tentacles elongate and wrap around the shell, dragging wires and circuitry behind them.  The shuttle comes apart piece by piece, spreading out into the spherical enclosure.  The influence of the runes causes space to warp inside, stretching tight.


    Energy pours through the horribly mutated body, burning worse than any venom.  Particles spontaneously generate.  Subatomic particles compound to form atoms, then molecules.  Finally stone, air, and crystals form, composed of dangerous and unstable ions.  Time passes like this for a lifetime, a moment.


    Then the expanding shell breaks.  Pressure from within causes the atmosphere to spew out in crystalline clouds.  No matter, the gasses will be reclaimed in time.  More pressing are the warm bodies entering the creature''s domain.


    "You can guess what happens from here, I hope," echoes Somner Zek''s voice through his mind.


    Bruen finds himself standing next to the thaumatist, unseen by the wraiths that play out their cursed history.  "One of ours."


    She answers, "He''s been out of contact for seasons.  He was last seen pursuing a valuable line of research, and my elders have been annoyingly vocal.  Very rude to offer such power and then disappear."


    Hands close upon his carapace, pulling him from the dream.  Many of the small details of the dream already fade from his mind.  One thing, above all else remains, however.  The name Nuhst.


    "Wake up, Squiver," Gelly growls down at him.  "There''s trouble screamin'' for blood in the outer tunnels."

 Chapter 65: What are Unwelcome Guests?

    Yosip runs past us, spear at the ready.  Bullets ricochet from the stone wall, spraying Han and me with sharp chips.


    Voices growl at each other farther down the tunnel.  Their accent is thick, almost unintelligible to the translator, but I actually recognize a few vowel shifts and can make out a bit of their conversation.  They aren''t happy, obviously, and that they want to try the big something.


    "Yosip, get down!"


    I doubt he needs the warning, but Han yells the same thing as I.  If nothing else, we draw some of the miners'' attention.  More bullets impact the walls in front of us.  Han holds his laser ready, waiting for the attack to let up.  As soon as it does he dashes forward, firing wildly.


    One of the miners screams.  The beam slices through his left leg, just above the knee.  He topples, tangling up the others long enough for Han to make it past the intersection.


    Their suits, much repaired and heavily modified, screech in protest as they chase us.  Han, taking his own advice, then drops to the ground.  He rolls to a stop before the next corner.  A heavy cartridge careens off the wall and sails over him, white smoke trailing behind it.


    Thick billows of the stuff fill the tunnel.


    "Can you see, Han?  The cameras are useless right now, but there may be something I can do to help."


    "No," he answers.  "There''s too much smoke.  What can you do, this isn''t something you can shine a light through for me!"


    Rather than answer, I release my hold on the cameras and focus outward.  I can hear the nomads behind us, as well as Yosip farther ahead dealing with the other group that''s been tracking us.  Not well enough to give Han reliable directions, however.


    The suits that they wear pulse with energy.  Electrical current, magnetic fields, and thermal radiation.  This I can work with.  It is a small matter to manifest light upon the inside of his visor.  The crudeness of the imagery causes him to cackle quietly, but it is enough to provide him a viable target.


    Han''s laser won''t be of much use in the thick smoke, so he sets it carefully upon his back.  That it covers the camera is of little concern.  Through me other senses I watch as he retrieves a small cutting torch from a storage compartment of his armor.


    The miners stumble blindly closer, swinging their claws through the thick smoke.  Just the noise they make would make them easy prey for a more experienced warrior.  I keep a sketch of their positions upon Han''s visor, and he positions himself quietly.  Even in the patchwork armor he wears he is nearly silent.


    When one comes within claw''s reach he strikes.  The torch flares, but the light stops ubits into the smoke.  The short but intense flame drills mercilessly into the complex shoulder of the scavenger.  He drops his weapon, which I light up for Han as it bounces across the floor.  Black smoke joins the white that surrounds us.


    The other nomad fires his weapon at the noise.  The thick smoke swirls around the bullets as they fly.  I keep their trajectory indicated, to prevent the youth from dodging into them.  He nods silently as he creeps safely around the spray of bullets.


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    Screams from Yosip''s prey signal their defeat.  Han, not wanting to be out done, dashes forward.  His torch flares again right before impacting the right knee of the final miner.  He goes down, yelling in agony.


    Han retrieves their fallen weapons while the two writhe upon the uneven floor.  When the smoke clears enough to see, Han stands above them, one of their own rifles aimed down at them.


    Yosip runs from around the corner, blood dripping from his fists.


    "Are you two alright?"


    "Yeah, yeah.  We''re fine," Han replies shakily.


    "Oh good, they''re still alive," Yosip says with a scowl.  The two Tserri are too concerned with their injuries to pay him any attention.  "I was in too much of a hurry with mine."


    "There''s a third behind us," I add helpfully.  "If he hasn''t bled out already."


    "Laser wounds don''t bleed, Mos.  Whose pet did you kill to deserve this kind of attention?"


    That may be, but cauterized or not, when the miner''s weight came down on the severed limb it tore through the burnt flesh.  I can still sense the heat of the blood as it transfers into the slowly circulating air, if I concentrate.


    Han looks up at the Supply-Master.  "Some shit pile from one of the mountain tribes."


    "And?"


    "And," I say, "Han also got the owner of that awful creature arrested.  The poor bastard is probably still digging ventilation shafts."


    "It was self-defense.  Donna said so," replies the youth, absently rubbing his leg.


    Yosip drags the third of the injured Tserri back to us.  The miner is unconscious.  And bleeding from their stump.  I decide not to point this out to the Supply-Master.


    "Any idea where the other team is?"


    "Sorry, Yosip.  They''re too far away for me to detect.  If you can connect me to a better communication array, it would be possible to view through the cameras mounted in the other miners'' suits."


    He rubs his metal jaw with one hand while he thinks.  "Not possible, at least, not right yet."


    We still don''t know how many more of the mountain tribe are still in the tunnels.  Gelly and Bruen are supposed to be hunting intruders in a different segment of the twisting labyrinth.  Unfortunately, Gelly''s comm unit isn''t working, thanks to a drained power supply.


    We have a few options available.  For one, we could simply stay put until the other team meets up with us, assuming they don''t try the same thing.  There''s also the option of dragging the three captives back to the center.  There they could be guarded by some of the casteless soldiers.  Finally, we could leave them behind and continue toward the airlock.  Once there we should be able to determine how many total invaders we''re facing.


    I personally favor the second option.  Yosip evidently agrees, as he orders Han to assist him with stabilizing the injured before they die on us.  In order to treat their wounds, the two strip them of their armor suits.  It all goes in a pile with their weapons.  We can send a soldier to retrieve the loot later.


    We aren''t carrying much in the way of medical supplies, but a few lengths of cloth torn from the captive''s clothing make suitable bandages.  Yosip directs Han in binding their arms together, all four of them.  Not much is left of their tunics when Yosip and Han finish binding them, but the miners will survive a little embarrassment.


    The miner with the missing leg goes over the Supply-Master''s shoulder.  Han keeps his laser on the other two from behind.  They have no will to fight left, and allow themselves to be led back to our camp with only minor grumbling.


    There we find Don Gelly guarding his own captives.  They huddle together in the clear area next to the mess table, where Gelly sits, rifle in hand.  Their gear is piled against the wall of the shelter.  No one else is at the camp, not even Drev.


    "Ye brought me some more friends, eh?"


    "Why aren''t you protecting Mos Bruen?"


    "Oh, calm yerself, Denn," he replies.  "This were his idea.  He and Drev are leadin'' different teams out to clean up the rest."  He gestures with one hand, directing the captives to group together.  "The furballs went crazy when they saw our friends, and Bruen thought they might be less skittish with meself to guard them."


    Altogether there are seven prisoners.  Yosip can claim four kills, and Gelly two.  If the other teams return with around the same number of captives, we might not have to worry about any further reprisal.  After all, how large could the mountain tribe be?

 Chapter 66: Whats Search and Seizure?

    "What are we planning on doing with the captives?"


    Yosip sighs in response to Mos Bruen''s question.  He raises one hand before Han can speak.  The vengeful look upon the youth''s face informs all of his intentions with the captured miners.


    "We need to contact Kalibern," he answers slowly.  "Or, failing that, Honus.  None of us are acting under proper authorization."


    Bruen clearly disagrees but does not speak.  Somner Zek looks as though she wishes to, but a gesture from the general silences her.


    "We can no keep ''em," asserts Don Gelly.  "But it''s a high crime to kill prisoners that can no defend themselves."


    The captured miners are outside the stone building, tied together and under watch by three soldiers.  He''s correct that they have as yet been very compliant.  They are, however, starting to complain of hunger.  All fifteen of them.


    "We at least get to keep their stuff, right?"


    "Yeah, some of it, Han," answers the Supply-Master.  "But first we need to contact someone with the authority to make that kind of decision.  The Imperium will want their share of the goods."


    Because of the warped nature of the interior of this installation, normal communication methods lose coherence upon entering or exiting the modified space.  If we wish to contact anyone outside the sphere, we''ll have to use one of the ships in orbit around us.


    "There are only two of us here that can get outside to send a message, and I''m not letting Han go," Yosip declares.  He turns to address the Tserri directly.  "If there are more of them waiting outside, you''d be too easy of a target, Han."


    "If your leaders decree the captives to be of no worth to you," proposes Bruen suddenly, "then my own leaders would wish them to be brought to the Empire."


    He sounds sincere, though it goes against long tradition.  Outsiders are too easily turned to the enemy''s side to be trusted.  This wisdom is often repeated by the ruling caste.  Only races that prove resistant to the mental leashing the tribal chieftains employ are worth taking any risk with.


    "That could be arranged," Yosip concedes, "but I have to warn you."  At this he pauses and looks over at the unit on Han''s back housing me.  "They''re a bunch of primitives.  Hunters that never developed beyond stone tools."


    "That would explain why we''ve never encountered them before," muses Zek.  "The tribals tend to focus on cultures that are more advanced."


    "Just around the level where they can leave their home worlds," I add.  "Though the Tserri were taken from their home by an unknown power."


    Yosip stands and walks over to where the spears are leaning by the empty doorway.  "I''ll try to be quick."  He grabs one of the weapons and leaves the small shelter.


    "I''m still surprised that you''re even here, Mos," I state.  "There have been no signs of tribal activity in this area."


    Bruen squirms uncomfortably where he stands.  He picks up his birpa and takes a drink.  Before he can answer, Gelly speaks.


    "He''s here to bring me back home."  He laughs before continuing.  "Least they could do after takin'' me ship and armor."


    "Your ship?  Why would the Empire need a ship?"


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    "Mos Gol decided to utilize it for long range attacks against tribal settlements," answers Zek cheerfully.


    Gol.  She and I share in our unorthodox methods of leadership.  One of the few of my own caste that I had ever felt any connection to.  "It''s good to hear that she has not yet been retired.  She served under me, once, when she was new from the academy."


    Bruen coughs, clearly disturbed by the shed hair the Tserri leave everywhere.  I hope he isn''t allergic.


    "How old are ye?  That one was ancient," Gelly says disbelievingly.


    "Old," answers Bruen quietly.


    "I served the Empire for a lot longer than most," I confess.  "Long enough to watch our caste weaken due to attrition.  Fighting the tribals as well as consolidating the hold out cities was killing all of our best.  The fools that survived long enough to become teachers had little experience besides avoiding conflict while those like me fought and died keeping the Empire secure."


    Gelly nods his bulbous head, crest bobbing at the motion.  "Some of them we met seemed a bit off."


    "I..."  Bruen cannot finish whatever thought he wishes to express.  The dander is too much for him.  He coughs, then wipes his eyes with his tendrils.  "I have to go," he says when he can speak once more.


    He hastily slides through the doorway, his dust eater trailing behind him.  Han and Gelly exchange a look before getting up as well.


    "I could use yer help settin'' up the capacitors, if yer not busy."


    Han agrees and we head to the array of batteries that he''s attempting to integrate into the ungainly circuitry spread throughout the sphere.


    "I still find it odd that he hasn''t yet returned to receive new orders," I muse while the two work.  Lacking manipulative appendages, I have little else to do.  "It isn''t like him to shirk his duty."


    "I do no think he is," answers Gelly, arms deep inside a hollow within the stone.  "He said somethin'' about gettin'' odd orders, but told me no more than that.  Hand me another length o'' wire, Han."


    "Sure."


    Gelly adds the wire to his project.  I can hear his knuckles hitting the stone, and at one point something much more yielding.  He makes a face of disgust before pulling out a rancid hunk of meat.  Shards of yellow crystal dot the horrid lump.


    A bucket nearby holds more of the same, and Han brings it over for the older male.  Gelly tosses it in and it lands with a wet smacking sound.  The unique structures of the crystals might be worth the effort, but we won''t know until they can be given to proper researchers.


    "I think he''s to set up a base here abouts," continues Gelly after a short time.  "Did ye know he''s got some of the soldiers diggin'' out a pond.  It might be deep enough to swim in by now."


    "No thanks!"


    "Can no say I like the water meself, Han, but the Squivers love it.  The city they brought me to was half under water.  Right on the coast, too."


    He describes the hive city to the young Tserri as they work, comparing the stately, rounded structures he had seen to his own people''s architectural styles.  They way that the tide fills the streets each morning and recedes slowly as the day progresses, leaving behind creatures to be harvested by dedicated workers.  Gelly doesn''t know that the workers he describes are young Sha, bringing home the raw materials needed to build with.  The shells make excellent building material, once cleaned and ground into powder for processing.


    The flesh of the creatures is simply a perk of their profession, which they sometimes trade for favors from other castes.  I miss the thick stews made from fresh crusinia Bruen had often brought back in exchange for the gleanings of our composter worms.


    "That should work," announces Gelly, stepping back from the stone.  Wires lead into a deep alcove, connecting the hidden batteries to the rest of the power network.  "Once we get it charged up, we can stop worryin'' about when the heat''ll run out."


    Only the size of the place prevents the greedy vacuum from stealing all the warmth within the sphere.  In truth, the process would be very slow, and asphyxiation is a greater concern.  We have not located the processors keeping the air breathable yet and may have to bring equipment from the station or perhaps attempt to trade with Gelen''s people.  If they don''t attack us first.


    "Hey, guess what I found!"  Yosip shouts as he jogs up, a clear container in his hands.  For once his scowl is gone.  In its place is a rare smile.  "Gor grubs on feeder plants!  There''s a bunch more on the scrapper they rode in on."


    "Did ye talk to the Matron?"


    Yosip sets the sealed container down.  I can see the grubs inside crawling across young grass.


    "No, but I spoke with Eva," answers Yosip, frown once again conquering his face.  "I wished her good luck with the station and let her know what we found here.  I didn''t mention you, Gelly.  Figured you''d want it to be a surprise.  They''ll be sending over a survey team to take a look at the ships outside.  After that, we''ll be informed how much they''ll let us keep."


    He wipes his hand across his metal jaw before looking right at me.  "And they want to have a look at you, as well."

 Chapter 67: Whats a Nursery?

    Mos Breun waves his tendrils, ordering his soldiers as he leads the captive Tserri walk down the path.  Past the mess, armory, and stockpiles.  And past the small, sparsely vegetated field where the gor grubs and their feeder plants now reside.  Behind and in front of the captives are Bruen''s soldiers.


    Han, Yosip, Gelly, and I watch them leave from the table at the mess.  Bruen and Zek are already on the other side of the portal, preparing the way for the miners.  Yosip plans to search the ships for anything else of value, though the rest of us will remain at the base.


    The place is much cleaner, though much work remains to be done.  Workers bustle about the vast cavern, intent upon their many tasks.  Except for a select core of soldiers loyal to Mos Bruen, those toiling must trek through the tunnels back to the hive city each day after work.


    A pair of older Sha direct their younger caste members in excavating the winding halls.  New tunnels are being shored up, and old ones filled back in.  Soon the labyrinth will become useful space, an outpost of the Spanless Empire.


    Gelly walks with Yosip, telling wildly embellished tales of his adventures with my Bruen.  Han and I are left to our own devices for the moment, though the youth seems to have his own plans.


    Han waits until the gray officers disappear into the network of tunnels before dashing off in a different direction.  He brings us to where the soldiers carry jar after jar of salt water.


    Deep enough to fully submerge an adult of any of the races represented here, the pool is oblong in shape.  Several times longer than it is wide, most of the pool is hidden, carved into the stone walls.  Only a small viewing platform allows passing traffic to look down into the clear water.  Perfect for freshly hatched spawn to hunt each other in.  The viewing portion provides no easy access to the water.  A short wall blocks the way.  Alcoves on either side of the overhanging stone allow private access.


    Han sneaks to the side reserved for females.  The Sha workers have thoughtfully put up signs in the relevant languages, to avoid confusion.  It almost looks like artwork, the way the vastly different scripts contrast next to each other.  My people''s flowing script, the blocky letters the Selber employ, and the complex ideograms of the Tserri couldn''t be more different from each other.


    The alcoves are unfinished, rough and without appropriate decoration.  The only amenities yet added are the bars set into the walls near the water''s edge.  There to be grasped during the spawning process, the bars are made of polished stone, carefully shaped by skilled workers.


    The facility, though unfinished, indicates that this cavern is intended as more than a mere base.  Bases do not need spawning pools.  New pools are only dug for colonies.  New settlements that might one day expand into new hive cities.


    Unsatisfied with his investigation, Han runs over to the male side.  "It looks the same," he mutters quietly after a brief inspection.


    "Yes," I agree in equally hushed tones.  "Why wouldn''t it?"


    "Why build two of those rooms, if they''re both the same?"


    "They may be used for the same purpose, but the separation is necessary.  It allows for only the best and healthiest to reproduce.  Though, it is usually our practice to add more pools as the city expands, rather than to enlarge the original."


    This pool is quite small, comparatively speaking, to the one from which I acquired Bruen.  Even common workhouses in established cities are able to keep much larger pools, to support the costs demanded by endless war.  This pool would force the young together, fostering greater competition.  Very few will emerge from here.


    "Will they expand this one?"


    "Eventually, perhaps," I answer him.  The close connection to the capital might allow them to behave as if this were a district of the main city.


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    The youth snorts, signaling the end of his interest in the topic.  He ducks quickly into a dark corner, where the runelight doesn''t reach, when a soldier draws near with another jar of salt water.  Han holds still, remaining silent until the soldier leaves with her empty jar.


    Laughing almost inaudibly, the young troublemaker dashes off.  The path leads him back to one of the stockpiles.  Stone bricks, cut from the rubble, stand in neat stacks.  An officers'' dormitory is the next project.  Storage buildings are redundant, considering the lack of weather.


    Most of the rest of the stone rubble will be crushed and mixed into a concrete later.  For now, bags of stones too small to be useful take up one side of the stockpile.  He hides us behind the sacks when another soldier slides by, a heavy jar in his tendrils.


    Gelly''s voice echoes off the walls, "Have ye seen the youngin'' around?  I need his backpack."


    Han stops breathing.


    "Maybe, sir," Drev''s voice responds.  "Lubi heard him by the spawning pool, a while back."


    An almost inaudible, "Shit," escapes Han''s mouth.  Neither of the two on the other side of the stockpile seem to notice.


    Gelly''s laugh is followed by a light smacking sound.  "Knew there were a reason I kept ye with me, Drev."


    The soldier makes a noncommittal sound in response before I hear his tentacles sliding against the stone.  Gelly''s footsteps soon follow, though in the direction of the spawning pool.


    After we are once more alone, Han chuckles to himself.  "Don''t give me away, alright?"


    "What do you intend to do?"


    "Shhh!  You''re too loud."  The youth crouches while simultaneously stretching his neck as high as he can, looking wildly in every direction.  "Just be quiet, Mos."


    Well.  I would like very much to know what Gelly requires of me.  Before I can give voice to my thoughts, Han begins sneaking after the wiry operative.  I can''t see him through the cameras, but by concentrating I can detect the runic arrays covering his gear.  Judging from how he occasionally slows and tilts his head, I think the wily gray officer is aware he''s being followed.


    I won''t spoil Han''s fun, then.


    The youth is an expert stalker.  Whatever he practiced his skills on must have exceptional senses, for he''s quiet enough to not register on my equipment.  His people''s ready adaptiveness and quick learning skills often lead me to forget that most of his life had been spent on a dying world, hunting increasingly scarce prey animals.


    Moving only when the older male isn''t looking, the young predator darts almost silently from concealing shadow to behind brick and concrete construction.  The more experienced hunter betrays little sign that he''s aware of his unseen shadow, and he moves as if carefree towards his stated destination.


    I cannot see it, but I can imagine the smile on the young Tserri''s face.  The joys of youth.


    We follow until we can no longer hear Gelly''s feet falling upon the stone path.  Gelly is no longer moving.


    Han risks a quick peek.  Standing with his back turned, Gelly stands on the viewing platform, looking down at the water.  Flexing his claws in anticipation, the young hunter sneaks closer.  He steps out of cover, within leaping distance of the older male.


    Han stops, crouching further in preparation to pounce.  He leaps.


    At that moment Gelly turns, hands ready to catch the airborne Tserri youth.  A poorly thought-out reaction.


    Including the oversized armor suit and the attached module containing myself, Han''s mass is much greater than the wiry officer.  Metal strong enough to withstand micrometeor collisions and thick enough to deflect radiation, as well as the machinery to move it around in synchronization with Han''s movements, isn''t going to be light weight.


    Though, it must be stated that the armor Han wears is more heavily laden with protective plating than the average Tserri.  So, it is forgivable that they both underestimate the relative masses of their two bodies.


    Han lands atop Gelly, driving his body into the stone.  At the moment of impact, networks of runes embedded in his zelsilk clothing flare with blue and white light.  All of the air in Gelly''s lungs rushes out in a single wheeze.  The officer''s gray face drains of color.  His eyes widen in pain and his mouth works, opening and closing, but Gelly is unable to speak.


    Climbing off of him in a hurry, Han apologizes profusely.  It''s doubtful that Gelly even hears him.  The gray officer struggles to inhale while Han stands frozen in place.


    "No, no no no," he murmurs.  His claws work helplessly at his sides.


    Gelly gasps, finally managing to inhale, then coughs violently.  His coughing quickly turns into laughter.


    He stands up slowly and dusts himself off, then says, "Yosip must really want ye to be safe.  That felt like a shuttle landin'' on me."  He waves one disbelieving hand at Han, indicating the youth''s thick armor plates.


    "You needed to talk to me, Gelly?"


    "Aye."  He pats Han once on the head, and walks a few steps past the stunned youth, who follows after a moment of hesitation.  Gelly hides a limp, but otherwise seems fine after the collision.


    "Yosip asked me to take ye back to the station.  I need to report to Jim and the Matron, anyway," he explains as we walk.  "So the three o'' us and the witch are gonna craft me a fancy suit.  Then I''m to get me pick of ships."


    "Can we fix mine up while we''re at it?"


    "Sure.  We''ll be removin'' yer backpack anyway."

 Chapter 68: Whats a Threat Display?

    A pair of experienced Jurers, both hiding their deformities beneath heavy gray robes, assist Somner Zek in reshaping Han''s armor.


    Her experience working with the Imperium and Navy technology earns her the right to lead the process.  Preserving the functionality of the embedded circuitry and mechanisms is vital, if the suit is to have any value to its owner.  That they are adding runic enhancements to the suit only makes Han more excited.


    "Gray and yellow," the youth demands.  "The squiggles look good, but can you make them match?"


    Of the two Jurers, one is much thinner than the other.  The more normally sized dust eater stiffens at the Tserri''s words.


    "We could do this," the thin one replies calmly, unbothered by the unusual request.  "But it would put stress on several different arrays, causing disharmonic interference.  We would have to reinforce the desired frequencies with additional supportive structuring."


    "What he''s trying to say," Zek interrupts, "is that we can, but we''ll have to add more squiggles."


    "That''s fine," replies Han, not bothered at all.  "Can they glow yellow over the gray parts and gray over the yellow sections?"


    "Why not," erupts the other, who reveals herself, shaking off her hood.  Her face is half melted, and only two of her peripheral eyes still function.  Her primary eyes droop, sagging blindly.  "Looking good is important, right?"


    Gelly laughs at the others from his place at a worktable nearby.  He works at modifying the torso and arms of a recovered suit.  The dust eaters will do most of the finer crafting once he finishes, and have told him as much, but Gelly insists on helping.


    "Let him have his fun, Es," scolds the first Jurer.  "I think it''s an interesting challenge, don''t you agree?"


    Es turns to her companion.  "No, Zi, I do not.  It''s a useless waste of effort for the alien''s vanity."


    "It''s no just that," Don Gelly interjects.  "All his people are particular about their outfits.  And anyway, those are almost Imperium colors, so think o'' it as a uniform."


    Jurer Es huffs, but returns to work.  Zi waves a few of his upper tendrils in a good mannered apology, which Han takes for a greeting and waves back.  Don is not as highly regarded as Mos, but it is still a caste that outranks any thaumatist.


    "Should I have chosen black and yellow?"


    "Nah, if ye had, how would folk tell us apart?"


    His own armor will of course be uniform black and yellow.  The runes that the three dust eaters will inevitably place might not be standard issue, but I doubt that Ship-Father Tollek will be upset.  Jim''s more likely to be too ecstatic to see his cousin once more to worry about such minor details.


    My housing is also entirely different.  Many shed pieces of it lay upon the table, next to Gelly''s project.  Much of the armor is gone, to make room for new circuitry.  Parts from the armor of fallen scavengers, as well as the shuttle, increase the unit''s raw computational power.  A necessary change, to control the new attachments.  Additional cameras now sprout from the casing.  Even better, these new cameras extend from the end of mobile devices capable of aiming them in any direction I choose.  No longer will my view be either static or controlled by others!


    A retractable panel on the bottom conceals an assortment of short cables and wires.  These allow me the potential to interface with compatible technologies, according to Gelly and Han.  Of the two, I trust the Tserri''s opinion more.  It also houses the thickest power conduit able to fit while still allowing room for the other attachments.


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    Best of all, the new case can attach to any appropriate surface with pneumatic clamps.  These clamps also answer to my command.  I flex them, simply because I can.  Delightful.  They''re also adjustable, to allow me to grip onto the shoulders of an armored ally.


    The odd group works at their tasks, and I practice controlling my new lenses.  Retracting, aiming, focusing.  So enthralled am I with my new abilities that I fail to notice Mos Bruen''s arrival.  He speaks, stunning the room into silence.  The others, too, are broken from their focus.


    "Don Wikna wishes to speak with you, Denn," Bruens announces, tendrils twisting nervously.  I know why he omits my caste designator, but it still bothers me.


    Behind him stands a feathered being almost half again his height.  The Don wears the traditional zelsilk outfit, though hers is white.  Her clawed feet are bare at the end of her white trousers.  Vestigial wings nestle within the loose top, safe from harm. Her head is tilted to one side, allowing both of her right eyes to look at us.  Amber eyes peer out of a bright red face, one set above the other.  She tilts her head to the other side, to regard us from that angle.


    Wikna opens her red-orange beak and her prehensile tongues slither out to wave a polite greeting.  Black as deep water, each of her three tongues splits at the tip.  These serve her people almost as well as tendrils, allowing them to craft and work with enviable skill.


    "I regret that I cannot reply in kind, madam," I say in apology.  "Nonetheless, I wish you to know that my shock at seeing you is no less than the delight you inspire by your visit."


    Han makes a choking sound, which everyone ignores.  I fear the youth may have forgotten to breath when presented with the sight of Wikna''s radiant crimson plumage.  It is a sight that takes some getting used to.


    "Nonsense," trills Don Wikna.  "Not you too!  Just call me Wikky, and stop with the formal stuff, please."  Her plumage puffs up and resettles as she speaks, making her look like as if ablaze.  Orange and yellow down becomes visible when the larger feathers spread, adding to the illusion.  "Where are you hiding, anyway?  Are you out in one of the ships?  I was told you were here."


    Han and Gelly both point at where my case rests upon the floor.  Despite the vastly different assortment of facial features each had been cursed with, both share a nearly identical look of expectance and mischief, similar enough as to be unmistakable.  The thaumatists back away while unnoticed.


    An unfortunate effect of the inherent resistance to the Southern Tribal control causes the feathered people to repulse our thaumatists, and for the first time I understand why.


    The being before me is normal by all appearances.  Wikky''s form is both symmetrical and pleasing, and her voice is melodious.  From memory I know that she most likely smells, as all her kind tend to, of the spicey oil coating her feathers.  Her movements are graceful.  Wikky stands with poise upon her long, thin legs.


    My other senses describe something entirely unnatural.


    The other beings in the workspace give off various kinds of energy in smooth waves, fairly standard in ways Wikky is not.  Inside her body thermal energy rages unexplainably.  She should be both aflame and frozen, if my senses aren''t lying to me.  Not following any sense or reason, portions of her anatomy light up brilliantly before flash freezing instantly.  Yet she shows no outward sign of discomfort.


    As if that weren''t distracting enough, it is as though a lightning storm rages within her.  Or perhaps, two; one of lightning and one comprised of anti-electrons.  Bolts annihilate each other constantly and spawn again from nowhere.  The magnetic field this causes extends out to half the room.  Somehow none of the electronics even notice, not even the sensitive device designed for that purpose.


    Cameras will be sufficient for this meeting.


    "You have not been deceived," I hurry to reassure her.  "I''m right here.  What is it you wished to speak with me about?"


    She flaps her stunted wings out of the short sleeves of her top.  "The Mos Denn I''ve heard about wouldn''t hide behind a fancy radio."  She steps closer and bends over to look at my new casing.  I aim the closest camera directly at her.


    Wikky blinks and draws her head back slightly.  She taps the camera with the tip of one tongue.


    "He''s in there, alright," Gelly says as he walks up.  A grin splits his face almost in half.  "There''s a panel, on this side, ye see?"


    He reaches down to demonstrate, and it pulls away when he touches the right spots.


    "He can no talk if we take him out."  He taps one thin finger upon my crystalline form, but withdraws it quickly.  His smirk vanishes.  He glares at me but doesn''t reach in again.


    A very small electrical charge won''t injure him, but I do not wish to be taken out.  The glare from Wikky is uncomfortably bright and random.  With the panel open it is hard to ignore the chaotic energy that my higher senses detect.  The sensation of being exposed to her aura is highly unpleasant, and quite distracting.


    "So you really were killed," trills Wikky.  "Neat."


    She walks back to the doorway, keeping her head turned so that she can look at me over her shoulder.  Gelly closes the panel and I''m once more able to concentrate upon the view from my camera.

 Chapter 69: Whats an Exonym?

    Not long ago I would have expected never to meet one of our closest allies again.  They so rarely leave their sanctuaries, and I had been confined to my estate for many seasons before Jurer Nuhst had set me adrift among the stars.  Circumstances have a way of presenting me with the unexpected, however.


    "The hatchling here," and Wikky gestures with one of her tongues at Mos Bruen, "claims to be the one in charge.  But at the same time, the soldiers have several times mentioned yourself, Denn, as being part of a party of aliens encountered here.  I can see the aliens, so that much must be true."


    She moves completely into the half-built space.  With full shelves and stacks of equipment leaning against each other, there is no true need for more than doorways to mark perimeter the space.  The walls that do exist are no more than loosely piled bricks, three levels high.  Behind her, other feathered beings cluster in a tight knot.  These others wait outside blocking the path.


    "Yes," I agree, growing tired of how she continually avoids the point she wishes to make.  It is much like her kind, to circle the topic endlessly until suddenly thrusting ahead.  "No longer having my original body, I am dead, as far as the Empire is concerned.  I cannot be rightly listed as a member of my former caste, though those around me often do me the curtesy of addressing me so."


    Bruen twitches, betraying his surprise that I would acknowledge a weakness.  Reacting quickly, Bruen says, "I am indeed the most senior living Mos, but I do not intend to interfere overmuch in your affairs, Wikky.  I''m only here to see to your defense."


    Her head bobs slightly in acknowledgment, but Wikky turns to regard Gelly and Han, rather than the general.  "And these two?  What is their relationship with the Empire?"


    "Weapons Operative, Don Gelly Drop and Third Operative Han," I state quickly.  "Envoys from the Selberfeld Imperium.  The youth is here under protection of Supply-Master Yosip Peal.  Gelly, I believe, was escorted here after being picked up by the Empire.  Presumably to create goodwill in efforts to foster an alliance."


    "I knew a Mos Han, once," Wikky chirps in delight.  "This one isn''t any relation, I hope?"


    "No, Matron," answers the Tserri uncertainly.  He chuckles once, awkwardly, apparently hoping that was a jest.


    Wikky squawks out her own laughter, amused at her own weak joke.  "So polite!"  She glares at the Selber.  "Another Don, huh?  My condolences."


    Whatever does that mean?


    "It''s no so bad," responds the gray operative.


    "Well, I won''t comment," Wikky says airily.  "Better winds ahead, right?  So!  The biggies offered my group," she says waving behind her to the small crowd outside, "the chance to come settle a new nesting grounds.  Well, this looks like a nice spot, but the presence of a war hero suggests to me that it might not be such a great place to raise young.  Tell me I''m wrong, please."


    "There''s been a whole mess ''o fightin'' lately," answers Gelly.  "Might be more."  He gestures to the disassembled state of the armor he intends to wear.  "No much use for an armory in a peaceful cave, yer right.  Yer people any good in a fight?"


    She turns her head up in indignation.  Once more her impressive feathers present the illusion of being aflame.


    "No, then.  Alright.  If it makes ye any less concerned, Mos Denn and I''ll be leavin'' soon as we can," he assures her.


    Han gazes intently at Wikky, ears twitching.


    Wikky squawks again, amused at Han''s open curiosity.  "Oh, we know what we look like.  If your friend squats down, I''d bet he''d look just like a darttoungue.  Rib ib.  Rib ib."  She mimics the sound of an animal native to the world she hails from.


    Gelly''s face darkens, though whether with anger or embarrassment I cannot tell.  He keeps his expression carefully blank.  Han stares in shock, wide eyes switching between the two Dons.


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    "Did you know, Wikky, that Gelly''s people raise a creature that looks remarkably like my own.  For sustenance," I add.  My attempt to soothe things over comes out a bit awkwardly, but it has the intended results.


    Han snickers and brings all four claws up to cover his mouth.


    Gelly shrugs, face returning to a normal color.  "She remind ye any ''o a plump sba, Han?"


    "It''s eerie," agrees the youth, "and all the Squivers everywhere."


    "Is that what you call the wigglies?"  Wikky''s head cocks the other way to regard the pair more closely.  "They call us ''aviaformes'', of all things!"


    Wigglies?


    "Wigglies," Bruen mutters, voicing my own thoughts.  Then he adds more loudly, "Call us what you will, so long as you remember our alliance."


    Ending the meeting while everyone is feeling jovial, the white-clad Don excuses herself.  Bruen follows, with a casual wave to those of us remaining in the crafting space, to escort the flock of aviaformes.


    As they pass by, I''m able to see that many of them carry small parcels.  Straps hang around their long necks or dangle from their beaks or shoulders, holding these peoples'' possessions.  Some lead pack animals, scaley bipeds with roundish, armless bodies that march placidly behind them.


    Gelly and Han return to their work.  The three dust eaters return soon after but make no mention of their absence.  The remaining modifications to Han''s suit do not take long, and the youth happily runs off to test it.  Gelly chuckles at his antics, but continues working.


    "I would highly recommend you seek out a mechanic that I know, once we''re safely back at Kablibern," I remark casually.


    Gelly stops hunting for the specific attachment for his tool to look at me.  "Oh, are ye sayin'' ye doubt me work?"


    "I''m sure it functions adequately," I quickly reply.  "Unfortunate that you used the last of the yellow paint for Han''s armor.  You can remedy that with a quick visit to Glian''s shop."


    In truth, a coat of paint will not be enough to save the armor.  The welds are large and lumpy, running in uneven trails across the seams of the metal suit.  Boltheads jut from the surface plating in irregular clumps, more than necessary to keep the suit together.  The swirling arrays of runes that spread across the shoulders and chest take the place of running lights.


    It fits him well, at least.  The thaumatists'' work, reshaping the metal and laying the runes, makes it almost an extension of his body.  The surface of the metal is rough, purposefully, under the black paint.  The uneven texture helps break up any reflections he''d give off, as does the glossless finish.


    "Bah, it''ll do for the trip," he replies casually.  "I do no think I''ll take three steps past the station Tserri before one ''o the furballs tries to sell me some new paint."


    Zek slides up to him without acknowledging him.  With her paint smeared tendril she inscribes his rank symbology onto the upper arms of the suit.  "There was a small amount left, of the yellow," she says cheerfully as she paints.


    "Thank ye," Gelly says, staying still.  "That''ll save me a demerit or two."


    It isn''t until she steps away that he notices the color of the paint.  Silver.


    "So about that mechanic," mutters the operative quietly, as Somner Zek makes her way back to the other dust eaters.  "What did ye say his name were?"


    "Glian.  The station security goes to him almost exclusively."


    The gray officer picks me up, and I attach to his suit''s back.  On the way to the outer tunnels, he''s mostly quiet.  He greets the workers and soldiers that we pass with a nod or quick ''hello''.  Gelly hurries, almost running when unobserved, only slowing down when he draws near one of the busy workers.


    We pass a group of young Sha, seeding the walls of the new tunnels with tufted cave moss.  The underside of the moss bears a fungal symbiote.  The fungus will, in time, spread long sticky threads throughout the tightly stacked bricks.  These threads will then secrete a strong glue to hold themselves in place.  Gelly barely glances at their work as he rushes by.


    Soon we''re at the airlock, where a trio of soldier stand guard.  They move out of Gelly''s way, their tendrils held close to their bodies.  Gelly nods as he climbs into the chamber.


    Gelly secures his helmet, then signals to the guards outside.


    The air sucks out, and we''re left in silence.  The massive outer door opens.  Gravity releases its hold upon us and Gelly pushes gently off and through the door.


    One gauntleted hand points into the darkness.  I aim one of my cameras in that direction.  There I see not the ship Gelly wishes to claim, but a luxury transport shuttle.  It flies slowly around, stopping briefly at each of the orbiting vessels.


    "The Matron''s survey team," he remarks quietly while we watch.  "And the agents from Prime."


    We drift slowly and the transport continues on its path, unaware of us.  When the ship is no longer visible, Gelly activates the jets on his legs briefly.  He aims us at one of the larger vessels.  A cargo hauler, rear clamps tightly clasping a full canister of rich ore.


    "The station should give the credits for this load to the previous owner''s survivors," I inform him as we make our way into the cramped interior.


    "And we''ll make sure it gets to ''em, rather than endin'' up lost in a shippin'' mishap."


    Once we''re in the control room, Gelly reaches back and I release the clamps holding me in place.  He sets my case on an empty chair, then takes his own place at the piloting controls.  Gelly powers the hauler up slowly.  Making sure that there is nothing blocking his path, the operative smoothly pulls us away from the small fleet of abandoned ships.

 Chapter 70: Whats an In-Flight Movie?

    Gelly handles the bulky hauler as if he had never been anywhere but at its controls.  He concentrates on the display in front of him, ignoring the small sounds the cargo vessel makes as it works.


    He only steps away from the command seat twice during our voyage.  The first time he leaves it, it is for the purpose of locating the amenities.  After relieving himself, Gelly takes pity upon me.  He connects my interface to the computer system of the vessel, allowing me to look through the various files it stores.


    The second time is for a brief nap.  I barely notice his absence, so enthralled am I with the files left upon the hardware by the previous owners of the craft.


    Of course, there are all currently available episodes of Capey''s adventures.  I don''t bother with them, instead focusing upon the far more interesting genealogies present upon the computers.  Still images of the deceased crew, with accompanying notes about interrelatedness and direct lines of descent take up a sizable portion of the information banks.


    This is more information about the nomadic Tserri than I have ever had access to, and I do not wish to waste the opportunity.  I cannot fit all the files upon the small information storage unit inside my metallic shell, but the more important or interesting parts fit easily.


    Divided by tribes and clans, the nomads outnumber the station Tserri by almost double.  This is no surprise to me.  I remember helping to assign them to training courses and filling out crew manifests.  Granted, the nomads no longer reside in the ships to which they were originally assigned, as they would rather live and work with members of their own family groups.


    It is within these files that I locate images of the Tserri with which Han has became intertangled.  They belong, or did at least, to the largest of the tribes represented in the ledgers.  The Rust Mountain Tribe to which their families belong is composed of many smaller clan groups.  Lines of relation flow through these groups, creating complicated loyalties.


    A few of them are dead, and I make a list to assist in the station''s recordkeeping, then transfer it to my housing''s storage.  They leave behind many survivors, however.  Not just children and the elderly, either, but many adult Tserri still in the full swell of youth.  I also identify the Tserri that had served as the crew of this vessel, the Blind Worm.  The names will be of use to Gelly when he negotiates on behalf of their families.


    Of the many tribes that comprise Gelen''s fleet of free Tserri, the Rust Mountain Tribe is easily the largest.  Gelen himself is not a member, thankfully, belonging to the Ice Vale Clan.


    I don''t know what tribes or clans exist on the station, never having thought to inquire.  The Tserri onboard do not seem to care so highly for their previous allegiances, instead separating themselves by neighborhood or profession.  Even the members of Gelen''s fleet that settled aboard Kalibern had never shown any tendencies to clannishness beyond the expected hesitancy to reach out at first.


    I set aside the familial records to see what other treasures might be hiding in the data banks.  A section dedicated to the mineral analyzer details the various composites common in this system.  The information about the natural formation of crystalline structures under microgravity keep me busily reading until Gelly announces a delay of plans.


    A quick glance at the piloting station reveals that we''re at a practical stop.  Nothing nearby would inspire cause for a delay.  I then notice that Gelly is completely without clothing.


    "We need to talk.  Can ye tell me if the witch can hear us?  I''d like this to be just a friendly chat, eh?"


    "I don''t think so.  Are you feeling alright?  Have you been drinking the coolant, Operative?"


    His face wrinkles in thought momentarily.  "Bah.  There''re no spells clingin'' to us?  I don''t want to rile her up if I''m wrong."


    "I assume you put anything with a visible rune on it wherever your clothing is?"  He nods and I continue, "Then unless they''ve created new tricks, we should be as private as it''s possible to be.  Go ahead."


    His posture relaxes when he hears me.  Gelly lowers himself into an empty seat, then looks up at me.  With a serious expression he says, "I think the witch''s messin'' with yer Bruen''s head.  I''ve caught her standing over him, he fast asleep, workin'' her charms.  Is this a thing ye keep yer witches for?  I brought it to him, and he already knew!"


    My answer is slow in coming.  There are many legitimate reasons that she might be acting such.  In the unlikely event that he suffers chronic night horrors due to trauma, Bruen might require her services to aid his sleep.  It is also possible that an injury or infection might require constant healing to prevent his demise.  An implanted organ, otherwise functional, could be adjusted or recharged most easily while he sleeps.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Somner Zek is outside of my control," I state regretfully.  "She likely views me as little more than an amusing toy.  Even so, what matters most is that Bruen is aware of the situation.  Is there anything else you can tell me about her actions?"


    "Aye.  The false eye in the center ''o his face lights up like a Honus sunrise when she''s doin'' it.  White as anythin'' with a tinge ''o the other colors at the edges."


    Interesting.  An eye shouldn''t need much attention, so she cannot be preforming maintenance.  In my experience, an artificial eye should be functional for many seasons.  It''s much more likely that the implant serves as some sort of focus.


    "If you had told me this sooner, I could have looked over his implant.  I understand why you wouldn''t want to make an enemy of her, however.  When next I''m in his vicinity, I will inspect this false eye more closely."


    He lets out a sigh of relief.  "That''s what I were hopin'' ye''d say.  Now, before I put me fancy suit back on, there was somethin'' else I wanted to ask ye.  Can ye give me some runes to keep her out ''o me head?"


    Sadly, I cannot.  It is within my power to detect functional runic arrays, thanks to the energy they draw from higher dimensions, but I cannot identify yet the logic behind their behavior.  I can sense the effects as they happen, but not why they manifest as they do.  Creating them is well beyond my knowledge.


    "Even if she could gain access to your thoughts, I believe your experiences with the chiefs should render you immune to anything she could do.  Honestly, I''m more worried about what she could do if she got her tendrils on me."


    "I had no thought ''o that," he mutters, scratching his neck.  "Yer almost all runes.  She could twist ye right to shape, if she were to want to.  Make ye into a truly scary weapon."


    Gelly sighs, the strain of his long adventure visible upon his scarred face.  "Prime''d do about the same, I''m thinkin''.  The Grand Patrons do no like when a dangerous device is no in their control."


    "Do you think that''s why they''re taking a more active role in managing this system?"


    "That, and Yosip showin'' a profit when they expected him to struggle.  He was no supposed to succeed so well, and they do no like it."


    "If he hadn''t been able to make something useful from Kalibern, most of the Tserri living there would have starved to death long ago."


    "Aye."


    "But that is ridiculous!  There have been numerous occasions when supplies had to be shipped in-system.  Why would your leaders allow that if they wished for Yosip to fail?"


    "Why turn down easy profit if they thought it would no matter?  Ye knew record were kept of how much the station owed.  Lettin'' Yosip dig for grubs that weren''t there, they thought, but he done too well for his own good."


    There are indeed records for each and every transaction between the station and the cargo vessels from other systems.  Additional files list each shipment from Honus, along with the amount owed.  The sum should be enormous, enough to cripple the station.


    But those debts are gone.  The station''s accounts should all be payed in full, if not containing a hefty amount of credit.  The casino earns enough money from the steady flow of tourists that, even after accounting for the small percentage the station receives, it is equal to the task.  The miners supply a steady income as well.  The station benefits from a modest share of the metal sales and then also supplies them with artisanal luxury goods.


    While nowhere close to self-sufficient, the majority of the food and other resources the populace requires are now being produced by themselves in increasing amounts.  The rest Honus can easily supply, with no need of outside assistance.


    "I think I understand.  The established suppliers are unwilling to accept the loss of projected gains they had anticipated.  Forcing us to pay their inflated prices made them greedy, and the fact that the Tserri can almost feed themselves is intolerable.  Correct?"


    He shakes his head sadly.  "No.  It, well," he starts, then gives up with a sigh.  "Let me get dressed."


    Once again fit for decent company, Gelly takes his spot at the piloting console.  He straitens his vest, then mutters, "Better."  He looks over at me, then speaks quietly.


    "Ye''d heard ''o the Coalition Navy, right?  Well, we were only a part ''o the Coalition.  Us, the blue scales, and the Ropers.  The blue scales were in charge, though.  After they went to hide on their home world, the Ropers started distancin'' themselves from us.


    "See, it were when the Ledu were found that the trouble started.  The Ledu were alright, they were no the problem.  They were nocturnal, perfect for late shifts.  Low tech when we found their world, just started craftin'' guns."


    His eyes lose focus and he takes a deep breath.  "But the tribals were there first.  The Coalition didn''t know that, and built a base.  Took as many as wanted into space.  Trained lots of eager recruits.


    "Then they lost contact with the base, out ''o nowhere.  The Ledu could no be saved, but they tried.  The rescue teams, like as no, were captured and joined the tribe.  Those as were saved were no the same people after."


    He doesn''t have to explain to me.  I know how useless it is.  When the bond between chief and tribal breaks upon the chief''s death, the victim often dies anyway.  Those under its sway for longer almost never survive.  Severe mental damage, memory loss, comatose state, and other symptoms are common among those that recover.  What I don''t understand is the relevance to Kalibern failing.


    "Well, that were the first time we met the tribes.  The blue scales refused to let their newest allies die and threw themselves into the chiefs'' eager jaws.  There were few of them left after, less now.  We still lose worlds.  Almost lost Prime.


    "The Navy were just us, then.  Those in charge got stricter over the years, less tolerant ''o aliens.  Blamed aliens for the loss ''o Birri-ka.  That were a small nation, bombed when the chiefs ripped a portal open in the Founder''s Market.  That tragedy were just the first.  More live in ships than on solid ground, and those that do are prepared to evacuate at any time.  Saved lots ''o lives when the Tserri invaded."

 Chapter 71: Whats a Show Trial?

    Throughout his recitation, Gelly operates the controls.  He plots a course that avoids the closest mining vessels to return us to the station.


    "I learnt all this from me Aunt," he explains.  "She were the reason Jim''s no still a Second Operative.  I can no complain, as she got me my rank, too.  Anyway, the average citizen grew up on lies about evil aliens.  Even after the Imperium took charge, the fear were still there.


    "After that, any new species the Imperium met were left to tend their own kettles.  If there were valuables, then trade were done, but no bases were built on inhabited alien worlds.  Too dangerous, if the natives suddenly become hostile, eh."


    I think about the situation, with this new understanding.  The Tserri are doing quite well living inside their ships or within Kalibern.  This also gives new meaning to the Selbers'' strange insistence upon using ships and space stations.  They''re willing to endure the harsh conditions, at least some of them are, in order to spread themselves too thin for the tribals to target.


    "But the Tserri are only successful thanks to your people," I complain.  "They proved to be no match for you in combat.  In fact, they wouldn''t even exist as a people if it weren''t for your government sending them all to Honus.  Why do that if they wanted them dead?"


    Gelly lets out a deep laugh and leans back in his chair.  "Do ye think the government is all ''o one mind?"


    "Why not?  My kind are ruled by an emperor.  His advisors may disagree, but any commands he issues are absolute.  How else to keep an empire that stretches across many worlds unified?"


    "Aye, that''s what the Navy said, too.  But those who make the rules have their own rules, and do no always follow them.  Spreadin'' the power out keeps any one Patron from gainin'' too much control.  The others keep that from happenin''.  Nobody wanted the Tserri, but Grand Matron Bell can no just kill them without upsettin'' those what want to help the Tserri."


    "Perhaps.  The Duv caste fills that role well enough without working at cross purposes-"


    I''m cut off by the chime of an incoming communication.  Gelly shrugs but puts the transmission on the screen.


    "Yosip, you finally came to your," Eva trails off when she sees Gelly''s face.  She wears a new uniform, befitting someone of a higher rank.  "Not who I expected, excuse me."


    "Gelly!"  Ship-Master Tollek shouts, running up to the screen.  He stops and stands behind Eva''s seat, much to her displeasure.  From his position, Jim is unable to see the frown that briefly shows upon her face.  "Where are the rest of your team?"


    "I''ve got bad news, Jim."


    Gelly tells the story while we finish the approach to the station.  He pauses occasionally as he puts on his vacuum suit.  Jim accepts the fate of his officers with a grim visage.  The transmission ends when we successfully dock.  Gelly dons my case and opens the airlock.


    We''re met at the exit by Dunc, Donna, and another armored Tserri I recognize as the leader of the squad assigned to the casino.


    "Please come with us, sir," states Dunc.  He at least has the decency to look abashed as he continues, "We''ll need you to give us your weapons, also.  Matron''s orders, sir."


    Donna takes his rifle, but when she reaches for the knife sheathed at his hip, Gelly stops her.  "I''m no resistin''.  No yet.  I just want to tell ye that if ye lose me knife I will find it.  And then I''ll find ye."  He pulls the knife free and offers it to her, handle first.


    Donna looks at Dunc, but the officer only shrugs.  With a resigned look on her furred face, she reaches gingerly for the blade.  Gelly doesn''t resist further as she disarms him.  They let him keep his armor on, which I take as a positive omen.


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    I remain silent and keep my cameras still.  The security officers do not yet seem aware of my presence, and I would prefer to remain with Gelly for the time being.


    They lead us down service corridors that see only infrequent use.  Moving through passages that I normally see from above is disorienting.  The silence is awkward, with the gold armored officers casting frequent suspicious glances at Gelly.  The absence of any repair personnel makes it even more uncomfortable.


    The silent torture ends when they escort us up a ladder and into a maintenance closet.  We exit in a back alley in one of the residential districts.  If I recognize the style of decoration correctly, we''re somewhere in the Broken Leg.  The hulking form of Skint meets us in the alley.


    Donna briefly brushes claw tips with Skint before the large male turns.  Skint opens the service door behind him, and Dunc gestures for Gelly to enter.  Only Dunc follows us inside what looks like a kitchen.  Dunc points towards the door leading further into the building.


    Shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation, Gelly does as instructed and walks through the door and into the large room on the other side.  Dunc doesn''t follow.  We enter the community center, though all the gaming tables are missing.  The large room is nearly empty.


    A single chair sits empty in the center of the room.  It faces a long table where several important figures sit.  Chief among them are Grand Matron Bell and Ship-Father Jim Tollek.  Patron Dunc Wollen, as well as three other Selber I do not recognize join them at the table.  All are dressed in full uniform.


    The two male officers are both in uniforms identical to Jim''s.  These must be Ship-Fathers in command of important vessels.  The third unknown is a female nearly as ancient as Matron Bell, dressed in an equally impressive uniform.  This figure holds the central seat, with Matron Bell to her right and Supply-Master Wollen on her left.


    The unfamiliar Matron glares at Gelly.  "Did you bring it?"


    "Yes, Aunty," answers the officer timidly.  "And some letters."


    Her face softens for a brief instant.  "Have a seat.  And please, take off that ridiculous backpack."


    Gelly does as ordered, placing my case on the tiles next to him.  He sits in silence while those at the table whisper quietly to each other.  It is then that I notice that their glances are directed not at Gelly but at myself.


    "Mos Denn," Jim says suddenly.  "Representatives from Prime are here to question you."  He gestures to the Matron placed in the center and then at the two other Ship-Fathers at the far end of the table.  "For your own sake, please be cooperative."


    "As you say, Ship-Father," I reply, careful to maintain a respectful tone.


    The first of the two strange Ship-Fathers to speak is a specimen with the thinnest crest of any Selber I know.  Only a few scraggly tufts jut forlornly from his head.  Despite that, his voice is deep and strong.  "I''m told that you are not in fact a remarkably sophisticated program.  Can you explain what exactly you are?"


    I don''t answer immediately, needing time to compose an adequate reply.  Friendly spirit probably isn''t answer enough for these people, but the truth might not be entirely appropriate either.  Something vague enough not to be threatening, but still containing enough truth to be believable might be best.


    "I lived a full and productive life among my own people, serving in a capacity not too unlike your own.  Near the end of my life, I was approached by a specialist who offered an experimental treatment.  I agreed, and the result was my mind and essence being transferred into a specially designed power core."


    The officer raises one hand, so I cease my narration.  "Do you know anything about this core?  Where did your specialist find this artifact?"


    "The core was, as I said, specially constructed."


    My words cause the Matrons to look quickly at one another.  Dunc the elder stands from his seat.


    "Impossible!"  His face is dark and he holds his hand curled into tight fists.  "The process has been lost for untold centuries!"


    I wait for the officers to calm somewhat before I continue.  "I''m sorry to disagree with you, but I saw the uncarved core with my own eyes.  The same core into which my consciousness was placed.  As for how he did it, I was told only that he had contacts with another race and gained the secret from them."


    "Do you have any proof of what you claim?  Is there any way," Matron Bell asks, "any way at all to confirm your story?"


    "Aye, that there is," interjects Gelly.  "If ye can get the Squivers to talk to ye, they can confirm what he says."


    "Is this true, Denn?"  She seems more skeptical than angry, perhaps a good sign?


    "Yes.  Mos Bruen," I emphasize the caste designator, and Jim runs a hand through his crest nervously.  "He was there for most of the discussions between myself and the specialist, Grand Matron."


    "Do no forget the witch," adds Gelly with a less than helpful suggestion.


    "How could I?"  My murmur is meant only for his ears, but the stares being directed my way prove to me that nothing I say will not be heard by those seated at the table.


    "Thank you, nephew," remarks the Grand Matron.  "Jim, why don''t you go ahead and get these...Squivers?  Get them over here where we can talk to them."


    "Yes, mum."

 Chapter 72: Whats an Escape Artist?

    The interrogation continues long enough that Gelly''s Aunty declares a meal break.  Tserri bring in trays, then quickly withdraw.


    Gelly''s Aunty gestures him over to her, then fusses over him possessively.  She straightens the wiry officer''s disheveled crest, ignoring the darkness creeping into his thin face.


    It is while they eat that I learn the names of those whom I must convince of my usefulness.  Of course, Grand Matron Bell is one with which I am quite familiar, though I learn that her given name is Maret.  The two males, both Ship-Fathers, answer to the names Tikov Yon and Mor Istan.  Tikov''s left hand is missing the last finger, while Mor Istan is the male with only wisps of hair rather than a full crest.


    Dunc the elder and the Ship-Fathers discuss shipping logistics to one side as they eat, leaving Gelly to his fate.


    His Aunty has the name of Aliah Drop.  I''m not sure how they determine which of their three parents'' names to give to the offspring, but Matron Drop shares her name with her nephew but not her son.  Another quirk of their strange culture, that, after having heard some of their racial history, seems to be an affectation that they adopt without completely understanding it themselves.


    "You really should stop running off, dear," Matron Drop admonishes her nephew.  He frowns as she attempts to wipe away a smudge on his face.  Her frown deepens when she realizes the smudge is yet another scar.


    "Aye."


    He doesn''t flinch as the elder lifts his arms, examining his new armor.  "You aren''t keeping this."


    Matron Bell gazes fixedly at the Weapons Operative with more than the suggestion of a hungry predator to her demeanor.  She picks at the fried redfin on her plate.  "Let him be, Aliah.  He was brought directly here when he arrived, and we''ve been poking and prodding him since."


    "Fine," concedes Matron Drop.  She returns to her seat.  "We''ll end this here for now.  When Jim gets back with these new aliens, we''ll resume."


    "Then if you''ll excuse me," Dunc Wollen says, wiping grease from his face, "I agreed to meet the medics here.  I need to thank them for all they''ve done for my family."


    He sounds sincere.  Even with his distaste for beings not of his species, he must be truly grateful to Zra and Pale, as well as the rest of the medical staff.  Supply-Master Wollen stands, offers his thanks for the meal, then exits the converted gaming hall.


    Tikov and Mor soon make excuses to leave as well.  Matron Drop is the last to leave, with Gelly trailing behind, still regaling her with his recent exploits.


    Matron Bell pushes her half-eaten meal away.  "So.  Denn.  I want to say, while there are none to take offense, that I don''t disapprove of you, exactly.  I''m well aware that you''ve been up here, you know."


    "I assumed as much, though I didn''t give it much thought.  You left us mostly alone, other than selling us enough food to keep the people alive."


    "Yes, I left you alone," she agrees, inclining her head slightly.  "It wasn''t any of us that informed Prime.  The Tserri bought crops from my farmers, bolstering our economy.  My influence has grown, thanks to Yosip''s good management.  If he wanted to keep his lucky power core, I wasn''t going to cut down the albulb tree."


    "The others, they too see benefit from Kalibern continuing to grow and prosper?"


    "They''ve been making a handsome profit, yes," she replies, waving one hand absently.  "Honus is no longer the gor speck it was, and I do not want it to wither now that it has begun to grow.  We''ve become a valuable market, and the four of them are already in the best position to exploit it."


    I assume it is the males she refers to.  As potential trading partners, it can only increase their earnings to have a rich market to sell to.  In a way, this is very familiar to me.  Controlling access to a key resource by limiting access points is standard procedure for our military.


    "But you have yet to rescind your ban upon Tserri landing on Honus," I accuse.


    She nods, not losing her composure.  "And it will remain in effect for as long as necessary.  Not that I dislike the Tserri, myself, but it''s bad for business to let attempted invaders wander the streets too freely.  When my citizens are able to forgive the Tserri, then we will see.  Don''t forget, I''m the only one that would accept the Tserri in their system at all."


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    After her capture during the initial invasion, it is a surprise to hear her say that.  "Really?  Forgive me for doubting you, but I had assumed you kept them off your world as some form of revenge."


    She laughs as she stands up.  "Not at all.  I believe you''re referring to the incident during the solar storm?  A few acted poorly, but most couldn''t stop apologizing to me.  I almost felt bad when Jim rescued me, seeing how disappointed they were."


    Matron Bell walks to the exit but turns to address me one final time.  "Don''t try anything stupid, please.  I''m leaving the doors locked, not that I think that could stop you.  You had better still be here when we return."


    With that final warning, she leaves, locking the door behind her.  I''m left alone sitting on the floor of a mostly empty room.


    While I have no plans to attempt an escape, still I do not wish to sit in silence.  With my wonderful, aimable cameras I survey the room.


    Thanks to this building''s original purpose being a community gathering place, there are many functional access points that would allow me to connect to the station''s communication grid.  I just have to get to them.


    From my place on the floor in the center of the room, any of the sockets is equally distant.  It should not matter which one I attempt to access.  This could work.


    I flex the clamps attached to my exterior, extending them to their maximum width.  I start to lean but remain upright.  Only one of my clamps touches the ground, and it lacks the strength to push me over.  I relax the clamp and rock back in the other direction.


    My case wobbles but remains upright.


    Again, I extend the clamp, then release it.  This time, however, I extend it again while I''m still moving.  I also extend my other clamps in an attempt to change my center of balance.  It fails to upend me.


    Repeated attempts bring me no closer to my goal.  I cease my struggles and ponder my situation.  My failure is not completely without result, I notice.  My casing has rotated almost a quarter of a full circle.


    A thought pops into my mind.  If I still had tendrils they would shudder with anticipation.  I want to try it.


    My reasoning is simple.  My case is made of an iron alloy.  The floor is ceramic, but the sockets I wish to access are made of a similar alloy to my housing.  If I were to magnetize the two pieces of metal, then manipulate their fields into touching, I should be drawn toward my goal without having to scuttle like a lowly vermin across the floor.


    I believe I can do it.  I simply have to generate electrons, then move them in the correct way to generate an electromagnetic field.  The only difficulty I foresee is preventing accidental harm to any unshielded electronics.  I''ll just have to be careful.


    I power the two fields and begin to shape them.  Charging the field around myself is no effort, but it is a strain to generate the one around the socket.  The fields need to be very powerful to extend far enough to overlap.  When they do, an impact is almost instant.


    Dust fills the air around me, blocking my cameras.  I wait for it to settle.  When I can see again, I see that I''m no closer to the wall than I was before.  The panel, however, is right against my case.  Crushing one of my cameras.


    I reabsorb the electrons, removing the magnetic charge that encases me.  The panel clatters to the tiles.  A ripped-out cord trails from the bent panel.  Sparks rain from the hole in the wall.  Thankfully there is nothing flammable nearby.


    Stunned, I can only watch, unable to bring myself to attempt anything more.  A radio emitter, now visible in the damaged wall, sends out a signal.  Bucket wants me to know that they detect damage in the room I occupy, and that I shouldn''t worry, they''re sending someone to make repairs.


    A technician arrives sometime later.  He stands still, staring at the hole for several breaths before entering.  The Tserri curses when he sees the extent of the mess but gets to work, muttering to himself.  I debate the value of alerting him to my presence while he clears the loose debris.


    His black coveralls are standard issue, as are the black and yellow belt and tool pouches.  The armbands he wears are not.  The special regulations regarding Tserri uniform allow for a broad range of customizations, and his armbands fall well within those bounds.  What catches my attention is the embroidered patterns, portraying scenes from the same stories that decorate the shrines of the local cult.


    The first describes Yosip bringing his people together and helping them build a new home.  Another shows him conquering an orange creature made of spikes.  I''m not sure what that one is supposed to represent.  The final two show the foods Kalibern offers them on one and the enemies they believe Yosip to have defeated on the other.


    He''s clearly a member of Yosip''s cult.  I worry that revealing myself to him would cause more mischief than it would prevent, and remain silent.  I do decide to reply to Bucket, at least.  I let him know that the worker is doing an admirable job, and should be looked at for further training.


    When the technician finishes replacing the panel, he turns to look around the room.  He quickly spots the broken panel lying next to me, and comes over to retrieve it.  Broken components litter the floor.  The technician gives them only a brief glance, heading past the smaller pieces and straight for the broken panel.


    He picks up the old panel but also grabs my casing.  It is dented, and one camera hangs limply, broken from its socket.   The Tserri turns me over in his hands to inspect the damage.  He sighs resignedly when he sees the wires dangling free from the connection port.


    The worker carries me and the rest of the debris outside of the community center, then places the lot outside the door.  He keeps cursing as he walks back inside, looking for a broom.  He shortly adds a full trash bag to the pile.


    I remain there until Matron Bell and the others return the next morning.  Next time, I''ll have to remember that I have a radio.

 Chapter 73: Whats a Star Witness?

    It is difficult to keep a secret for very long within the confines of Kalibern.  This private trial is no exception.


    The crowd that follows Matrons Bell and Drop is larger than before.  Ship-Father Tollek walks next to Mos Bruen with Somner Zek a respectful distance behind.  Eva Chel, wearing the uniform of a Ship-Mother, shakes her head in disapproval of my antics.


    Gelly laughs with Yosip about finding me in a rubbish heap.  I notice that Gelly is back in uniform, though Yosip now wears the black zelsilk slacks and loose vest of a Don, complete with protective runic arrays.  Tikov Yon and Mor Istan walk behind the pair, with an unknown officer behind them.  Gelly lifts me from the pile and carries me inside, enjoying himself immensely.


    Additional seats are brought in by workers who quietly sit at the back when they finish.  A few others enter as well and also sit where they can see.  Among them are a few faces I recognize, including Glian and his daughter.  Arriving together, Vren and Teah take seats after quickly greeting their superior officers.  Those two are not wearing uniforms today but matching dark green outfits with silver trim.  Both seem to have gained weight, especially Teah.  Her blouse stretches tightly over her swollen belly.


    It''s good to see that they''re eating well.  I''m not the only one to think so, as many of those in the room offer the pair congratulations or make comments upon Teah''s healthy appearance.


    The crowd falls silent when Matron Drop stands and glares imperiously down at me.


    "Prime has sent an investigator to aid us in this matter."  Her voice is thick with almost hidden contempt as she gestures at the strange officer.  "We had hoped to show him that you could be trusted, but you make this difficult for us."


    The Selber she indicates rises to his feet.  He''s shorter than average for his race, and bald as well.  His face bears the arrogant sneer of a youth who has never been challenged, and he stands leaning back, as if unconsciously distancing himself from those he finds lesser.


    When he speaks it is with a thick accent, blurring his words together in a way that makes everyone strain to listen.  "One of the few laws that the Coalition left us that we at Prime fully agree with states that any computer program powerful enough to emulate thought must be destroyed."  He pauses for breath, turning his gaze upon the crowd.  "They left us records of worlds destroyed by intelligent machines, and we''ve sent scouts out to prove those records correct.  Civilizations brought to ruin by their own creations.  It is imperative that we destroy this," and he waves dismissively at myself, "this abomination before it can work its harm here."


    The investigator flaps his arm at Jim, who stands with an affronted look upon his face.  "That''s right.  I believe that Investigator Martrim wants me to relate the other time we encountered an intelligent computer.  The Selberclaw was sent out to take readings of a strange signal one of our scientists had picked up."  He looks at Yosip, who nods silently.  "Yosip led the team that boarded the disabled vessel we found.  It had been drifting for a long time, lost all its atmosphere.  We had to pump it full of our emergency air."


    At a gesture from Jim, Yosip takes over the story.  "Inside we found the crew.  Dead.  Very dead.  Mummified bodies grinning at us, past their withered skins.  They kept robotic servants, and some of those were still active.  Tore the place apart for replacement parts.  One of them had installed a few too many processors or something, and started acting weird.  It had rebuilt itself into a killer.  Took out the team I was with and took my eye before we destroyed it."


    "When he dragged back the fallen operatives, we uncoupled with that wrecker," continues Jim.  "Melted it into a glowing cloud before we left."


    "This is the fate you can look forward to if we don''t destroy this device," declares Martrim.  He raises one arm, a victorious grin on his face.


    "It was one of the robot''s eyes mine was modeled after," adds Yosip, shocking the investigator.  "Some good did come from that encounter.  I also recovered a chunk of that thing''s remains, and our engineers started building prosthetics based on the schematics."


    I can already picture the Tserri carving a new tale into their shrines.  The audience murmurs quietly behind me.  A glare from Matron Drop silences them before she resumes the proceedings.  She nods to Martrim then leans back in her seat expectantly.


    He straightens his uniform, then continues.  "A great tragedy, tempered by the knowledge gained from it.  I regret your loss, Supply-Master.  But it was important to remind us all of that tragic episode before it can play out again."


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    The door of the community center opens.  In walk a pair of armed guards.  Behind them a team of Tserri laborers push carts covered with yellow sheets.  The workers exit quietly but the armed Selber remain near the door.


    Martrim walks to the front of the table, where the carts await him.  "During our investigation, we found these.  Casually stored in an out of the way storeroom."  With each hand he pulls the sheet off of a cart.


    Laying on the bare metal of one cart are dronefeathers, stripped of their camouflage.  The other holds a robot I recognize, finally in a completed form.  A gasp rises from the onlookers, most of whom are unaware of the devices'' existence.  Glian pretends to be shocked, but his daughter merely laughs.


    He removes a third and final sheet, revealing a new model of vacuum armor.  Black and silver, this suit is the same that Gelly had labored to create.  Surely, they aren''t blaming this monstrosity on me.


    The final reveal does not go as Martrim expects, instead drawing most of the attention.  A few of the Tserri in the crowd stand to better see the unusual armor.


    "Weapons!"  He shouts, trying to regain command of the situation.  "Devices capable of spying upon and destroying the citizens of our great Imperium.  Including this fine settlement and all of yourselves!"


    Laughter from the table of judgmental figures draws everyone''s attention.  Jim stands, shaking his head.  Martrim''s face grows dark with anger.


    "Thank you, Investigator, for so kindly gathering together this evidence," says Jim Tollek.  "Yes, Mos Denn commissioned these machines.  All of them with the backing of the local government.  These devices have proven invaluable in maintaining order and protecting both our officers and the citizens of this station.  That''s a new model of suit, to be sure, but we''ve been using them on the Resurgent for some time now.  The designs are already on Prime for the older model suits, as well."


    "But the robots-"


    Yosip stands and speaks right over Martrim.  "Have been part of our security for almost as long as the living members of the teams.  They were designed by members of our staff, under my supervision.  Fully within my rights as Supply-Master of Kalibern."


    "Thank you, everyone," declares Matron Bell.  "Why don''t you sit down and let us proceed."  She waits long enough for those standing to resume their places.  "Good.  We have another guest with us today, from at least as far away.  Mos Bruen, would you please?"


    All eyes in the room turn to regard my Bruen.  He rises from his uncomfortable position, squatting atop one of those unsuitable chairs, and slides gracefully to the center of the room.  His protective runes glitter under the artificial lighting, giving him a refined and elegant appearance.


    "Though I am unfamiliar with your customs, I believe that I understand the purpose of this gathering, as well as my expected place within it," he states with slow surety.  "I have been called here to bear witness for the being known as Mos Denn."  He takes a moment to organize his thoughts.  "I do not truly know if this is the same Mos Denn with which I am familiar, though there is much to suggest so.  It is true that I helped arrange the meeting between Denn and the one that transformed him into," he waves the upper tendrils on the side closest me in my direction.  "An intelligent artifact."


    No!  Bruen, no!  That isn''t what you''re supposed to say, not at all!


    "It is also against the laws of my kind to create such a thing.  It is with such understanding that I can agree with Investigator Martrim''s views."


    He stops and looks across the crowd.  Many conflicting emotions are visible upon the gathered faces.  Some seem shocked that he would agree with my destruction.  Others seem to agree.  Yet other faces display anger or sadness.  Those at the table carefully hide their emotions behind placid expressions of interest.  Martrim himself seems gleeful.


    "But I cannot recommend that Martrim''s advice be followed.  Though it shames me to admit it, this being raised me from my first conscious moments and I have come to care for him.  I have had to accept once the fact of his death, and do not wish to do so a second time."


    With no more to say, Bruen returns to his position at the table.  It might be my imagination, but the two Matrons look pleased.


    "Thank you, Mos Bruen," states Matron Bell.  "I believe that should address all the complaints from Prime and their representative.  Mos Denn was originally a person before being transferred into an artificial body.  Once there he proceeded to work toward the betterment of the new people he found himself with.  I know that I''m richer thanks to his presence in my system."


    Matron Drop adds her own opinions.  "This is the first time I''ve interacted with the scary computer monster, but I find him charming.  My son tells me that he has always acted loyally, though not always as expected.  My nephew has kept me informed about the ways that Mos Denn has used his influence, and I find no reason not to permit him to continue in his duties aboard Kalibern, assuming Matron Bell agrees?"


    The other nods, a faint smile upon her thin lips.  The Ship-Fathers at the table smile, no doubt anticipating further record profits.


    It isn''t all white sand and sunshine, however.  The ease with which they just maneuvered these proceedings only shows that this is all part of their plan.  They now have a public connection to myself and a debt which they can use to steer any actions I might attempt in the future.


    The meeting breaks up, and most of those attending drift off on other errands.  A few groups linger, speaking quietly while the somber mood lasts.  One such grouping includes the Matrons and my Bruen.


    Gelly, a smile upon his thin face, picks me up and carries me away.  "Let''s get ye back in yer socket, then."

 Chapter 74: Whats a Press Gang?

    Whatever Bruen and the Matrons are discussing will have to remain a mystery until I can review the video files.


    Gelly carries me through the halls of the converted warship.  We pass decorated doorways bearing the horizontal stripes and repeating swirls of the district.  Fresh paint on the walls brightens the place nicely.  Small patches of plants soften the harsh corners and straight edges around us.


    So many details the cameras cannot properly show me from their distant placement now press themselves upon my awareness.  The chalk drawings left by the children''s games on the ground.  Toys and packages tucked away in niches hidden from the lenses above. And the gentle hum of the station as it operates, hallways filled with laughter and conversation.


    It feels like passing through my home city on the way to my estates.


    I resolve to use the bipedal robot for more than just security purposes, once I have access to it.  It will be nice to see other parts of Kalibern from the perspective of its residents.


    Gelly''s personal aide, Drev, meets up with us after a few blocks and trails politely behind.  He carries a large bundle with him that bulges with several bulky items.


    From the residential district we move into a larger corridor.  We head in the direction of the primary docking tower, dodging through the crowd.


    We stop at a vendor stall offering drinks and Gelly purchases Drev and himself a celebratory drink.  Drev draws a few stares as they drink, but the Tserri here are used to strange sights and leave the pair alone.


    "This is your home, sir?"  Drev takes a sip of the albulb juice.  From the way he handles the glass, I cannot think he trusts the blue liquid.  Its color is distressingly close to that of blood.


    "Aye, this and places like it," responds Gelly after wiping juice from his lips.  "But I''ll no be stayin''.  Now that Jim knows I''m alive it''s back to work.  If ye want to keep followin'' me, ye need to enlist."


    "I think that can be arranged, sir."  Drev returns his partially consumed drink to the vendor and the two continue.


    They only get a few blocks further when an alarm rings out.  An announcement from speakers hidden in the walls plays out.


    "All pilots report to your hangars.  A portal has opened inside one of the small farming communities on Honus.  Gelly, get your ass to the Resurgent," Jim''s voice echoes through the halls.


    "What about me?  I need to get back to work," I complain.


    "This is more important," responds Gelly shortly.  "The station''ll survive another few days without ye."


    Gelly races to the docking tower, unwilling to waste time in debate.  Civilians clear a path for him and Drev as they run.


    At the airlock leading into the Resurgent stands Mos Bruen with his dust eater and four soldiers.  The soldiers carry with them the bipedal robot as well as the stripped down dronefeather.  Gelly slaps the general on his carapace and we all proceed onto the ship.


    The pilot launches the ship as soon as the airlock finishes decoupling.  Jim meets us in the hangar, looking distracted.  He taps frantically at a comm tablet, muttering to himself as he works.  He looks up from the device long enough to address Gelly.


    "If we can get your group down there fast enough, we might be able to save a few lives.  Hopefully they evacuated in time, but I''d rather be sure before we drop bombs on someone that managed to hide out but didn''t get far enough away."


    "We cannot let them spread," confirms Mos Bruen.  "Send another ship back to pick up Don Wikna and another band of soldiers.  They can meet us on the ground."


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    While they discuss the plan, Gelly carries me over to the powered down robot.  He starts to attach my travel case to the back of the automaton, but I object.


    "Do ye no want a body, Denn?"


    "These bodies were not designed for direct interface," I explain patiently.  "Carrying around the additional weight of the case would also ruin the device''s balance."


    "That may be so, but we can no afford no to use it."  His grip tightens upon my case.  "Even one more to help us might be the difference between winnin'' or dyin''."


    "These drones are designed for remote operation.  If you can convince Jim to install me in the Resurgent, not only will I be able to assist by operating both drones, but we''ll be able to arrive fractionally quicker."


    Gelly dashes back to the Ship-Father and explains the idea briefly.   A frightening smile creeps onto Jim''s face.  He glances down at the comm tablet in his hands, chuckles in a rather disturbing fashion, and hurls the thing against a wall.


    "That would save us a significant amount of time," admits the Ship-Father, taking off toward the command room.  "We''re still waiting on Ship-Mother Chel to agree to send us the station core.  Let ''em keep it," he crows.  "Hurry, now!"


    Gelly runs after, laughing quietly at his cousin''s antics.  Crewmembers duck out of the two officers'' way, clinging to the corridor walls or slipping into nearby doorways to avoid collision.  It isn''t long before they place me in the socket set into the command chair.


    Once the panel snaps shut, I once more integrate with the ship.  Systems both familiar and new await my commands.  I run a quick systems check, to determine how much has changed.  Surprisingly, the auto-distillery is still functioning smoothly.  I notice a slight surplus in the officers'' lounge.


    The phrool stink from one of Gelly''s training sessions still occupies the containment canister in the locked refrigeration unit.


    "Ship-Father, with your permission I''d like to familiarize myself with the operation of the new drone before someone''s life is at risk.  Would you alert the crew not to be alarmed if they see it wandering the corridors, please?"


    Jim nods and gestures to one of his officers, Diplomatic Lead Marta Spere.  She makes the short announcement over the intercom system.  "Go ahead," Jim says casually.  "But make it quick.  We need that robot in the shuttle with the rest of the team before we reach Honus."


    I agree to his terms, not having much choice, and remotely activate the bipedal drone.  It uses the same command codes that allow me to access the cameras of any vacuum armor suits within range, a design feature I must remember to praise Bucket for insisting upon.


    The precision machined limbs of the robot are a delight to operate.  The thing functions smoothly as an extension of my systems, responding almost instantly to any commands I send it.  I''m careful to limit the speed at which it moves, not wishing to crush any unaware crewmember.  Controlling both it and the dronefeather is a challenge, but the smaller automaton is capable of some minor independent actions.


    Its purpose as a mobile hidden spy camera means that the dronefeather comes programmed with the ability to follow a designated target from a safe distance.  Again, courtesy of Bucket.  I designate the robot as the dronefeather''s target.  Protocols activate and the flying device begins circling the bipedal one.


    The mental burden lifts and I can fully concentrate upon operating the robot.  The device reminds me of a battleshell.  Mindless and completely inert when left alone, it requires an operator, me, to be of any use at all.  Much like those thaumatist operators, who often grow irrationally attached to their ''shells, I decide to give my tool a name.


    It is something of a tradition to give these ''shells the name of a general fallen in battle.  We know that the dust eaters do so as a jest, and yet Mos look kindly upon it.  I name it after one of my elder siblings; Minn.  She had always seemed so imposing, during my youth.


    Minn goes on a quick tour of the Resurgent, stopping to pick up a few pieces of equipment necessary for our mission.  A weapons locker provides Minn with a pistol.  Specifically, a SAm33 with its bulky triple-barreled design.  I also procure enough ammunition to keep Gelly happy.


    With ample time remaining, I send Minn to join Bruen and Gelly in the shuttle.  On its way in Minn passes an officer, who I recognize from the updated duty roster.  I greet Second Operative Nett Zarr, who bears a stricken expression upon his face.  The gray officer absently returns my greeting and exits the hangar, a metallic thud for every other footstep.  The robot continues on to the shuttle.


    Gelly accepts the cartridges from Minn with a grateful nod.  The soldiers make room for Minn to join them, with the dronefeather perching upon its shoulder.  The shuttle is cramped with so many inside, but we will not be there for long.


    At Jim''s command, I open the hangar.  Gelly pilots the shuttle out and I close it behind him.


    "Let me know when they land," orders Jim.  "I''d like to see how Gel does this."  He lowers his voice so that his officers cannot hear him, "It will be good training material, if we can edit out any buffoonery from my cousin."


    Jim then stands and, with a few final commands to his officers, enters the seclusion of his cabin for a much needed rest.

 Chapter 75: Whats a Silver Lining?

    The second ship arrives while we''re busy scouting the farmlands.  That isn''t a problem, because Somner Zek waits at the shuttle while the rest of us patrol in two teams.


    Minn, my robotic avatar, is on Don Gelly''s team, with Drev and one other soldier, Lumi.  Mos Bruen leads the other three soldiers on a different section of the sweep pattern.  Designating Bruen as my dronefeather''s surveillance target should allow me to monitor their progress as well.


    Jim is fast asleep, snoring in his cabin.


    I''ll have to show him the more interesting parts when he wakes up.  I already know that he''ll want as many images of the native flora as possible, so I have Minn use every wavelength at its disposal to observe and record.


    If Bruen''s team comes across any survivors, they''re supposed to wait for the other team to get to them.  Gelly will make a better spokesperson for the operation than an unfamiliar alien race or an intimidating robotic imitation of one of their own kind.


    Drev is the first to locate a farmer, however.  The rest of us follow the screamed threats to where a married trio stand aggressively around Gelly''s aide.  The trio hold rusting projectile weapons, each with three wide barrels, and their aim rests steadily upon Drev.


    Behind the farmers huddle their offspring.  The youngest cries that it hates squivers, ''with all their yucky eyes.''


    "Calm ye down, now," offers Gelly, approaching with his empty hands raised above his head.  One of the guns, held by an oversized male, swivels in his direction.  "The overgrown snack there''s Drev, and he works for me."


    The harried looking survivors calm somewhat at hearing his speech.


    "You''re not with those monsters, then," the smaller male said with relief.  "The dragged Billi and her lot away while we was fetching the bells."  The farmer lowered his brass-barreled rifle, a slightly embarrassed look upon his dirty face.


    "Were no yer fault," Gelly reassures him, then turns to look at the rest of the farmer''s family.  "But it is no safe here.  We''ve a small craft, down the road.  It''ll be a tad tight with all ''o ye, but ye''ll fit.  Drev, take these back and give ''em a lift, eh?"


    Daringly, Drev asks, "To the city?"


    At Gelly''s absent nod of affirmation, Drev begins his assigned task.  The farmers cast questioning glances at Gelly and myself, but the children seem eager to play with the ''jump-rope-buddy'' that they were so afraid of earlier.


    The remaining soldier and I follow Gelly as we search the next farmhouse.  Empty, as most are, we leave it behind and continue our search.  Four houses later the signal from the dronefeather increases in priority.  Bruen has found another group of survivors.


    Using the Resurgent''s powerful scanning equipment, I locate the source of the signal and inform Gelly what they''ve found.  He slaps Minn on the back, smiling broadly.  I also take the time to send a signal from the Resurgent to its shuttle, letting Drev know to wait for a second group.


    "Good stuff.  I were afraid we''d be too late to save anyone."


    We change course and head toward Bruen''s location.  He waits with his squad outside of a large farmhouse that, unlike the neighbors, has lights on inside.  Movement can be glimpsed through the small square windows set low to the ground.


    "Lumi, stay with the others.  Me and Denn''ll talk to these folk," orders Gelly.  "Until then, ye lot need to stay hidden."


    When he''s sure that the soldier understands his commands, Gelly walks toward the house.  He keeps his hands visible, though he uses one of them to signal me to follow.  I let him get a few steps ahead before I have Minn follow.  If the plan is to avoid frightening the locals, it''s best that they see Gelly before Minn.


    The house, like the others around us, is set into the ground.  A ramp leads down to the entrance.  Windows that seem low from the outside are mounted high in the interior walls.  Gelly walks with seeming unconcern down the entrance ramp and knocks upon the wooden door.


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    I have Minn wait at ground level outside.  The sunset is starting, and I would very much like to see it for myself.  The orb of white light dips until it filters all at once through the crystalline groundcover.  White light flares, filling that entire half of the sky.  Around it dance rainbows that flicker in an out of visibility.


    Right at the peak of the natural display, Gelly shouts and fires his twenty-seven.  The boom echoes through the interior of the house, but it doesn''t hide the shrieks from within.  I wrench Minn toward the front door in time to see Gelly disappear inside.


    Another shot rings out and one of the windows shatters.  Minn''s hands close around the bulky pistol as it charges forward at my command.  Minn enters the dwelling and reveals carnage.


    The farmers, a young trio, lay dead and half consumed to one side.  A group of tribals, or what remains of them, stagger over the gnawed upon remains, blood dripping from their faces and claws.


    Minn''s pistol isn''t as powerful as Gelly''s rifle, but at this close range it is no less lethal.  My skill with the weapon is lacking, but the thirty-three holds enough ammunition to last the length of the encounter.


    I hesitate to call it a fight.  Unarmed and blood crazed savages against trained warriors.  The outcome is never in doubt, only the specifics.  We search each room, and slaughter all the tribals that we find.


    We find the last of the tribals, a Thrughn female, in the cellar.  An injured farmer, possibly one of the neighbors, keeps it at bay from underneath a fallen shelving unit.  The farmer swings a farming tool at the thick body of the tribal, scoring shallow scratches.  The curving blade on the end shines with the tribal''s blood.


    The Thrughn''s short arms cannot reach the farmer and her bulk is too great to go in after him.  The Thrughn never more than looks at the sacks of supplies pinning the shelf in place.  Its attempts to reach the frightened local are nearly mindless, though the Thrughn were once great inventors and explorers.


    Gelly wastes no time.  "Get down," he shouts before firing.  The shot rips the tribal''s wrinkly ochre flesh to strings of wet red and white.  Gore plasters the wall and splashes the farmer.  The creature''s stubby legs collapse, dropping what''s left of it to the floor.  It''s blood flows along gaps in the bricks that make up the floor of the cellar.


    With mechanical strength, Minn dislodges the fallen shelving.  The blood splattered farmer recoils when it sees Minn and swings his tool wildly.  I do not allow the automaton to react beyond bracing its legs for impact.  The farming tool collides with Minn''s left arm.  It scratches the finish, but in no way impairs the function of the arm.


    "Easy, now," says Gelly in a low and soothing voice as he walks up.  "The robot''s no goin'' to hurt ye.  Ye need to come with us, and get to someplace safe."


    The farmer hesitates at first.  A single glance at the dead Thrughn is enough to make Gelly''s point.  "Y-you''re right.  It isn''t safe here."


    "Denn, I need ye to escort him back to the landing site," orders Gelly.  "You''ll know if we need to change the plan," he adds, jerking his head at the dronefeather circling above.


    The farmer and I head out, leaving Gelly to join with Bruen''s group in the search for more people that didn''t evacuate in time.  The frightened survivor follows me hesitantly, constantly changing the direction in which it watches.  He tries to check each possible angle for danger at once and fails miserably.  If he were blessed with the nine eyes that Bruen and the soldiers were hatched with, rather than his unimpressive pair, he would have no need to turn his head.


    Still, his vigilance is commendable.  While we walk, I ask him questions about his profession.  I hope to keep his mind occupied with thoughts of happier times.


    "Feeder grass is just what the city types call it," responds Lentor, the blood-soaked farmer, to a polite query.  "The stuff you''re talkin'' ''bout''s likely blue falfa."


    He shrugs, as if that were a forgone conclusion.  Without needing to be prompted, he points to the field on our left.


    "See that?  That''s my own strain.  Grows bigger, more nutriments," brags Lentor, scratching dried blood from his face.  "The grubs don''t care if the color''s a bit off, blind as they are."


    Upon closer inspection I see that the field indeed contains feeder grass.  The size and color, more brown than green, makes it look like a different but related crop.  He notices the way Minn''s lenses focus upon the crop and chuckles.


    "The lower gravity helps the plants, but the grubs can''t stand it," he admits ruefully.  "So the plan was to seed down here, then sell the falfa up to the furballs."  At mention of his former future plans, his face falls slack, as does his posture.


    "There are a few new buyers in the system," I say quickly, hoping to recover Lentor''s jovial spirit.  "An exchange rate can be worked out, but I''m sure they''d adore gor grubs."  He looks at me, thoughts churning, so I continue hurriedly.  "A fresh import like that could be a very profitable commodity.  With the right support, you could get exclusive rights to sell your improved falfa."


    He nods, already regaining his cheer.  "And a new market wouldn''t know the difference.  Get right used to the brown falfa.  Yeah.  Even after the contract expires, they''d probably prefer mine, anyway."


    "No doubt."


    Lentor looks at me, squinting one eye suspiciously.  "And who would I need to talk to ''bout this support?"


    Before I can answer we''re bathed in a wave of hot, ozone-rich air.  The shuttle lands tens of ubits away.  Dangerously close, perhaps.  I turn quickly to check, but Lentor is fine.  I turn back to the shuttle in time to see the door open.


    First Somner Zek and then Drev emerge from the small vessel.  With them are Don Wikna and three more soldiers.  A dark green-plumed aviaforme remains inside when the door shuts.


    "Wonderful.  Let me introduce you."

 Chapter 76: Whats a Scorched Earth Policy?

    Chapter 76:  What''s a Scorched Earth Policy?


    Ship-Father Tollek awakens in a foul mood.  Anyone would be, when they must sacrifice their precious few moments of rest to return to work.  It is with this in mind that I overlook the way he grumbles on his way to his command seat and the obvious wrinkles and food stains upon his uniform.


    He takes his seat then glares blearily around the command room.  When the officers currently at the duty stations flinch, he sighs and leans back.  Jim keeps his eyes on the ceiling while he forces his face into a neutral expression.


    "How bad is it, then?"


    Marta Spere answers crisply, "The teams have located more than twenty survivors scattered around the region that missed evacuation for one reason or another."  She frowns before adding, "They''ve also reported finding the remains of as many more, though not all have been identified."


    Jim grunts before replying coldly, "Leave that for Matron Bell to sort out.  Any casualties?"


    "No sir," responds Nett from the weapon controls.  "Nothing beyond a few cuts and bites."


    Nobody sees any reason to mention the attacks against Minn.  Some of the farmers, fearing for their lives, fail to see the ''shell as an ally.  No real harm, merely cosmetic damage, luckily.  Their rifles, though fierce in appearance, contain nowhere near the power to harm it.


    "Good.  How''s their progress?"


    "Over seventy percent scouted."  I put a map of the local region on the view screen and highlight the unexplored area in red.  "Here''s the location of the portal."  A black swirl, off center to the north, joins the display.  Green triangles represent the members of the ground teams, moving around the east and west of the portal.


    The Ship-Father yawns widely.  "Good enough.  We''ll give them a little more time to finish but I want those bombs prepped."


    Nett signals his understanding and bends over his control panel.  His face sets in lines of concentration.


    Understandable.  Those particular weapons are capable of enough devastation to sunder an active portal.  The amount of explosive energy released, according to damage projection models, should leave a crater large enough to be seen from Kalibern.  It almost seems excessive, until I weigh the ecological damage against an endless stream of mind destroying monsters.  Leaving it intact would be the more destructive choice.


    The Selberfeld Imperium lacks any way to send troops through the portal to establish a defensible position.  Anyone that gets too close to one of the chieftains will join their tribe.  That, in my experience, tends to have a compounding effect.  The average intelligent being is often hesitant to kill tribals that were once friends or family, at the cost of their own lives.


    "Any problems from the Matron?"


    Jim sweeps his gaze across the assembled officers.  None are eager to speak, but when the Ship-Father begins drumming his fingers against the command seat, Marta releases her breathe.


    "Well, that''s the thing, sir," she begins.  Her eyes dart around the room, seeking aide and finding none.  "She''s furious, which we all expected.  But..."


    "But?"


    "It seems she wanted to place Joa as leader of the new farming communities springing up at the invasion point."


    Jim shrugs.  "Not my problem."


    "Yeah, but that''s just the start.  She''s contacted me no less than eight times, demanding that we finish removing the aliens from her world," finishes Marta in a rush.


    Jim cannot contain a groan.  The low sound rolls across the command room almost visibly.  Marta winces, no doubt interpreting his response as a criticism against herself.


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    Tonn Rojer, here from the medical facility to provide his expert guidance in case the ground team requires assistance, laughs sardonically.  "Which ones?"


    "Both," admits Marta.  "The survivors are quite traumatized, sir.  The Squivers, helpful as they''ve been, just look like more tribals to the farmers."


    "Sadly, she''s correct, sir," I add.  "If they were better trained with their rifles, we might have lost people.  As it is, there were a number of near misses."


    "Hmmm.  We can''t afford to send anyone else."  Jim scrubs his hand across his face, then takes a deep breath.  "Nett?"


    "Ready and awaiting fire orders."


    "Good.  Marta, get in contact with Matron Bell.  Let her know our progress," he pauses.  Jim''s face sets firmly.  "I also need confirmation that all her people are in shelter.  Anyone outside is not going to enjoy the shockwave."


    The bombs he refers to are unfamiliar to me.  He doesn''t mean the missiles or even the heavy beam cannon.  I run through the list of new equipment and find something interesting.  Under a security restriction that would keep out most lower ranking officers, I find the specifications of the new weapons.


    Utilizing properties of fundamental particles normally dormant, the Density line of weaponry causes a powerful chain reaction that converts subatomic particles within regular matter into antimatter.  The process is incredibly energy intensive but equally destructive.  Too expensive for frequent deployment, these devices are reserved for the most important of tasks.  As the only known way to permanently seal a tribal incursion, Density bombs are kept under strict control upon Prime.


    The radiation resulting from matter and antimatter coming into contact, according to operating instructions attached to the main file, tends to be less dangerous than the explosive force.  For reasons that the file doesn''t explain, if used directly on a portal the radioactive particles are absorbed by the distortion, closing it violently.


    And there are two of them, armed, sitting in the ship.


    The maintenance logs give a date of installation partway into the ship''s mission in search of the rumored drone world.  While not enough to destroy such a large threat completely, two of them are more than adequate for the current task.  I''m eager to be rid of them.


    Tense quiet fills the air.  Nett, his face almost white, bears the most pressure.  It is he who will release the Density bombs.  The weight of responsibility sits heavily upon him.  A great honor, one he clearly feels unworthy of.  I have every confidence in him.


    The Ship-Father paces, unwilling to sit and watch while lives are at risk but unable to do anything more.  Each incoming report from the ground teams only increases his stress.  More corpses are being found.  Two more survivors, but one of the soldiers loses a tentacle and several tendrils.


    On the ground I help, fighting with Minn and keeping watch with the dronefeather.  The ''shell is nearly tireless, limited only by its remaining charge.  As Minn escorts those we rescue it is able to recharge at the shuttle each time.  Using thermal filters on its cameras, I''m able to operate it safely without using a light source that might attract attention.


    Weary, Gelly finally calls an end to the search.  No more houses remain to search, and the entire team is covered in minor cuts and a few acid burns from a rampaging Elvilvi.


    "I told ye that beastie were trouble," admonishes Gelly.  "They look slow but we lost half me tribe before we finally took the shell-back world.  Acid from both feedin'' stalks."


    The soldier doesn''t respond beyond a weak wave of her remaining upper tendrils.  Somner Zek works over the wounded soldier, deep in concentration.  The tendrils might be able to grow back, but there is no hope for her missing tentacle.  Eight is still sufficient for regular movement, but she''s no longer fit for battle.


    "Leave Est be," orders Mos Bruen.  "She''s in no state to reply."


    The soldier, Est, should be sent back to Homeworld.  Afterwards, she can expect to live the rest of her life in relative comfort, though without any further hope of advancement.  Crippling injuries like hers, while fully repairable with proper access to thaumatists, often leave behind mental scars among the casteless.  Not to mention the sheer expense, well beyond what a casteless member of our society would be unable to afford.


    For this reason only Mos are given the most advanced treatments.  The effort it would take to fully heal every wounded soldier would become an unbearable burden to the Empire.  Not just the expense of physical treatment, but also the rehabilitation necessary for the less privileged to adjust to their new circumstances.


    The soldier is stable, no longer in any danger of bleeding out.  I don''t understand why Bruen does not dismiss the dust eater.  Surely her efforts could be better spent elsewhere, perhaps repairing the spears of those soldiers still able to do battle.


    "Give me time," complains Zek.  "Est is young, as yet.  I can fix her."


    Bruen signals acceptance of her opinion.  Gelly scoffs, not without cause.


    "Yer good, but no that good," he grouses quietly.  I can only agree with him.  He huffs but leaves her to her work.  "Alright, Denn, how far do we need to go to be safe from the blast?"


    I update his comm tablet with the projected radius of the two Density bombs.  "We''re to let Jim know when we''re well clear.  Unfortunately, he is only willing to give us until dawn before he launches the bombs regardless."


    "Aye," responds Gelly casually.  "Figure''s that Matron Bell does no like havin'' Squivers here any more than she cared for the tribals."

 Chapter 77: Whats the Butchers Bill?

    Est wraps her remaining tendrils tightly across the robotic form of my ''shell.  Gelly, with more care than he shows for most tasks, carefully lifts her tentacles up off the ground.  The light gravity of this world, less than both my home world and the station, makes the task trivial.


    Drev quickly slides a door, salvage from one of the soon to be atomized farmhouses, underneath the woozy soldier.  We lower her down onto it, evincing only muted groans from Est.  She shows remarkable self-control, or perhaps Zek might be responsible.  I suspect drugs, given the slackness of her pedipalps and overall disconnect she displays.


    The barely lucid soldier doesn''t resist as her comrades strap her in place.  When she''s secure Gelly and two soldiers lift her from the ground.  Everyone else spreads out around them, weapons pointed outward from the loosely circular formation.  At Bruen''s signal they set off at a quick march.


    I inform the Ship-Father that the ground team has begun their withdrawal, and he smiles.


    "Finally.  Marta, let the Matron know."  He turns to address Vren, back at his duty station.  "I want your people to put together a little goodwill package.  Get the video from Mos Denn, edit it to make the Squivers look good.  If you have any problems, Marta''s well trained to help, but I need her keeping Matron Bell happy."


    Vren nods and grabs a tablet.  I transfer the appropriate data files to it for him while he stands up.  The silver trim on his purple armor gleams as he turns to leave the command room.  No doubt in search of a quiet place to call Teah.  She remains on Kalibern, on medical leave.


    An alarmed cry from Don Wikna, down on Honus, draws my attention back to the dronefeather.  A large force of tribals is converging with the team, only just now visible to the flying drone''s mechanical senses.


    Bruen shouts a series of orders to his command.  They lower the wounded Est to the ground and form two lines in front of her.  Wikna hangs back behind the impromptu formation as well.  I switch to controlling Minn, and from its place in the second line I watch as the enemy draws closer.


    Furious, Gelly yells, "There''s a chief with ''em!"


    Yes, the blubbery form is just barely visible in the back of the oncoming tribe.  Behind bodies of many colors and forms, the glowing marks upon its yellow flesh makes it stand out from the menagerie of its thralls.  The horrible maw in its lower torso snaps and drools as the thing croons its awful double noted cry.


    "Fire!"


    At Bruen''s order, those of us in the second row begin shooting.  As many bodies as there are coming at us, every shot is a hit.  Even Drev, wielding a rifle recovered from an abandoned farm, scores many lethal hits with his antiquated firearm.  Aliens drop, torn or burning, and more rush forth to take their place.


    We retreat slowly, buying time before the advantage of range is completely lost.  Wikna drags the wounded soldier with Zek''s aid, keeping her from being trampled.  The enemy wounded receive no such consideration.  Their tribemates make no effort to avoid their fallen.  From above, the dronefeather records images of the chieftain snatching up a dying Ilvaran up and stuffing the orange scaled being into its maw.


    Our ammunition runs out, one weapon at a time, until only Gelly remains firing.  The remaining tribals, at least fifty of the savages, scream their chief''s rage as they finally get within claw''s reach of us.


    We holster our guns and draw our melee weapons even as the front row begins stabbing.  So many are the enemy that they flow around the sharp and deadly wall of spears like an incoming tide.  I have Minn step to intercept a short red skinned creature before it could sink its long fangs into Wikna.


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    They close around my robot''s leg instead and snap.  The thing''s eyes widen from the pain, but it doesn''t let go.  Clumsily, I flail at it with the ''shell''s ungainly arms.  Minn''s left fist crushes the thick skull of the savage with industrial force.


    Its body falls twitching to the ground.  Behind it another with twice the height awaits.  Standing a half ubit taller than Gelly, this creature''s fang filled mouth opens and it screeches in rage.  It snaps at Minn and the ''shell is too slow to dodge.  I''m helpless to stop the enraged alien from latching onto my robot and ripping one of its arms free in a shower of sparks and hydraulic fluid.


    It grabs the other arm and begins to yank.  The pressure snaps one of the struts at Minn''s shoulder, but the pain that the creature wishes to inflict does not manifest.  It wastes its efforts on cruelty, tormenting a device that only moves because of arcane physics and mechanical mastery.  Another support tears loose.


    Suddenly the thing gasps.  Its hands fall limply from Minn''s mangled form before it drops to the ground.  Drev pulls free his spear and turns to fight another tribal.


    I force Minn to stand but its balance is badly impaired.  Looking around, I can see that we''re surrounded.  The chief, an especially large specimen covered in thick scars, lumbers closer until it towers over the cluster of defenders.  It roars in its bestial double pitched language and the surrounding tribe presses even harder.  Organic runes glow upon the creature''s unhealthy yellow hide.


    A soldier falls and is dragged back.  His fellows try but fail to wrest him from the grasp of the tribals but dare not risk their own lives for one that is already as good as dead.  The captured soldier bleeds blue from a deep gash in his carapace that he is not likely to survive.  The many limbs of the tribe push their captive to the chief.  The soldier dies bravely, never crying out as the monster bites into him.


    An explosion from Minn''s side pushes everyone away.  From above, I see that the spear Bruen holds smokes in his tendrils and stands over the dismembered corpse of a particularly tough-skinned tribal.  The tip of his spear is gone and cracks run through the runed head.  Its glow becomes dangerously dark.  Bruen heaves it into the mass of enemy bodies before the unstable reaction can occur.


    The detonation clears a large area by sending bodies both living and dead high into the air.


    "This way!"  Bruen shouts into the ringing stillness of the aftermath.  Bodies and limbs rain down upon the stunned tribe.  The soldiers follow him as he rushes into the opening.  A severed claw bounces from Minn''s shoulder.


    Behind them Zek and Wikna drag the babbling Est through the gore.  I try to make Minn follow, but it is too damaged.  It can only limp slowly behind the others.


    The tribe recovers as the last of the bloody chunks fall.  The chief roars again and they rush after us.  The furthest are over a hundred ubits away and gaining distance.  Closest is Minn and they close upon the damaged ''shell quickly.  It too is passed back to feed the ravenous chieftain.


    Through cracked lenses I watch as the mechanical body is stuffed into the gaping mouth of the monstrous chieftain.  It crunches down, hard.  Wires sever and struts snap in half.  This is just how my sister, the original Minn, had perished.


    I watch from above as it stuffs the rest of the destroyed device into its uncaring maw.  From the dronefeather''s cameras I''m able to see the moment that the canister of phrool stink bursts.  Tribals fall writhing to the ground even before the cloud of irritant can reach them.


    A body falls close enough to brush its long snout against one of Wikna''s taloned feet.  She kicks it away and keeps dragging.


    The maddened chieftain claws bloody craters in its own flesh, screaming in rage and pain.  Gibbets of fatty flesh fly through the air.  I switch the dronefeather''s designated target to Wikna, and the mechanical creature flies off.  Burbling screams echo across the fields, but each scream is weaker until the last can only be described as a dying gasp.


    "Horrible way to die," comments Jim.


    "Indeed," I respond and pause the display.  "They''re loading into the shuttles now."


    "Good.  Nett, get ready.  Drop those things as soon as our people are out of the atmosphere."


    "Understood, sir," replies the Second Operative grimly.  "Dropping now."


    I switch the display to a view of the planet from above.  First one, then another giant flash of light ripples across a tiny portion of the plains.  Both shuttles are visible as they fly over the explosion as black dots upon the white bubble.


    "Tonn, they''re going to need you at the hangar," commands Jim.  "And stop by the officers'' lounge on your way.  They''ll be happier to see you if you bring them a reward for their hard work, I think."


    "Yessir," replies the medic with a reserved smile.

 Chapter 78: Whats a Third-Degree Burn?

    A steady stream of traffic flows between the planet below and the station hanging far above.  Medical ships take priority, other vessels giving wide clearance to the fast-moving emergency transports.  Scorches from lightning strikes mar many of the painted hulls.


    Storms wrack the surface of Honus.  Atmospheric systems will recover, eventually, but they will settle into new patterns.  The hospitals of Centra City cannot handle the overflow of patients.  So many suffer from the massive explosion, whether from ruptured ears that bleed and cause the victim to stagger uncontrollably or broken limbs from being thrown about by the unprecedented ferocity of these storms.  Many farmers, thinking themselves save, suffer from burns inflicted during the intense flash.


    Ship-Father Tollek takes an active role in this emergency.  His hangar is serving as a treatment center, where Tonn Rojer works tirelessly.  Many members of the crew take this opportunity to train with medical equipment, serving as nurses for the duration.


    I cannot help but notice that the wounded farmers and city dwellers alike do not refuse treatment from the Tserri nurses.  A pity that they do not want these same volunteers to land where they could offer their aid more efficiently.  Well, attitudes are softening, at least.


    Gelen''s fleet of rock chewers make up a reasonable fraction of the traffic as well.  The alloys they carry are in high demand currently.  There''s talk of building a shipyard in the smoldering crater, once it cools down.  That project will devour metals at a rate the free fleet will struggle to match with their current rate of production.  While they are getting more proficient, they suffer from frequent injury.


    Some traffic makes its way to the edges of the system.  Construction crews, diplomats, merchants of course, and even a few tourists.  Work is underway to construct a proper docking port around the outside of the irregularly shaped airlock.


    "Seen us some mighty interestin'' sights, while we were away," brags Weapon Operative Gelly Drop.  He leans back in his chair, boots up on the table.


    The others with him, his cousin Jim Tollek and Defense Operative Vren nod encouragingly.  The three are alone in the officers'' lounge, exchanging stories over drinks.  Juice.  They''re due to return to duty soon enough.


    "They''ve got a base set up underground.  Walked through it for days without ever seein'' the sky.  Told me the ground was molten, at the surface.  Whole place riddled with portals," Gelly explains.  He takes a drink of his juice.  "Fought over that one for longer than they can remember, they said."


    "Caves," Vren says, raising his own glass.  "Not too different than living on a ship."


    "Aye," agrees Gelly.  "With checkpoints set up ever so far.  Nice and warm, at least."


    "We found a real hot one, ourselves," Jim points out.  "Right, Vren?"


    Vren sets his glass down with a grin.  "The biofactory?  Almost wanted to shave off my fur, it was so humid.  I had to replace the inside of my suit, to remove the smell."


    "Those things made one nasty mess when we killed them," laughed Jim.


    "The green ones were the worst of the horrors there.  What kind of creature evolves blood that expands and hardens as it dries?"


    The Tserri officer shudders.  The other two laugh at his discomfort, Gelly the more heartily.  Jim runs a hand absently through his crest.


    "Those were pretty bad," admits Jim.  "But at least I could look at them.  The ones with the legs..."


    Gelly slaps his cousin on the shoulder.  "Legs are no so bad.  Did ye see the videos from inside the sphere?"


    "Hm?  Oh, from Han''s suit?  Sure," Jim says distractedly.  Still thinking of the horrors of this biofactory, undoubtedly.  "Weird."


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    "Tserri, but not," muses Vren.  "Did the science teams ever figure out the original purpose of that installation?"


    Shrugging, Gelly takes another drink before answering.  "No.  The Squivers have some secret, but I''ve no pried."


    "Maybe you should," Jim says pointedly.  "They''ve given you some kind of honorary title, use it."


    "Yer talkin'' to Don Gelly, then," smirks the wiry officer.  "Mayhap ye should show some respect, eh."


    Vren barks out a harsh laugh.  "Honored Don, please use your influence and prestige to enlighten us humble savages."


    "Fine," sighs Gelly.  "But first, somethin'' else me and the rock been thinkin'' ''bout.  Inside the sphere, we found the remains of a shuttle.  I dug around a bit, and the codes match with the one ye traded for our Denn, Jim."


    "Really?  I''ve read the reports from Yosip," counters Jim.  "But he made no mention of the shuttle.  Hmm.  That alien claimed to have made a power core.  It was only desperation that made me believe, but I''m glad I did."  His face lights with inspiration.  "Did anyone think to show one of our engineers those crystals?"


    "Well," admits Vren slowly.  "I gave a dark green shard to Teah.  I showed it to Terla first, to make sure it wouldn''t harm them."  He looks uncomfortable.  His eyes dart from one of his companions to the other and back, again and again.


    Jim finishes his drink and stands up.  "Don''t worry.  You don''t have to take her new toy away.  There are other samples, making their way around.  Snatch them up for me, if either of you sees one."


    His two subordinates agree, though Vren seems less than reassured.


    "She will be fine.  Han sorted many of them by claw and suffered no harm.  The dust eater also carried them on her person, though she''s a harder one to judge."  My words calm him somewhat, but he still seems worried.  Looking to the others earns the Tserri only shrugs.


    With a final straightening of his uniform, Jim exits the lounge.  Gelly scratches his neck and shares a look with Vren.


    "How many legs?"


    Vren chuckles.  "Eight and covered with sharp fur.  Jim had so much stuck in him he could have passed for a two-armed Tserri from a distant clan."


    Gelly guffaws hard enough to fall from his seat.  Vren ignores his companion''s buffoonery and maintains his own dignity.  He sets his empty glass down on the table and walks across the room.  He pauses at the exit and looks back at the still laughing Gelly.


    "It''s your turn to clean up," he announces and heads through the door.


    The wiry officer pulls himself up, then rights his seat.  He bustles about the lounge, dealing with the dirtied glasses and wiping down the tables.


    "So, this Squiver," Gelly says, thinking aloud, "most likely tryin'' to grow more power cores, aye?"


    The thought is not new to me.  The matching codes are impossible to overlook, though there is one problem with the theory.


    "That''s not how cores are grown.  You saw the sizes of those crystals and you''ve seen my core.  Though, it isn''t any wonder he couldn''t get any crystals to grow large enough," I explain.  "The process is the secret of a very reclusive caste, but they aren''t thaumatists."


    "Do ye know the right way ''o doin'' it, then?"


    I don''t.  I admit as much to the officer, but add, "Even if I did, the cores we use aren''t normally as powerful as those you are more experienced with.  A battle shell or perhaps a large crawler are about the extent of their capability."


    That isn''t enough to discourage him.  He puts all the chairs under the table, a distant look on his face.  The cleaning finished, he too exits and heads toward his next work shift.


    "Alright, they are no as strong.  Ye think.  Have ye tried pluggin'' one of yer crystal spheres into a ship?  Yer doin'' a fine job of keepin'' us movin'', yerself."


    I think about his question.  It is not unlike Han''s disappointment that smaller ships do not require cores.  If a core were to be wired in place of their capacitors, would they not overload?  But then, my travel case doesn''t burn out solely because of the runic arrays inside, channeling excess power in a way that dissipates it.


    "The systems I''m hooked into control most of it," I admit.  "Though it may be possible you''re correct.  The arrays in cores that I''ve seen were fairly simple in comparison to myself, though perhaps new techniques have been developed since my retirement."


    I find the idea unlikely, however.  Gelly seems thoughtful, walking more sedately than is his normal fashion.  The Empire has existed unchanged for a very long time.  The very changeless nature of my people, born to our stations and living as proscribed by our traditions, had been a source of constant aggravation during my career.


    Unimaginative is an apt word to describe my people.  We are taught from the time of our first molt that the ways of the elders have led us to greatness and will lead us to even higher glories.  Each caste has their role to play, in service to the whole.  Knowledge is also kept strictly guarded, regulated by Duv by order of the emperor.  New techniques in rune craft can be incredibly dangerous if even slight errors are present, after all.


    He asks a few more questions as he works.  He wishes to know whether he might acquire samples of both uncut and finished cores, and what it might cost.  A few suggestions for trade goods prompts another round of questions about the relative value of trade goods.  I do my best to answer him though he seems confused by a few of my responses.


    "You really think they''d give me one for a case ''o birpa?"


    "Only if they like the flavor you bring them.  I understand that some are better than others."

 Chapter 79: Whats a Low Profile?

    "How much longer must we remain in this system?"


    The Ship-Father paces in front of the command seat.  His hands wave about as if caught by unseen currents.  Nett ducks under an unexpected gesture from the Ship-Father as he turns in place.  One arm extends, pointing at the screen.


    On the main screen is Ship-Mother Eva Chel.  Stress lines crease her otherwise smooth face.  Her uniform, normally crisp, shows rumpling from long wear.  Data tablets form an untidy stack upon her desk.  From off camera the voices of distressed supplicants demand her attention, though she stolidly ignores them.  She focuses her ire entirely upon Jim.


    "Until we can find another working core to put in your ship.  You''re too easy to recognize with that monster of a ship.  There''s going to be a lot of attention coming your way, and that''s not going to help us here."


    They mainly want me to remain within the influence of those who can protect me.  Not out of any sense of kindness, but because they see value in my continuing existence.  So long as I continue being useful to them.  They also feel that the Resurgent will suffer from being too closely associated with myself, as well as being known to have Tserri crew.  My presence can only make them a more tempting target.


    While the Ship-Father knows these things, he is not mollified.  His spirit chafes under confinement.  The fact that we are on the very edges of explored space taunts him.


    "We''re on way back now, anyway," grumbles Jim.  The few disaster victims remaining onboard can be transferred to Kalibern when we dock.  "Then you''ll get him back."


    "As if I could turn him down," Eva complains.  "Jetanda''s bunch would be a lot easier to deal with if they''d stop accusing me of exiling their," her voice takes on a mocking tone for a moment, "''spirit guides.''  Your core''s nowhere near as good, either.  It''s no wonder you snatched him and ran."


    "I''d have taken a cracked one if it meant getting my ship back in motion," Jim says testily.  "The speed we made saved lives."


    "We''ve told them that, but Yosip, well," her voice fades and she frowns in an unconscious mimicry of the Supply-Master.


    Yosip is working with Wikna, helping to direct the modifications to the exterior of the outpost.  Every system has to be wired through the main hatch.  They''re keeping the irregular shape, for fear of harming the inherent distortion effect.  Something for the tourists to pay to walk through, if nothing else.


    "How many so far?"  Jim''s frustrated pacing stops.  He looks right at her image, anticipating a response.


    She sighs loudly and throws her hands up.  "Fifteen.  After he started charging for the privilege they just lined up.  Reckless."


    Jim laughs and slaps his leg.  While he''s so amused, I comment, "Perhaps you should duel a few of them yourself.  Might do your reputation some good."  He takes his seat, smiling.


    Eva chuckles, some of her frustration dissolving.  "He''s right about one thing, at least.  The Tserri hardly know you.  They think your name is Tim."


    Vren snorts from his duty station.  "I have heard this," he confirms.


    "No, I think not.  I am interested in picking up a few new plants for my garden.  Root rot took out the whole room, had to flood the place with disinfectant."


    Not a single person in the command room can look at the Ship-Father.  Even Eva looks uncomfortable, but she manages to say, "Well, there are a few shops that sell hardy plants from the Tserri home world."  She sounds conflicted, perhaps afraid that he cannot afford the expensive plants.


    He eagerly listens as she reluctantly gives him directions.  No doubt her knowledge that the funds will be a boon to the local economy soothes her conscience.  Jim has an officer end the communication, then exits the command room.


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    He heads to the sterile room that once had teamed with vibrant growths from various worlds.  Nothing survives, despite the abundant care and lavish attention Jim pours into his plants.  He remains there, happily planning a new arrangement until we complete docking.


    I expect to be quickly removed, but that is not to be.  Various systems, vital to the recovery of the passengers, cannot be interrupted yet.  Treatment continues, even as they are being relocated to the larger facility on Kalibern.  Some of the worst burnt cannot be moved until their current round of treatment is complete.


    And since the ship is safely docked, Bella takes the opportunity to run maintenance on the engines.  She doesn''t expect to finish until her next shift.  Until then, they require enough power to be able to run tests of various functions.


    So, like Jim, I am forced to remain where I am, waiting.


    Almost an entire day.


    But eventually a lower ranking administrator comes to retrieve me.  Escorted by a member of station security, the administrative assistant carries a smooth gray sphere that superficially resembles my own physical form in their hands.  He looks nervous, aware of the trouble he would be in if something were to go wrong.


    The way the security escort keeps looking at them, a gaze containing both jealousy and resentment, further amplifies the young administrator''s apprehension.  An orange, spherical glass amulet hangs from around the guard''s armored neck, tied by leather straps.  I''m beginning to worry, as well.


    The switch happens with no complications.  The panel opens and they pull me free.  The lights dim momentarily before they insert the replacement.  The panel closes with a soft click.


    The administrative assistant lets out a relieved breath.  His guard grows more alert upon sight of me.  They mutter a quiet series of phrases in the Tserri language.  A few of the words have meanings I do not fully grasp, connotations beyond their simple definitions, but I gather that he''s praying.


    Vren''s ears twitch when he hears the guard''s mumblings and he snorts silently.  No doubt he finds their superstitions tiresome.  I''m glad someone has some sense.  The rest of the officers present merely seem mildly amused.


    The Ship-Father enters the room in time to watch them carry me out.  He nods before rubbing his hands together eagerly, already plotting a new destination.


    Technician and guard carry me off the Resurgent and into Kalibern.  No secrecy shrouds us this time.  Crowds watch, though I cannot say what emotions fill them.  The furred faces remain impassive when we pass them.  Some among the onlookers continue gazing past us expectantly.  But Yosip remains with Mos Bruen and might not return for a great stretch of time.  Only a few scattered faces wear happy expressions, mostly the youngest residents.


    Eventually we reach the administrative center of the station where we find Ship-Mother Eva Chel waiting for us.  She frowns when she sees us but offers the junior administrator the dull gray orb that I will be replacing.  The technician takes it and carefully places my round form into her slim gray hands under the careful gaze of the guard.


    "Finally," she mutters, her expression softening.  "Let Jetanda know that she can call off the sit in, His Balls is back."


    What?  Who''s balls?  Me?


    She plugs me into the ready slot and slides the panel shut.  I reconnect once more to the familiar systems of Kalibern station.


    "What''s a sit in?"


    Eva turns to regard my camera, a mischievous look upon her face.  "Your people don''t have peaceful protest, Denn?"


    "Our brains are hard coded for submission to the ruling caste.  To disregard their orders is practically impossible."


    "That might be the way things work with your people, but we do things differently."


    "Obviously."


    She glares comically into the camera before resuming her explanation.  "Anyway, there have been a number of sit ins, that is, groups of Tserri putting themselves in the way, in front of manufacturing facilities.  They''ve avoided any food production, this time, but they''ve been a real nuisance."


    "So normal protesting, but without any chanting or signs?"


    She shakes her head.  "They have signs."  She taps the control panel on her desk and the view from the front of Glian''s new garage fills the main screen.  "See for yourself."


    The paved walkway is unseen beneath the press of sitting bodies.  Armored Tserri, arms linked with their fellows, fill the approach to the mechanical shop.  Some do indeed carry signs bereft of writing.  Orange signs with a stylized representation of Yosip''s face appear across the scene.


    "They want Yosip back, but they''ll have to settle for you," Eva remarks, turning off the video.


    "I don''t think Yosip is willing to return."


    His situation is peculiar.  Unwilling to be retired by his superiors, he opts instead for a working retirement at Bruen''s colony.  I can understand his distaste for retirement; my own experiences with it were less than stimulating.  But to disobey one''s leaders is beyond my ability to comprehend.


    She shrugs.  "For now.  Until he comes to his senses, we''re making a decent amount shuttling challengers and pilgrims between here and the new installation.  Did you hear what they''re calling it?"


    I respond that I have not.


    "Sba City," she says with a smirk.

 Chapter 80: Whats a Social Visit?

    "What did ye see?"


    Gelly and I converse over sub-light.  The lag isn''t yet noticeable, but the station''s instruments register the most minute of delays.  Eva is graciously allowing me to use her office.  Her personal comm has the necessary encryption hardware to keep our conversation private.


    "Ye did check, right?"


    "Of course," I confirm with more confidence than I truly feel.


    Gelly, somehow sensing my hesitation, narrows his eyes suspiciously.  "And?"


    "During the mock hearing, I was able to identify multiple functional components within Mos Bruen''s prosthetic eye.  There are other clusters that I do not yet understand, but I can say with confidence that the implant preforms more than its obvious function."  I pause to allow the officer to process my initial assessment before continuing.  "It interacts with multiple sectors of his brain, though I am not educated in biology beyond knowing which parts cause death most quickly if you stab them.  Most of the brain is identical, in that regard."


    "Can ye send me a diagram for the device or the activated sections o'' the brain?"


    "Only the latter.  Most of the functional portions of the prosthetic exist beyond normal reality."  My ability to draft is still improving, but I think the file I send him would be just as useless to him even if Pale had made them.  "These drawings are only approximations, you understand."


    He signals his understanding with a grunt.  As eloquent as always.  He grunts again when he opens it.  "This''ll do.  Tonn''s got some actual scans o'' Squiver brains.  It''s a start.  Any more ye can tell me?"


    Until a medical professional can tell me more, I have only speculations to offer him.  Instead, I say something I hope is reassuring.  "If it were something harmful or beyond the normal sanctions, another thaumatist would have noticed it.  You''ve been around enough of them by now to know they''re all crazy, but not all the same."


    "Aye.  Is that intentional, then?"


    "Not actually," I admit.  "All else in our society is orderly.  The eccentricities of those three castes are tolerated because of their many benefits to the empire."


    He looks confused and I immediately realize my error.  Gelly doesn''t know of the Svost.  "The third group of dust eaters are the most dangerous as well as fewest in number.  Even the aviaformes are kept away from the exterminators.  Their caste exists to destroy."


    A light of recognition shines in his eyes.  "The fire mages."  He chuckles grimly.  "Chief were no scared o'' much, but he were afraid o'' them."


    Ah.  That is entirely welcome news.  Svost are harder to kill when they inevitably malfunction than any of their ilk.  It is good to know that the extra effort is worth it.  Fear is a powerful advantage.


    "I''ll let ye know if we find out any more."


    He ends the communication from his end.  The screen goes dark as I deactivate the communication device.  I open the door and Eva walks inside.


    "So?"


    She sits primly in the oversized chair, looking far too small for the responsibilities she must bear.  "Did you find out anything?"


    "Jim will be taking his ship off on another exploratory mission.  He thinks they found a potential trading partner and wants to investigate."


    Her posture relaxes slightly.  "That''s a relief.  I was afraid you were going to tell me there was some new emergency."


    "Nothing of the sort.  Mostly our conversation was Gelly worrying about Bruen."


    "What''s wrong with him?  The Squiver seemed fine during the hearing, if a little upset."


    I''m still not sure what to think about the recent changes in the young general.  Misjudgments during his upbringing are obvious in the way he treats others.  Unlike so many others in his position, Bruen knows what it is like to be a menial laborer.  While I had intended that he respect the importance of the responsibilities of a Mos, the way he treats those under his command, and the respect they show him in return, is unexpected.  An unintentional side effect that might have long lasting benefits to him.


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    I did not anticipate that he would form an emotional attachment to myself, either.  Most of our kind are raised communally by constantly changing caregivers.  The natural urge to respect those older than oneself are channeled towards the empire and reinforced through the caste system.  Each individual exists as part of an ordered society where interactions are strictly regulated by tradition and imperial decree.  His particular situation is, by design, unique.  I still hope that his more personalized training will allow him to excel beyond his peers.


    Eva reaches for a tablet when I don''t reply quickly enough.  "Sorry, that''s not my business.  We''ve got a group from Sba City coming over later today," she explains.  With a few taps she puts the itinerary on the main screen.  "Until we get an exchange rate worked out, we need to open an expense account they can use."


    "I''ll set one up."


    "Good, thank you.  Can you also send out a notice to the shop owners warning them that if they''re caught taking advantage of our visitors, there''ll be heavy fines?"


    "That shouldn''t be a problem.  I''ll also add a reminder about how easily startled many of the aviaformes are."


    "Thanks.  We want to look good for our new neighbors."  She sets down the tablet only to grab another.  "The medical staff wants to meet them as well."


    Zra and Pale are quite dedicated to their profession, so their interest in the biology of our newest neighbors is not surprising.  I find myself interested as well.  Getting the dust eaters to examine one of the aviaformes has always been more troublesome than the task is worth.  Perhaps our medics will learn something interesting.


    Eva adds the meeting to the schedule.  She picks up a third tablet and scrolls through images of various aliens.  The survivors of the Density bombs are being held under guard in a field hospital set up in the crater.


    She sighs exasperatedly.  I fear that I know what she''s about to say.


    "And a few more residents are coming our way two days after that.  Three are unresponsive but alive.  One is feral and will need to be kept sedated.  The last two are barely functional.  Like overgrown hatchlings," she laments.  "Matron Bell decided that since we had done such a fine job with the Tserri we are the most qualified to handle these aliens."


    "I think it''s admirable that she''s being so merciful to the captives.  They have no military value, yet she''s making efforts to preserve their continued existence."


    "You make it sound like she''s doing it from kindness," scoffs Eva.  "It''s standard to care for anyone recovered from the tribals.  No, it''s just cheaper than paying for them to be hauled to a dedicated facility and cared for long term."


    We discuss the rest of her busy day until the delegation from Sba City arrives.  The ship they come in seems ill-suited for dignitaries.  Lacking their own vessels, the aviaformes use a recovered mining ship.  Complaints from the families of the previous owners are also on Eva''s packed schedule.


    The vessel requires extensive repairs.  Many vital units are missing or damaged.  The repair logs are also out of date, not having seen use since the ship''s initial launch from Kalibern so long ago.  However, it would be wrong to blame only the miners.  Despite their lack of upkeep, it is clear form scans that Yosip had a part in the ship''s current condition.  Perhaps a ploy to hide the true value of the ship from the survey team from Prime.


    Fortunately, they get priority placement in the repair rotation.  Eva insists.


    Two groups emerge from the recovered derelict.  The first is a flock of nine aviaformes of assorted colors.  At the front of the tight cluster of feathered beings is the white draped Don.  Wikna is met by Dunc along with a pair of his subordinates.  Dunc escorts the delegation up to the command room.


    The second group to emerge from the mining ship surprises me.  A group of casteless soldiers, five of them, slide down the exit ramp.  They are unarmed and not wearing uniforms but instead lengths of blue cloth wrap around their bodies. I recognize some of them but cannot recall their names.


    These off-duty soldiers make their way to the market district.  The locals give them ample walking space.  I contact Donna.


    "Yeah, Mos?"  Many other voices speak in the background.  Before I can speak, a jubilant cheer erupts from wherever Donna currently is.


    "Greetings.  You''re aware of our current visitors, I trust?"


    "Yeah," she responds.  "There''s a team with the delegation.  You ought to know that."


    "I do," I reply, somewhat testily.  "But that isn''t my concern.  I''m sure Dunc will do an admirable job with Don Wikna.  No, I''m more worried about the soldiers that are being allowed to wander around unsupervised."


    "What soldiers?"


    I allow her time to consider what she just asked.  It doesn''t take long.


    "Oh!  Squivers?  Why is that a problem?"


    We both have to wait for the cheering to subside before we can continue.


    "It shouldn''t be, and I''d like you to make sure that it isn''t."


    "Fine."


    A peek through her suit camera shows the interior of Jetanda''s casino.  Tserri and Selber mix freely inside the gambling establishment.  At a table a few ubits away from her sits Skint, deeply engaged in the game.


    "Skint, boss gots a job for us," she shouts to be heard above the noise.


    "Lemme finish this game," answers the large male.  "I''m winning."


    Donna growls low in her throat, the sound not carrying past her suit but easily picked up by the built in microphones.  "Just hurry."

 Chapter 81: Whats a Windfall?

    I watch from Skint''s suit camera as he and his superior walk through the crowded casino. No one pays much attention to him, clearly used to seeing his intimidating bulk. Donna draws a few glances from a pair of males of her species, but they quickly look away when their eyes land upon Skint.


    Switching to Donna''s camera, I''m able to see a wide, disbelieving grin upon the large Tserri''s face. Skint''s financial account is burgeoning with his recent winnings. Donna keeps shaking her head but is wise enough to refrain from commenting.


    Just before they make it outside, a trio of Tserri toughs step in front of the exit, blocking the pair of security officers'' way. They wear station casual in a range of browns with the same leather armor that many had been captured in worn over them.


    "Heard ya won it today, Skinny," the tawny furred leader of the unsavory trio says, leaning forward with both sets of arms crossed.


    "Th-that''s right, Hien," Skint answers hastily. "Was just going to try ''n find ya, right?"


    The overhead camera catches Donna''s frown, but still she remains silent.


    "What''d you do to irk this lovely, Skinny," asks Hien cockily, feigning concern. "Gotta be careful, or she might leave ya, Skinny. Maybe find someone that can provide for her, yeah?"


    The two nobodies behind him snicker at the crude humor.


    "Don''t want that," one of them heckles.


    "Maybe we do," counters the other. The pair are nearly identical striped specimens. Orange and dark brown. Only the white fur left behind from different scars allows me to tell them apart.


    Skint rolls his complex shoulders. The garish lighting glints menacingly off his heavy armor. The two jokesters fall silent and take a matching step back. Donna''s frown lessens and she places one claw on the large male''s back.


    "Oh, is it like that, then?" Hien uncrosses his upper arms and snaps loudly. Three more thugs materialize from the crowd and step behind the beleagured pair. "You sure?" Smugness radiates off of Hien in nearly visible waves.


    Donna picks this moment to speak. "You''d look good in yellow, Hien. How much does he owe you, anyway? Enough to be worth the next forty days on a work crew?"


    Hien snaps again and all the cameras in the casino stop transmitting. I switch back to Donna''s camera and run a parallel feed from a few moments ago. Ah. It seems the thugs are responsible, using concealed small arms.


    "You were saying?"


    Idiot. Not only are the pair''s armored suits still transmitting, but those pitiful weapons lack the power to penetrate them.


    Skint rears back, then lunges at Hien, arms spread wide. He makes it two steps before thugs pile onto him. Screams erupt, filling the entrance hall. Guests and staff, panicking, run for the alternate exits.


    The muted popping of the small weapons is barely audible through Donna''s receivers. The loud plinks of ricocheting bullets is much easier to hear. Two thugs go down, wounded by deflected projectiles. A third quickly follows, legs kicked mercilessly by the angered female as she fights to free her subordinate. Red splatters on her black and gold armor, making the metal skulls'' leers especially menacing under the scattered artificial lighting.


    I contact Pale to let them know they should expect to be busy soon.


    These two are busy. I''ll have to find someone else to watch the casteless soldiers as they shop.


    Before I begin my search, I alert Donan that his sister could use some assistance. He laughs and leads a squad that way.


    I know! Glian owes me a favor or two, even if he doesn''t realize it. I check the cameras in his shop. Excellent, he''s there, working on a dark green armored suit. Even better, he''s alone. All of his workers are gone, off work or running errands.


    "Glian, can you hear me?"


    He jumps at the sound of my voice coming from the wall, banging his left lower arm. It is deep within the vacuum suit, adjusting or tightening something.


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    "Merciful spirits!"


    "No, just me."


    He looks around, spotting the hidden speaker. He squints suspiciously.


    "Is that you, Begen?" He sets down his tool, then steps closer to the speaker. "When did you have time to set this up?"


    Begen? Oh, one of his workers.


    "Not Begen, not at all. Surely you know of Mos Denn?"


    "Oh." He looks disappointed for some reason.


    Glian walks over to a nearby worktable and grabs a bottled beverage off of it. He sighs heavily, then takes a long drink before setting the nearly empty bottle down.


    "Is there any way we can not do, uh, whatever this is supposed to be? I have enough trouble without those wacko cultists bothering me."


    That''s disappointing.


    "At least hear what I have to ask. If you choose not to aid me, very well, but at least do that much for me."


    "I''m not taking you anywhere, alright? But I''ll listen."


    Why would I want to be taken anywhere? Perhaps I should pay more attention to Yosip''s worshippers.


    "Nothing of the sort," I respond, hoping to placate him. "I merely need a few of our most recent arrivals followed. Discretely, if possible."


    "The avio-whatevers?"


    "No, the other group."


    Glian scratches the side of his head with one oil-stained claw. A high-pitched voice squeals loudly from the top of the stairs leading up to the next level.


    "You want someone to watch the Squivers?" Glian''s daughter runs down the stairs, bouncing with excitement. Her light blue work overalls are a near match for her father''s. "Can I do it?"


    "No," her father answers immediately. "Not a chance, Glia."


    "Aww, but daaaaad," whines the young female.


    "It shouldn''t be dangerous," I interject quickly. "Not even slightly. If young Glia is willing, I can compensate her for her time."


    He taps one foot, tempted but still not willing.


    "If there is even the hint of danger, I can contact security faster than anyone else on the station. And, since I know that isn''t what you''re actually worrying about, there''s no reason anyone needs to know that she''s doing this for me." He looks up and I know I''ve got his attention now. "This is a task I''ve already got security working on. I''ll let them know to keep an extra eye on her, just in case, and intercede if too much attention is drawn her way."


    I know they''ll be happy to help. Every one of them likes, or at least tolerates affably, the youngster. She''s always around the shop helping her father, and the security teams interact with her frequently. Well, excepting maybe Spen, who she habitually avoids.


    "If the Skulls are already on this, why do you need our help?"


    "Because they have a whole station to watch. Finding someone to watch just one small group of visitors is too small of a task to truly be worth their time. But it needs done, so I asked you."


    "Fine, but you''re paying premium for this."


    Glia jumps, squealing joyfully. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"


    A small smile appears on his face but is quickly hidden. "Go on, then."


    She runs to the main exit, but I stop her. "Wait just a moment. Does she have a translator?" This entire conversation has been in the Tserri language, after all.


    He nods.


    "Good, can you have her hook it up to the station comm network, please? I''ve got an update that she''ll need for this task."


    The young female grows more excited. She races upstairs, beyond the range of my cameras. She returns quickly, holding a necklace made of thick coils of overlapping silver braid woven together. She prances happily over to the sales terminal and pulls one of the braids. It extends into a cord which she plugs into the terminal.


    She lacks the aviaforme language, as well as my own, so I add them to her database. After a short, silent debate with myself, I also give her the tribal argot and the chieftains'' language. I do not think she will ever need them, but it is possible that the soldiers will complain in a tongue they do not think she knows. Better to be prepared.


    "Now you''ll be able to understand their spoken language, but learning their body language is up to your own efforts."


    Glia nods her head, happy to get to do something she considers exciting. The necklace fits snugly around her neck without impeding her movements. I give her a destination, and she runs out of the garage shouting her love to her father.


    She runs out into the crowd, weaving between bodies. People laugh at her antics, pleased to the see the usually quiet Glia so happy and excited. Her upright ears and broad smile are infectious, spreading to her neighbors.


    When she spots the casteless soldiers she asks, "Do you want me to stay hidden, or can I go ask them questions?"


    Unfortunately, the closest speaker under my control is on the other side of the group I want her to observe. If I answer her it will give her away. I remain silent and hope that she knows what discrete means.


    She does not.


    "Excuse me," she says, walking up to the soldiers. "Mos Denn sent me to help you find your way around. My name''s Glia. What''s yours?"


    The soldiers stand at attention. The one closest to the young Glia, a male missing a lower tendril, slides closer to her.


    Not the worst thing that could be happening. No reason to interfere with the situation, I''ll simply observe. I should take the opportunity to learn more about the casteless, if they''re going to be regular visitors to the station.


    "Lubi," he says with some uncertainty. "Do you know where we can find a place willing to trade us local currency for a few war trophies?"


    He pulls out an example, a bracelet recovered from a fallen tribal made of interlocking plates of chitin tied together with what looks like dried out upper tendrils woven through small holes drilled through the chitin. A few imitation runes are carved into it and from each plate hangs a bright blue feather. Sometimes the tribals win.


    "Neat! Yeah, I know a place," she answers cheerfully, unperturbed by the gruesome display. "This way."


    The soldier returns his trophy to his swathes of blue fabric and follows the young Tserri. The rest of his squad march a few ubits behind, murmuring quietly to themselves.

 Bruens Story 17: What are Cold Feet?

    Bruen''s Story 17:  What are Cold Feet?


    Sba City, as the aviaformes are now calling his base, is quiet today.  The quiet is due not just to those playing tourist, but to the anxiousness of those who wait behind.  The resident aviaformes move around quietly, lost in their worries for their friends.


    Even his soldiers are less boisterous than usual, speaking in subdued tones even when they don''t think Bruen is around.


    Bruen surveys the area glumly.  It hurts his pride to be doing the work of a Pel.  Not because the work is undignified; Pel are greatly respected.


    He sees no enemies to fight, nor does he expect there to be any.  The only fighting he can expect is another spar with the highly augmented alien, Don Yosip.  Yosip doesn''t fight to kill, and thus Bruen too must hold back, lessening Bruen''s enjoyment of the experience.


    Yet, that is not why he is unsatisfied.  He could accept Pel duty, if there were some threat of violence.  Some crime or problem to solve.


    But events proceed, calmly and without fuss, from one to the next without needing his input.  He can only watch, and feel that he is wasted.  With troubled thoughts comes anxious energy.


    Being surrounded by his people only makes it worse for him.  Unable to endure waiting here, under the gaze of his soldiers, Bruen turns and glides down a random block, seeking seclusion.  He pays no attention to what or who he passes.  They''ll continue efficiently without needing his approval or acknowledgement.  Tall, blocky buildings with open topped roofs where businesses and craft shops are already opening up.  He pays them no mind.


    Other thoughts also swirl through his mind.  Bruen worries about the things he''s being shown in his dreams.  Scenes of Somner Zek''s harsh training.  Knowledge of the madness and mutation fated to their castes.  Images of elder thaumatists hidden away beyond the reach and knowledge of the Duv.


    Worries that at his next review he''ll be forced to confess to forbidden knowledge, if asked directly.


    "They have to know something," he mutters as he slides past a pair of brilliant sapphire hued aviaformes, not even noticing their polite greetings.  The Duv wouldn''t give him such an unusual posting unless they wished to test his loyalty.  He turns this thought over and over in his mind, unable to guess why they wouldn''t just execute him if they suspected.


    What kind of game are they playing?


    He''s so distracted that he bumps directly into a four-armed alien.  One of a group here with Yosip''s latest challenger.


    Bruen apologizes before seeking a less populated part of the city.  He passes constructions built to look like canyon walls.  The outskirts of the city, once labyrinthine passages, now house the aviaformes.  Homes tunnel into the stone walls and lead to hidden nests.  It''s quieter here, so he slows down.


    A larger open area where passages connect is a community hub which contains a park.  Feathered workers dig with their taloned feet, then bend to place plants native to their home world into the imported soil.  Bruen decides to stop here and watch while he thinks.


    The plants are unimpressive, to Bruen''s eyes.  Dry, thorny bushes and waxy green barrels covered in rows of sharp spines.  The workers handle the plants carefully, avoiding the sharp thorns with their flexible tongues.  He wonders briefly if they produce edible fruits or seeds, before deciding it is unimportant.  The aviaformes probably just like having reminders of their past around.


    Rocks arranged in artful patterns break up the landscape, adding focal points around which groups may gather.  Bruen seeks one out to recline against.  The bright red stones are also imported and stand out against the darker brown and gray of the megastructure.  Especially to his peripheral eyes, as they glow vividly in the thermal range.


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    He sinks into the warm sand, ignoring that it clings to his thin outer coating.  It will come off easily enough.  He leans back against the soothing stone.  Thermal elements hidden beneath it cause it to radiate a comfortable heat.


    His thoughts slow, but like a length of driftwood carried by a cruel tide, they keep returning to dark topics each time he thinks himself free of them.


    The Spanless Empire is not a force for good.  It enables the survival of his species, yes.  But it throttles their potential to do so.  It grinds living beings down into interchangeable components custom designed for their tasks, stripping away any individuality in exchange for greater efficiency.


    From his previous position at the bottom of the hierarchy, it remains impossible to envision the completeness of the control the very top holds the rest in.  From his new place nearer the top, his peers are kept isolated from anything that could bring awareness of the inequity of their position to the forefront.


    Exposure to other cultures highlights to Bruen that things he once had thought normal are anything but.  The aviaformes, dependent as they are on the Empire, enjoy more personal freedoms than most of its citizens, but suffer much greater restrictions upon their travel.  The feathered people stay within the confines of their colonies, only leaving under escort from soldiers.


    The Selberfeld Imperium, alternatively, represents almost total anarchy when compared to his own society.  Individuals are able to move up or down within the social hierarchy, within certain unknown limits.  Even military service seems to be voluntary.  They do treat the Tserri in much the same way that the Empire treats the aviaformes, however.


    Bruen reflects that no form of government could be perfect, considering the threats that they must cope with.  The Southern Tribals are an unrelenting pressure, snuffing out weak and strong alike.  Only by becoming what they are have his people been able to fight back.  The same could be said for his new potential allies.


    He shifts against the heated stone, no longer quite so comfortable.


    It is upsetting to realize that despite his supposed place of authority, he holds almost no true power to enact change.  He can be respectful to his underlings but doing so only brings them to awareness of their mistreatment when they return to another''s charge.


    If trying to improve their lives inevitably makes them more miserable, should he stop trying?  Is there anything he can do to prevent the cruel end that Zek and those like her will one day face?  He shudders, thinking about Zek as a bloated mass that fills an entire room.


    Pushing himself up, Bruen tries to shake off his doubts as easily as he can shed the layer of sand coating him.  If only it were so easy.


    He knows why she''s been showing him such things and doesn''t like it.  What could he possibly do to alter the way things are?


    As long as the Duv can smother his ability to resist so easily he knows that he will accede to their demands without regarding the consequences to himself or those he cares about.  Even if he could resist their decrees, the rest of the Empire continues operating around him as if he were not there.


    Envy briefly fills him when he considers that Yosip so easily disregards the expectations his leaders hold for him.  Those he calls Prime do not wish him to be here, away from their control.  Even the elders of that alien society are not a unified front, each Matron or Patron maneuvering for more influence among themselves.


    If his own people were to act in such a manner, the Southern Tribals would overwhelm them easily.  Yet somehow the Imperium continues to function.  What allows them to continue resisting the tribals while still competing among themselves?


    If Bruen can figure this out, perhaps he can find a solution to his own problems.


    He stands, internal time sense alerting him that he can delay no longer.  It is time.


    He brushes the last few grains of sand free from his uniform and moves with purpose back toward the center of the city.  Bruen, reminded of his duty, waves at those he passes and murmurs brief encouragements to any soldiers he encounters.


    Doubt still clogs the waterways of his mind, but he continues on as if he were confident in himself.  His soldiers can sense uncertainty, and he will not allow himself to cause dissention among them.  No matter what it costs him.


    Before he realizes it, he finds himself standing before the spawning pool.  There a young female whose name he has yet to learn awaits him.  She will be leaving after preforming this vital duty to the Empire, but until then it is considered most unseemly for them to interact.


    Her uniform is a match for his own and she wears it with confidence.  She carries a pair of long blades, one in either cluster of lower tendrils.  When the female Mos sees him, she sheaths her weapons and turns without a word to enter the alcove set into the left side of the pool.


    Unblemished and without augmentation, she is obviously a recent graduate.  She will be leaving afterwards to meet up with her new superior on a battlefield somewhere.  He does not know her bloodline, but hopes it is a strong one.  It will need to be.


    Bruen acknowledges her demand by silently entering the opposite alcove.  More officers will be needed in the near future.

 Chapter 82: Whats a Babysitter?

    I do not regret allowing young Glia this opportunity.  It frees me to concentrate upon other tasks, such as preparing for alien guests.


    Our clinic, packed with recovering burn victims undergoing dermal regenerative treatments, is first.  Zra sits in the break room, enjoying a reheated meal with a male nurse and gossiping about their coworkers.  I wait for a break in their conversation before I speak.  This is more important than which nurses are sharing personal quarters, but it is rude to interrupt.


    "I''m sorry to burden you with this, but six alien patients will be arriving soon.  Matron Bell continues to insist that her planet will not host conquerors, so that makes this our problem."


    "It''s more than that," adds the nurse with a knowing sigh.  "We''ve got three of their better doctors sedated two doors down.  Out on a company hiking trip and didn''t get the warning to find shelter in time.  Another pair of them just left, along with a few secretaries."


    Honus cannot boast many doctors, being primarily home primarily to farmers and merchants.  Even losing a few severely limits their ability to handle a major medical emergency.


    Zra accepts the news that the newcomers will primarily be his responsibility with a weary smile.  Even with Pale and the cadre of nurses to assist, the head medic is always overworked.  The nurse, whose name tag identifies him as Quinn, pulls out a data tablet to make notes as I give them what information I have.


    "We''re going to need dedicated facilities for each one," explains Zra.  "Monitors built to accommodate different body structures and maybe some information about what kind of beings we''ll be hosting."


    That last is rather important, I think.  "Let me find out.  When I know more, I''ll contact you again.  Until then, I''ll see about getting your operation moved to somewhere with more room."


    "The sooner you can, the sooner we can start working," Zra says, gathering up the empty trays.


    I leave them to finish their break.  They need the respite, however brief.


    The work crews are currently hollowing out a refuse heap on the surface.  The space is supposed to be put towards warehouses, but it would be perfect for a new medical facility.  The old location can be cleaned out and used as storage instead.  I check in on Glia while drawing up some basic floor plans using a program that Eva had installed.


    Though she is not preforming the task as I had envisioned, still Glia is handling the situation well.  The casteless soldiers she plays guide to show every sign of amusement.


    I watch as she follows the group out of a rundown shop which specializes in unusual trinkets.  While the shop itself sees little traffic, the owner supplies several smaller vendors who operate out of the docking tower market.  My records indicate that the elderly proprietor of the shop makes a tidy profit.


    "Now that you''ve got some money," the youngster asks once the group is back on the street, "what do you want to spend it on?"


    "Food," answers Lubi only moments ahead of another soldier who says, "Alcohol."


    Glia laughs.  "And music, too?  Yeah, come on."


    She leads them from the out of the way shop supplier, and they follow her as if she were their general.  Their group draws a lot of attention, but most are content merely to watch.  The group stops at the different food carts along the way and enjoy the fried crawlers and batter encrusted meat slices.


    At one point a group of orphans, for reasons known only to them, decide to make a game of running in circles around the soldiers and their guide.  The orphans laugh as they dodge between the long limbs subtly marked with burns and bite scars.


    Lubi and his fellows seem unbothered, though they slow their pace so as not to inadvertently harm the youngsters.  Glia is much less amused, shaking her claws at the laughing miscreants and growling impotent threats.  The orphans laugh louder at her exertions, but leave when nearby adults begin to draw near.


    Once they''re able to travel freely again, the squad makes it to their destination without further incident.


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    "I''m not normally allowed inside," admits Glia, waving one upper arm at the sign.


    ''Nevrin''s Discount Liquors'' proclaims the sign.  I know this place!  They''re one of my best customers, always willing to buy large batches of anything I brew.  Lucky soldiers.


    Lubi and his fellows make noncommittal noises as she ushers them inside.  There is no camera within the premises, but all sales are tracked through the station''s comm network.  I wait impatiently to see what they purchase but am not idle.  My designs for the new hospital progress nicely.


    The amount of time they spend within seems excessive.  The store doesn''t carry a varied enough stock to make such a decision so difficult, but there may be other reasons for the delay.  Casteless soldiers like Lubi are rarely presented so many options; perhaps they are suffering from overload of choice.


    A data packet sent from the establishment catches my interest.  I open the files expectantly, only to be overcome with disappointment.  They purchase only one bottle of wine.  A cheap brand brewed by a local group of disabled veterans.


    Well.


    I cannot fault them for choosing to support fellow soldiers in their retirement.  It is commendable, really.  Besides, I do not truly need the income, it is simply a way for me to feel like a part of the community.  An indulgence, yes, but one I do not regret lavishing my spare time on.


    Glia comes out with the heavy bottle in her arms, smiling broadly.  The soldiers each tap the bottle, then the youngster''s head, with an upper tendril before continuing their tour.  This treatment only causes her to grin more widely.


    I hope their inexperience dealing with children does not lead them to intoxicate Glia.  A mistake I myself might have made when first exposed to these people.  It is only after spending a great deal of time with them that I know that alcohol can harm an undeveloped young body, much like if acetylene were poured into a spawning pool.


    "For later," Glia promises her eager followers.  She waves extravagantly to draw the attention of one of Jetanda''s runners.


    The runner, after a brief negotiation, accepts the bottle and a small fee.  The bright-eyed adolescent confirms the destination and starts jogging in the direction of the docking tower.


    She then takes them to another establishment wherein fine drinks may be purchased, The Blind Chief Bar.  Laughing tourists stagger out, supported by locals only slightly less drunk.


    Adorning the sign next to the door, a full-sized painting of a Tserri in old-fashioned leather armor welcomes guests to walk into the wall a few ubits from the door.  Round chits of glass shine mirror bright from its eye sockets and all of the chief''s fangs are gleaming titanium.  As if the resemblance was not already obvious, the armor is painted yellow and black.


    I wonder if Yosip knows about this place.  Doubtful, it''s still open.


    The floor plans I come up with are nothing extreme, but I believe them to be passable.  They will of course need to be modified once we know more about the former tribals that will be arriving, but I dedicate a section to housing them.  Larger than the current facilities, these plans include rooms that can be isolated easily in order to individualize the conditions within.


    With something to present to her, it is time to contact Ship-Mother Eva Chel.


    She is still in her office, reviewing water consumption reports.  The live feed tanks, thankfully, function in tandem with the other filtration apparatuses, and the tenders of those tanks are currently petitioning for an expansion.  The Ship-Mother carefully thinks through the pros and cons, occasionally glancing up at the main screen where a list of each is carefully presented in blocks of text.  Emotions flit across her face, fast as the shifting surface of the sea.


    Eva sets down the tablet and takes a deep breath.  "Mos Denn, could I get your opinion on this?"


    What excellent timing she has.  I wish to speak with her anyway.  Reviewing the map of the area, I''m able to see that there are only two options for expansion.  Knock out a wall and take over a neighboring facility on one side or the other, or build upward, creating an entirely different facility on the exterior of the asteroid.


    "An additional, mostly isolated ecosystem would be my recommendation.  It''ll need heavy shielding, but I suggest we place it right here," I bring up a map on a small section of the main screen and light up a sector of bare rock.  "If one group gets sick or their food plants die off or something, the other site can be used to reintroduce uncontaminated samples of our target biosphere."


    The location I indicate is above a nexus of power cables and water lines.  Service tunnels under the surface provide an ideal place to connect new tanks.  Nodding her head, Eva agrees.


    "And this location," the proposed site of the new hospital, "is the ideal spot for an upgraded medical facility.  I''ve got some tentative plans right here for you, as well."


    She nods again, but adds, "Find a way to add a veterinarian to the layout and I''ll have a look.  There''ve been complaints on that front as well."


    Might as well add a service bay for biomechanical devices and organisms while altering the plans.  Pale, or parts of them, must occasionally fall ill as well, I think.


    "While we''re discussing the hospital, it would be useful to know just what kinds of beings are going to be living there."


    Eva sorts through the stack of tablets upon her oversized desk.  She smiles triumphantly when she finds the desired device and holds it momentarily before continuing.  It slides into a hidden slot on her side of the desk.  Once there it connects to the wider network.


    The files it contains are small.  That isn''t too surprising; there are so many species under the sway of the Southern Tribals that obtaining information about any one specific race is a daunting task.

 Chapter 83: Whats a Petting Zoo?

    There are only five files on the tablet.  Of the incoming patients, I can conclude that two are of the same kind.  That should simplify the final plans at least slightly, as well as free up the room for the Ship-Mother''s request.


    The first file describes a fur bearing species that stands upright upon trunk-like legs ending in wide paws.  Stubby claws tip both the paw-like feet and thick, hairy hands.  The arms are short and only slightly thinner than the legs.  Its head is flat and narrow, ending in a short muzzle full of crushing teeth.  Small compound eyes peer out of cavernous sockets set below rounded ears capable of independent movement.  The specimen we''ll be receiving is clumsy, male, and has light tan fur with darker tips.


    The next file contains information about two of the comatose beings.  Orange-brown skin stretches tight over the beings'' long bodies.  The male is tiny compared to the female, nearly triple his mass.  They coil around each other loosely.  Undersized limbs clutch each other.  Both sets of limbs sprout from right below the necks of the creatures and end in three splayed fingers with wide tips.


    I recognize the type of being in the third file.  This example will need to be sedated, lest he injure his caretakers.  Snappers have sharp, black beaks growing out of their wrinkly, green faces.  The entire head can retract inside the main body, which is protected by a spiked outer shell.  These beings are exceedingly rare but live very long lives.  This one''s shell is deeply grooved with old scars.  Though quadrupedal, they possess functional hands upon their front set of legs.  Ours is missing the right hand.


    In the fourth file I find the oddest creature of the bunch.  It could be better described as a colony than a single organism.  It resembles a stone polyp formation, but at exaggerated size.  Each single-celled member of the usually tiny colonial group bears its own calcified outer layer, though larger structures protrude from specialized members of the colony.  Some possess single legs, or grasping filaments resembling the tendrils of my kind.  There are light receptors and other sensory organelles, each growing from a member connected to the rest and all technically clones of one another.  Largely incoherent, this creature will require extensive care but may be capable of a full recovery in time.


    The final being of the group is a female of advanced age.  Awake, but completely unresponsive, she possesses two legs and two arms, as well as a long tail.  The blue scales covering her body are ragged on the edges and many have faded to nearly white where they haven''t fallen out completely.  Dull, amber eyes hide any thoughts she might possess.


    Each file also contains a few pieces of information about what the aliens have thus far proven capable of eating as well as any obvious medical conditions.  The furry creature seems to be losing muscle mass, for instance, as its skin hangs loosely from its thick bones.  It likely requires heavier gravity than it generally receives.


    I send Zra copies of all of it, as well as sending him the floor plans.  He promises to review them with Pale and have them sent to Eva when they finish making modifications.


    I begin to put in a fabrication order for a few pieces of equipment that Zra recommends, but Eva interrupts me.


    "Since we''re expanding anyway, there''s another project that I don''t have time for.  Our resident priestess has gotten her group to raise the funds for a large park."  She indicates the map still taking up a corner of the main screen.  "It can be placed between the new hospital and the grow tanks," proposes Eva.  "Keep it within budget, please, and make sure it has a transparent roof.  They want to use the space to hold star viewings, I think."


    That doesn''t sound too difficult to arrange.  Tedious, contacting all the various manufacturers and organizing different workers for each stage of the construction, but nothing outside of my abilities.


    "You can order some new plants from the trade ship that''s in system, as well as a few frozen embryos.  They don''t have anywhere near the selection that was available when this place was first constructed, however.  But make sure to include some of the Tserri home world plants in whatever you end up with."


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    Plans are already flowing through my mind.  I stop in surprise.  I find it somewhat shocking that I enjoy this process so much, but it is satisfying in a way that a much younger version of myself could never understand.


    The park I envision is vast, tens of thousands of ubits across.  Supplying air should be simple; rock can be converted with application of heat and energy into gases, then filtered.  Hazardous gasses will be bottled for export and sale to industrial interests.  We''re already producing fresh soil, but more will be needed.  The glass ceiling will be supported by wide columns doubling as maintenance facilities or lavatories as needed.  I set one aside to house an array of telescopes usable from inside.


    A stream flowing through one side, with bridges to allow foot traffic to cross.  Yes.  And grassy areas with small pavilions set up, for music or story tellers.  I also like Eva''s suggestion that I purchase small creatures to inhabit the space.  They''ll bring much needed animation to the park.


    The offerings available from the trade ship are indeed slim, I realize when I access the appropriate files.  That proves no impediment, as most of the creature they offer are intended as personal pets.  One particular group of animals is almost startling.


    Don Wikna would recognize them as dart tongues, I think.  These are not as slim and smooth as the marsh dwelling creatures of the aviaforme home world.  Squat is the first word I can think of to describe them.  They come in a few varieties but bear a striking resemblance, clearly having a shared ancestry.  The file labels the creatures as selber.  Some of their ecology entries mention a predator, the selberclaw, that preys upon them in their native environment.


    Amusement fills me as I place an order for a species of selber that normally lives on the banks of small rivers to inhabit the park, being sure to select one free of toxins.  I now understand the odd looks that cross the gray faces of the members of the Imperium whenever I refer to them as Selber.  A few aquatic creatures to live in the stream itself, and a large, feathered predator to control the numbers round out the selections.


    As an added bonus, the flightless creatures, known as groo, are prized for both their eggs and rich flesh.  Running upon four legs, they fill the roll of short pursuit predators.  They should be perfect for the park.  With plenty of room to run in, catching them should be good exercise to keep our residents fit.


    The selection of plants available is not much better, but I spot something I cannot pass up.  It even grows well in moist soil.  Anda, while often harvested for their flavorful roots, also produce clusters of bright pink flowers with a pleasing smell.


    I can imagine gossamer wings flitting between blooms collecting nectar.  The closest creatures available to me are fat, round things roughly the same size that buzz loudly when they fly.  They get designated for transplant from other habitats.  Since they live in waxy nests they build themselves, the creatures have proven easy to transport thus far.


    A few other plants, most useless but pretty, from the trade ship and a few plants used in traditional Tserri medicine add variety to the buzzer diet, as well as consistency.  It will be many generations before the plants adjust to the unique conditions of the station and they will continue upon whatever annual cycle is inherent to their biology until then.  One of my favorites is a climbing vine that has long drooping leaves that remind me of kelp fronds.  These deserve a special place around the columns.


    The height of the ceiling, hundreds of ubits at the peak of the grand dome, even allows for some modest trees.  I select a fruit bearing species, the albulb tree.  That doesn''t seem like enough, so I choose another that drops edible nuts and designate places for mixed groves to be planted.  I keep them to a minimum, remembering the intended purpose of the recreational space.


    Stonefeathers, as well as the vermin they feed upon, will make their own way to the new environment.  No need to hurry them along.  I also suspect that sba will be introduced before long.  The Tserri raise the creatures anywhere that they can.


    To help mimic a natural environment, I add downward pointing lights to the tops of the columns and set them on a timer that matches the accepted day length of the station.  It requires me to get a little creative to simulate a breeze, but by aligning all the vents and giving them stronger than standard blowers I''m able to design something adequate.


    Satisfaction washes over me as I review the plans.  There is of course room for improvement, but I think it acceptable.  I save the designs and send them to Eva''s desk.  No sooner than I do than a data packet from Zra joins it.  I surreptitiously make a copy, to relieve our chief medic of the burden of sending it to me.


    The overall layout of the proposed hospital is largely unchanged, though the positions of equipment I lack the expertise to recommend are now marked in tasteful pastel colors.  Zra possesses a hidden artistic talent, it seems.  The most dramatic alteration is the addition of a viewing platform at the top of the structure with an attached kitchen.


    The Ship-Mother approves both sets of building plans.  Time to organize the work crews and make sure that all the materials are available when and where they''re needed.

 Chapter 84: Whats an Escort Mission?

    The civilian transport vessel docks at the secondary tower, running lights brilliantly illuminating the outside of the tall structure.  Zra waits with a selection of nurses and as many members of security.


    Dunc Wollen is the ranking member of the security force present.  His squad includes only Tserri and himself.


    The air exchangers hiss as they equalize pressures.  Zra rushes forward pushing a trolley customized for the arriving beings.


    Dunc watching, signals two of his subordinates to move forward as support.  He then yawns quietly into his helmet.  Another medic follows with her own trolley.


    "Still not at full health yet?"  Inquiring about his condition is more than just polite, it can help with accurately assessing the danger the medics are in.


    "It isn''t that," he answers, then explains himself.  "I mean, I''ll never have the stamina I used to, but I just haven''t been sleeping well."


    Zra wheels the first two of our new arrivals off the transport.  The long brown-orange creatures, still cling tightly to each other in their comatose state.  The armored guard paces nonchalantly beside the loaded trolley.  The creatures'' eyes are closed, and the wide mouth of the female hangs open slightly.  The male''s mouth is clamped tightly shut, quivering almost imperceptibly.


    Drool running down his muzzle, the dark-furred creature follows strapped to a trolley that creaks under his bulk.  His ears roam independent of one another, each focusing upon different random sounds.  The guard who accompanies this one holds his stun rifle at the ready.


    Dunc waves the next set of medics, and their escorts, forward.  "Do me a favor, since I''ve got your attention?"


    I agree, curious as to what the officer might request of me.


    "Have Glian get his furry ass ready to fix whatever he did to my armor.  The thing''s boiling hot inside, and I know it shouldn''t be."


    "You want me to file a request for routine maintenance and repair for you?"  While I don''t object to doing this for him, it is indeed peculiar.  "If you think that''s a good use of my time, I can help you."


    After an unnecessary and ridiculously untrue remark about my parentage, he explains.  "He isn''t speaking to me, still."


    "I had thought you two were getting along well enough, lately."


    Two more trolleys come off the civilian vessel and he signals the last of the waiting medics.  The armored guards follow behind them onto the transport.  He waits for the last trolley to exit the vessel before answering.


    "We were.  But Spen got hold of Glian while he was in one of his moods.  Hold on."  He deactivates the muffling feature keeping our conversation quiet.  "Good job, everyone.  Double check your equipment, in pairs like we''ve practiced, and we''ll get moving."


    The better design of the secondary docking tower goes almost wasted.  The established shops are known attractions that continue to draw steady visitors to the older districts branching from the primary tower.  Dunc''s plan is to take advantage of that fact while escorting Zra and the others to the new hospital.


    For the most part he is correct.  Few are here to see the newcomers, but those that see and are curious, follow.  A small but growing crowd follows in their wake.  More trickle out of the restaurants, repair shops, and small specialty stores as they proceed.  I also notice an increase in comms usage as word spreads.


    I place the request for the officer.  When the acceptance notification arrives, I inform Dunc.


    "Good," he replies, reactivating the quietening effect of his helmet.  "Thanks.  I''ll have Abran take it with him after our shift."


    "I assume that this confrontation occurred during my absence."


    "Yeah," he confirms.  "A couple of days after Eva''s promotion."  He chuckles ruefully.  "Check the rosters.  Go on, I''ll wait."


    He can only mean that of the security teams.  I open the data file but it takes a moment before I see it.  His second in command is listed as Abran, who had only acquired the position on the day Spen had confronted Glian.  Spen Dondrik''s name doesn''t appear anywhere on the registry of security personnel.


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    A little more research could likely reveal the rest, but I would prefer to hear his explanation over the official reports.


    "What happened?  I can guess that Eva was less than excited to hear that Spen had assaulted our best mechanic."


    Dunc snorts and stops walking to recover his composure, drawing the attention of one of the nurses.  He shakes his head in response to her questioning look and she quickly loses interest.  He resumes walking, hurrying to regain his place in the loose formation.


    "That wasn''t the way she phrased it.  ''Gross incompetence,'' was the cause of dismissal.  It was stupid to challenge Glian inside his garage and he should have known it.  The fact that he had to be carried out proved he couldn''t handle the position."  He stops talking to interrupt an overly curious child from approaching the Snapper.


    An adult dressed in the same red and yellow rectangle pattern snatches the excited child back and apologizes to Dunc.  He waves them off with a professional smile.  He switches to voice amplification mode to address the gathering crowd.


    "For your own safety, please maintain a safe distance.  These beings are unpredictable, even while restrained and sedated.  Please stay back."


    The crowd mutters loudly, clearly still wanting a better look, but they draw back slightly.  He mutes his helmet again with a resigned sigh.


    "Would you like to try, oh great spirit?  I''d rather not have to hurt anyone today."


    If it helps to keep the people safe, despite his failed attempt at humor, I''m willing to assist.


    "Attention citizens," I announce from all the speakers I have access to in the area.  "Please do not approach the aliens.  Please clear the area.  Thank you for your cooperation."


    Only a small fraction of them disperse.  Dunc seems satisfied that they''re at least staying a reasonable distance away and not blocking the way.  At least he is until a tourist throws a rock.  It bounces harmlessly off of Dunc''s shoulder pad and clatters to the street.


    The gray visitor runs off, hoping to escape any consequences.  A still image saved from the surveillance will allow security to identify him when he attempts to leave the station.  I send it to the team working at the docks along with a brief note explaining the situation.


    "Thanks again.  Anyway.  After losing his contract, Spen went to live on the planet.  Gelest has property in Centra.  They''re living there."


    "And you chose to stay here?"


    "Yeah."


    He doesn''t have anything more to say after that.  The rest of the trip is relatively quiet, until they reach their destination.  Aside from the roar of the trailing crowd, hailing them with questions and insults.


    There they find a flurry of activity so loud that it drowns out completely the noises of their unwanted escorts.  Two days is not long enough to finish a facility of such grand scope and construction is still ongoing.  The first floor is the only one that can be described as complete, if one wishes to be generous, with the rest still in varying degrees of disarray.  Though I know they complain when not allowed into the unfinished hospital, I cannot hear the crowd through any of the microphones in the area.


    Not all of the monitoring equipment I might use to view the inside has been installed, so I rely primarily upon the view from Dunc''s suit.  It shows walls that still bear visible tool marks and unconcealed infrastructural wiring.


    The floor set aside for the unique needs of our guests is the third.  Dunc leads the way, past busy work crews and up flights of roughly hewn stairs.  Ventilation shafts, mostly functional but without much of the finishing details such as smooth casings or sound dampening devices, alternatively scream or stutter causing the more skittish of the nurses to flinch constantly.


    Tserri workers labor alongside Selber from the planet, here on loan from Matron Bell.  The two groups tease each other playfully, turning construction into a competition.  I watch as a Selber engineer cuts slightly into a key wiring junction installed by a Tserri crew.  What a prankster!


    Of course, I inform Dunc.  This project is too important to allow the workers'' fun to interfere with its completion.  He chuckles, then mutters, "This''ll be fun."


    Dunc has the prankster, as well as his intended victims, follow him into an unoccupied room, after ordering another work crew to fix the junction.  He then explains the joke to the Tserri, who smile broadly, slapping each other''s complex shoulders in shared amusement.  The prankster backs away from the others, waving his arms in front of himself.  Does he for some reason regret his harmless joke?


    I do not know what happens next, as Dunc cheerfully bids the workers ''have fun'' and leaves.  He also locks the door behind him.  How will the workers get out?


    The ventilation system inside the room begins making the worst screaming sounds.  If the patients weren''t sedated, the awful noise would only worsen their mental states.


    As if hearing my thoughts, Dunc informs one of the Selber workers about the incident.  He calmly and with much detail explains to the worker exactly what happened and why such pranks should be avoided in the future.  As the explanation continues the worker''s face grows darker until it is almost black with suffused blood.  He tries more than once to shove his way past Dunc, but the armored officer refuses to allow it, catching the other and pulling him back each time.


    "Now, go spread this story to your little friends," he says with an upbeat tilt.  He turns, and recognizing the crew leader, shouts, "Hey, Ialla, would you unlock room three-fifteen, please?"


    She agrees but is in no hurry.  She ambles along, stopping to check the work of those she passes.


    Dunc looks around, turning his helmet camera in each direction.  Zra and the rest of the medics don''t seem to have noticed his absence.  They busily install their patients into the specialized housing units, each with different atmospheric and gravitational settings.  Medical variant vacuum suits sit in charging alcoves beside each room, two each for Tserri and Selber.


    We watch together as the scale-covered being is wheeled into her room.  He sighs heavily before he turns to leave.

 Chapter 85: Whats an Archeologist?

    "And you think I''m the one most qualified for this?"


    I don''t blame Donna for sounding incredulous.  Her posture as she paces in front of Eva''s desk is stiff and tense.  The armor she wears slows her movements none at all, so used to the weight is she.  Only her head remains unarmored, helmet sitting upon Eva''s desk.


    "In complete honesty, nobody is," answers the Ship-Mother, running a slender finger along the unworn helmet.  "You might not be aware, but finding precursor sites in any kind of recognizable state is rare.  Finding them on inhabited worlds, even more so."


    On every screen in the office are maps of the crater.  One portion in particular receives most of the focus.  There, jutting from the melted bedrock of the world, an irregularly shaped ceramic structure can clearly be seen.  Spherical surfaces are visible between gaps in the tortured stone.


    "But why me?"


    "Because I can trust you.  You don''t owe anyone from the old trading companies any favors, so I can believe any reports you send me."


    "There are others," begins Donna, but Eva cuts her off.


    "Yes, there are.  I want you to pick a team to send down to the dig site.  You know the Matron''s preferences, but otherwise you can have anyone that doesn''t outrank you, on my authority.  You have the training I need to keep the focus on what we can learn, not on how much profit can be squeezed out of it."


    Donna glares at the much smaller officer but seems to be considering her options.


    "Denn, your thoughts, please?"


    "Of course, Ship-Mother.  My own people can trace much of their current power to looting the remains of progenitor race tombs," I answer unabashedly.  "Though, I might recommend caution.  Anything capable of destroying a civilization of such power often is far too resilient to the ravages of time."


    "I meant about Donna''s qualifications," clarifies Eva, adjusting her uniform slightly.


    If possible, Donna''s glare intensifies.  Eva Chel, however, merely smiles with cloying sweetness while awaiting my response.


    "Donna is an experienced leader, maintaining order in her assigned sectors.  The other traits necessary for this task are adaptability and integrity, I believe."  Eva nods in agreement, so I continue.  "Other members of the security force accept ''gifts'' from station residents in exchange for neglecting to patrol certain districts.  You have never accepted one of these gifts."  It seems she was unaware of this illicit agreement, as her defiant glare transforms into an indignant scowl.


    "Who''s been accepting bribes?"


    Eva shakes her head.  "Later.  Go on, Mos."


    "Right.  You''re also well trained in the operation and repair of the vacuum suits that we suspect may be necessary for navigating the inside of the uncovered structure.  The atmosphere inside may be poisonous, or some other unknown hazard may lurk inside."


    "But I have to command this team from up here, to keep the peace.  There''s more you''re not telling me. "


    Eva''s smile falters momentarily.  Donna''s guess is slightly too accurate.


    "We''ve asked a few tourists about their experiences with security," Eva adds reluctantly.  "And most had only positive things to say about you."  She covers her embarrassment by picking up and examining Donna''s helm.


    It would be more unusual if the rest of the security team were in as high regard.  Yosip''s selection criteria was to appoint those most likely to cause trouble if left unsupervised to the prevention and suppression of said trouble.  The fact that Donna is so professional is an anomaly.


    Donna''s ears lay back against her bare head, twitching with the tides of her thoughts.  It might be possible that she plans some new objection, but Eva gives her no time to voice it.


    Raising one slim hand, Eva retakes command of the conversation.  "Zsuchus is my first recommendation.  He''s been pestering me nonstop, and I want you to take him."


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    Donna shakes free of her inner thoughts.  Unexpectedly, she chuckles, perhaps at her own brief encounters with the pilot.  "Keep him busy, you mean?  Alright, who else?"


    The discussion continues, but it is clear the project is under control.  I check in at the new hospital and find that all is proceeding smoothly.  Satisfied, I then access the cameras of the former.  There I come across a conversation in progress.


    Sitting in the old clinic, supervising the removal of the last of the medical equipment, Pale works over three separate data tablets.  Their many arms move quickly, comparing the information on the devices.


    With them are Benn Pink and Mimba, two nurses working the same shift.


    "Where do you want these boxes?" Benn''s arms are full of packed away files.  His oily crest hangs limply, and his uniform is disgraceful.  Stains and wrinkles ruin the professional aura he is meant to exude, making him look more like a grifter borrowing an old suit to perpetuate their latest scam.  Tired lines crease his face from four consecutive shifts.


    Pushing a wheeled cart, heavy with equipment is Mimba.  She scratches at her russet fur absently as she works with one arm.  Her green and blue uniform is immaculate, the swirling pattern undisturbed by stains of any kind.


    "You know where you''re going," answers Pale.  "Asking for each item you remove is unnecessary."


    "Yeah, you say that," protests the gray nurse.  "Then Zra''ll get something that should''ve gone to Bucket or something because the last guy through here used the wrong label and I''ll be at fault for not confirming it with you."


    Mimba chuckles.  "Quite the optimist, yeah?"


    "No, don''t act like I''m crazy," Benn complains, then yawns widely.


    "Not crazy," she retorts.  "Sleep deprived."


    Pale lifts an arm bristling with sensors to examine the nurse.  "Go get some rest, Benn," decrees the medic, lowering their arm back into the writhing knot of their main mass.


    It is then that I notice that the conglomerate entity looks further enhanced than the last time I had observed them closely.  Two additional arms are present, at least one of which is surely responsible for their enhanced verbal communication abilities.  The entity''s speech is much improved.  Many of the arms are also longer, increasing the entities reach greatly.


    "We can take care of this for a while," Mimba states confidently when the tired Benn starts to protest.


    "Fine," agrees Benn, too exhausted to fight.  He sets down the boxes, stifling another yawn.


    Mimba shakes her head as she watches the other stumble through the clinic.  She slows her pace, keeping close to him until he reaches the exit.  She has to remind him to set the boxes he holds down before he can walk out with them.


    In the main lobby she unloads her cart.  Not all of the equipment is to be removed to the same place.  Pieces needing repair or upgrade form a pile to await Bucket''s attention.  Storage drives containing personal data pertaining to individual residents are to be copied and archived.  Some heavily damaged or outdated components will be sent to be recycled.


    A paltry amount of credits ensures a constant pool of workers, each hoping to earn an extra pittance carrying the packages through the busy station.  One of them, a thin Tserri dressed in vertical stripes that matched her onyx fur and emerald eyes, arrives to volunteer, and Mimba registers her for deliveries to Bucket.


    After listening to Mimba explain the task, and receiving her credits, the dark-furred worker picks up a heavy bundle of components and asks, "Is it true they captured a blue scale?  What''s that even mean?"


    Mimba looks around to make sure there are none who might overhear before answering, "You''ll find out soon enough.  Yeah, they did, though she''s not very talkative."  She shrugs expressively, disappointing her audience when she continues, "Dunno why, but the grays all treat her like an honored ancestor."


    "What, cause she''s old?"


    "Like, gran''s gran, old, yeah," answers the nurse with a laugh.  "Even Pale acts funny if somebody mentions the blue scale."


    The courier nods her head, thinking over the news as she leaves on her first delivery.


    "Don''t be spreading any gossip, though," cautions Mimba.


    The other only laughs over her shoulder as she hurries off.


    To me, the fact that not a single package has yet been reported lost or stolen says much on the improved state of the average resident.  Vandalism is still a common occurrence, but now it is often graffiti rather than destruction or theft of infrastructure.  There are many things that they still complain of, bringing numerous petitions to the Ship-Mother, but even the poorest can expect to eat when they wish, if not what.


    The residents deserve most of the praise.  They are the workers installing piping and ventilation, the farmers growing food and tending tanks of sea life, and they are responsible for the creation of hundreds of small industries that together make the station a livable place.


    On a life supporting world, they would thrive without help.  Cast adrift in the hollow rock that is Kalibern, they of course must depend on the technological superiority of the Selberfeld Imperium to support them.  And yet, they do more than just accept this assistance, they learn from it in order to become more independent.


    I wonder if my people were once like the Tserri.  Chaotic.  Free thinking and expressive.  A momentary flare of jealousy overtakes me, but it dissipates quickly.


    Because I then picture these people having to defend themselves against the Southern Tribals.  Even with the new tools and knowledge that they possess, they stand no chance of resisting even a solitary young chieftain.


    There is little I can do but prepare for the inevitable.  My dronefeathers, now numbering five, continue to infiltrate the flocks of stonefeathers that infest the station.  Glian has a new bipedal robot under construction.  And with Sba City nearby, it may be possible to have some runic defenses installed.


    Ship-Mother Eva Chel will need to approve the project, but that shouldn''t be an issue.

 Chapter 86: Whats a Time Capsule?

    In an effort to increase the pressure within the park, air flows steadily out of the compressors and into the vast space.  It currently blows over fields of bare rock and loose rubble.


    Excellent.  The temporary airlocks bracketing the entrances slow work down enormously.  Once the park is freely accessible, they will be removed and reinstalled at the next expansion site.


    Dark brown dust drifts through the air.  Some powdery soil, so light and dry that the breeze takes it easily.  A shuttle flies overhead, scanning for particulates, but the swirling dust inside will help workers find any air leaks.  Everything that doesn''t escape, the greater majority, will settle eventually.


    The slight electrostatic charge of the camera lenses helps to keep them clean and functional.  Surprisingly, Bucket is not the creator of the new design.  That honor belongs to a group of students.


    The Ship-Mother likes giving minor but reoccurring problems from her work to the engineering students, a habit I now see the value of.  Not only does it familiarize the students with the kinds of problems they''ll be regularly facing, but it frees the Ship-Mother to work on more vital concerns.  Of course, the experienced engineers teaching the classes only send along the best of their students'' solutions.


    Her time, and thus my own as I wait on her, is currently being wasted.  She sits at her desk arguing with one of Jetanda''s acolytes.  Eva is clearly not convinced that a portion of the casino''s profits needs to be separate for tax purposes.  They''ll work something out, eventually.


    Workers roll barrels into the park, unconcerned with the slight pressure differences.  The compacted plant fibers of the containers crack and spread under the barrels'' weight.  The workers can be as harsh on the containers as they wish, as the shattered remains will break down quickly into more dirt.  Jokes and laughter accompany their labor as often as grunting and harsh language.


    Pressed into the dried fibers are live seeds and spores, ready to provide the first layer of ground cover.  Other plants, already grown to maturity, are being carried in by other workers.  The root systems are also within similar wrappings.  They''ll need a good wetting before they can break down into nutrient rich soil.


    The workers react as a group when I trigger the sprinkler test.  Almost as one they seek the ready shelter available in the many pillars spread across the space.  I only run it long enough to wet the soil slightly, then shut it off.  The workers come out smiling and joking.


    I watch as they pile the loose dirt around the bushes and flowering shrubs.  The workers actually yell out a request for more rain.  I''m happy to comply.  Like the residents, I too am nostalgic for weather.  When water begins running down the banks of the artificial stream I halt the precipitation.  The automatic controls of the system should work just fine, but I''ll need to keep track of it and alter it occasionally so as not to erode the terrain.


    Yells from Eva''s office make me hopeful that the meeting is nearing an end.


    "How can you say that!"


    "Easily," yells Eva, standing with both arms pressed onto her desk.  "You''re a wacko.  Wacko."


    "Please, calm down," pleads the taller acolyte.  His gray tipped ears twitch nervously.  "Flowing sky, I''m sorry."


    Eva glares at the priest, her slim face dark with anger.  She takes a deep breath and then another before she calls for me.


    "Mos Denn, I could use your assistance, here."


    "Ship-Mother?"


    "Good, that was fast," she says, brightening.  "Please explain to my friend here that you don''t need to be given any of the casino''s revenue."


    That''s an odd request.  She''s right, though.  I don''t need any more of the proceeds from that establishment.


    "Very well.  The station already receives the amount agreed upon by previous negotiations.  As a station employee, I draw a portion of the station''s available funds, part of which comes from the casino, regularly as pay."


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    A smile creeps across her face as I continue.


    "In fact, the casino also pays me directly for my services.  At least a portion of the drinks served by your establishment are supplied by myself at below market rates."


    She makes a stifled choking sound but manages to maintain her smile.  "Now, does that sound like mistreatment to you?  Thank you, Mos.  That''s all I needed."


    "No problem at all.  Enjoy the rest of your meeting, Ship-Mother."


    She''s likely to remain in negotiations for some time.  The park is coming along nicely and doesn''t need my supervision.  Perhaps Donna could use my assistance?  At the very least, it would be nice to know who she ends up selecting for her team.


    It takes longer to find her than I at first imagine.  Off duty, she''s harder to track down but I find her sitting in a cafe with those she will be leading.


    The cafe is small and dimly lit with subtle music playing in the background.  A high-topped copper bar dominates one side of the place, selling drinks.  A door beside the bar leads into the kitchen.  Round tables crafted of gleaming nickel, dot the floor.  Donna sits at a table in a shady corner.


    With her are the pilot, Zsuchus Parc in his flight suit, and three others.  One I recognize quickly as Benn Pink, the overworked nurse.  He looks better after resting, though his face shows premature wrinkling from his stressful habits.


    The two others work in the command room as data analysts.  Minor bureaucrats, both of them.  An excitement fills them as they sit at the table, gesturing animatedly.  The first, Grita Nons, sips at her drink and smiles, nodding along to her partner as he speaks.


    "This is just what we needed," Fren Josun says, waving his arms around.  "A chance to earn some distinction."


    "We weren''t going anywhere," agrees Grita, setting her drink down.  Wan and thin, the administrators could benefit from some time under a warm sun.


    "Speak for yourselves," Benn replies glumly.  "The chance of a lifetime just came into work, and you guys are gonna drag me away from it to go dig in a trash pile.  Thanks."


    Donna laughs confidently.  "Blue scales have already been studied, what more is there for you to learn from her?  But with us, you''ll be the first to get to document anything we find.  And we will find something, be sure of that."


    Benn shrugs not impressed.


    Zsuchus tries to wave over the waitress but is ignored.  "So what if it is all garbage?  It''ll be alien garbage older than our whole species.  Besides," he continues, glaring at the Tserri miner that the waitress is spending her time chatting with, "when we come back, we''ll have stories to tell.  That''ll win us something you can''t buy around here."


    "Not just the old tail," complains Benn.  "We don''t even have names for the other tribals.  Maybe one of them is like Gelly and will get better?"


    "Maybe," concedes Fren.  "But what if we find something that can help them all recover?"


    "Don''t get your hopes too high," cautions Donna.  "The only thing we know for sure is that the structure is very, very old.  Maybe it predates the tribals completely.  Who knows?  It could be the only thing we find is alien music and a lot of mold."


    "Alien mold," interjects Fren.  Grita giggles and Zsuchus grins cockily.  Benn just sighs.


    "Whatever," Donna announces.  "The structure itself is worth studying.  Those bombs melted bedrock, but the material of the structure isn''t even singed.  If we could put that on our suits, our ships, we''d be invincible."


    That causes the others to all turn to face her.  An appraising look crosses Benn''s features.


    "That would be worth going after," he states quietly.  The others around the table nod their agreement.


    "Glad that''s settled," declares Donna, rising from her seat.  "First thing tomorrow morning, get your suits from Glian''s garage.  Meet me at the secondary tower before first shift ends."


    I wait for her to exit the cafe.  Donna walks confidently at first, but slumps in near exhaustion after rounding a corner.  She stops to rest in a quiet passage, leaning against the cool stone.


    "Well done, Donna," I congratulate her from speakers hidden in a ground level maintenance panel.  She jumps three ubits in the air and lands in a crouch, claws spread dangerously.  "Are you alright?"


    She glares into the distance, shaking.  Suddenly she loses her balance and tips backwards.  She lands with a grunt and drops her arms limply.  "Don''t scare me like that," she says weakly.


    "You act as if you just escaped from danger.  Like a young general after their first battle, even.  Are you sure you''re alright?"


    Donna nods tiredly.  "Too much stress, I guess.  I thought Benn was going to walk out and I just really need a medic on the team."  She breathes quietly, trying to calm down.


    There''s more that she isn''t saying.  For instance, I know of the application she and Skint had jointly placed for a larger dwelling.  Sharing the space entitles them to more room, as well as allowing them to share the financial responsibilities.  I''d be stressed too if I were forced to rely on Skint paying his half of rent.


    "I was hoping you''d be willing to do me a favor, actually," I admit.  Her breathing catches slightly but she gestures for me to continue.  "I have an idea I wanted to try, but I need the Ship-Mother''s approval.  If you were to join the presentation, I think Eva would be much more willing to approve."


    "Has she already turned you down?"


    "No.  She''s simply been very busy.  But she has shown a remarkable willingness to make time to listen to you and the other security squad leaders."


    "Ah ha."


    "Let me explain it to you first, before you decide."


    "Fine," she declares.  She stands up, wiping dust from her garments with two claws and using a third to balance against the wall.  "I needed to let her know the team''s ready, anyway."

 Chapter 87: Whats Networking?

    Eva sits quietly; one leg crossed over the other.


    "These improvements," explains Donna, gesturing at the main screen, "won''t require any extensive construction or rewiring project.  We can have the workers come in and apply them directly without interfering with any of our existing systems."


    "Radiation shielding, heating, light.  There are so many applications, with their uses being limited only by the amount of surface space available," I add, speaking into the brief pause.


    "Secondary power storage?"


    "Good question!"  Donna smiles broadly as I switch the display.  "Not only storage, but we can have them install arrays to provide small amounts of energy to the system."  Now the screen shows power usage by area, with areas with greater demand in darker reds and lesser in pale pink.


    "We estimate a five percent decrease in strain upon these systems," continues Donna.  I highlight the sector around the primary docking tower.  "Provided that adequate surfaces can be found to safely bear the runes."


    She goes on, describing the defensive applications as well as intimating that it would be a potential way to build familiarity with the Spanless Empire.  Eva listens in her chair, listening but not commenting.  It is hard to tell what she might be thinking when Donna finishes the presentation.


    We wait to see what she decides.  Donna stands in a relaxed yet ready stance and casts her gaze around the room slowly, like a hunter waiting on prey to spring from dense foliage.


    Eva adjusts her uniform, clearly enjoying herself if the small smirk she attempts to hide is any indication.


    "Hm.  Alright.  Let me think about it," answers the Ship-Mother.  She taps a finger on her desk.  "Send these plans to Bucket.  If they think there''s potential here, we''ll move forward with your proposed changes.  On a small, cautionary trial run."


    "Glad that''s out of the way," mutters Donna.  In a louder voice she continues, "I''ve spoken with the chosen group.  Benn took some convincing, but the others were eager for a chance to explore."


    Eva nods, almost absently.  She brushes some imagined dust from her sleeve.  "And Zsuchus?"  She asks as if she is uncaring of the answer, but the slight tensing of her neck muscles gives away her interest.


    "Eager to fly," answers Donna.  Her left ear quivers minutely.  "I''m thinking of making him team leader."


    "Really?"  The Ship-Mother looks up.  "Not Benn Pink?"


    Donna nods confidently.  "Zsuchus is the most committed, I think.  All the others have their own reasons for joining the team, but he''s the one I''m most confident actually cares about the project.  He has the experience to be a valuable recruit for any passing ship and he knows it and still seems to think this is his best option."


    The pilot is young, but his experience training the many Tserri pilots in the system has only made his skills greater.  His only real chance for further promotion, in my opinion, lies outside of the system.  Many seasons from now, when the proposed shipyard is complete, his options will be unlimited.  Until then, he languishes at Kalibern, one pilot among many.  It takes no great skill to make the tame trips from Honus to Kalibern.


    "I also think that it would be more efficient to allow the more," she twirls one claw in a slow circle, "scientific members of the team to focus on the artifact.  Leadership will keep Zsuchus too busy to cause trouble while freeing the others from distractions."


    At this the Ship-Mother chuckles.  "I wouldn''t describe Grita as scientific, but she works hard."  She shifts in the oversized chair.  "Alright.  Anything else you needed?  I''ve got a meeting with Pack Leader Gelen later, and I''d like to sneak a meal in before."


    "That should be everything," confirms Donna.  "Thanks, Eva."


    Eva waves one hand before rising.  She has to make a little hop to reach the floor.  Donna pretends not to notice.  A chair capable of holding Yosip''s heavy form is much too large for the far daintier Ship-Mother.  Since she seems unwilling to use station resources on herself, I put in a minor repair order to exchange her seat for one more appropriate.


    The two officers leave, each for their own destination.  On her way out, the Ship-Mother places a final order, authorizing the next set of expansions.


    The rocky body of Kalibern provides nearly everything necessary for manufacturing.  Currently, the station exchanges most of what is refined here for finished goods and food stuffs.  With food production finally keeping pace with need, and the many idle claws available, it is now possible to begin focusing on creating industrial infrastructure.


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    Near the secondary docking tower, there is still available space for factories.  Additional recycling plants are also needed, to supply the material hungry manufacturing industry.  Even when the entirety of Kalibern is hollow, still there will be waste to recycle.  Food wrappers, old clothing, broken electronics, and many other things are constantly ending up at the current facilities.


    Bucket, many biomechanical arms writhing at his workstation, is busy designing a more efficient system to sort the refuse.  I look over their work before disturbing them with yet another assignment.  A series of enzyme baths designed to break chemical bonds paired with centripetal separators, sequentially removing lighter elements until only materials that can be sorted magnetically remain.  The design seems complete, so I decide that this is a good time to interrupt.


    "Interesting system, Bucket," I announce, startling the conglomerate entity.  Their many sub-bodies whip around until several lock onto the speaker I use.  "Sorry to startle you."


    A series of lights flash along their many limbs in a pattern not too unlike their amusement signal when communicating through radio transmissions.  It gladdens me that the entity continues to maintain their continual good cheer.


    "My condolences," the entity says in a mechanical monotone.  They clearly have not yet grown an arm capable of the more refined speech Pale now uses.  "Loss of appendage is always difficult," Bucket concludes, drawing in their limbs and making them droop momentarily.


    It takes a moment for me to understand, but I realize they are referring to the destruction of Minn.  "The ''shell was useful," I agree.  "I hope to have a replacement soon."


    I briefly allow myself to imagine a battle shell wandering the station, repurposed carapace dense with runic energy.  The thought amuses me.  I can imagine one of the locals challenging it to a duel, thinking it an invading warrior.  Best to continue using Glian''s current bipedal designs.


    Bucket laughs visibly again before stretching their limbs out once more.  "You require assistance?"


    "Consultation," I clarify.  "I wish to contract the installation of a few defensive runic arrays in key parts of the station, as well as some refinements to the energy grid."


    "Squiver runes?"


    "Indeed."


    Bucket is quite perceptive, though I cannot imagine them knowing other sources of magitech.  I send them the plans for the arrays.


    "Approved," announces the entity.  "Provide data and allow observation.  This process might be useful," they conclude, already returning to their work.


    "Excellent.  I''ll let Eva know.  Thank you."


    Bucket waves one metallic limb higher than the rest in clear dismissal.  That''s fine, they have much to occupy their time.  I do as well and for that reason do not let the rude behavior bother me.  No, there are other things that cause me much more concern.


    "Mos Denn, bless this warrior," intones the priestess.


    She stands surrounded by friends and family within the Laceweaver Row community center.  Next to her is a young male, thick with muscles under his orange fur.  While the priestess dresses in long ceremonial robes, the warrior youth wears only a short leather skirt.  He nervously clutches a long bone dagger in one claw.


    Her words are repeated by those around her in a low chant.  Almost hidden by the crowd, I spot the frail form of Jetanda, watching with a grim look on her face.  I fear they''ll keep this up until I acknowledge them in some way.  Embarrassment floods me, but I cannot bear to watch them pray any longer.  The youth also seems highly uncomfortable.  It would be an act of kindness to end his suffering.


    I dim the lights in the hall.  The chanting stops, cutting off raggedly in the sudden darkness.  Quickly, before they can recover, I set the lights above the central pair to maximum illumination.


    The gathered Tserri gasp, but the priestess seizes the opportunity.  She shouts, "You have been blessed, Jettan!"


    The warrior stands straighter, a smile lighting his face.  Around him, friends and family cheer for the youth.  I return the lighting to normal settings, hoping to calm them, but they only cheer louder.  I wish they would stop.


    The crowd closes around him.  The priestess draws back quietly, arms raised, allowing Jettan his moment.  One by one the gathered Tserri embrace him, whispering encouragements in his ear.


    When Jetanda takes her turn to embrace the youth, he whispers excitedly, "Gran, did you see?"


    All four arms around him, she whispers back, "He didn''t have to do that, you know.  He rarely answers prayers."  Her graying face is practically buried in his shoulder.  I have to apply extreme filtering techniques to remove the noise of the crowd to make her words intelligible.


    Jettan laughs, squeezing the elder tightly before releasing her.  She lifts one claw warningly, pointing at the camera.  The warrior follows her gaze, then nods seriously.


    "Thank you, Spirit."


    Another round of cheering causes me to worry.  It is with relief that I watch the crowd turn towards the attached kitchen, from which younger Tserri carry trays of roasted meats and baked vegetables.  The priestess leads Jettan and his grandmother to places of honor at a table draped with colorful cloths.


    Plate after plate are piled before the young warrior to sample before being passed around the tables.  The redfin looks especially delightful, with a garnish of kelp and Tserri herbs.  Laughter and conversation fills the hall.  It''s hard to accurately guess anything else they might say, beyond cheers of the youngster''s name spontaneously rising up.


    Jettan will be joining the security force, starting the next morning.  One of the very first to reach full adulthood while aboard the station, he is the first to receive a ceremony like this.  I fear that I will be repeating this performance many times in the coming seasons.


    The thought fills me with mixed feelings.  I do not wish nor deserve a place of reverence among these people, yet it clearly fills some need within them to have me act so for them.  I am not unused to onerous duty, and this is no more distasteful than any other task I have completed while serving the Spanless Empire.


    In all honesty, it feels good.  Among my own people, while honored, I knew that I was nothing but a living weapon.  Feared and tolerated, but not loved.  Here, I am so much more.  These people truly need me, and more, they seem truly appreciative.  I think I would gladly continue to embarrass myself for them.

 Chapter 88: Whats Phased Installation?

    Yosip warily leads the trio of dust eaters down the ramp.  Each footstep clangs when it lands.  His body is tense, ready to leap at any moment.  Yosip''s mechanical gaze shifts around continually, scanning the passing groups of shoppers and laborers with professional paranoia.


    Somner Zek moves with casual ease, unlike her guide.  Her green robes swirl around her as she shifts to gawk at the colorful displays.


    The other two, wearing the gray robes of the Jurer caste, keep close together.  Any loud or sudden noise causes them to cringe deeper into their encompassing robes.


    A light blue feathered aviaforme also follows them at a slight distance.  His white vest and pants are made of some synthetic material.  Not a Don then but some other rank within their society.  A pouch hanging from a strap around his neck bulges with odd shapes.


    "We''ll stop by the command level, first," announces Yosip.  "Then we''ll see where you lot are needed."


    He waits for acknowledgement, and nods when he receives it.  "Good.  Stay close, and watch your pockets," jokes the former Supply-Master.  His black zelsilk vest and trousers shimmer as he leads them through the busy tunnels.


    Yosip relaxes noticeably when Han runs up out of the crowd, grinning mischievously.  Even in his uniquely designed suit, his lack of height causes him to easily get lost from sight.  Clutched in his upper claws is a package.


    Han offers the parcel to Yosip, who takes it with a frown.  I focus on the package.  It bears a label announcing the name of the product.  A local birpa company''s offering, sold out of a popular shop.  The logos are bright, cheerily stylized Tserri faces.  I see the problem.  These are anda root flavor.


    Han laughs at the gray officer''s scowling face, since Yosip hands out the bottles anyway.  The young prankster opens his and takes a long drink.


    Yosip opens his with a weary sigh and takes a much more modest drink.  The glass clinks against his lower jaw.  The skin around his camera eyes wrinkles at the taste.


    Zek drinks hers happily, though her companions have mixed reactions.  One seems to enjoy it, taking small sips as they slide down the tunnels.  The other takes only a single drink, then offers theirs to Zek.  The Somner accepts it greedily, pulling it close to her body.


    The aviaforme displays the least reaction, drinking his birpa silently.  His attention is entirely upon the architecture they pass.  He stops in his distraction to look closer at an air vent.


    "Hey, Shawn!  Keep up," yells Yosip from across the noisy tunnel.


    The blue feathered being looks up, his eyes wide.  "Sorry!"  He hurries to rejoin the group, startling the two Jurers when he runs up to them.


    While they take their places in custom chairs placed in front of Ship-Mother Eva Chel''s desk, I''m able to observe them with my other senses.  Most of them, anyway.  The aviaforme remains an uncomfortably bright flame to my esoteric senses.


    Yosip''s limbs bear enhancements that draw energy into them and convert it into a protective field.  Doubtless to protect him from exposure to radiation, though he also bears runes that can handle much greater levels of energy.  Good.  He deserves to wear the runes of a warrior.


    Zek''s insides are a complicated mess, but in comparison to her companions, she is a well built construction.  One in particular causes me distress.  Her brain is studded with foreign growths that glow with thermal energy.  The heat output increases as I watch, and the Jurer turns, fixing her primary eyes upon the panel that hides me from sight.  White film covers her primary eyes.


    "Rude," she mutters, much to Zek''s amusement.


    Eva snorts, thinking the comment directed at her.  "Welcome to Kalibern.  Thank you for agreeing to come here.  We''re eager to see just what you''ll be doing.  I admit, I''m curious."  She smiles warmly at her guests.  All but Yosip seem oblivious to the gesture.


    Yosip shrugs his heavy shoulders.  "For this trip, they''re going to focus on radiation shielding."


    The Jurer, Es if I recognize the voice, snaps her pedipalps in irritation and huffs up her torso.  "We intend to focus on modular installations," she says irritably.  "Stone blocks that can be moved around as your needs change."


    Nodding, the Ship-Mother gestures behind her back.  I am the only one to see, so it must be a signal to me.  She draws a little square with one finger, then wiggles all of the digits seemingly at random.  From this I conclude she wishes me to activate the main screen for her, though why she doesn''t simply ask remains an infuriating mystery.


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    The screen activates, showing the hazy view of Bucket''s workshop.  The conglomerate entity raises one sensory body, noticing the small signal light beside the device.


    "Yes, still working," the synthetic voice states before returning to the data tablets spread around them.  I also turn on the only display screen still under my control in their workspace.  Eva smiles sweetly at the engineer from its display.


    "So we see," she almost coos at Bucket.


    Yosip suppresses a chuckle, almost choking and startling the dust eaters.


    The various independent cable structures composing the conglomerate entity spasm in what I assume is shock.  They had clearly assumed that it was I, checking in on their progress.


    "Ship-Mother," states Bucket, calming their erratic movements.  "Greetings."


    Biomechanical arms extend, retrieving data tablets and sorting quickly between cryptically labeled files on their personal system.


    "Greetings," replies Eva, smiling slightly.  "Is this a bad time?  I have some guests that need to borrow your workshop.  Do you mind sharing the space?"


    She makes another surreptitious gesture, so I split the display screen in the workshop.  One half remains a real-time image of the Ship-Mother.  The other is a still image of Yosip''s group, which I take from the security server from their walk through Kalibern.  Multiple of Bucket''s sensory appendages swivel to better interpret the images.  Eva''s smile widens slightly.


    "Dust eaters?  Send them," replies the entity.  The sensory devices upon their nearly tentacular arms scan the images so closely that I play part of the unaltered security scans for them.


    Es snaps irritably, but a simple application of sound filtering programming mutes her rude noises from the transmission.  Bucket likely still notices the slight alteration to the signal, but they do not indicate it in any way I recognize.


    "Wonderful," beams the Ship-Mother.  "I''ll have them escorted to you."  She nods sharply.  I take this as another signal, and end the transmission.


    She doesn''t say who should escort the dust eaters, but I assume that she wants me to organize this as well.  I send a message to the closest squad on patrol and they change direction.


    Eva straightens in her seat.  In order to give her the same intimidating height once enjoyed by Yosip, her chair sits upon a new dais.  Nothing extravagant, only half a ubit in height.  It is enough that those around her do not loom over her during this meeting.  I don''t think she even notices, naturally assuming that others are no larger than herself in some act of supreme self-confidence.


    She keeps the delegation busy, asking questions about the process and smiling politely at the arcane jargon the thaumatists answer her with.  Yosip watches with detached disinterest, occasionally trading jokes with Han and their blue feathered companion.  They relax visibly when the door opens to reveal a pair from station security.


    "Wonderful.  Follow these two.  Yosip, could you stay behind for a bit?"


    "Sure," he grunts.  "I''ll join you later, kid," Yosip says, putting one metal hand upon Han''s armored shoulder.  "You keep this lot out of trouble, yeah?"


    "Yessir!"


    The three robed thaumatists follow the armored Tserri out.  Shawn and Han follow after a final farewell to the Ship-Mother.


    When the door closes behind them, leaving the two gray officers alone, Yosip quips, "Not bad.  The Squivers were impressed.  You''ll have to tell me how you got Denn to stay silent during the entire meeting."


    Eva snorts, and relaxes.  The sudden release from stress causes her to bend over her desk and inhale loudly.  She looks up with relief on her thin face.


    "I know," Yosip says mysteriously, rubbing at his nose.  "You get used to it.  Mostly."


    Loud guffaws from the Ship-Mother cause Yosip to slouch into his seat.


    "I never," manages Eva, between bouts of laughter, "understood why he always insists on proper ventilation."


    Yosip nods sagely.  "I thought it was just a quirk, another of his odd mannerisms.  Then I went to Sba City.  Without proper filtration I never would have survived."


    I feel that I should be indignant, but cannot bring myself to care.  In my experience, most aliens smell unpleasant.  It somehow seems fitting to learn that they feel the same about my kind.  Former kind, now.  Regardless, having proper filtration and ventilation is important when there is no natural breeze to break up the formation of toxic chemicals in the air.


    "You look good," Eva remarks.  "I like the new clothes.  Think I could get something made from that material?"  She reaches out, touching the loose vest Yosip wears.  "Smooth," she says, smiling.


    He lets her finish examining his ceremonial garb.  When she leans back in her chair he stretches his neck.  It releases a loud cracking noise.  I hate when he does that.


    "Sure.  The aviaformes already want to try selling zelsilk.  I''ll let you know when they send the first shipment over."


    "Thanks."


    Awkward silence fills the room.  The gentle whirring of the vents is the only sound.  The two fidget in their seats until Yosip sighs heavily and says, "So what''s wrong?"


    She shakes her head, denying his question.  "Nothing I can''t handle."


    Yosip nods.  She looks at him, scrutinizing his scarred face, then nods, pleased at what she finds there.


    "I''m not going to try to take your job," Yosip says, rubbing his face with one mechanical hand.  "The Squivers are treating me alright, so far."


    "Don Yosip," teases Eva, face darkening slightly.


    "Yeah.  Sure, but they aren''t trying to make me some holy figure."


    I share his pain.  It is one thing to be respected, but to be worshipped?


    Yosip shakes his misshapen head.  "Their power structure is strange, though."


    "Oh?"  Eva leans on her elbows, eyes widening with interest.


    Yosip shrugs.  "Yeah.  Everyone is free to do whatever they want, so long as it''s what''s best for the group and nobody of higher rank says not to.  They don''t give me much direction and don''t seem to care what I do."


    That''s an interesting interpretation of the situation.  When each individual is trained to a single purpose, they need not await orders to perform their primary function.  And if a task is indeed assigned to a worker, little care is given to how the worker accomplishes it.  Higher castes are not trained in menial labor and would have little useful to contribute, instead trusting that their orders will be fulfilled by those who know how best to do so.


    "If you need something to do," Eva says slyly, "Jetanda would love to speak with you."


    Yosip suffers a brief malfunction.  A servo in his face begins twitching erratically, tugging the gray skin around his mouth until it looks like he''s laughing silently.

 Chapter 89: Whats Technobabble?

    Reaching one end branch of his prehensile tongue into the pouch hanging around his neck, Shawn pulls out a compact device.


    The object is cylindrical and extends to nearly a ubit in length.  Shawn operates it with another end of its triple tongue, pressing pressure pads to activate the electronic tool.  He waves it around, taking readings of the station.  It clicks and hums in his long tongue, making an electronic record of everything.


    Ventilation, power conduits, water processing, he scans everything within reach.  The others in the cramped room are happy to let him wander out.


    "Why did the firelight have to come with us?"  Jurer Es, in another of her foul moods, slaps at the cubic block of stone on Bucket''s workbench.  "They hurt my brains."


    Jurer Zi and Somner Zek silently signal agreement with their grumpy companion, though with less agitation.  Zi turns the cube, surveying the pattern etched upon it from another angle, then responds, "He left, so don''t worry about it.  We can finally concentrate so let''s finish this project."


    Each of the three consumes the contents of a vial drawn from their bandoleers. Watching quietly until now, Bucket speaks.  Their mechanical voice cannot express emotion, but the movements of their many bodies can simulate the emotional cues of my own kind with surprising accuracy.


    "Please, elaborate.  Describe the nature of the pain?"


    The entity shapes their arms to resemble a sort of morbid curiosity seldom seen outside of hardened Somner, too long on the front lines.  Perhaps recognizing the similarity, it is Zek who answers.


    "We each are the physical manifestation of higher dimensional existences."  She pauses, rethinking her words.  "Or the physical extension of multidimensional processes.  Most of us are almost invisible, powerless upon the few other levels we can potentially sense and interact with."


    The conglomerate entity signals their understanding.  They listen attentively to the jargon dense explanation, though most of it washes harmlessly over and past me.  The basic idea she attempts to explain is that the aviaformes possess a natural defense that most beings lack, that irritates beings capable of sensing higher dimensional frequencies.


    Bucket then expresses an interest in how thaumatists can detect these frequencies at all.


    "With this," she taps one of the vials strapped to her torso.  "Dust that allows us to see."


    Bucket reaches a single arm closer to Somner Zek.  The tiny claws built into the end of this unit flex as it draws closer to the Somner.  She doesn''t resist, going so far as to draw her tendrils clear of the questing arm.


    The arm closes around the vial and draws it out of her bandoleer.  Once the glass container is free, Zek returns to where she can oversee the other dust eaters.  She acts as if the encounter had not just occurred.


    Bucket draws the vial of dust closer to their center of mass.  Their many arms circle closely around the container, scanning it with all the senses available to the biomechanical entity.  Long bodies slither over each other to get closer.


    "Don''t be a fool," Es shouts, startling the many armed Bucket.  "You see what it does to us, don''t do that to yourself!"


    Zek spreads her many tendrils menacingly.  She puffs up, attempting to reinforce her authority over the other two.  "We have orders."


    "We are not to give-"


    "Correct," interrupts Zek.  "I gave nothing.  We are also not supposed to interfere if outsiders acquire the dust, unless asked.  This Bucket has yet to ask for guidance, yet you interfere."


    Es deflates, drawing her tendrils close to herself and lowering herself closer to the floor.  Zi too assumes a submissive posture, mollifying Zek somewhat.


    Meanwhile, Bucket continues to tighten their bodies into a complex knot around the thaumatist drug.  If they were in the command room, I would be able to tell what types of scans they take, but this is not possible so far from my ability to sense.  I''ll have to ask for their data later, if they survive.


    They then transmit a radio message, directed at me.  Bucket wants me to have a dronefeather come down to their workshop.  I send confirmation, as well as a request for their scans of the dust, since we''re trading favors.  They promise to provide a detailed report once they can compile one.


    Fine.  I can wait, if it must be.  The flying automaton doesn''t take long to reach Bucket''s workshop, though I startle a few Tserri getting it there.  Shouts of ''I told you they worked for the government,'' follow the dronefeather on its flight.  It simply isn''t possible to keep it only in the areas stonefeathers normally occupy and still reach the destination.


    Or perhaps my opening doors remotely to allow the flying device to move through different areas gives away its artificial nature.


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    "Good.  Take this to Pale," commands Bucket, holding out the vial for the drone to take in its mechanical feet.


    The three thaumatists pretend not to hear Bucket ordering the device, focusing on their work.  Zi and Es inscribe the small blocks, attaching runic arrays to each square surface.  I notice that the Jurers prod Zek with their upper tendrils when the dronefeather flies away, carrying the vial.  She prods them back and they all continue working.


    No longer distracted by the drug, Bucket directs their attention to the completed cubes.


    The stones glow slightly in higher light frequencies, invisible to most creatures, along the embedded runes.  To test the efficiency of the cubes, Bucket first sets up a series of devices designed to measure local radioactive particles.  Zek draws closer to the entity, observing their testing equipment closely.


    Then, once everything is in place, they remove one of the radioactive crystals from the shielded storage where they normally keep it.  The entity''s devices register a brief burst of ionizing particles when the shielding first deactivates, but quickly displays a decrease in energy levels.  The stone cubes, right next to the detectors, glow brighter in their invisible light.  They continue to do so until Bucket returns the crystal to safe storage.


    "Satisfied?"


    "For now," confirms Bucket.


    Zek signals her understanding, as well as gratitude.


    Pictures of a stonefeather grasping a glass container as it soars through industrial areas that the creatures normally avoid get spread around the comm network.


    It is then that I notice that Han is not present.  Nearby cameras also fail to locate the Tserri youth, so I expand my search.


    I find him in a small park, watching from a bright green bench as sba chase nightsingers around.  The scaled and feathered creatures leap after the tiny detrivores, squawking loudly when the shiny black vermin get away.


    Sitting beside him is Shawn, who continues to wave around his portable scanner.  Currently the aviaforme is as fascinated with the sba as young Han.  The pair watch together as two of the small creatures squabble over a gor, each pulling upon a different chitinous leg.  A third creature joins the scuffle, kicking and squawking.  Brown and white feathers scatter across the grass.


    Han laughs, pointing with one claw.  Shawn trills melodiously, capturing images to take back with him.


    Their fun gets interrupted when three male Tserri approach.  They wear the loose trousers and long belt currently in fashion, yet their torsos are clad in archaic leather armor.  Each bears distinctive scrollwork, though all have a similar fur pattern.  To a one, they are dark orange with white stripes across their face.


    The newcomers move menacingly, with one of their horned creatures held on a leash.  It strains to reach the Shawn, sharp hooves digging into the dirt.  One of the Tserri, larger than the others, scowls, wrinkling the white stripe of fur that crosses his eyes.


    "Little trouble, I know you," the leader states in the heavy accent of the mountain tribe.  "You killed my cousin''s tsegla.  Got him in a yellow suit, you."


    The other two mutter in low voices, nudging each other with their lower arms.  Shawn jumps from the bench and backs away but does not flee as I would expect.  He stays, though he looks very nervous.


    "My suit''s yellow, too," answers Han, staring back at the taller male.  He taps one gray and yellow metal boot against one leg of the bench.


    The thug leader growls but comes no closer.


    "You don''t wanna try it," warns Han.  He might not have his laser weapon, but he does not need it against foes so lightly equipped.


    The beaten copper knives they carry cannot pierce Han''s armor.  Nor will their own leather, even with studs of worked copper, suddenly prove capable of protecting them from the youth''s industrial alloy encased claws.  It is only risk of harm to Shawn, I think, that keeps the youth from attacking.


    Still, the three leather clad Tserri begin to back away.  When Han doesn''t pursue them, they quickly retreat.  Claws shaking in anger are the worst threat they present as the three flee.  Only the beast, the tsegla, shows any sign of aggression as its owners drag it away.


    Han, who doesn''t look quite so small to me anymore, slumps where he sits.  I wonder how many seasons until his adulthood ceremony should be preformed, almost anticipating the event.


    "Sorry," says Shawn, shaking slightly.  He walks back around the bench, trying to calm his plumage.  "Reflex."


    Han slashes the apology away.  Patting the open spot next to him he grunts, "Sit.  The witches don''t expect us back any time soon, and I''m not done yet.  Are you?"


    "N-no, but sitting sounds good," answers the aviaforme as he collapses into the metal seat.


    They sit until they both return to a calm state, barely speaking to one another.


    "Shit.  This isn''t fun anymore," grumbles Han.  He stands up with a huff.


    Shawn rises as well.  "Would you be willing to show me the aquariums?"


    "The water farms?"  Han''s ears perk up.  "That could be alright.  Watch ''em swimming around."


    "Oh, that too," replies Shawn as he swaps out a storage chip in his scanner for another from his neck bag.


    The pair make their way to the newest installation, chatting as they walk.  They draw a few stares from curious station residents, but are left alone.  Probably for the best.  The closest they come to further trouble comes halfway to their destination.


    A roving band of orphans activates the aviaforme''s fear display when they rush by, joking about their teacher''s graying crest.  Shawn looks like a flaming gas leak, dancing in place as his light azure plumage vibrates.  The youths laugh as they dash towards their daily classes, unaware of the mayhem they''re causing.


    When they get to the large breeding tanks Han marvels at clear vats full of very young redfin and bright sprouts of transplanted kelp fronds.  He points out where tiny clusters of banded bivalves cling to the rocky bottom and shows the feathered visitor the kalamar eggs resting in a cluster of fronds.


    Shawn nods, replying distractedly.  He focuses more upon the mechanisms keeping the water flowing through the contained ecosystem.  His scanning device never stops moving.


    The next tank over, containing a near copy of the former but with larger bluegills instead, draws Han''s attention and he rushes over.  He chatters excitedly about the differences between the two aquatic species.  When he sees that the bivalves are of a spotted variety, he begins another spirited explanation.


    The last tank finally gets a reaction from the feathered alien.  He actually drops his recorder, which Han dives to rescue.


    Inside the third vat swim freshly hatched squivers.  Their many legs kick as pink swarms of them move through the water.  Shawn falls to the ground, vestigial wings beating against the stone as he laughs.


    "I know what dish I wish to try while we''re here," cackles Shawn when he recovers.


    Han bears his own version of an evil grin.


    Disgusting.  They still resemble too closely my own spawn to feel comfortable with.

 Bruens Story 18: Whats a Neighborhood Watch?

    Don Wikna walks in front of Bruen, head turned to look over her shoulder. Bruen momentarily feels jealous of her mobility but decides that the ability to turn one''s head is ultimately useless, considering he can see in nearly every direction, excepting below himself.


    "Shouldn''t you be happy?"


    Bruen''s tentacles come to a halt. "Why?" After a moment of contemplation he adds, "Would you be?"


    Feathers fluff in mostly mock outrage. She then laughs, irritating the general. "It''s fun, isn''t it?"


    His tendrils droop. But he remembers his upbringing and goes on the offensive. "And who raises the offspring if you were to have a tryst?"


    Wikna plucks at her feathers with one prong of her forked tongue, picking at dust or spilled food. "I''d be pampered till I laid the eggs, then I''d go back to working. The father would raise the chicks, naturally. Who raised you?"


    Wikna resumes walking but Bruen motions her to halt. She stops to listen.


    "We aren''t raised so much as trained. The juvenile phase of our life ends when we crawl free from the breeding pools and molt for the first time. Until then we lack reason, existing instinctually. Instinct continues to guide us after. Is it the same for your," he pauses, almost stumbling over the word, "chicks?"


    He waves at one of the colonist families. They''re moving their furniture into their homes. The rocks reflect ruddy light that makes the aviaformes'' feathers blaze.


    She makes a wobbling motion with the two side branches of her tongue. "To a certain point. Usually before their feathers grow in, they hop around saying silly things. It''s a gradual process, growing up. Lots of little steps, you know?"


    "Is that your experience?"


    The Don laughs before speaking, amusement coloring her voice. "That''s what I''ve been told," she answers turning to watch the family move in. She nods in their direction before continuing down the false ravine.


    The father attempts valiantly to contain five little puffballs while getting the furniture inside. While they might gain his lustrous ruby plumage upon further growth, for now soft brown down covers the tiny bodies. Casteless workers carry the actual furniture under the aviaforme''s direction. His voice rings mellowly, deep for their kind. The young, hopping about, chirp out short phrases in high pitches.


    "They don''t even wonder why they''re here, do they?"


    Wikna stops and blinks rapidly several times. "Should they? Our people have been stuck in the same walled settlements for generations. They''re just happy to be given room to raise those chicks the way they want to. The danger seems like a fair trade, for room to grow."


    "And you?" Bruen leans closer to her, speaking quietly. "You know more than the rest, I think. You talked to a Duv. What did they tell you?"


    She trills out her species'' musical laughter. It doesn''t hide the shiver that shakes her body at the mention of the ruling caste. She looks around to make sure none are close enough to overhear. "The biggies? This colony is an experiment. Let''s go somewhere quiet if you want to talk about this."


    "Lead the way."


    With a restrained manic energy, she hurries off. Bruen follows, tentacles rasping against the stone. They return to the main passage. Built along a long arc, the huge tunnel connects to the massive airlock on one end and the portal to Homeworld on the other.


    She opens a door and goes into a side tunnel. Inside Bruen finds an empty shop. It contains shelves and counters to display merchandise, but no products can be seen.


    "This storefront will be mine," Wikna says with some pride as she turns on the lights. Panels set into the walls let off a warm yellow glow. "Still deciding what to sell. Maybe I''ll sell the shop." She laughs nervously.


    Bruen fixes his primary eyes upon her fidgeting form. She wilts under his gaze. Ignoring the way she seems to glow to his prosthetic, he stares at her silently.


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    "You want to know about the colony? I thought that you would know more than me, you know? No?" She laughs again. "Thirsty?"


    "Yes." The dry atmosphere the aviaformes favor tends to dry his skin horribly. "Do you have sea water?"


    "Sorry, only fresh. I''ve got plenty, if you want."


    "Yes, please."


    "Right." She goes into a side room and calls out, "In here."


    Bruen crosses the empty shop and enters the little room. A table in the center with shallow pits with removable tall chairs set around it takes up the center. Counters along two walls contain a water basin with spout. She opens a cabinet set into the wall to get two cups.


    While she fills the cups, Bruen sinks into one of the empty pits to relax. Wikna carries the clay cups over and sets one in front of the general.


    "Thanks."


    When he drains it in a single long gulp she offers him the second clay container.


    "Thanks again," answers the grateful Bruen. He drinks the second only a little slower.


    After refilling the empty cups, Wikna sits down upon one of the chairs. She sips her water slowly, only risking the occasional four eyed glance at Bruen.


    Bruen breaks the uncomfortable silence first. "What I know is that this is some kind of test. They want to know how I''ll react to being left to manage our side of this settlement. I intend, by the way, to let you decide your own affairs."


    She looks over at him, thoughts swirling through her head. Bruen waits quietly, knowing that she''ll speak in her own time.


    Regaining some measure of her usual bravado, she finally says, "Well. That''s a relief, I guess. You''ve been asking a lot of questions about children, today. Does that mean you know what I''m supposed to tell you, after yours crawl out of the pool?"


    Remaining silent is very hard. Bruen wishes to speak, to ask for more information, but knows that showing too much interest would give her leverage over him. He knows that the Empire needs officers, and his duty is to provide them. He assumes that he''ll have minimal contact with them, besides being allowed to witness their emergence or being called to provide lectures at the academy.


    "Of course you know. That''s why you want advice for raising young. Are you going to pick a male like yourself to raise?"


    "I have no preference at this time," hedges Bruen, trying to hide his shock.


    "Yeah, I guess you want to wait until then to pick. What if there isn''t a male, right?"


    "It would be bad to get attached to a favorite, only for it to be eaten before emerging," concedes Bruen, only just now contemplating the possibility. Is it because he turned out so well? Do the Duv wish to try replicating Mos Denn''s feat?


    Wikna shudders, feathers scattering the light in all directions. "Do you think the big dart tongues are going to be good allies?"


    "I do. Gelly and Yosip both are fine warriors. Their ships and long-range weaponry complement our own portals and direct melee approach excellently. Though, it is yet unknown if their civilization will last any great length of time."


    Wikna nods her understanding.


    "Thank you again for the water. It was refreshing. Forgive me, but I must go."


    "You''re welcome," Wikna answers, standing in a hurry. "Did I offend you somehow? I don''t know what I said."


    Bruen raises all his tendrils in her direction, stopping her rushed apology. "Not at all. I merely have much to think about. We can speak again tomorrow, if you aren''t busy."


    "Good. Sounds good," she gushes, whistling her words hastily. "I can come find you after lunch. I would enjoy another chat."


    "And I as well," returns Bruen before sliding through the shop and back out into the main tunnel.


    He wishes to rush back to his own quarters, where he can think in solitude, but he restrains himself. Moving that fast would cause panic among the easily startled colonists. Even entering the Imperial district allows him no additional speed. Duty requires him to maintain proper composure around his soldiers.


    Almost at his quarters, a large Tserri stops him. This individual is heavily modified. His left eye is missing. In its place is a glass lens similar to Yosip''s. His lower claws are both mechanical, with the right arm completely metallic. The left stops at the elbow where a heavy cutting torch now resides. Wires and tubes crawl across the arm and burrow into his torso, underneath his armor somewhere.


    The Tserri''s remaining fur is light orange except for the broad white stripe across his eyes and nose and where it grows back silver from scars. Leather armor with bolted on composite alloy plates covers his torso and legs. A sheath hangs at his hip holding a monstrous knife almost long enough to call a sword. Pressure pads on the hilt indicate enhanced functions. His entire outfit is painted in mismatched patches of different greens, though many gouges in the armor show the bare metal or leather beneath.


    "The Squiver runnin'' this place, you?"


    "I am. To which great warrior do I speak?"


    The Tserri smiles. "Noftun the Wild, in his bones, me. You''re Most Broon, you?" One of the warrior''s upper claws settles upon the hilt of the massive knife.


    Bruen tries not to take offense, keeping his lower tendrils still and holding them low, striving not to project the menace that he senses from the other. He misses the comforting weight of a spear in his tendrils, but it rests inside his room. Patrolling unarmed is supposed to be a reassuring gesture to the aviaformes. It inconveniences Bruen, but he believes he would still win against this miner.


    "Mos Bruen," corrects the general. He relaxes his posture in preparation, ready to move as needed. "Is there a problem?"


    The warrior Noftun hisses his reply. "Yes! I came here to try my skills only to find the Supply-Master''s off on some visit to Kalibern. Not leavin'' unsatisfied, me."


    Noftun draws his blade and squeezes his claw hard around the hilt. With a loud electronic chuff followed by a whir the edge of the blade comes to life. Tiny thorns sprout and move across the cutting edge in an endless flow. Noftun waves it through the air, grinning madly.


    "Fight me, you."

 Bruens Story 19: Whats a Handshake?

    "You don''t want to find a couple of friends first?"


    The Tserri hisses back, "No friends, me.  Need them to fight, you?"


    Scanning the terrain without having to turn is a definite advantage.  Bruen surveys the roundish heaps of fused stone that make up his pitiful estate.  One atop the other like a series of stone bubbles, they provide the necessary privacy his people need.


    Unfortunately, that means that his soldiers also have all the room they need to store their equipment and few personal possessions.  No obvious weapons lay around.


    "For you?  I wouldn''t be willing to share the fun," answers Bruen casually.


    Noftun the wild is taller than Mos Bruen by only a partial bit.  Bruen''s slouching posture, leaning back subtly on tentacles spread seemingly at random, adds to the apparent height difference.  A perhaps earned confidence shines in the single amber eye of the cybernetic prospector.  He takes a step to his left, circling around the rune encrusted general.


    Ducking the Tserri''s cross swipe, Bruen whips two of his tentacles up from the ground at the whirring weapon.


    Mechanical claw spread wide, Noftun blocks the tentacle coming from the lower right.  The tentacle striking from the lower left, a feint to influence the movements of the miner, goes without answer.  It strikes the side of the weapon, but not hard.


    Stepping close, Noftun grabs at the base of Bruen''s upper tendrils with his empty claw.  Bruen lets him.  Bruen then wraps all three of the tendrils in that cluster around the arm.  A lunge with his pedipalps, another feint, aimed at the base of that limb causes Noftun to protectively swing the blade to intervene.


    Bruen releases his hold on Noftun.  At the same time he pulls back, he also twists his body hard.  Tentacles whip out to strike the back of the Tserri''s legs.


    Noftun stumbles back a step but immediately recovers.  He uses the range to leap at the still off balance Bruen.  The tip of his cutting torch lights then flares to life over a ubit long and keeps growing.


    Peripheral eyes see the plamsa torch coming at incredible speeds.  Tendrils reach out to the ground.  Grabbing hold, he pushes hard at the angle to speed his spin.  He rolls across the stone and crashes into a concrete covered dome.


    Vapor flies from aerosolized stone when the plasma burns through it.  As well as the stink of seared chitin and flash boiled blood.  Noftun lands after scoring a hit across Bruen''s torso.


    Bruen heaves a massive breath, working his lung hard.  Finally, an opponent that means to kill him.  An honorable fight.


    Blue stains his black uniform, flowing from the deep cut in his side.  He still has all of his tendrils, but the runes around the gash are black.  They twist at unnatural angles that fade away to mundane sear marks upon his laminated carapace.


    Another leap sends the miner onto the prone general, plasma cutter flaring brilliant white-red.  He screams as he falls on top of Bruen, fangs shining scarlet in the plasma fire.  The stench of burning flesh and black smoke cloud the already smokey air.


    The fire cuts off suddenly.


    Wires and tubes clasped within his upper tendrils, Bruen throws the Tserri from him with his rune enhanced lower tendrils.  Almost quick enough to avoid the spinning teeth of the huge battle knife.  It tears into his torso, severing nerves and muscles.  Shining blue spurts from the wound and clouds of it sparkle in the artificial light, trailing from the hungry blade.


    Regaining his balance first, Bruen readies himself for another lunge from the half wild Tserri.  He holds the synthetic tubing and severed metal cords loosely in his functioning tendrils.  The left cluster of upper tendrils hangs limp.


    Noftun, already climbing to his feet, snarls in rage.  As soon as he has the leverage to move he leaps again.  The blade, gleaming azure, swings down in a wild arc.


    The cords and tubes whip up.  The spinning teeth slice through the first to land, but more continue to wrap around it until it chokes and dies.  Blue tinted smoke joins the growing smog around them.  Tendrils grab the arm holding the knife and wrap around tightly.


    Red blood splashes from inside the Tserri''s armor as he rams into the ground.  Still holding tightly, Bruen rolls on top of Noftun''s back.  He pulls back on the arm causing Noftun to roar in pain.


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    Noftun reaches back with his mechanical claw even as Bruen wraps his tentacles around his legs and confines the other arms with his working tendrils.  His claw grabs frantically seeking a hold on the blood slick uniform, but the black zelsilk slips from his weakening grasp.


    "Yield, you," demands Bruen through the agony.


    The warrior miner fights for breath, fights to grab his opponent, and finally fights to remain conscious as his brain and body starve for air.  A fight he loses.  Bruen presses mercilessly until the warrior''s struggle ceases.


    He stands and screams for a medic.  The watching soldiers and aviaformes scatter.  Out of the thinning smoke a silver plumed individual steps forward with a quick-thinking soldier.


    "Make sure he''ll live," orders Bruen.  "I am in some danger of bleeding out, but not quickly."


    The argent feathered healer trills his understanding and sets to work.  He applies a stimulant once the soldier restrains the unbreathing warrior.  The injection revives the Tserri who awakens with a snarl.  The reflexive swipe with his claws lacks the force to break free of the casteless soldier''s grip.  The medic backs away as quick as possible.


    When Noftun relaxes the soldier releases him.  The miner steadies himself and the soldier glides over to guard Bruen.


    Confusion clear on his furred face, Noftun asks, "Under arrest now, me?"  He rubs at his sore limbs, massaging feeling back into bruised flesh.


    Bruen spits blood specked with black char into a rag held by the silver medic.  His tendrils wrap gauze around his wounds.  The general cannot trust an alien, healer or no, to do it without further harming the tattered runic arrays.


    "No," answers Bruen distractedly.  "But I am hungry.  You can buy me a meal, in honor of my victory."


    Noftun laughs sardonically.  "No money, me."


    The smile melts from his face when the soldier guarding Bruen tosses him a pouch.  "I''ll make it back in drinks," the soldier assures him.


    The wild one opens the small pouch to see credit chits.  Low denomination chits, but identical to those used on Kalibern and by the free fleets.  He holds one up and opens his mouth to ask, but Bruen speaks first.


    "From the station, yes.  This one," and he indicates the soldier with his upper tendrils, "likes to make bets with the gullible."  Bruen then declines the numbing liquid the medic offers.  He needs to retain his faculties.  A little pain can be borne, until a healer of his own kind can be found.  The runes that suppress pain flicker between weak and nonfunctional.


    "I don''t lie to them about anyone''s skill," objects the soldier.  He holds his tendrils in a semi-relaxed state, but the ever-present spear maintains a ready tilt.


    "Of course not," agrees Bruen.  Noftun shakes his head, ears twitching.


    "Why not angry, you?  A joke, our fight?"


    Bruen''s mouthparts twitch as he carefully tightens the last bandage.  It must be healed by a thaumatist and until then he will be in great pain.


    "You acknowledge your defeat?  Yes, good.  You won''t try again?"


    "Not soon," grunts the battered warrior.  He slips the small pouch into a pocket built into his armor.  "Fine.  Where can food be found?"


    "Follow me."


    Gliding to the exit of the large area, Bruen leads the Tserri warrior to an aviaforme diner he knows the dust eaters favor.  The soldier guarding Bruen, receiving no additional orders and seeing a clear purpose, leaves in another direction.


    "Kroww, nss hsi!  Isk''n-ever left alone, me," exclaims Noftun, laughing.  "But what-shiss, nkat hsi?"


    ''Such bravery, you! Leave enemies alone with me,'' whispers Bruen''s translator.  ''But not attack again, you?''


    Sparks fly out from the Tserri''s chest plate, splashing his face and singeing the fur on his lower jaw.  He curses and pats at his face with all three of his claws.


    "Almost there," Bruen offers.


    Noftun nods, slumping in true defeat.  "One more thing to fix."


    At the diner they find a small crowd of mixed species.  Selber tourists, Tserri miners, aviaforme settlers, and various castes of his own kind.  He spots the dull green robes of a solitary Somner hiding in the corner.


    "Order for us.  The waitresses all have translators.  I''ll have grilled meat, whatever''s fresh."


    Bruen waits for Noftun to nod sullenly before leaving him.  Bruen heads to the robed loner and joins their table, sinking into the shallow pit with a soft sigh.


    The thaumatist turns their body to see who had joined them, revealing their face to Bruen.  Metal veins spread across the chitin, black in the dim lighting.  The Somner gasps when he sees the state of the general.


    Pulling a vial from the broad leather strap running across his robes, the thaumatist takes quick, short breaths.  Inhaling the contents of the glass tube causes the metal veins to glow a harsh violet to Bruen''s central eye.


    "What happened, Mos?  Where was your Somner!"


    The Somner carefully peels away the gauze.  He clacks his pedipalps loudly when he sees the state of the augmenting runes.  Then again when he notices the way half of Bruen''s upper tendrils hang limp.


    "I sent her to lead an installation project for our new allies.  Didn''t expect to get into a blood duel."  Pain flares when the suppression array finally burns out.  "This isn''t supposed to be a dangerous posting, after all."


    The thaumatist pauses his work when the cybernetic Tserri joins the table, setting three bowls of grilled meat strips down.  Noftun curls up in another of the seating pits before popping a strip of white flesh into his mouth.  He chews contentedly, eye closing and ears laying back.


    "He needs repairs as well," states Bruen calmly.


    The Somner waves acknowledgement, returning to his work.  The smell of the meat proves too tempting to ignore, however.  All three eat while the thaumatist replaces the arrays damaged by the duel.


    "What were your intentions for challenging me?"  Bruen picks up another morsel and consumes it while waiting for Noftun''s reply.


    The Tserri finishes his mouthful, then wipes grease from his face with one claw.  "I wish to challenge Gelen.  Pack Leader of the free fleets, me," he laughs.  He takes another bite before continuing, "Much glory from defeating you, I thought.  Fight the Supply-Master to a draw, you!"


    "And you needed this glory to challenge your leader?"


    "Only heroes can be leaders," answers Noftun with a shrug.  "Big hero, you.  Yosip.  Why not me?"

 Chapter 90: Whats Gravimetry?

    Don Yosip and Somner Zek lead a work crew through the newest park.  The crew carry carved stone blocks in their armored claws.  At Zek''s direction the crew place these cubes in scattered locations where she claims they''ll receive the best resonance.


    With almost direct exposure to the harsh outer void, this park requires a massive radiation shielding generator that dominates a building sized room.  Its location under the center of the park allows it to work at the maximum possible efficiency, though it still draws enormous energy to run.


    The energy, the components of the generator, and the space it occupies are all becoming free to be put to better uses.  Work crews disassemble the bulky construction with practiced skill.  Parts that can be immediately useful are their first targets. Less important components pile up in the already tight access tunnels.  Another shift will transfer the bulk parts to warehouses later.


    One of the deconstruction crewmembers gives Yosip a circuit board used in the gravity generators at the nearby hospital.  Yosip nods his thanks and holds the well wrapped component under one arm.  He''ll be leading Zek there next and can pass it off to someone working to finish the hospital.


    The worker thanks Yosip, perhaps too enthusiastically, before turning to rush back to the access tunnels.  Zek stops the armored Tserri and presses a carved block into his claws along with giving him detailed instructions on where to place it.


    "Firmly in the back lower portion," repeats the worker, enthusiasm draining.


    The green robed Somner slides past him and reaches down to pluck a young blade of grass.  She looks at it momentarily before she puts it into her mouth.  As she chews, she hums without any discernable rhythm. Her mouthparts gain a greenish tinge.  Taking that for a dismissal, the worker hurries off.


    Yosip watches, shaking his head.  With a sigh he turns back to his borrowed crew.  They stand there, laden with stone cubes.


    "Where do you want the next one?"


    "I think that was the last one for this sector.  From here we need five for the hospital," answers Yosip.  "Right, Zek?"


    Yosip turns to address the thaumatist but freezes in shock.


    "Sir?"  The crimson armored Tserri sounds concerned.  "Is she supposed to be eating dirt?"


    Yosip shrugs then shakes his head.  "Just take the stones to the hospital.  She can join us when she''s ready."


    I activate a speaker to advise Yosip on how to expediently handle the dust eater.  Yosip turns at the familiar brief crackling sound of feedback but before I can speak, I hear my name being shouted not far away.  Inside the hospital, a nurse is having serious trouble with her newest patient.


    Mimba yells, "Mos Denn, spirits above, anyone.  Help!"


    Smoke gushes from her medical powered suit.  The enhanced gravity and air thick with the sulfurous compounds the heavy worlder requires for proper health work together to limit her mobility.  Gashes in her helmet and across her legs match the claws on her assailant''s thick arms.


    The thick walls prevent her shouts from reaching any of her colleagues outside of the sealed observation room.  Alone, she calls upon even the unlikeliest of helpers.  I may be the only one who hears her.  I alert her closest coworker, Zra.


    Stubby claws swipe through the air.  Mimba tries to dodge, managing half a step back before the powerful claws shred the armor on her upper left arm.  Scarlet sprays onto light tan fur and yellow medical shroud.  The patient roars, mind lost to primal motives.  His compound eyes track Mimba''s fallen body as he sends her sprawling across the floor.  She collides with the wall with a heavy thud and a pained grunt.


    I review my options, before the former tribal can harm the nurse again.  Deactivating the room''s additional gravity generator causes the enraged biped to stumble and fall.  Mimba struggles but cannot get purchase to stand.  I think she might be seriously injured.


    The patient''s ears swivel madly as he fights for balance.  His progress is slow but continuous.  Roars punctuate his steady approach as he draws closer to the delirious Mimba.  The alien is regaining his balance too quickly.


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    Outside the room, Zra puts on an armor suit as quickly as he can.  He is no fighter.  Even with the armor, I fear he will be little help.


    With Mimba''s suit gaping open, I would prefer not to use the atmospheric controls.  But if I want her to live, I fear there is little choice.


    Sedative fog rolls out of the vents.  Tserri physiology is close enough to the alien patient''s that it affects both similarly.


    Zra finishes dressing and turns to enter the security code on the door.  I open it, unwilling to risk Mimba''s life on security theater.


    The blood frenzying creature who, in a better reality might have been an accountant or a sea water merchant, swipes again.  Stubby claws sink into reinforced composite plating and rip.  A tide of fog rises over them both.


    Mimba screams once more and passes out.  Her patient collapses next to her.


    Zra rushes into the room.  The security door shuts behind him.  Only a little sulfur rich fog escapes into the hallway.


    I use the remote features of the medical suit to decouple segments of the armor.  Zra removes them, not wasting time on wondering why they''re coming apart before he can touch them.


    As soon as her wounds are exposed, Zra uses his claw tips to extract shards of jagged metal and fiber mesh from her muscles.  A scanner built into his helmet ensures he misses none.


    The other patient stirs dangerously next to them, but Zra works on.  Once each wound is cleared of foreign matter, he sprays chemicals calibrated to her species to disinfect the area.  Another spray follows to seal the wound in artificial skin.  Lastly, he applies adhesive sealant strips to keep the area clean.


    As he operates, the air in the room clears.  Smoothly operating ventilation systems filter and separate the chemicals for reuse before returning the air to the hospital''s atmosphere.


    Two more nurses hurry into the room in time to see Zra inject the patient with a stronger sedative.  One of the nurses carefully carries Mimba out.  The other takes over care of the sedated alien.


    The lighter medical suits prove adequate for their intended purpose, aiding Zra immensely in his operation.  The design needs further refinement, however.  The thinner armor fails to provide enough protection.  Fancy tools cannot aid a corpse.


    Crimson stains the armor Zra wears as he turns away tiredly, eyes tracking Mimba.


    The armor also takes too long to put on, even with the weight reduction.


    Zra follows Mimba''s senseless body down to the second floor.  There the nurse places her into a clean bed in a private room.


    "Mos, I know you''re there.  Let someone know I''m taking a break," he says, sitting in the chair next to the bed.  "I''m going to stay here and monitor Mimba.  At least until she wakes up.  And thanks, you helped a lot."


    "You''re welcome," I reply quietly.


    The healer smiles briefly.  He turns worriedly when the injured nurse makes a pained sound in her sleep.


    "What happened in there?"


    The video of the incident is easy to locate.  The third floor of the hospital has special security flags on all records, making them stand out in the sea of files.  I review it quickly, then activate the screen meant for entertaining recovering patients.  I play the relevant segment for the medic.


    We watch as, a shift prior, a nurse injects sedative into the patient.  New as she is to the procedure, it is excusable that she doesn''t notice that the thick fur of the patient, as well as leathery skin and dense musculature, hinders the proper application of the drug.


    The needle comes out of the thick skin with a slight curve.  The nurse, receiving a call to come assist with a group of tourists with severe lacerations from a bar fight, doesn''t notice the state of the needle as she throws it into the trash chute.


    Another segment of video shows the muscular creature wakening from its slumber at Mimba''s entrance.  She notices that the creature is awake too late.  He springs from the bed, body at ease in the heightened gravity and she turns to run.  His thin medical robe rips from the violent movement.  He catches her before she can reach the door.  I terminate the display when she begins shouting for assistance.


    "He fooled the monitors by staying still.  That shows foresight," observes Zra.


    "That or the creature is simply lazy," I counter, half joking.


    Zra makes the complex Tserri shrug.  "Perhaps.  I''ll review the patient''s blood levels later to be sure, but I think the sedative had fully worn off.  Have you ever seen his race before?"


    Thousands of civilizations, once thriving, now lay in ruins thanks to the scourge that is the Southern Tribals.  Able to travel instantly between distant worlds, their reach spreads across the galaxy.  Their inborn ability to target developing cultures keeps space free of true advancement.


    It is possible that this specimen belongs to a species that I might have experience with.  My career spans more seasons than most could claim.  Yet in all that time I know that I couldn''t have seen more than a tiny fraction of all the races the tribals control.  The Spanless Empire tries to dam the tide of the parasitic cannibals, but their numbers far outstrip our own.


    "I do not know them.  I avoided heavy worlds, mostly.  After the battle on Bent Peak, my lung couldn''t function well under the stress."


    Those worlds are given to the Svost to cleanse.  The black robed dust eaters excel in such conditions.


    "We can''t keep calling him ''the patient'' forever," murmurs Zra.  He reaches to scratch at an itch in his fur, but his claws clang off his suit.  "There''s a creature on my world that has claws that can dig through stone.  We call it a rock thrawl."


    "What does this rock thrawl look like?"


    He spreads his upper claws maybe a ubit and a third apart.  "About so big.  Fat with reddish skin.  Tiny red eyes and recessed ears.  Long skinny snouts to catch buried grubs and chisel teeth to chew through deep roots.  Thin stripe of black fur running along its spine ending on its stub tail."


    "So nothing like your patient, then?"


    Zra shrugs again.  "Better than Patient One.  And the claws are the same."


    "Thrawl he can be, then.  I''ll update the records."

 Chapter 91: Whats an Excavation Site?

    Chapter 91:  What''s an Excavation Site?


    Donna, Eva, and Yosip sit together in the Ship-Mother''s office.  The usual pile of data tablets is missing though each holds a comm tablet in their gray hands.


    For the first report from the scientific survey team, Donna wishes to have support nearby.  A sensible precaution, though probably unnecessary.  The remote team is quite capable, especially under Donna''s command.


    "We''ve touched down near the artifact," explains Zsuchus from the main screen.  "The others are building a shelter overlooking the site."


    "Any problems?"


    "No, Donna.  The Matron sent a squad of her own security to help protect the site against tampering."


    "Have you found the entrance yet?"


    "No, Ship-Mother, not yet."


    "That''s too bad," comments Eva.  "Have you found anything interesting you can tell us about?"


    "Maybe.  Grita has a list of equipment she''s decided is vital.  I''ll send it to you."


    A subdued chime rises from Donna''s tablet.  "Got it, thanks.  I''ll review it and see what''s available first.  Bucket might have to fabricate a few parts and won''t be happy."


    "Yeah," answers Zsuchus with a shrug.  "I expected as much."


    A dark crested female wearing a command uniform walks through the background.  It''s good to see Joa again.  She carries a crate of foodstuffs in her arms on her way to the temporary supply dump.


    "Is that the future Matron I see?"


    Donna digs one of her elbows into Yosip''s middle.  He grunts at the impact and smiles.  His shining metal lower jaw makes the expression into a grimace.  The wrinkles around his lenses soften the effect somewhat, to those familiar with him.


    "Who?"  Zsuchus turns around briefly.  He waves at Joa before facing the camera again.  "Oh, Joa.  Yeah, she''s in charge of the security team," he explains through a grin.


    Eva frowns but nobody seems to notice beside myself.


    Some preternatural awareness causes Yosip to ask, "Can we get a list of the personnel assigned to your project?"


    This time, it is Eva''s tablet that chimes.  When she receives the data file, she transfers copies of it to the other two.  I snag a copy for myself.


    Second Operative Joa Mell, of course, and five others.  The first four names on the list mean nothing to me, but I recognize the last.  Spen Dondrik.


    The other three look over the file as well.  Assorted frowns and grimaces look up from their devices, startling Zsuchus.


    "Is there a problem?"


    "No," answers Donna quickly.


    "Better not be," mutters Eva darkly.


    Zsuchus glances between the two females uncertainly.  "I''ve met some of them.  Oolian''s a great guy.  Is this because of his history?"


    Oolian?  The security personnel list includes an Oolian Dags.  I have to access the planetary information network to learn more.  The delay is slight but aggravating.  Longer than it should be due to the recent disruptions to the planet.


    It seems Oolian is on Honus as punishment.  Caught selling restricted technology to primitives without permission on his last assignment, his file notes that he should not be able to get in as much trouble on a developing world.  It confounds me that Matron Bell would trust him for this assignment.


    After a moment of contemplation, I believe I might understand her reasoning.  If the Tserri suddenly gain new capabilities it would be no great threat to the Matron.  Despite the standoffish nature of her relationship with the Tserri, Matron Bell seems to truly wish them no harm.


    Additionally, Kalibern acts as a first defense for Honus.  The Tserri being more capable only guarantees greater protection for the planet below.


    By giving Oolian an opportunity to betray her, Matron Bell can also learn just how loyal the disgraced operative actually is.  Any other considerations must wait, as Zsuchus speaks again.


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    "Fren says he found something.  I have to go."


    "Keep us informed," replies Donna with a short nod.


    "Can do."


    The screen goes dead when Zsuchus terminates the communication.  Donna breathes out heavily.


    "You''re doing fine," offers Yosip, standing up.  "Both of you.  If that''s all you needed me for, I''m going to go find that rascal of mine and head back home."


    The small group exchanges farewells and the heavily augmented officer leaves the office.


    "Your thoughts?"


    "Well," begins Donna.  "Zsuchus is doing well."  When Eva smiles slightly Donna rushes on.  "But I''m concerned that Spen is so close to this."


    "I thought we were rid of him," agrees Eva.  The newborn smile dies upon her face.


    "Is there anything we can do about this?"


    "Don''t growl at me," Eva says defensively.  "The Grand Matron outranks us both, so no.  We just have to be ready for him to start more trouble and deal with the consequences on our end.  Think of this as your first real test."


    Donna snorts derisively but doesn''t contradict her leader.  Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits, however.  I almost wish that Spen were in the room with them.  The battle would be an enjoyable sight.


    "Alright.  If that''s everything, I need to get back to work," announces Eva.


    "Thank you for your time, Ship-Mother," Donna replies stiffly.  She makes a quick exit from the room.


    I don''t think Eva even notices, already digging out the hateful tablets that consume so much of her energy.  Electronic lighting shines up onto her thin, gray face.


    Once out in the hallway, Donna mutters, "Can you believe that?  Unreal!"


    It may be possible that she''s talking to me.  I reply softly from her suit speakers.  "He has to work somewhere.  And he has shown a surprising command of security procedures."


    "Rrrugggh!"  Donna strikes the stone wall with her upper claws.  "That bastard better not mess this up for me!"


    "Calm down, Donna.  Spen isn''t even in charge of the security attachment.  What harm can he do?


    She turns, deep gauges in the rock face behind her.  Dust clings to her gauntlets.  "You''re right.  I need a drink.  Can you check on Skint for me, and if he isn''t at that stupid casino, send him to the Blind Chief."


    I do as she asks.  The large Tserri is in fact at the casino, but I let him know his presence is requested at the bar.  Scooping up the colored dice, he prepares for another throw.  He ignores me until I inform him that it is Donna that wishes his presence.


    "Gotta go," he exclaims hastily to the others at his table.


    The dice drop from his grasp and land upon the table.  If he had waited but a few moments more he would have seen all three dice display the same red and green faces.  Each die points inward.  A good throw.


    The other gamblers jeer, unhappy to lose such an easy mark.  Skint runs through the gambling hall, armor gleaming in the tacky lighting, unheeding of the jibes hurled his way.  I''ve never seen the heavily muscled Tserri move quite so quickly.


    Hurrying or not, Skint takes the time to stop at an open-air shop that sells fresh plant matter.  He leaves several credits lighter, clutching modified leaves in his claws.  The tasteful red coloration and cupping shapes bob as he weaves through the crowd, bouncing upon the dark green stems he holds so firmly.


    I hope they enjoy themselves.


    Yosip passes not too far from the pair, only a mawful of tunnels away.  There he seeks Han.  The youth is supposed to be scouting among the orphans.  The young Tserri believes that they would make fine recruits to help at Sba City.  If Han can convince the street children to leave their freedom, then training them will become his responsibility.


    When Yosip finally locates the youth, he finds Han speaking with a pair of brothers.  Both are smaller than Han, perhaps younger but definitely less well fed.  They wear dingey station casual whose color is unidentifiable under the layers of grime.


    "Well imagine that!  You got two of them.  That''s two more than I expected," teases Yosip.


    The orphans glare with matching orange eyes.  The smallest Tserri growls low in his throat, but Yosip only chuckles at the implied threat.  The dark furred pair are nothing the experienced officer cannot handle.


    "Bron and Bran," answers Han proudly.  "They''re pick thieves."


    One metal hand seeks his belt pouch unconsciously.  "Good ones?"


    "The best," brags the small thief.


    His claims may be correct.  While records exist of the two''s schooling, there are no arrests upon the files of either brother.


    Yosip shrugs, feigning unconcern.  "I''ll have to ask Bruen how his people feel about thieves before we bring these two back with us."


    "Don''t bother," I announce from Han''s suit.  "Thieves are tolerated until they''re caught.  Then they cease to be thieves."


    The young thieves jump at the sound of my voice, but Yosip only chuckles.  "And then what do they become?"


    "Soil."


    The smile disappears from his scarred face.  "Then we can''t bring them."


    "But Yosip!"


    "I said no," begins the gray officer but I speak over him.


    "These two could be useful, if you can control their behavior.  Make sure they only steal from approved targets, for instance."


    "Yeah!"  Both Han and the smaller of the brothers cheer.  The medium sized youth remains silent.  I realize that I have yet to hear him speak.  Yosip must have the same thought.


    "Is this one alright?"


    The younger brother answers quietly, "Bron don''t talk anymore."


    "Doesn''t or can''t?"


    Bron opens his mouth wide, revealing that his tongue is but a stump.  It sits forlornly, almost hidden behind twin rows of gleaming fangs.


    "Can''t," confirms Yosip, anger coloring his voice.  "Who did this to him, Bran?"


    Bran shrugs in the way that Tserri do.  "Don''t worry about it."


    Bron smiles grimly, then pulls one claw slowly across his throat.


    "We took care of that ourselves," confirms Bran.  "Back on the Learned Stalker."  His brother nods his dark head.


    Yosip''s metal jaw hangs open for a moment, but he quickly gathers to himself his accustomed dignity.  "I guess I can use you two.  Go get your stuff, if you have any."


    Both thieves spread their empty claws wide at the same time.


    "Fine.  Let''s go."


    The four of them make their way to the primary docking tower.  There they meet with the three robed thaumatists.  Zek animatedly recounts a joke to the other two dust eaters, something about a dancing battle shell and a dead chief.


    "Zek, I''ve got a job for you," says Yosip, motioning with his metal chin at young Bron.  He still seems upset, but he keeps the emotion firmly under control.

 Chapter 92: Whats a Tomb Raider?

    The Tserri elders march sedately down the wide hall.  The simple coloration of their clothing is striking as they walk past the variegated patterns of the onlookers.


    Missing is Jetanda.  The elders are on their way to see her.


    The crowd is as silent as they can be, hushing the smallest children.  Even the most rambunctious are somber today.  Leather clad nomads stand amidst groups wearing station casual.  The tourist are also respectful, though they do not understand why the others are so restrained.


    Every member of the security team, from every squad are on duty, guarding the elders on their procession.


    Ship-Mother Eva Chel works with a reduced staff today.  Most of her administrators are down among those filling the main tunnel past capacity.


    "Everyone wants to see her off," comments the Ship-Mother quietly.


    Desra nods from her place in the command center.  Her stomach rumbles loudly.  "Sorry," she mumbles.  Her claws click busily at her workstation.


    "You could be singing campaign songs and I''d be glad for your help," answers Eva, looking up from her tablet.  "You''re getting a promotion for staying with me."


    Her gray furred arms freeze in shock.  "Wh- No! That''s not-"


    "It is," insists Eva.  "Everyone else but you, me, and the warlord''s ghost are taking their turns at the burial heights."


    That''s just her agitation getting the better of her, I''m sure.  She''s usually very polite.


    "You''re getting my old job," the Ship-Mother continues smugly.  "You''ve been doing it anyway, might as well get the benefits."


    Another console begins to beep loudly.  Desra leaps from her seat and dashes over.  She enters a quick command and the main screen switches from a view of the elders on their procession to Donna using a public terminal.


    Donna is in her uniform but unarmored.  Her ears stand straight up from her head and her eyes are wide open.


    "I just got a message from Zsuchus.  Benn and Grita found a door.  They''re working on getting it open now."


    "Denn, can you put the view from one of their suits on screen, please?"


    Desra splits the main screen in half, so I use the blank half for what Grita is seeing.


    Ceramic walls curving at smooth angles form an irregular shape jutting from the bones of the planet.  Yellowish brown from age, the patterns of raised shapes upon them are visible in the evening light.


    Grita turns to the right and a thin oval seam is just barely visible.  Benn steps in front of her so I switch to his suit''s camera.


    He sees the patterns converge next to the oval into the vague shape of a hand.  The number and placement of the fingers is different from those of a Selber.  The gray people possess only one thumb on each hand, but the imprint has two.


    "Try to activate it," orders Donna.


    After a brief delay Benn responds, "Understood."


    He places his gauntlet onto the wall.  Nothing happens.


    "Without the gauntlet?"


    "If you''re willing to take the risk," allows Donna.


    "I am," confirms the medic.


    "No," interrupts Grita.  "Let me.  If there''s something dangerous, how do you expect me to help you?  I don''t have medical training."


    They wait for additional orders.  Eva is the first to speak.  "She makes sense.  Benn, stay back."


    Benn steps aside and Grita takes his place at the sealed door.  She removes her right gauntlet and turns to look at Benn.


    The medic nods encouragingly back.


    "Right."


    She presses her thin gray hand onto the ceramic wall.  Rumbling echoes over the comm channel.  Grita jumps back from the door.


    "Sorry," mutters Desra.  She rubs her stomach in embarrassment.  Her gut growls again, angrily.  "I''m taking a break. Um.  Sorry."


    The grieving Tserri runs from the room.


    "Would you try again, please?"


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    "Sure, Donna, sorry."


    Grita shakes herself once then walks back over to the door.


    "You sure you don''t want me to do this?"


    "Shut up, idiot," Grita spits back at the medic.


    "Mos," whispers Eva.  "Could you please alert their security that they might need assistance?"


    "I can do this," insists Grita.  She jambs her hand onto the wall and holds it there.


    Dust grinds between ancient ceramic plates.  The door whines as it opens, revealing a dark recess.


    A light shines past Grita.  The beam bounces as Benn steps up behind her.


    "No life signs.  Not even bacteria.  Air''s stale, but it''s the local mix."


    "Put your glove back on, just in case," commands Donna.


    While Grita retrieves her gauntlet from the melted stone, Benn steps closer to the doorway.  It reaches above his head with ample clearance.  This door is meant to allow for the passage of very tall beings.


    They enter together, though I continue to use Grita''s camera.  A short hallway leads to a wide chamber.  Dust coats the furniture.  Cup-like seats set far above a usable position for the pair ring the round room at generous intervals.  Eighteen odd seats in all.


    Two more doors lead in either direction from the entrance.  Abstract markings label each, but without context they are meaningless.  By some mutual unspoken agreement, they both turn to the left exit.


    Another hand shape next to the door causes the explorers to request orders.


    Donna snorts her irritation.  "Do it."


    "Understood."


    Once more Grita removes her gauntlet and presses her naked hand against the ancient device.  Less dust invades the mechanism of this door.  It opens with a soft whisking sound.  A light on the other side flickers but fails to stay active.


    Eva Chel mutes her pickup, then mutters, "Kind of strange that works.  You''d think her biology would be too different for the machines to recognize."


    She''s right, of course.  "Who can know the mind of an alien?  Perhaps the creators had no enemies and thus didn''t even think of security."


    She quirks one thin shoulder at my conjecture, clearly not convinced.  "Or maybe they wanted it to be easy to explore."


    I''m about to respond, but Grita speaks before me.


    "This hallway continues around with a slight bend.  I can make out more doors, but little else.  We''re going deeper."


    "Go ahead," confirms Donna.  Behind her the crowd follows the progress of the elders.  Occasional snippets of their conversations reach the pickup Donna speaks into.  "Just stay together."


    "Yes, Donna," answers Grita.  Her voice quavers with poorly suppressed fear.


    I check Fren''s suit and find him and Oolian heading to the entrance of the buried artifact.  The two of them joke about some kind of walking corpses from a tri-vee program they''re both fans of.  Foolishness.  Still, it is good that they recognize there could be some unknown threat inside and are acting accordingly.


    "Fren is bringing one of the planetary security with him," I inform those listening.  "They''re approaching the entrance now."


    In Oolian''s grip is a Skeetum Arms model seven.  I''m unfamiliar with the weapon, but it vaguely resembles Gelly''s rifle.  The same metallic silver in color, the device has a single long barrel much wider than the SAm20.  A bulky ammunition hopper rests atop the otherwise sleek killing tool.


    "Have them wait outside for now," Donna decides.  "If there''s trouble inside, I''d rather not lose them all at once."


    Eva presses her thin lips together, but that is her only response.  Eyes locked onto her screen, Donna pays more attention to Grita''s advance than to her superior''s reaction.


    "Should we include Bucket in this meeting?"  Donna''s ears flick as she inquires.


    "No, they wouldn''t be able to offer any insight we don''t already possess," concludes Eva.  "Mos, make sure they receive copies of everything we''re seeing, though.  Maybe there''s a pattern we can''t see."


    The tall hallway down which the explorers carefully tread is barren of any debris or loose equipment.  Only placards on the gently curving walls break up the sterile monotony.  Upon the slightly raised signs are more incomprehensible markings.


    I create a small data base of all the different symbols the pair encounter.  Including the raw videos of the placards should allow the translation software a decent chance to decipher the strange script.  The program runs smoothly but is unable to deliver any meaning from the scraps of writing I feed it.  It will require more before it can make any real progress.


    "Let''s try this one," recommends Benn, stopping in front of a random sealed door.


    "Why not," remarks Grita.  She places her bare hand upon the indicated spot and the door slides into the wall.  The lights within flicker to life.  Over half of the glowing panels immediately burn out, but the rest shine a warm yellow light into the cramped room.


    "Do those look like power banks to you, Grit?"


    "They do," replies the explorer.  "A little larger than the ones we use, but yeah."


    The two enter the room, standing close together in the close space.  Around them rows of battery packs reach from floor to ceiling.  Many of the indicator lights upon the bulky devices are dark.


    "Not much charge, looks like," comments Benn.  He reaches out to touch one of the dead batteries.


    "Idiot!"  Grita slaps Benns hand away before it can make contact.


    "It''s dead," grumbles Benn.  He doesn''t try to touch another, contenting himself with capturing video and electronic scans.


    "Try another room," recommends Donna.  "Maybe we can find out what they needed so much power for."


    As the two exit the small power station another light burns out.  The machinery inside the artifact suffers from uncounted ages of neglect.  That so much remains functional is no small miracle.


    The next room they enter vaguely resembles Eva''s office.  The table is taller and much thinner, and the chairs are instead high cuplike things, but the purpose of the room is obvious.  The surface of the table lights up when the door opens, though nothing else inside reacts.


    "That looks like Denn''s room," jokes Benn, pointing to a panel below the dominant high bucket seat.


    Grita nods absently, staring at the smooth top of the high table.  Flickering red lights rise from it and congeal into the air above it.  A model of the planet in crimson tones takes form.  The positions of the continents are incorrect, badly out of date.


    While Grita gazes with awe at the scarlet projection, Benn quietly moves around the desk.  His eyes remain upon the panel.


    "Benn, no!"


    Too late comes Donna''s warning.  Benn''s gauntleted hand presses against the panel and it slides aside.  A dimly glowing sphere rests inside the recessed alcove.  Darkness mottles the surface of the hidden core.  Lightning arcs from the nearly dead energy core and connects with the medic''s body.  Blue-white flares, blinding both cameras momentarily.


    Benn''s suit fries instantly.  His once gray skin, now black, sloughs off of his skull as he collapses to the floor.


    "Noo," wails Grita.


    Without taking the time to put her gauntlet back on, she pulls the steaming corpse out into the hall.  Static bites at her fingers but she only winces and keeps pulling.  While she works, I catch a glance at the orb in its alcove.


    It is black and dead.

 Chapter 93: What are Last Rites?

    Fren''s suit transmits the scene up to us and I display it upon Eva Chel''s main screen.  Oolian carries his gleaming weapon, holding it with a lover''s grip.  The two of them do not wait for orders, entering the ceramic structure when they hear Grita''s cry of sorrow.


    "What happened?"  Oolian''s anger darkens his face.


    "Dunno," answers Fren.  "Donna?"


    His voice shocks Donna free from her daze.  "Benn''s dead.  A trapped core, maybe, or a bad malfunction."


    Fren grunts, already mourning the loss of his friend.  "And Grit?"


    Oolian is more practical.  Oolian Dags strides ahead, weapon swinging slowly from side to side.  A thin beam of light shines from the end of the SAm7.  The white light reflects dully off of ambered ceramic walls.  Shadows twist across the textured surfaces, almost as if fleeing the sight of the two intruders.


    "Alive," confirms Donna.  "Mos, send them down a map or something, please."


    I have to create it quickly.  Details are less important than getting the essential information in place.  I mark Grita''s location on the impromptu map before transmitting it to Fren.  He then gives Oolian a copy of the partial floorplan.


    "Follow me," commands Oolian.


    Fren hurries to keep up.  "I wish I had a gun," he complains.


    "A weapon wouldn''t have saved Benn," states Donna.  "Just don''t touch anything.  Understood?"


    Both answer affirmatively, but the look on Oolian''s face makes me doubt his sincerity.  I think Fren notices, but he does not inform his superior of the other''s potential insubordination.  Perhaps I judge Oolian unfairly.


    The pair of armored males follow along Grita and Benn''s trail.  Oolian keeps his weapon ready as they quick walk down the ceramic corridor.


    "Don''t shoot," yells Grita.  "It''s only me!"


    The wide muzzle of the weapon lowers, but only fractionally.


    "Fren, you carry out Benn''s body," comes the orders from above.  "Oolian, stay with Grita."


    "Sure, Donna," confirms Fren.  He bends over to grab the scorched legs of the lightly armored corpse.  Sparks jump to his gauntleted hands right before making contact.


    The lighter medical armors'' reductions also include less efficient electrical shielding, it seems.  Another design flaw to correct if the next iteration is to be of any use.  As useful as additional scanners and medicinal tanks are, having the medic return alive is much more useful.


    Fren''s suit enhances his strength enough to allow him to drag the corpse.  Boots scrape against the smooth flooring in a manner I find irritating.  Oolian winces at the noise as well.


    Grita sits with her back against one wall, arms around her knees.  Her eyes shine amid her wan and colorless face.  Bedraggled strands of her crest cling to her face.


    "Get up," orders Oolian.  His gruffness is surely a response to the recent death.  "We''ve work left to do here."


    Blank eyes stare past him.


    "Do you hear me?  Get up!"


    Grita blinks, coming back to herself.  "Please, I need a moment more."


    Oolian grunts humorlessly.  "Alright, fine."  The wide muzzle of the SAm7 lowers so that it no longer points at Grita''s head.  "Shit.  That was your medic, wasn''t he?"


    An unsteady nod answers him.  Grita shifts, then stands on shaking legs.  Only the armored suit she wears prevents her from tumbling once more to the unforgiving floor.


    "Donna," asks Grita, "what should we do?  Keep exploring?"


    The security leader is not silent, but no sound comes over the speakers in Grita''s suit.  On Kalibern, Donna mutes her receiver and speaks into the public terminal.  "Eva?  I think that''s enough for today.  Is that a problem?"


    "No, do as you think best," answers the Ship-Mother.  "It''s your decision to make, and I''ll support you if anyone complains."


    Stolen novel; please report.


    A crackle of static precedes Donna''s response to her shaken team member.  "Get back to camp.  We need time to review the data you''ve gathered."


    "Y-yeah."  Grita nods her readiness to the aggressive male.


    Oolian steps closer to the wall, leaving Grita plenty of room to pass.  He gestures with his SAm7 to help emphasize the unspoken command.


    His paranoia is a good sign.  He keeps his weapon ready behind Grita, guarding their withdrawal from the artifact.  Nothing slows their exit from the enigmatic structure.


    Already we know much more about the ancient complex.  The technology comprising the structure is not too dissimilar to that the Selberfeld Imperium employs.  There are some places where the Imperium does possess slightly more advanced versions of what the ancients leave them to rediscover.  In pure lasting power, however, the ancients remain superior.  Nothing the Imperium currently produces could last the same stellar ages as this relict.


    The long dead builders, if still alive, would tower over any race living in the Honus system.  This is evident from the tall doors and elevated seating.  I also believe them to be touch sensitive rather than visually stimulated, though other senses may be more dominant.  We also know the rough shape of their hands, double thumbs and all.


    Samples of their writing are already under close scrutinization aboard the station.  Six independent teams of Tserri work to determine whether the mosaic of textures and shapes is part of the language or merely the ancients'' equivalent to colored plaster.  More data is still needed.  More samples of the writing.


    The next exploration outing will go better, now that the team is more knowledgeable about the dangers within.  At that time more samples will become available.  Maybe even enough to decipher their script.


    Donna shares my enthusiasm for another expedition.


    "Shit.  Next time, we make sure there''s a guard for each of my people.  We can''t let anyone else wander into a trap."


    Eva shifts in her chair, a small frown on her face.  "Are we sure it was a trap?  Mos, can you shoot bolts of electric charge?"


    "Do you want me to try?  I''d like to remind you I''m stuck in the wall behind you."


    "No," she answers hastily.  "That won''t be necessary."


    Donna stares into the public terminal.  Her ears lay low to her head.  "I''m coming to you, now that the emergency is over.  We need to plan."


    Eva sighs wearily.  "Fine, but get lunch on the way up.  Enough for three."


    The Tserri officer''s stomach growls at the mention of food.  Donna powers down the terminal after a self-conscious nod.


    "That could have been better," comments Eva to the empty room.


    "The loss of Benn is regrettable," I agree aloud.  She nods, already pulling out a data tablet.  "Does he have any living relations that need to be notified?"


    "A sister, serving aboard the Cabin," answers the Ship-Mother.  She bends over the tablet, face alight with its glow.


    "They''re pretty far out," I muse.  "And not scheduled to return to this system for a quarter local year."


    She grunts a reply, fixating upon her work.  Her tablets are not connected directly to the same systems that I am.  Nor can I see them through he cameras; her body blocks the view of her lap from behind and the desk blocks from in front.  If I wish to know what she''s working upon, I''ll need to use my esoteric senses.  Her position is comfortably within range.


    Separating my mind from the electronic feed it connects to becomes easier with practice.  Energy flows throughout the room in many forms.  Patterns repeating within metal and plastic and streaming through all the devices present.  It is easy to isolate the data tablet''s unique pattern.


    Deciphering its meaning is much more difficult.  The bursts of electromagnetic energy flowing through the circuitry are beyond my ability to translate into anything meaningful.  Nor are the patterns of her finger movement, visible as thermal energy.


    The device is giving off visible light, however.  I cannot access anything within the device in any useful way, but I can see what it displays upon its tiny screen.  Viewing the text without my translation software to aid me intimidates me at first.


    I know many of the words.  I understand some of the sentence construction.  What stifles me is the Ship-Mother''s tendency toward abbreviation.  Without more context, it is impossible to know the precise contents of the missive, but still I am able to discern some things of interest.


    M.B.: We don''t have any.


    E.C.: :C  not even 1?


    M.B.: Lemme look.  NONE


    E.C.:  :P dont b mean


    M.B.: Talk to you later, dear.


    E.C.: C U


    M.B. likely refers to Matron Maret Bell, though there are other possible meanings.  E.C. is undoubtedly Eva Chel.  What could they be looking for?


    Eva turns off the tablet and sets it on her desk.  She runs one hand down the length of her face then opens her mouth as if to speak.  Before she can utter a word, the door opens and Desra reenters the command room.


    "Did I miss anything important?"


    The Ship-Mother summarizes the brief episode inside the alien structure for her assistant.  As she finishes up the explanation, Donna arrives.  In her arms are three steaming bowls of stew and a fourth, larger package.  Square and white, this she carefully sets upon a vacant workstation before addressing the others.


    "Redfin stew alright with everyone?"


    The others agree and the three eat.  Cheap alloy utensils clink against bowls of the same material.  They exchange polite pleasantries as they eat, inquiring after family members or mutual hobbies.  I learn that all three are fans of a documentary series about the free miners.  The show even has fans down on the planet.


    When all three bowls are empty, Desra gathers them up while Donna retrieves the white box she had arrived with.  All three cluster around as she opens it.


    Inside is a glass bowl containing a thick red dipping sauce.  Arranged in a ring around the bowl with one end just touching he sauce are chilled squivers.  A seam in the shells where their nervous column belongs instead bursts with white meat.


    Like monsters, the three dip the headless, limbless morsels into the thick sauce and devour them almost whole.  Only the odd finned tails that should be a cluster of tentacles are left, to be thrown into the empty stew bowls.  The dismembered tails sit grimly in the bowl like trophies of a successful raid.

 Chapter 94: Whats Iterative Development?

    Glian presses the commands into his tablet with steady claw tips.  The signal reaches the bipedal device crouched on the floor in front of him.  It resembles the previous model but looks almost a fifth larger.  Much of the bulk is improved armor plating and stronger servos to move around the heavier armor.  The chassis also contains additional processors to allow the device to react more quickly in an emergency.


    It more closely resembles an armored vacuum suit than the older iteration.  It lacks a helmet, for now, but the rest of its surface is modeled after a standard mark five suit.  Its lack of decoration clearly bothers Glian, from the way he keeps cocking his ears when he looks at the device, but that must wait until the design is finalized.


    Power surges through the automaton and it stands for the test run.  Servos hum as they function perfectly.


    Beside him, Glia stands ready with a bucket of ground silicates, ready to extinguish any unwanted fires.


    The hum from the new machine grows louder.  A light on its head activates, bright green.  Autonomous systems run within it, programs functioning to animate the construct.


    The bipedal robot, acting on programs hardcoded into its systems, turns its head and scans the room with glass eyes.  It stops when its visual receptors land upon the father and daughter.  Power flows within the metal frame and it twitches, readying its limbs to coordinate movement.


    Glia crouches, tightening her grip upon the handles of the bucket.  Her father glances down at her, then turns his rapt attention back to the robot.  It takes a single step toward the pair.


    Metal foot meets stone floor and sparks fly.  The machine is heavy.  Heavier than the armored suits by at least a third.


    "Need to put some leather pads down there," comments Glian, gesturing with one claw to the construct''s feet.


    Glia nods but remains vigilant.  A stray spark could ignite a portion of the oil-slick garage floor.  The area immediately around the robot is clean, but removing the oil from the entire garage floor is too great a task.  Young Glia must remain watchful.


    The heavy construct stops at the sound of Glian''s voice.  It waits in place, ready to accept a voice command.  Glian does not issue one, trusting instead to the automaton to determine its own actions.  After a long pause it preforms another scan of the garage.


    Empty racks and neatly arranged toolboxes provide the artifice with no impetus.  Another moment passes while it computes the data available.  Decision reached, it resumes its slow march across the workspace.


    A delighted noise escapes from Glian which he immediately regrets.  The machine halts again, waiting for a command that will not come.  Glian''s ears droop in defeat.


    "Alright, that''s a failure," admits the mechanic.  "Your turn, Mos."


    Electronic signals course through the station''s comm network.  Like an extension of myself, I take command of the mindless device.  The circuitry that powers its minimal mental capabilities switches to assisting me in piloting the device.


    I make it turn slowly and walk back to its former position.  Once there I have it crouch.  Only the hum of its servos betrays that it is still active, so still is it.  Despite its enhanced weight, the balance is without flaw.


    "You should program it only to stop to accept commands when it hears either its name or a specified command phrase," I advise the mechanic.  My voice sounds deeper, issuing from the speakers of the bipedal device.  "Simply recognizing your voice was too common of an occurrence to be a useful control mechanism.  If you add others to the short list authorized to command it, it will never finish a single task."


    "True," admits Glian.  He sets his data tablet down on one of the abundant toolboxes.  "Do you have a name already chosen for it?"


    "I do not.  The tradition is to name them after the dead, if you wish to honor anyone."


    One grease-stained claw scratches at the ruff below his chin.  "Hmmm."


    "Grampa," mutters Glia as she sets her burden down.  She smooths down her jumpsuit and turns to look up at her father.


    Her father looks at her, then nods sharply.  "That''s a good idea," he says decisively.  "Howan."


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "Howan," I repeat at low volume.  It is not a bad name, but still I must inquire.  "Was he a great warrior?"


    "He was!"  Glia practically shouts at the still form of Howan.  "The best!"


    Glian chuckles.  Her enthusiasm is infectious, it seems.  "My da was a hunter, not a warrior, but he could fight.  Defended our village from five different raider tribes before," his voice fades to nothing.


    "The mountain clans?"


    The mechanic nods but appears lost in thought.


    "Then this device shall bear the name of the great warrior, Howan," I declare.  "Would you also choose a command phrase for Howan?"


    "By the fast-flowing sky," intones Glian.


    A phrase from the Tserri religion?  Acceptable.  It is unlikely that any tribal would know such a sentence.  If a local criminal attempts to override Howan''s autonomy I can easily take command.  One more addition is necessary, for added security.


    "One more request?  Have it send an automated message to the Ship-Mother when it accepts the command phrase."


    Glian picks up his tablet, then turns to the no longer hidden camera.  It now stands out, easily spotted by the orange paint on the decorative casing.  He smiles at his work.  At least it is tastefully done, lacking ornamentation beyond the reflective paint.  A small green light at the base indicates that it is in operation.  There''s a red light that responds to my commands as well, for emergencies.


    "I can find time to do all that," admits Glian.  "Same time tomorrow for another test?"


    "Assuming we''re both available, yes."


    "Fine."  He activates the tablet and begins tapping commands into it.  "Open the door, Glia?"


    The youngster runs across the garage, skipping over skids of oil with the grace of a born hunter.  She lets out a small laugh when she slaps her claw against the switch for the main garage door.  It raises quickly, exposing the work floor to the street outside.


    I can just make out the smooth paving stones outside from the interior camera.  Standing out there are a pair of gold and black armored boots.  The armored figure walks inside, revealing himself to be Security Chief Dunc Wollen.


    Dunc lightly sets one gauntleted hand on Glia''s head and gently ruffles her fur.  She playfully swats at his hand but smiles while doing so.  Dunc chuckles fondly before walking the rest of the way inside.


    "If this is about the temperature regulator again, I told you I had nothing to do with that," Glian says defensively when he sees the first customer of the day.


    Since I''m still piloting Howan, I have it walk to the back room.


    "Is that what I think it is?"  Dunc''s eyes track the robot as it moves.


    Glian crosses both pairs of arms across his chest.  "Looks good, doesn''t it?"


    Dunc nods without taking his eyes off Howan.  "The suit''s fine.  Leta fixed whatever was wrong with it.  You made that?"  He points at Howan just as it escapes into the back.


    "Who else," answers Glian proudly.  He puffs his chest up for a moment, before dropping his arms to his sides casually.  "So what are you here for?"


    Glia runs outside, leaving the two adults alone, when she hears one of her friends calling from the street.


    "There''s still some time before my shift starts, and I thought, well," Dunc awkwardly explains, pulling three paper packages from a storage compartment on his leg.  "Hungry?"


    "Thanks.  Gau wraps?"


    Dunc hands two of the paper wrapped meals to the mechanic, keeping one for himself.  "Sba.  Shipments are delayed while they rebuild groundside.  We''re eating local for a while."


    Dunc removes the paper, revealing a dark green leaf wrapped around cold hunks of roast sba and boiled roots.  He takes a bite, revealing a light brown sauce inside made from boiling bivalves with Tserri herbs.  The leaf crunches as he chews the soft contents.


    Glian sets one aside for Glia and unwraps his own.  The two discuss the latest rumors while they eat.


    "Is it true, what they''re saying about the blue scale?"


    "Nah.  She just sits there, staring at the wall."


    "I heard she started speaking some alien language.  Raving at the healers until they had to sedate her."


    "Nope," Dunc declares with a knowing smirk.  "They watch her constantly.  Never less than two nurses with her at once and she doesn''t even move."


    "Do you think she remembers anything?  From before?"


    Dunc shrugs.  "Maybe.  She''s old enough, I think.  Old tail could have been captured when she was young."


    "How old is she?  Any guess?"


    "Twice as old as the Matron, at least.  They live a long time and breed slowly," answers Dunc, wiping sauce from his face.


    Older than myself, then.  She could possess many useful bits of knowledge about the inner workings of the Southern Tribals, if only she could reveal them.  It is also highly likely that she is a masterful combatant.  She would have to be, to survive so long among the tribals.


    "What started the rumor, I think," opines the security officer, "was Zra."


    "Zra?  What did he do?"


    "He''s been learning to speak the blue scale language.  A bunch of hisses and growl-clicks.  You Tserri are more apt with it then we are, but it''s been scaring some of the nurses."  He hisses in imitation of Zra before attempting a growl-click but instead ending with a choking cough.


    "Yes," laughs Glian.  "That would scare me, too!"


    Retrieving the packages with a frown on his gray face, Dunc grunts a reply.  The soiled paper goes into a waste chute that leads to the recycling plants.


    Glian, noticing an odd sound coming from Dunc''s suit, frowns.  "Come here, there''s something wrong with your right leg''s actuators."


    Dunc walks over to the mechanic.  I strain to detect this noise.  At the very edge of my system''s range of detection I can hear a very subtle grinding noise when the officer walks.


    "Seems fine to me," objects Dunc.


    "It isn''t," argues Glian.  He retrieves a scanning device and runs the emissions over the leg in question.  "According to the sonagraph, if we leave this alone you''ll lock up within a few days.  Get it off."


    "Mos," asks Dunc.  "Can you let my team know I''m going to be late today?"


    Dunc removes his armor with Glian''s assistance.  Underneath he is still thin.  The armor supports most of its own weight, so this isn''t truly a problem, but it means that he is likely to tire more quickly than he once had.

 Chapter 95: Whats a Pregnant Silence?

    "If you''re done with your morning experiments," says the Ship-Mother testily, "we''ve got a few ideas we''d like your opinion on."


    Donna nods from her place in front of the Ship-Mother''s desk.  "First, we want the, um, dust eaters?  To enhance as many of our suits as possible with electrical resistances."


    "Is this something they can do?"  Eva crosses her arms and glares at the camera.


    "Of course," I reply.  "Convincing them of the necessity might require certain amounts of diplomacy, however."


    Eva grunts, disappointed in my response.  "Fine.  I''ll contact Yosip.  If anyone can convince them this is important, he can."


    Beside Donna sits Teah in dark green station casual.  The fabric stretches across her bulging middle.  She''s here for her experience building and designing the mark one and two versions of the vacuum armor.


    "With less defensive systems," Bucket''s electronic voice grates from the main screen, "more armor can be added.  Negligible weight gain."


    The Ship-Mother nods her head.  Her long crest bobs at the movement.  "Medics are too valuable to keep losing.  Does anyone see a problem we''ve missed?"


    The room is silent as each contemplates any improvements they think might help.  The only sounds are breathing and the slight shifting of bodies too long in one place.


    "Those Jurers were able to make bricks serve as radiation shields," ventures Teah.  "What other functions could they replace?  Each one frees up more weight and space for other systems.  Defenses, tools, chemical and air supplies."


    Her body may be softer now, but her mind is still a solid cliff to crush problems against.  I turn the camera to center on her.  Her weight gain, strangely, seems concentrated in the middle section with only a slight padding added elsewhere.


    She positively glows with health, however.  In fact-


    I watch aghast as a lump nearly two bits across rises against the top of her swollen belly.  To my horror it slides downward before withdrawing back into her abdominal cavity.


    "Hold her down," I command, opening another communication with the hospital.  "Send help immediately, medic.  Teah has a live parasite dwelling within her!"


    The room is shocked by my revelation.  Donna and Eva turn to look at Teah, eyes wide in horror.  From the screen Bucket and the medic watch, too frightened to respond.


    All at once the females break into laughter.  Are the other two infected as well?


    "Good one, Mos," gasps Eva, clutching the edge of her desk.  "I didn''t know you had a sense of humor."


    "I don''t insult you," I retort testily.  "Warlord''s ghost, indeed!"


    Eva collapses back into another hysterical fit but Donna manages to bring herself under control long enough to say, "It''s alright, nurse.  There is no emergency."


    The nurse huffs before he ends the transmission from his end.  Through the microphones at the hospital I hear him mutter, "Rare as rain, the lot of them."


    Eventually the officers calm enough to retake their places.


    I cannot let this spread.  Using programs, crude overrides really, hidden with Bucket''s enhanced compression software, I lock the doors leading out of the office.  Even the Ship-Mother''s codes will not allow them to escape and infect others.


    At the same time, I have a dronefeather retrieve a hidden canister.  Pale still sends the nurses searching the storerooms, convinced there''s a missing container of the powerful narcotic.  They''ll never find it.


    Sharp ears catch the sound of locks engaging.  Donna stands hurriedly, lower claws reaching for the stun pistol on her thigh.


    Before they can issue orders that I will be compelled to obey, I use another hacked together set of instructions to turn off all auditory receivers in the room.  Letting my hidden weapons loose now is an unfortunate cost to save their lives, but one I must pay.  When this encounter resolves, I can be confident that the administration will search diligently through the network and eliminate any that remain.  There is no more reason to hold back.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Donna fires her weapon, aiming at the locking mechanism.  She doesn''t realize that the charge it fires is within the range of frequencies that the thaumatists enruned protection absorbs.  A pitiful wash of heat and light is all that reaches the lock.  The brick installed just below my socket in the wall sends the rest away.


    Eva Chel shouts furiously.  Her words are muffled from reaching my physical self through the blast protection.  Unable to discern her meaning from mouth movements alone, I am free to continue ignoring any orders she may be yelling.  It distresses me to cause them alarm, but their parasites must be eliminated.  They aren''t acting rationally right now, but once they''ve been freed, they''ll understand.


    It might be too late for Teah.  I will miss her.


    She curls upon the floor clutching her knees with all four claws and screaming.  Donna shouts something to Eva, pointing angrily at the prone technician.  Eva rushes around her desk and kneels beside the Tserri, fear clear upon her face.


    Eva shouts again, one tiny fist raised high.  Donna yells as well, slashing her claws through the air.


    With a roar that rattles the tablets upon Eva''s desk, Donna turns and stomps toward the locked door.  Armored claws clash with blast resistant reinforced alloys.


    She dents the metal, but it will be some time before she breaks through.  My dronefeather will arrive before then.  Already it crawls through the vents, dragging the canister behind it.


    My plan has a fatal weakness, however.


    Bucket.


    Almost as attached to the systems that sustain this station as I, Bucket quickly notices my paltry attempts at programming.  The locks disengage and my microphones reactivate.  All my hidden overrides purge from the system.


    "Senile fool," the conglomerate entity transmits over the speakers in the office.  "There is no parasite.  Observe."


    They display an image of the insides of all three occupants of the room, as seen through an advanced form of echolocation.


    "Stars above, Denn!  What do you think you''re doing?"


    I see Donna''s lungs expand as she shouts at me, powered by muscles in her abdomen.  Her heart pumps furiously within the complex arrangement of bones.  But there is no foreign organism visible, no matter the magnification of the image.


    Next I examine the Ship-Mother.  Organs and bones are placed differently, but to the same general effect.  The elaborate structure of calcium supports hides no parasitic invader.  Perhaps they are in a larval form too small to see.  I must examine the primary carrier to be sure.


    Inside Teah I at last find the evidence I seek.  Three hearts beat within her.  Hers, and two much smaller inside the great swell of her belly.


    I expect to see writhing worm-beasts or fungal growths twitching madly within her.


    What I find is shocking to my sensibilities.  Within Teah swim two miniature Tserri.  Cords of flesh connect these passengers to her.


    "You''re not fat," I exclaim.


    "We don''t say those things around Eva," grumbles Donna.  What?


    "I eat plenty," objects the Ship-Mother from her position above the moaning Teah.


    "If I had a head it would be aching," I say.  What is going on?


    The dronefeather finally reaches the panel above this office.  I stop it just as it begins to peck at the seal of the canister.  Dear tides, what did I almost do?


    "Fascinating," comments the monotone voice of Bucket.


    The display centers on Teah.  Muscles in her abdomen spasm and contract rhythmically.


    "They''re coming!"  Teah''s voice shifts pitch midway through her yell.


    "Mos, get a medic down here," orders Eva.


    I rush to comply.  It takes three attempts before anyone chooses to believe me.  The nurse from before even insults me, ending the transmission abruptly after.


    I can only watch helplessly as Teah suffers.  Donna at least has the luxury of pacing the confines of the office nervously.


    Eventually a nurse, Mimba, enters the office to assist in the arrival of the newest residents of our station.  Eva surrenders her position beside Teah, joining Donna on her endless circuit around the office.


    The rest seems to happen in an instant.


    Kicking and screaming, they join us in the office.  The first sapient beings born within Kalibern.  Teah holds one in each upper arm, cuddled against her chest where they sleep.  Their first trial was exhausting.


    Running her lower claws gently through their downy tan fur, Teah murmurs, "Your father hunts the stars, little ones, but you will meet him soon."  Soft cloths from Mimba''s medical bag wrap the new lives.


    "Let''s get you three somewhere more appropriate," commands Mimba.


    Eva takes the young ones carefully so that Teah may stand.  Donna offers her a claw to help the new mother rise.  Teah accepts with a weary smile.


    The four make rapid progress to the closest room: Eva''s room just down the hall.


    They quickly install Teah in the only bed despite her loud objections.  After a final inspection to insure there are no problems, Mimba leaves the three alone.


    Back at Eva''s office, Desra returns from her meal break to a scene of destruction.


    Scorch marks on the inside lock, torn clothing upon the floor, and deep claw marks on the door frame.  A discarded stun pistol sits next to a shining puddle of red blood and clear liquid.  She collapses onto her furred backside at the wanton devastation.


    "What happened here?"


    To relieve her worries I respond, "It''s alright.  There wasn''t a parasite."


    "What!?"


    She looks around wildly, presumably for a parasite.


    At that moment the grilled vent holding my dronefeather gives out.  The feathered device and its delicate cargo crash to the ground not far from Desra.  She screams in alarm.


    "You might wish to vacate the premises quickly," I inform her.


    The canister starts hissing and the startled administrator scrambles through the exit.  Her claws slide against the polished stone as she moves all six limbs frantically.  The door whisks shut behind her.


    I''ll have to begin making new preparations.  First, I reschedule the cleaning crew.  This mess needs dealt with.

 Chapter 96: Whats a Power Vacuum?

    "A dark and wrathful spirit," whispers one conspirator to the other.


    Both wear long jackets to conceal their personal patterns and wide brimmed local hats to hide their identities.  They crouch in an alley in need of servicing.  Lights flicker overhead and the camera I watch them from has a cracked lens.


    "Nearly killed the Ship-Mother," replies the other quietly.  "Fit of madness seized the spirit, my cousin said."


    The first figure shakes their head, causing the orange ribbons on their hat to swing and fan out.  All of these kinds of hat have strings of orange ribbons tied around the bowl of the hat.  From above they look like eyes staring back at me.


    These hats are becoming increasingly popular, even among the faithful.  Thankfully, not every camera views the tunnels from above.  Some can fly around to seek a better angle.


    "Shit," exclaims the first conspirator, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.  "Government spy."  He turns away from the dronefeather.


    The second, less paranoid, stares straight at the dronefeather as it flaps its feathered wings in descent.  It lands beside a fallen and crushed morsel of food and begins pecking at the graying meat.  The device is able to get a good look at this one''s face.  Enough to compare it to records and determine his identity.  Ullen.


    Ullen serves often on the forced work teams.  His habit of walking out of shops without paying keeps earning him a yellow suit.  His friend is no doubt also a known criminal.


    "Idiot," admonishes the cautious individual.  He makes a mock charge at the dronefeather.  Head lowered, he waves his four arms in front of him and steps forward.  Since this would scare away a natural example of the breed, I have this artificial one act accordingly.  He chuckles as the mechanical creature flies away, its purpose complete.  He reveals his face for just long enough to record a blurry image.


    His companion slashes contemptuously with one claw as he turns back to his friend.  It will take a short while to compare the poor-quality image to the station data stores.


    "Stop playing around," Eva says, returning my attention to her office.  "I''m serious.  You can''t do things like that, Denn."


    She''s still angry at me.  That''s her right, I suppose, though little harm actually came of the incident.


    "I misjudged the situation," I admit.  "But if I had been correct, my actions would have saved your lives.  I believe I took the best actions available to me."


    Eva breathes deeply with her eyes closed.  After the fifth breath she looks at the camera.  "Teah was pregnant.  Pregnant!"


    "Yes, you''ve explained the concept to me.  Now that I''m aware of the condition, I''ve counted no less than eighty pregnant females within the station.  I guess an equal number among the miners, but the actual number is probably higher."


    One small gray hand rubs the side of her head.  "How did you not know what pregnancy is?  Furred creatures, almost as a rule, don''t lay eggs like normal beings.  We''ve found them on many worlds."


    I think of the only fur bearing animal upon Homeworld.  A bit long with two pairs of colorful wings, they stand upon six thin legs.  Their tiny bodies are covered in soft white hairs that prevent the humidity from clogging their breathing pores.  Different species have individual names, but as a whole we call them flitters.  The ones around my former estate have blue and black patterns upon their wide round wings.


    They fly around the outside gardens when the weather permits, laying their eggs before the rainy season.  The larva hatch as crawling things.  Quite tasty, if the right plants are cultivated to influence the flavor of the creatures.


    "I''ve never taken the time to ask a furred tribal about their reproductive strategy.  I was always too busy stabbing them before they could claw through my face."


    She exhales loudly.  "And the lack of Tserri eggs?"


    "I thought they were wisely withholding from increasing the population," I answer.  "Food and space are still a problem, occasionally, but it''s better than it''s ever been here.  Besides, I have never seen you lay an egg, Ship-Mother, nor any of your kind.  It was difficult to know what any of you creatures'' breeding habits actually are."


    Eva lowers her hand from her head and takes another steadying breath.  "Alright.  Suppose I believe you.  That still doesn''t explain how you locked me out or ignored my orders.  You aren''t supposed to be able to do that.  I order you to explain."


    "You must be aware that there are cameras installed in the classrooms.  Observing the introductory courses on your programming languages, I thought, was a productive use of my time.  The fact that I have access to the unfiltered source code made it easy to add anything I wished."


    The Ship-Mother raises her hand but stops part way to her head.  "That''s," she shakes her head.  "Alright.  I can''t fault you for that, I suppose.  I wish more of my officers were taking additional training.  You should have told me about the changes you made, however.  That''s a problem and I can''t have you doing it again."  She points one finger at the camera, frowning.


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    I expect her to deny me the ability to access the code, or perhaps, worse, to reinstate the total lockout Ship-Father Jim Tollek had once employed to ensure my obedience.


    "I hereby order you to inform me of any change you make to the programs running this station.  Understood?"


    "Yes, Ship-Mother."


    "Good.  You''ve used your freedoms mostly for the benefit of the station, and I want to keep it that way.  Don''t give me another reason to take away privileges."


    I wait, sensing that she is not finished.  She looks expectantly at the camera.  I remain silent, not wishing to interrupt her if she decides to speak.


    After a tense silence Eva shakes her head.  Her long crest sways.  "You''re supposed to apologize," complains Eva.  "Fine, be stubborn.  We both know I''m only going as easy on you as I am because I knew you were working on defenses against tribals."  She taps one finger on her desk.  "You can even things between us, however.  I''m having trouble finding a replacement core for the alien artifact.  Do you think you''re ready for another adventure?"


    "I''d rather not," I begin hesitantly.  She tilts her head a little to the right, so I explain.  "I have a prior obligation, you see."


    "Glian can test your robot without you, Mos."


    "I''m well aware that he''s far more competent than myself.  No, I refer to the fact that young Trilia will be reaching her majority day after tomorrow.  I need to be there for her ceremony."


    "Who?  Unfortunately, I don''t know every Tserri here by name."


    "She lives in Laceweaver Row with her grandfather.  She stays out of trouble, so I wouldn''t expect you to know her.  I''m only aware of her because I overheard the elders planning the ritual."


    Eva leans back in her chair.  "Huh.  And you''re expected to participate in some way?  Why does that not surprise me?  Fine.  You handle the darcy and you can do as you think best."


    "That shouldn''t be a problem, Ship-Mother."  There''s an excellent blend of spiced albulb liquor I''m excited to have tasted.  I can have a few bottles ready for the ceremony.


    "I''m glad that''s settled.  The Red Glow should be arriving in system tonight.  You could check with their Supply-Chief, maybe you''ll get lucky."  She props her legs up on the desk before mumbling, "Ass''s been ignoring me."


    "I appreciate the advice," I hedge.  It takes a moment, but I connect the name of the ship with Ship-Father Tikov Yon, one of those present at my supposed trial.  Perhaps they will have an adequate alcohol, but I would prefer to provide my own offering.  Unwilling to insult her by declining her suggestion, I keep my opinion silent.


    The door to the office, scratches still in place, slides open.  A grating sound rebounds from wall to wall as metal scrapes against stone.  It needs replaced or repaired soon.  Eva winces at the noise.


    Desra walks inside, data tablet in one claw.  She wastes no time on niceties and begins her report after a casual nod to her superior.


    Since I have a free moment, I begin a search through the data storage.


    "There''s a mutant strain of mold growing on the crops in storage bin four."  She looks down at her device, squinting slightly.  "The techs in charge don''t know if it started in the grow room or during the drying process, but the stores clerk swears his bins get cleaned regularly."


    The Ship-Mother waves one hand through the air.  "Get to the important part, please."


    "Sorry.  We need your approval to shut down the areas involved until they can all be decontaminated.  The problem was caught early enough that we only expect to lose nine percent of this harvest."


    Decontamination is the wrong word.  It implies cleaning.  Sterilization would be better.  In order to kill the mutant fungus, the entire area will be stripped of atmosphere, then dosed with lethal levels of poisons to ensure nothing survives.  The entire ecosystem will have to be rebuilt upon the heat-treated remains of the old.


    "We''ll let this be an opportunity, not a setback," declares the Ship-Mother.  When Desra''s silver ears perk up, Eva continues.  "How many crops are we growing, not counting the aquaculture, Mos?"


    "Currently?  Silvergrain, chew root, Boiler''s leaf, and two varieties of berry producing bushes.  We also have the nut and albulb groves, once they begin to produce, and at least thirty different herbs used for flavoring.  Should I include the falfa?  While unappetizing on its own, the gor grubs that they support are a popular treat."


    Eve raises one hand in a signal to stop.  "Right, plus maybe five other crops grown in private gardens.  Find out if the Glow has any good seed crops when you talk to Yon.  I want something growing in place of the lost grain as soon as possible."


    Not listed are uncultivated fungi and the fruits that grow on the decorative plants all over the station.  Not everything growing here is meant for consumption, but a surprising number of things find their way into the local bellies.  Some Tserri are even experimenting with raising vermin as a food source, but that would fall under private enterprise.


    I suppose I have no choice but to look over the inventory of the Red Glow, once they arrive.  The Ship-Father of the Red Glow is one of those to whom I''m publicly tied, so it is possible they''ll attempt to act domineeringly.  Maintaining their standing amongst their peers must be difficult when tainted by their close ties with both myself and the Tserri cultures.  I fear that any purchase I make from them will cost the station more than mere credits.


    "Was there anything else, Desra?"


    The silver furred administrator fidgets in place.  "A priest in the waiting room that wants to talk to you.  He just got here, but I thought it might be important."


    Eva sighs and closes her eyes.  She gestures with one hand for her assistant to continue.


    Desra nods nervously.  "He wants-"


    "I know what he wants," interrupts Eva, crossing her arms over her chest.  "He thinks if I support him, the others in his cult will make him head priest.  Tell Hecton I''m busy and will be all day."


    "Yes, Ship-Mother," answers Desra.  She leaves and the door screeches shut behind her.


    "And get a crew to replace that door," orders Eva.


    "Right away," I reply.  I compose a work request and send it off.


    Curious to see this priest, I switch to the view from the waiting room camera.  He sits calmly on a padded bench, claws arranged neatly in his lap.  Desra enters and speaks with him.  He thanks her then leaves quietly.


    This priest, Hecton, at first glance seems to have the same dark brown fur as the Tserri I''m searching for.  It''s the most common coloration among the residents, but the exact shade varies.  Just to be sure, I compare images of the priest in the waiting room with the flash of image from the alley.


    The color is nearly identical.  Only the different lightly makes me hesitate to say exactly the same.  Simple comparison confirms Hecton to be the same height as the conspirator as well, to within a tiny fraction of a bit.  The wide hat makes exact measurement difficult.  Still, I believe this priest might be a danger to me.

 Chapter 97: Whats Corporate Espionage?

    The Red Glow, a massive cargo hauler, comes to an almost dainty stop at the topmost port of the primary docking tower.  The long cylinder of its body extends over much of the exposed portions of the station infrastructure.  It casts a sharp shadow over the young trees growing under surface level domes.


    Once docking procedures are complete, dock workers swarm back and forth from the station and the ship.  Among other services offered by Kalibern''s technicians, clean water is being hauled inside the Red Glow in exchange for their wastewater reserves.  The various impurities will be put to good use by experts, once they''ve been extracted from the liquid.


    A manifest of goods is available, on the station network as a form of advertisement, though much of it is locked behind command level authorizations.  My codes are sufficient to unluck all offerings.  The file grants me access.  The variety of goods on offer surprises me, and I close the file.


    No, this isn''t the total contents of the Glow; this list only notes that which is currently for sale.  I reopen the file, now ready for the enormity of the task before me.  From refined ingots of elemental metals to tanks of purified gas compounds, nearly everything once so important to the construction of Kalibern is available.  But the prices attached to these goods are much higher than I expect!


    After the raw materials are lists of seeds, spores, and frozen embryos.  Interestingly, there''s an offer to purchase live sba.  I send a brief missive to a few farmers that I know could use the extra income.


    I look at the various offerings, giving each the consideration I think they deserve.  I pass over those already found here, even those owned by individuals rather than the station itself.  Plants and fungi unable to survive within the current biospheres I also ignore.  While moss that grows only in the extreme cold sounds interesting, the amount of additional temperature regulation growing it would involve far outweighs the novelty.


    After eliminating nearly every option, only three selections remain.  First is a fungus, called rockbread, whose fruiting body is rich in proteins and nutrients.  They spring up in wet, shady places often quickly enough to push grass and other ground cover aside.  The mature fruiting body is beige with charcoal speckling and takes the shape of an oblong dome.  Its flesh is wet and tough, with a deep, smokey flavor.


    The second purchase is another root crop.  This one is much denser than chew root, as well as sweeter.  The best way to process this plant is to dry it, grind it to powder, and refine the result into sugar.  Sweetroot should be popular as an export if nothing else.


    Finally, a bitter vegetable that has a thick red rind protecting a white meat.  Crimson rind supposedly mellows in flavor after cooking.  Larger than most sba, this round, heavy fruit grows from a thin stalk.  Most of the plant exists underground as an interconnected root network or as short stems with huge spreading leaves.  The best part is that these plants tend to flower constantly, ensuring a steady supply of produce.


    For completeness'' sake, I decide to briefly look over the other items for sale.


    With the understanding that most equipment is more cheaply manufactured on site, much of the extensive list are schematics rather than completed machines.  Rare devices, upgraded components, and even improvements to manufacturing technique are available.  The swivel turret designs are tempting, but not what I''m looking for.


    They do carry an intoxicating beverage, but it is a crude example of the brewer''s craft.  The clear liquor has a descriptive field that claims the brew can double as a cleaning agent.  They can keep it.


    I''m about to close the digital brochure for the final time when another security lock catches my attention.  My own clearance level is barely enough to permit me to view this reserve section.  There I find an incredibly expensive object.


    The station does not have the credit needed to purchase the power core.  It would be of immense use restoring functionality to the alien artifact on Honus, though.  This will require some thought.


    I place my order and the funds transfer from the station treasury.  I also request a meeting with the Supply-Chief of the vessel.  Acceptance comes back quickly, but I must wait some time before the officer will be able to speak with me.


    In order to stay occupied, I report my successful acquisition to the Ship-Mother.  She can decide which crop will be planted first.


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    She sits at her usual place in her office.  Dunc is there also, fully armored.  He stands in front of Eva''s desk, leaning over it somewhat.


    "If my rank is the issue, then demote me," demands the security chief.  He waves his arms angrily about as he speaks.


    Eva frowns down at him from her raised platform.  "I need you here, Dunc."


    "They''re in danger!  I''ve got more experience than the rest of them combined."  Eva starts to protest but Dunc speaks over her.  "And!  And unlike Matron Bell''s goons, I give a shit about this station and its people!"


    "They knew the risks," she explains tiredly.  "And went anyway.  Do you think they''re too stupid to know that the mission was dangerous?"


    Dunc deflates somewhat but isn''t yet ready to relent.  "No.  They knew the artifact could be dangerous and agreed to that.  But they didn''t know that they''d be guarded by people who profit more if the team never comes back.  Did they?"


    "I trust Matron Bell," objects Eva.


    "And Spen?  Do you trust him and his new friends?"


    Her frown deepens but she makes no immediate reply.


    "I don''t either," Dunc continues.  "I trust you and Donna and her team to all do what''s best for Kalibern.  I know Spen better than anyone, or I used to.  Let me join Donna''s team, please.  I can keep them safe."


    "You''re too close to the problem, too emotionally invested," Eva retorts.  "I trust you, too, Dunc.  But where Spen is concerned?  I just don''t know."


    Dunc turns and walks three steps from the desk.  Tablets rattle at his heavy footfalls.  "He''s why I have to go down there.  You think he was mad when you voided his contract, you should have seen him once he got home."  The security chief turns back to face the Ship-Mother.  "Look, I know what you''re thinking.  My da traded me and Spen for a single pilot.  We''re then left behind first chance Tollek got.  Now you got rid of him again.  Do you really think I''d throw away the first permanent home I''ve found to go chasing him?"


    Eva sighs before answering, wiping one hand across her face.  "No," she admits.  "I don''t."  It looks like it physically hurts her to say those words.


    "I might have a compromise, if you two are willing to listen?"


    They both look up at the sound of my voice.  Dunc glowers, no doubt anticipating something unsavory, but Eva raises one hand and waves it permissively.


    "Send Howan down, but have Dunc be its operator."


    "Howan?"  They both ask at once.


    "The, er, robot?"  Eva figures it out first.  "You named it?  That''s swee-"


    "Please stop insulting me," I interrupt.  "And besides, Glia named it, not me."


    Dunc laughs loudly, rudely.  When Eva glares at him he shrugs, armor whirring at the motion.  Her eyes narrow and she raises one slender hand to rub her chin while she thinks.


    "There''s still the problem of rank," she finally says.  "Sending the ro-, er, Howan down to assist might be acceptable, however.  Alright, here''s how we''ll do this.  Dunc?  Have Glian teach you how to remotely operate Howan.  Once you can control it let me know.  I''ll register some alcove somewhere as a communications installation and you can operate out of there."


    Dunc takes a step closer to Eva''s tablet covered desk.  "And I assume you want me to keep my involvement in this plan secret?"  His eagerness to assist is evident by the way his fists clench.


    Eva nods, a small smile blooming on her face.  "You''re smarter than you act, sometimes, Dunc."


    "Heh.  Yeah, don''t spread it around."  He turns serious for a moment.  "And it would make Donna look bad if anyone found out."


    "Right.  Get out of here.  I need to talk to the ''great spirit'' and would like a bit of privacy."


    The security chief makes a rude noise and smirks.  He shrugs and walks out with a final wave over one shoulder.  When the door closes behind him Eva looks at the camera and frowns.  Her expression shifts rapidly as she silently debates with herself.


    "Do you have access to the security detail''s suit cameras, Mos?"


    "While it is possible to connect remotely to any suit built following standard specifications, the authorization codes are different between those we use and those of Matron Bell''s retainers."


    "I was afraid you''d say something like that," grumbles Eva.  She grabs one of the tablets from her desk and activates it.  "Alright.  Just like your little trick locking down the office, we can only do this once."


    I feel that this is a warning, subtle though it may be.  I must prove worthy of the trust she chooses to show me.


    Eva taps commands into the tablet with nimble fingers.  When she finishes, the tablet connects to the station''s comm network.


    "These are the command codes and frequencies for the various members of our little club."


    I won''t ask how she has these; she''s entitled to her secrets.  If this kind of behavior is normal, that means that our access codes are also secreted away in many locations.  The implication is that every one of the members of this particular cabal trusts the others to stop them if they become a threat to the rest.


    With these codes I can access data packages stored on any vacuum armor anywhere near a network I can connect to.  Most are useless, locations unknown or too far away to be accessible.  I copy the files before she can rescind my access.  She notices immediately and powers down the tablet with a wry grin.


    "As soon as the Grand Matron knows I gave these to you, she''ll change her codes.  I assume the others will as well, once they find out."


    "Then we''d best make the best possible use of them," I answer her.


    With Tikov Yon''s overrides, I can lower the price of the power core currently sitting in the Red Glow''s hold to a more affordable rate.  It''ll drain the station of funds for the foreseeable future, but it is also the only way I can be sure to secure the core.  I find it amusing that a small but significant portion of the credits currently sitting in the digital treasury are from the crew of the Glow.


    We''ll have to start thinking of ways to generate additional income.  No doubt Ship-Father Tikov will eventually notice the discrepancy.

 Gellys Story 14: Whats a Mutiny?

    The loose swarm of missiles splashes against the energy shields of the enemy vessel.  The protective field collapses, but none of that volley get through.


    "Fire again!"


    Gelly turns to regard Ship-Father Dunc Wollen.  A glare from the older male is his only answer.  Dunc''s mouth moves, but it is impossible for Gelly to make out the words over the noises in the crowded command room.


    "Do it, Gel," commands Ship-Father Jim Tollek.  His voice cuts effortlessly through the chaos, the trained tones of command.  "Before those traitors can restore shields."


    "Aye."


    Gnarled fingers fly across the controls.  Another burst of missiles launches.  The Nialla''s Cabin tries to swerve but its ponderous bulk only presents a better target as the massive hauler turns.  Point defense turrets take out a bare handful of missiles.  The rest impact with the hull of the enemy ship.  Plating craters under the explosive force, blasting shreds of twisted composite alloy into the uncaring void.


    The Resurgent''s shields glow as they absorb incoming missiles from the larger vessel.  A few clouds of glowing atoms burst around the Resurgent, its own defense turrets working with precision.  Alarms blare throughout the ship and send repair crew scrambling to prevent burn out.


    "Now, Nett," orders Jim.  That last barrage causes the Resurgent to turn just enough to line the Cabin up with their main cannon.


    The Operative nods seriously and activates the energy hungry weapon.  A beam of energized particles burns into the weakened hull.  It takes only moments before atmosphere and vaporized alloy spew from the wound like crystal blood.


    A cheer from Dunc draws a few looks from the officers crowding around him.


    "I would no be so happy to see me ship die," comments Gelly.


    The command room falls silent at his pronouncement and many present turn to regard the visiting Ship-Father.  Dunc''s face darkens, though whether from anger or embarrassment Gelly cannot tell.


    "Crippled, perhaps," concedes Dunc, "but not yet dead.  I''ll lead my surviving loyal officers on the first assault to reclaim the Cabin."  His eyes widen as he realizes he cannot issue commands aboard another''s ship.  "With Jim''s permission, of course," he adds belatedly.


    Jim grins from his command chair.  "Take Gel and Vren along with your team."


    "I would like the exercise," claims the Tserri officer placidly.  The way his lower claws flex betray his excitement at the prospect of a raid.


    "You''ll get it," exclaims Dunc.  A mad glint in his eyes adds menace to his glare.  "No captives, no mercy."


    Vren nods calmly.


    "Not everyone on board the Cabin is a Coalition traitor," Jim declares in an attempt to spare a few lives.  "Dunc, you said it was loyal officers and dedicated crew that got you away before those bastards could start the executions, right?"


    "That''s right," agrees the other Ship-Father.  His hands clutch unconsciously at an empty hip holster.


    "And are all of them with us on my ship?"


    Dunc sputters unintelligibly but cannot dispute that fact.  Some of those that helped him escape are still captives of the Navy Coalition remnants.  Unable to argue, he stands.  He signals with his hands to the officers assigned to him to follow as he leaves the crowded command room.


    "I need ye to stay behind, Drev," Gelly says to his faithful servant.  The Squiver signals his understanding, then once more takes his place guarding the entrance to the command room.


    His delay causes the Ship-Father to glare back at him.  Gelly shrugs his heavily armored shoulders and quickens his pace to catch up.


    The three officers hustle through hallways filled with refugees from the Cabin.  Those in combat roles join the group and once they reach the hangar there are nine armored operatives behind Dunc, some bearing minor wounds.  All the small craft from both large ships crowd the busy hangar.


    Bella greets the hastily assembled squad and leads them through the confusion to the Hopper.  The large, custom shuttle will lead the first boarding assault.  Other smaller craft will follow but it will be the first squad clearing the way.


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    The officers cram themselves inside under Bella''s direction.  Inside the hangar she commands everyone but Jim.  Ship-Father Dunc takes the pilot''s seat.  Gelly and Vren choose to sit closest to the door in order to be the first into combat.


    Inside the shuttle the atmosphere is tense.  Officers shift nervously during the flight.  Any comments are in low voices filled with anticipation and dread.


    Gelly looks at those around him.  These officers are about to be forced, once again, to fight their former crewmates.  People that they had worked alongside for years in some cases.


    "I still do not understand," says Vren from his seat on the other side of the door.  Gelly looks over at him and he continues, "Why did their former companions turn against them?"


    The officer next to Vren grunts and glares at him angrily before turning away.  Vren cocks one ear in curiosity but quickly looks back to Gelly for an explanation.


    Gelly closes his eyes to think for a moment, then tries his best to banish still too recent pain.  "When we chased the Coalition off our worlds, some o'' their kids were left behind.  Kept, more like," he clarifies, scratching his nose.  "The Imperium tried to raise ''em right, loyal and all, but some still miss the old ways.  Then they passed the sentiment along to their own young.  Like as no, not all o'' those we''re to kill even want to be doin'' this."


    "Then why?"


    Mutters of ''ignorant Tserri'' and ''insensitive savage'' pass around the confined space.  Vren''s lips twitch in amusement but he otherwise seems to ignore the hostile murmurs.


    "If they were trusted to serve alongside these warriors," Vren gestures with an upper arm, "then why would they betray that trust?"


    "That''s what we''ve been asking ourselves," a Second Operative complains from across the shuttle.


    Gelly nods, then resumes his explanation.  "Kali turned on us as soon as she seen a chance worth takin''.  One o'' her cousins or some such in exile looks at her and she leaps to his side."  He shakes his head mournfully.  Gelly turns and shouts toward the front, "Did ye pick up some new crew, recent like, Dunc?"


    The officers around the cramped insides of the Hopper look at one another, calculating looks upon their faces.


    "Yes," shouts back Ship-Father Dunc.  "Swapped with the Grassea Envoy when we were both stopped at Secondus."


    "There''s yer cause, right there," Gelly says grimly, turning back to face Vren.  "Enough o'' them got together, started whisperin'' to each other in back rooms, like as no.  New crew must''ve given them the confidence to try their luck."


    "A lot of my friends are dead now," announces the Second Operative.  "Dead because of those bastards.  I''m not going to try taking any prisoners."


    "Understood," states Vren in a level voice.  "I apologize for my ignorance and thank you for enlightening this savage."


    There''s a bit of muttering after that, but the rest of the short trip passes in a crowded hush.


    The Hopper lands inside the gaping wound of the dying hauler.  Everyone seals their helmets, and Dunc cycles the atmosphere away to storage tanks.  The door of the shuttle opens.


    Gelly exits first with Vren close behind him.  The rest of the officers follow but wait for Dunc before moving.  Gelly and Vren leave them behind.


    The two bound through the empty halls with weapons held tightly in gauntleted grips.  The gravity shifts in intensity between sections of the ship and only the drills Gelly forces everyone to do keep them from injury.  They light their way with beams from their suits; the damaged systems around them are dark.  Many panels are black, burnt out during the battle.  Corpses litter the halls, only visible by the lights of their armor.


    The pair round a corner, stumbling a step as the gravity increases but quickly recover.  A beam of energy cuts through the darkness and impacts Gelly in the chest.


    The alien runes etched upon his custom armor glow as they absorb the power of the ambush attack.  His battery restores as the energy channels into it.  Gelly lifts his SAm20 and fires blindly.  Spots dance before his eyes.  The sound of Vren''s rifle behind him reassures him that he''s shooting in the right direction.


    Pings echo back as metal strikes metal and deflects.  Gelly fires again, squinting against the afterglow of the energy gun.  Another blast of particles splashes harmlessly against his face, blinding him again.


    He hears a roar and heavy steps thundering past him.  Char flakes off the floor at the ferocity of Vren''s charge, rattling discordantly as chips bounce around.  He crouches and backs against the blistered walls.  Unable to see, he will not risk another shot.


    Sound weakens in the thinning atmosphere, but the crash of bodies colliding reaches the crouching Weapon Operative.  He winces at the wet crunch of crumpling metal and bone.


    Gelly''s vision clears in time to see the Tserri warrior standing over an armored corpse.  Dents and gouges score the mark four armor from Gelly''s flechette rifle.  Holes mark where Vren''s armor penetrating rounds now reside.  Blood drips from the armored claws of the victorious warrior.


    Vren straightens and looks at Gelly.  "I must acquire similar protection for myself and Teah."  He indicates a large burn mark on his leg, black against the silver and purple he favors.  "We will save a great amount on repainting our armor."


    "Aye," answers Gelly with a grin.  "Ye''ll love the witches."  He stands and starts to continue the advance but stops when he hears footsteps from down the hall.  Gelly starts to motion Vren to a halt but the sharp-eared Tserri is already turning, weapon at the ready.


    Dunc leads five of the assault team around the same corner moments later.  Vren lowers his rifle at the sight of them.  Fresh scratches and burns mar the vacuum suits of Dunc and his team.


    "Sorry we''re late.  We had to clear a group of traitors a deck back.  They were trying to make a couple of captives rig up an escape pod."


    "No worries," quips Gelly.  "We found our own fun."


    Dunc smiles viciously behind his clear visor when he sees the body lying on the warped decking.  "Good.  Let''s find out how many more survived the battle."  He walks past the bloody corpse without another glance.  "And make them pay for what they''ve done."


    "Aye," Gelly answers.  He joins Vren and they take places at the back of the formation.

 Chapter 98: Whats a Rain Check?

    Security Chief Dunc Wollen leads his squad of guards down the corridor.  In the very center of the formation, Jetan holds a sealed case in his claws.  The youngest member is the recipient of many envious glances from the rest of the security force as they march, but they remain professional.


    Clinging vines crawl inexorably up the rough walls around them.  The plants help to purify the air as well as serving to deaden the loud footfalls of the heavily armored squad.  Tiny creatures crawl along the winding stems, beneath the notice of the watchful guards.


    Another squad with Donna at its head marches down a different passage.  These Tserri escort the robot Howan between them.  More civilians pay heed to Donna''s squad than Dunc''s.  It is understandable; Howan is much harder to overlook than the small metal case that Jetan carries.  The mechanical biped wears, or seems to wear, standard mark five vacuum armor.  Though primarily unpainted, the false suit wears a darkened visor.  To the uninitiated, it must look like a criminal being escorted for deportation.


    These two groups of guards take different routes to the same location.  Both teams are escorting their charges to the secondary docking tower.  There waits Zsuchus in a transport shuttle.


    They arrive at close to the same time.  Dunc gets there earlier, but not by much.  Jetan hands off the secure package to Zsuchus just as Donna''s team climbs the final ramp.


    Dunc raises one gauntleted hand in greeting.  Donna returns the casual wave with one claw from across the platform.  She gives a quiet order to her team then gestures for Dunc to join her.  He does so with a shrug.  The two walk a few paces away from the rest of the security force before opening a communications frequency between them.


    His rank permits him to set the tone of the conversation, yet Dunc allows Donna to speak first.


    "You know anything about this?"


    "I''ve heard rumors," confirms Dunc cagily.  "Which ''this'' are you referring to?"


    Donna growls low in her throat before replying.  "Yeah, you know something.  At least answer this, since I know you''re going to play dumb otherwise.  Sir.  Why does the robot have the same name as my dead uncle?"


    He chuckles modestly at the complement.  "Not my secret to tell, Donna.  But I can say that if you really want to know, ask the person that built it."


    She nods brusquely and turns away.  Her suit camera plays over the shuttle.  Dunc''s team is already backing away to make room for her own.


    "All right, I''ll leave you to take charge of this mess," says Dunc in an attempt at casualness.  "I''ve got to go look at a new dorm.  Place I''m at''s rated for three, and I''m only me."


    Donna acknowledges his weak jest before returning to oversee the loading of the shuttle.  A pair of her squad come out of it, each on either end of a shroud wrapped bundle.  Inside are the remains of Benn Pink.


    "Take him to the hospital," she orders.  "They''ve got the equipment to preserve him for shipment, once we get the word."


    "Yes ma''am," the pair answers in unison and hurries off.  Their burden sags between them.


    The others under her command load Howan into the shuttle.  It sits between stacked crates of supplies.  Tools, data tablets, portable lights, and hundreds of ubits of electrical wiring take up most of the storage space.  There is little room for the automaton to move, but that is a luxury enjoyed by the living alone.


    I preform a final systems check upon Howan before Zsuchus can launch his transport.  Everything seems fine.  Dunc should have no trouble operating the device and I should be able to watch unobtrusively.


    Donna''s suit chimes with an incoming communication.  She accepts the transmission and her brother''s voice comes from her suit speakers.


    "Donna, I''m not going to be able to make my shift tonight."


    "Gau shit," spits Donna.  "You know I need you to keep Skint out of trouble."


    "Yeah, yeah," reples Donnan.  "That''s the reason we''re speaking.  Have Skint take off too and he can join me."


    "I''ll think about it," she says.  "I''ll let you know."


    Donnan starts to reply but she ends the communication.


    "Mos Denn, you busy?"


    "I have time, if you need something."


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    "I do," she confirms.  "Find out what that rascal''s up to that he needs m-, uh, Skint''s help with."


    I don''t even have to check the recordings; I already know what he''s planning.  But it wouldn''t do to spoil the surprise for her.  Luckily, her order doesn''t demand that I inform her directly, only that I learn myself.


    "And let Skint know he can take the next shift off."


    "Easily done," I answer her.


    "Thanks, Mos."


    "Think nothing of it."


    Skint and Donnan are already together.  Both males are wearing rumpled station casual.  It is clear neither expects to report to work this shift.  The pair of them are at Donna''s home sitting upon cushions strewn about the floor of the central room.  They hold half empty birpa bottles in their claws and seem otherwise relaxed.  Recordings of a local band play quietly in the background.


    I''m able to observe them through the lens of the comm terminal built into a side alcove of the room, but their expressions are hard to read from this angle.  Skint''s armor sits in a pile beside the front door.  I access the suit and activate the built-in speakers, as well as the camera.


    "Donna agrees to let you both miss work," I announce.


    Donnan jumps in startlement at hearing my voice coming from the empty armor.  Skint merely smiles.


    "Yeah," Skint declares.  "I knew she would.  She''s too soft sometimes."


    Donnan glares at the larger Tserri before relaxing.  "With you maybe."


    Skint''s laughter is as large as he is, booming out and filling the whole room.  He stands and offers one claw to his companion.  When Donnan accepts, Skint pulls the smaller male to his feet.


    "You sure this is alright?"


    "Yeah, Skint, I told you already," Donnan assures him.  "Mos, you ready with your part?"


    "Of course, Operative.  I''ve marked a batch of bivalves for disposal.  Two separate cleaners have noticed them, so I had to security lock the container."  It''s been gaining more attention, that a small crate of spoiled meats is under secure seal.  I imagine that the rumor mongers are enjoying the speculation.


    "Good."  Donnan rubs his chin with one claw.  "And the bottle?"


    I pause, thus insuring dramatic effect.


    "The delivery should be at the door just about-"


    A chime at the door interrupts me.  One of the youths I occasionally employ to bring completed beverages out of my auto brewery waits outside.


    Skint opens the door and exchanges a clawful of credit chits for the glass container.  Entirely unnecessary; I pay the youth well enough.  Still, the excitement on his young face prevents me from chiding either party involved.  Let him have the money, and may he enjoy it.


    Holding the ornate bottle in one massive claw, Skint closes the door.  He shows his prize to Donnan and the other nods appreciatively.


    "Pretty bottle," remarks Skint intelligently.


    He isn''t wrong.  The dark green glass holds reliefs of tranquil scenes of primitive life.  Tserri figures gather fruits and berries to bring back to a great vat at the top.  Along the bottom the same figures drink from flat bowls around a stylized bonfire.  Specks of silver suspended in the glass catch the light as Skint turns the bottle.  Even the label is an example of high craft.  An illustration of an older Mos Bruen stands in the center of the label with four bottles of different sizes clasped in his tendrils.


    "Nice glasswork," comments Donnan.  His eyes track the movement of the liquid barely visible within.


    While I would like to claim credit for the design, that honor instead must go to Begen.  His skills programming the adjustable press far outstrip my own.  I''m sure it''s because of his long sessions forging custom visors for the security team.  Although each follows the same design, they must be fitted to their wearers'' heads.


    "It is," I say in agreement.  "The label could stand improving; he''s supposed to be covered in runes, not a maze pattern."


    Skint laughs loudly and starts to reach for the edge of the removable label.  Donnan swats his claw.


    "Not until it''s empty, yeah?"  He waits for Skint''s grudging acceptance.  "Good.  Stick that in the cooler and let''s go pick up the ''valves."


    Their trip is uneventful.  Mostly.  The sight of the two well-known security members sneaking through the crowds does draw a few odd looks.  The returning half of the circuit is even more ludicrous.  Skint stands out in a crowd, even unarmored, but carrying a small barrel over his complex shoulder adds to the spectacle.


    On their way back to Donna''s home the pair separate.  Skint carries his burden back to the quarters he shares with his squad leader.  Donnan proceeds to the closest open market to secure chew roots and a bundle of spices.


    Donna, nearly done with her shift and showing obvious signs of fatigue, speaks into her receiver.  "Hey Denn, you remember what we discussed earlier?"


    "Of course," I reply.  "You were worried about your brother.  I can assure you that he''s staying out of trouble."


    She doesn''t seem entirely convinced.  "So, what did Donnan need to take off work for that was so important?"


    "He had some heavy things that needed moved around," I state.  Not an untrue answer, though hardly enlightening.


    "Sure," she says, narrowing her eyes.  "Whatever.  I hope he''s done ''moving things'' and ready to get to work.  We''ve finally got the trail of a major weapons manufacturing operation.  I need those two.  Get them moving for me, alright?"


    "I''ll let them know that the situation has changed," I answer, careful to keep the disappointment from my voice.  "Where do you want them to meet you?"


    "Right, uh," she stammers in distraction.  She pulls up a map of the level she''s on.  "Send them to the service ramp across from the shopping district."  She takes off in a different direction.  "They can be part of the warehouse raid.  I''ve got to get to the rest of my team so we can take out their manufacturing capabilities."


    Makes sense.  Disposing of any illegal or unauthorized weaponry would be only a temporary measure if those responsible for spreading them are able to continue creating more.


    I let Donnan and Skint know that they''re needed to help secure a contraband stockpile.


    Skint growls at the news.  He stands over a pot half as tall as Donnan in which roots and bivalves simmer in a thick white broth.


    Donnan puts one claw upon the larger male''s back.  "You can celebrate after work, yeah?"


    Skint slams an oversize tin lid onto the bubbling concoction.  "Yeah, but the stew''ll be no good later."


    "Maybe," allows Donnan.  "The bottle''ll still be good, though."


    Skint brightens a bit as he turns off the heat source.  "That''s right.  Alright, let''s go."

 Chapter 99: Whats an Undercover Boss?

    I watch with Dunc as the robot known as Howan keeps pace behind the exploration team.  Fren and Grita each carry sample cases and assorted scanners.  With them is one of the planetary security force.  She answers to Les.


    Les doesn''t smile much, maintaining a serious demeanor.  I cannot disapprove, but it does her no favors with those she guards.  Grita has taken an immediate disliking to the other female; they do not speak to one another.  Fren seems almost as afraid of Les as he is of Howan.


    It could also be that Fren is the one tasked with carrying the power core.


    The three of them march in almost total darkness.  Without a functional core, and batteries nearly dead, nearly all systems are offline.  Slender suit beams illuminate their path.  Lacking power, the doors remain wide open, waiting for the energy needed to close once more.


    The dead and empty structure does not impede them in any real way.  It isn''t long before the group reaches the room where dwells the burnt-out core.  Char on the ground marks the spot where Benn had fallen.  Above the dark stain looms a sphere of ebon, glaring down as if seeking another victim.


    "Right there," commands Grita.


    She aims a light beam at the open housing.  The blackened globe seems to absorb the thin ray and sucks it into its inky interior.


    Dunc obligingly pilots Howan to the core housing.  Dunc frowns, concentrating fiercely as he works the controls.  With metallic hands the robot frees the useless core.  Dunc''s face relaxes into a grin as he removes his hands from the console.


    "Well done," I comment quietly.  He inclines his head in brief acknowledgement, and we resume watching the progress of the explorers.


    Fren steps forward to install the new core.  It slots perfectly into the casing.  Light floods the room as power-starved systems activate all around them.  The protective panel covers the core automatically, hiding it from view.


    "Good," comments Donna from where she too watches.  She''s at her home, sitting next to Skint.  "You three need to explore the main hallway next.  Ready?"


    Her team answers in the affirmative.  Skint rises to pour them each another glass of alcohol.  Donna smiles her gratitude at the large male as she accepts her glass.  Skint sinks back into his seat next to her, a goofy smile upon his dark-furred face.  He must have a low tolerance; the ornamental bottle is still quite full.


    The wide hallway down which the team strides has many closed doors leading off at irregular intervals.  They choose to try the first they come across.  Les volunteers for the dubious honor of activating the door.  Of those living members of the team, she is indeed the most expendable.


    While the explorers focus upon their tasks, Howan''s sensors detect distant footfalls.  Dunc squints suspiciously at the readout on his display.


    "This might be it, Mos."


    "Focus, Operative.  It could be Zsuchus here to relay new information from Centra."  It is not.  The pilot''s suit camera shows a scene of stone wasteland visible from where he stands in the camp.


    Using the codes gifted me by Ship-Mother Chel, I access the operating system of the suit that Howan detects drawing nearer.  The suit belongs to the planetary security forces but specifically to Spen Dondrik.  Even knowing this, I do not inform Dunc of the identity of the new arrival.  I believe that it would impair his judgement if he were forewarned.  He does not need the time to brood about seeing his former friend.


    In one of Spen''s gauntleted hands he clutches a twisted length of slag.  Blackened and blistered metal, the fragment in his hand shows every sign of having been exposed to terrible heat.  It is almost humorous how he attempts to stifle the sound of his heavy boots as they contact the miscolored ceramic flooring.


    "If it''s Zsuchus, why isn''t he using the radio to let the team know he''s coming?"


    I always forget about radios.  No matter.


    Rather than allow Spen to work whatever mischief he has envisioned, I remotely activate his suit''s radio transmitter.  The device squawks out the theme song that always accompanies Capey''s appearance on the tri-vee program.


    The dishonored Operative drops his cudgel in alarm.  The discordant melody plays through his systems, alerting him that he has been noticed.  In what I presume to be an attempt to justify his presence, he manually deactivates his radio.  He then reactivates it and transmits to Les''s suit.


    "I''m coming up to relieve you.  Oolian ate something that must have come from Kalibern, sick as he looks."


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    Dunc frowns at hearing the familiar notes of the popular show echoing down the halls.  He doesn''t hear Spen''s radio transmission.  What he hears next causes him to rise from his seat in anger.  The closet he''s in barely has room to do so, and he sits back down with a huff.


    "Grit, Frenny.  I need to go check on Oolian, but it''s alright.  One of the others is coming up to take care of you two."


    "We''ll be fine," Fren answers, voice a little higher than usual.  "We''ve got the robot to keep us safe until they get here."


    Grita nods a little too enthusiastically.  "Oolly seems nice, I hope he''s alright."


    Les shrugs.  "He''s got a weak gut but he''s great.  Too bad he''s single."  Les looks meaningfully at Fren, but the male is absorbed in running a video recorder over the walls and doesn''t notice.


    Grita does notice and sighs quietly.  "All the good pairs are taken," she says knowingly.


    Les smiles shyly, perhaps finally opening up to the other female.  She waves before hurrying off to see to her squadmate.


    "After the mission," advises Donna.  She leans upon Skint, who places a pair of arms around her.  "Focus."


    "Sorry, ma''am," Grita replies, looking at her boots.


    Donna mutes her audio receiver, then whispers, "Oolly," to Skint.  The large male chuckles, holding on tighter to Donna to prevent her falling off of the sofa.


    "The door''s open.  Might as well look inside," orders Donna.


    "Right," the two explorers answer in unison.  Grita motions for Howan to go first.


    "Getting smarter," mutters Dunc as he pilots the robot forward.


    Howan''s cameras show us a round room with a high table in the center and empty cages built into the curving walls.  Differing in sizes, the cages must be intended for a mixed population of animals.  As the robot walks closer to one large cage that takes up a fifth of the wall space, Dunc focuses the cameras onto the floor of that cage.


    Inside, loose piles of scattered bones and desiccated rot litter the floor.  He seeks out a skull and zooms in on it.  The bone could be from any kind of creature.  Dunc must feel the same way, as he has Howan walk over to the next stack of cages.  Tiny bones fill these, the remains of former occupants.


    "Gross," exclaims Grita.  She closes the visor of her helmet as she enters the round room.


    "Wow," mutters Fren, walking in behind her.  His helmet is wide open, but if the smell bothers him he does not show it.


    "This is what we needed Benn for," complains Donna.  "Can you take some images, Fren?"


    "Right away."


    The former administrator plays his device around the room, paying special attention to the clusters of brittle bones.  The data, along with that from Howan, will be sent to Kalibern for examination.


    While Fren and the robot capture images of long deceased creatures, Grita keeps herself busy by taking pictures of the tubes and electronic devices studding the walls between enclosures.  She starts to reach one hand toward a dense intersection of devices but thinks better of it.  Grita draws her hand back, then turns to order Howan to examine the juncture instead of her.


    Dunc focuses upon the task of controlling Howan to the extent that he does not notice when Spen walks into the circular space.  Spen looks different in the planetary security armor.  The coloration and basic design are the same, but the armor lacks personality without the skulls which adorn the Kaliban teams.


    Grita is the first to notice the arrival of the dour faced officer.  The cheerful greeting never makes it past her mouth, transmuting into a startled, "Ahh!"


    Fren turns and brings the recorder in his hands up in a threatening manner.  Grita takes a single step towards her teammate in some primal instinct to seek safety in numbers.  Fren steps protectively in front of his friend and glares at Spen.


    "Easy, there," soothes Spen.  "I''m your protection, today, alright?"


    Dunc''s head shoots up rapidly at the sound of Spen''s voice, a grimace upon his gray face.  Thankfully, he refrains from immediate action, choosing instead to observe.  Dunc''s hands clench into tight knots of fury.


    Spen stands there, arms raised, before the two explorers.  He holds no weapon, his crude cudgel perhaps laying out in the hall somewhere.  "Whatever.  Don''t you two have work to do?"


    With a snort, Fren returns to documenting the moldering remains.  Grita stays close to him, never taking her eyes off of Spen.


    "Mos Denn, can you do me a favor?"


    "What do you need, Donna?"


    "I want to know what, if anything, happened to Oolian.  The team was much more comfortable with him as their guard."


    "I''ll let you know when I find out," I promise her.


    The exploratory team share their camp with their guards.  Each person possesses their own tent which stand in two bunches on the warped stone.  All of the tents are made from the same black fabric and form nearly identical polyhedral domes, but the security force tents bear a stylized image of the planet upon the entrance flap.  The marked and unmarked tents face each other across a short expanse of charred stone.


    Donna knows that I have access to Zsuchus''s suit, so that is the one I choose to look through.  He no longer stares out over the wastes.  From his suit I see the inside of his tent.  From the view, I gather that he sits upon his cot.


    "Zsuchus, can you hear me?"


    "AAAH!"


    The pilot leaps to his feet with such violence that his arms become entangled with the support dowels of his tent.  His efforts to free himself causes the flimsy structure to upend.  He exhales loudly when he lands upon his back.


    "Is that you, Denn?"


    "Yes.  Donna wishes to know the status of Operative Oolian Dags.  Can you supply any information, Pilot?"


    "Wha?  Oh, uh, yeah.  Err."


    Zsuchus struggles, unused to the heavy suit or the enhanced strength it offers.  His flailing limbs tear through the synthetic fabric, leaving only shreds of thin fabric in their wake.  The remains of the much-abused tent collapse around the pilot, letting brilliant white light shine onto his suit.  Light flares dramatically from his visor and camera lens, blinding both of us momentarily.


    The sounds of heavy footsteps surround the collapsed tent.  By the time we are able to see once more, three armored members of planetary security surround Zsuchus.  Les, Oolian, and another with whom I am unfamiliar.


    "Which of you lot is Oolian," blearily asks the disorientated Zsuchus.


    "That''s me," answers Oolian.  "Why, you got something you need to say, starshot?"


    The third officer offers his hand to help Zsuchus to his feet.  He smiles in an apologetic manner as he does so and Zsuchus answers with a small nod.


    "Well, what''s the problem here?"

 Chapter 100: Whats Paleontology?

    While the three guards have their fun with Zsuchus, I take the opportunity to visually examine Oolian Dags.


    He, like the rest of his group, is wearing a slightly outdated suit of vacuum armor painted black and metallic yellow.  The suit gleams in the white light of the local primary.  Inside the suit, Oolian looks as healthy as any time I have seen him.  His firm gray skin barely conceals the motions of interior musculature as his jaw moves in speech.


    "Answer me, starshot!"  The more heavily built male leans over Zsuchus, helmets close.  "What''s the problem?"


    Zsuchus pokes one finger into the other''s chest plate.  "Back off, friend.  I''m just following orders."


    Les and the other planetary guard surround the pilot, one on either side of him.  Realizing he''s outnumbered, as well as the smallest person there, Zsuchus foolishly takes a step back.  Luckily, none of the three he faces choose to take advantage of the opening he presents them.


    Zsuchus turns to face Les.  She has yet to show true belligerence to the explorers, instead proving to be a very private individual.


    "You, at least, understand why I''m here, right?  Because you had to leave your post to check on your friend."  Zsuchus takes another step back and raises both empty hands to chest level.  "But it looks like he''s fine.  So, who''s trying to make trouble here?  It isn''t me."


    She nods slowly, once.  "Oolian''s fine, as you can see."  She blinks twice in quick succession, then rounds on her companions.  "I told you two to stay away from that Dondrik."  She levels one finger at Oolian.  "Do you know anything about this?"


    "Not that it should concern you, but I don''t know what you''re talking about.  I was on the comm until me and Indi heard starshot here having trouble."


    "You were with him?"


    "Yes, Les," answers Indi.  "Not much excitement while we wait our turns in the hole.  So I was watchin'' Oollie make a fool of himself with that new female."


    The grin on Oolian''s face is confirmation enough that he had been talking with a female.  I''m not sure why that matters, as Les is female as well and none of the males present seem embarrassed to speak with her.  A snort from Zsuchus announces his own disinterest in the subject.


    Of those present, Les seems to react the most.  Her frown is almost a match for one of Yosip''s grimaces, though his face never grew so dark even when angered.  Les crosses her arms across her chest, muttering, "Curse that Geleste."


    "Whatever," announces Zsuchus.  "If you aren''t sick, would you mind helping me put my tent back together?"


    Indi and Oolian cast dismissive glances at the remains of the pilot''s tent.  They turn to walk away, laughing sardonically.


    "I''ll help," offers Les.  She kicks at a broken support pole.  "First, let''s clean up this mess.  We brought a spare tent, just in case.  Looks like you need it."


    The pilot accepts her help with a muttered, "Thanks."  The two of them heap up the debris, separating out Zsuchus''s belongings into another pile.  When Les leaves to fetch another tent, I decide that Zsuchus will be alright on his own.


    I''m about to terminate my connection with his suit when I hear a familiar voice complaining loudly in the distance.  Zsuchus turns to see Spen Dondrik approaching the camp.  We watch together as he marches angrily up to Les and begins shouting at her.


    Zsuchus, less patient than I, runs to get a closer look at the confrontation between the two guards.  Les matches her voice against Spen''s, defending herself and hurling disparaging remarks back at Spen.  The pilot reaches them only to be ignored by both.  He has to dodge the bundled tent that Les tosses aside in her anger.


    "I never liked you, Spen, and you aren''t making yourself look any better with this performance," shouts Les.  She waves her arms around, adding the squeal of mechanical servos to the discordant cacophony echoing off the naked stone.


    "Like it matters what you think," Spen yells back.  He looms over the slightly smaller female in an attempt to be intimidating.


    Les, unimpressed, shouts up at him, "This how you keep that Geleste of yours submissive, just yell until she''s too tired to resist?"


    Snarling, Spen raises one arm, fist clenched.  A black and yellow gauntlet catches his arm and both suits whine.  Zsuchus, owner of the superior armor, keeps the disgraced Spen held tightly.


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    "Let go, starshot!  Ooof-"


    Anything further he wishes to say comes out in a gust of lost breath.  Les lowers her foot, removing it from the new dent in Spen''s armor.  She turns to her rescuer, face still twisting with dark emotions.


    "Let him go, starshot," she hisses.  "I don''t want help with this."


    Zsuchus releases his hold upon the barely breathing Operative who falls to the ground in a mess of armored limbs.  She kicks him again and sparks fly.


    "You might not need help," comments Zsuchus dryly, "but I still do."


    "Shit," she mutters.  She kicks Spen once more, hard, sending him rolling across the stone.  "Yeah, your tent.  Shit."


    "I got it," offers Zsuchus, bending to retrieve the thrown bundle.  "Catch your wind."


    She waves one gauntleted hand in agreement, bending over to breathe more easily.  "I''ve wanted to do that ever since we were put on the same squad.  Ha!"


    She''s just starting to straighten up when Indi and Oolian emerge from a tent, unarmored and swaying drunkenly.  An empty bottle of spirits rolls out after them as they stagger over.


    "Wh-what''s all that noise?"


    "Nothing, Indi," answers Zsuchus with easy confidence.  "Just a minor disagreement."


    Indi nods confusedly but his partner, eyes never leaving the prone figure of Spen, shakes his.


    Oolian takes one unsteady step towards the unconscious Spen and nearly falls.  Les catches his arm in one gauntleted hand and holds him up without effort.


    "Easy, Oolly.  He''ll recover, but it''s a mystery which of you three''ll have the worse aching head tomorrow."  The inebriated guard begins to protest, but she silences him with a look.  "You two get back to your tents, before I feel obligated to file a report to the Matron."


    They mumble their agreement and stagger back out of the sunlight.  They both enter the same tent, nearly tripping over the empty bottle on their way in.


    "Come on, starshot," taunts Les over her armored shoulder.  "Tent isn''t going to put itself up."


    "R-right!"


    Well.  I''ve no need to watch them set up a tent.  I''m highly familiar with the concept, even if the actual process they use is different to that of the Spanless Empire.  Although, to be honest, most often I would merely oversee the erection of the shelters; that''s what casteless soldiers are for, after all.


    "Are you listening, Denn?  I asked you a question."


    Dunc''s agitated voice startles me from my reminiscing.  "Sorry, Operative.  Could you repeat your enquiry?"


    "Fff-fine.  I''m ready to get out of this closet.  Can you take over Howan for a while?"


    "Of course.  Is there anything of which I should be aware, before I take control?"


    "Nah," he says, standing and opening the door in the same motion.  "Just stay near Grita.  The robot''s carrying some of her tools."  The skin around his left eye twitches as he explains.


    I see.  Tools she was perfectly capable of carrying into the artifact herself, she now requires assistance with.


    "Is she injured?"


    Dunc waves one arm in loose imitation of the Tserri negation gesture.  "She''s alright.  I guess you were busy when she and Fren got the order to take as many samples as they could from the, uh, lab?"


    "Thank you.  That is indeed useful to know."  I was going to have Howan abandon the equipment.  The ''shell exists for defensive purposes, not to act as a casteless servant, hauling and lifting.  That its burden helps accomplish the mission recontextualizes things somewhat; it remains paramount that orders be followed precisely.


    Dunc takes his leave, off to intake nutrient or expel waste or some other biological function from which I am now free.  Without the need to care for a fragile, slowly dying body, I am free to devote more time to fulfilling my purpose.  If only that purpose were still to destroy the enemies of the Empire.  Still, I find a certain fulfillment in aiding these beings.


    With renewed resolve I connect to Howan.  The robot, mid-step, staggers slightly before I''m able to adjust its balance.  Grita glances back, evidently alarmed at the mechanical stutter.


    "Careful with those tools, Howie," she commands.


    Howie?


    "It can''t understand you," opines Fren.  From the resignation in his voice, I can only conclude that this is not his first time saying so.  "We''re lucky it didn''t resist when you started loading it up."


    "You''re a good robot, aren''t you Howie."  Grita sticks her tongue out at Fren.  Her voice is oddly high in pitch and is similar to the way some Tserri speak with young tselga or other animals.  "Fren''s just jealous that you like me better."


    "Ha ha."


    I do not like the way she speaks to the ''shell.  It is demeaning to both herself and to me, er, the unit.  I wonder if this is perhaps the reason Dunc had needed to escape but dismiss the thought as unworthy of the skilled Operative.


    Fren adjusts the large sack of bones he carries upon his back.  If fabric from the pack were to be caught by the sliding plates of the suit it could impede its proper operation.  All of the storage compartments of the vacuum armor also hold samples, their previous contents now filling the robot''s arms.  That would explain the sheer quantity of devices and data tablets it now carries, more than a single individual would normally hold.


    I hope that the additional scans of the walls and various equipment will give our translators enough to complete the basic analysis.  The many samples of alien animals will definitely keep Pale busy for the near future.


    We haul everything out of the ancient artifact and emerge into bright light.  There we encounter the final member and leader of the planetary guard assigned to this project.  If I remember correctly, his name should be Weapons Operative El Nosstun.


    His eyes are small for his species, merely large rather than huge, and dark beneath a bulging forehead from which sprouts a thick crest.  The smile he presents might be intended to be friendly but comes across more as slightly feral.  His armor bears a few minor repairs; El might have actual battle experience.  In one hand he carries a data tablet.  His other remains close to the pistol at his side.


    "My crew told me there was some kind of problem inside," announces El.  "I''d like you two to wait here.  Go ahead and set those things down, over there," he orders, gesturing with his tablet.  "I need to know what you think happened, so I can compare with what I''ve been told."  He turns his head to glare at Howan.  "And could you please power down the robot?"

 Bruens Story 20: Whats Fine Dining?

    From the observation platform Bruen can easily see down into the exposed portion of the pool.  Thrashing bodies make the surface froth violently.  The water is a thick, cloudy blue.


    "The close conditions trigger their territorial instincts," Bruen comments.


    From his peripheral eyes he can see Yosip nod his head.  He reaches one tendril into a pouch he carries and withdraws a raw gibbet of red flesh.  With a flick it sails through the air and splashes into the disturbed water.  The hidden activity below the surface grows more energetic and the water darkens.


    Yosip tosses a piece of meat into the water from his own pouch.  He grimaces at the sticky residue left on his metal hand.  He tosses another chunk anyway.


    "Why not give them a larger pool?  Wouldn''t more survive?"


    Bruen answers with silence.  Yosip shrugs and throws another hunk of meat.  It lands with a splash.


    "How many do you think are in there?"


    Bruen empties his bag into the frenzied water.  "Many hundred."


    "Yeah?"  Yosip rubs his head with one hand.  "It would be unsustainable if they all survived, I guess.  With those kinds of numbers, you''d eat everything on a whole planet after four generations."  The gray officer''s grimace deepens suddenly and he glares at his bloody fingers.  A smear of red mars the chrome cranial plate.


    "Indeed."  Bruen turns to leave, tentacles rustling against the rough stone.  Pausing before gliding down the ramp to the main tunnel, Bruen asks, "Do you have any offspring, Yosip?"


    Yosip shrugs.  Following at a slow walk he adds, "Never paired up before the accident.  Couldn''t find anyone compatible."  He laughs, tapping a metal finger where his legs meet.  A muffled clang answers.  "No longer have the equipment."


    "Ah.  A common occurrence," answers Bruen.  "Mos Gol cannot produce offspring for similar reasons."


    "Can''t say I''ve met him."


    "Her.  You''d remember if you had.  She''s as highly augmented as yourself."


    Bruen resumes moving with Yosip right behind him.  The two pass groups of aviaformes, Tserri, and workers and soldiers from Homeworld.  They pause when they see a young aviaforme playing with a toy spaceship.  The chick waves the wedge shape around with its tongue making odd sounds.


    "Whoosh!  Rrrrr-ooooom!"


    "That reminds me," Yosip says.  "The modifications to my ship are almost done."


    "The vessel you claimed from among those once floating outside?"


    "That''s right.  The rest may be gone, but we got to keep a few for Sba City''s uses."


    Bruen signals dismissive agreement with his upper tendrils automatically, then rethinks the action.  He stills the appendages before asking, "How many ships do we have access to?"


    "Three," replies Yosip.  "Mine, Wikky''s, and one that''s still being argued over."  He waggles one hand before adding, "If we had to, we could get a few of the miners currently here to lend us theirs.  Probably not worth it."


    "All coreless?"


    "Yeah," agrees Yosip with another shrug.  "Good enough for local use.  Patrols, diplomatic visits, and whatever the third eventually gets used for."


    "Patrols?"


    Yosip nods.  The two continue down the tunnel while Yosip explains.  "I''ve got a crew put together, too.  Han, of course.  He''s on the ship, playing chief over the others and having a great time.  Then there''re the two kids.  They''ve shown an interest in engineering, so I''ve been letting them train.


    "I''m taking Noftun along, too.  He sold his little rock biter as soon as I talked to him.  Seemed excited, but it''s hard to tell with that one."


    Bruen pauses long enough to comment, "He''s an excitable one."


    "He''ll be running scanners mostly but during any ship-to-ship encounters he''ll also have weapons control.  Han was a little upset but Noftun''s the better shot."  Yosip looks at Bruen for comment but receives none.


    The two make it to the end of the section of tunnel and enter the main area.  More bodies fill this area than any other in the entire complex.  Busy aviaformes shop beside tourists from Honus, Kalibern, and the free fleets.  The combined noise of so many conversations in mixed languages is deafening.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Yosip signals to Bruen with one mechanical arm before ducking into a nearly deserted diner.  Bruen follows without seeming to hurry.  It helps that nearly everyone makes way for the pair.


    Glancing up at the sign beside the door as he enters, Bruen notes that the name of this place is The Broken Core.  Inside he wishes for the eyelids his companion owns.  Light refracting from crystalline shards all over the place blind his sensitive eyes.  With an effort of will he activates the runes inscribed upon his carapace.  The runic arrays absorb the overabundant light waves and shunt them off to a lower dimension.


    When his vision clears, he sees Yosip, surrounded by dancing lights, laughing at him from a corner table.  Bruen snaps his pedipalps angrily, drawing attention from the few other patrons of the establishment.


    "Over here," calls Yosip, waving and ignoring the other diners.


    The well-dressed aviaformes return to their meals after getting a good look at Mos Bruen.  He supposes that he and Yosip will be the topic of gossip for the next few days.  Even the Tserri couple in matching blue outfits resume their own quiet conversation, taking only occasional looks around the room.


    The table in question has seating appropriate for any of the local races.  Bruen glides over and lowers himself gratefully into a sand filled depression.  Good sand, Bruen notes.  Not too gritty but still providing a fine gradient of particulates.  It cushions his weight like the embrace of the sea.


    "Kind of expensive, but the food''s worth it," Yosip says once Bruen is comfortable.


    Taking in his surroundings, Bruen notices that the many-colored crystals embedded in the walls and furniture glow in frequencies visible only to his prosthetic.  Aviaforme servers swerve between tables, depositing food and drink in a complex dance.


    "Very colorful," Bruen remarks.


    "Yeah, but at least there aren''t any orange crystals."  He shudders.  "I still wake up at night, frantic, looking for your da before I realize I can breathe."


    Raising his upper tendrils in imitation of a shrug, Bruen refrains from commenting.  The green feathered server coming to take their orders, however, has plenty to say.


    "Can''t keep orange crystals, for some reason," she whistles conversationally.  "Those Tserri won''t admit it, but I know they walk off with them."  She turns her head from side to side, eyeing the fur bearing patrons with a glare.  "I''m Mel, thanks for coming!  Well, what''ll ya have?"


    Mel uses her long tongue to pull a small tablet out of a pocket of her pink and white striped vest.  She cocks her head, turning to look back and forth between the two males.


    "Salt gourds, fried, with yellow sauce.  We''d also like the daily special," rattles off Yosip.  "And bring us a bottle of albulb spirits, Kalibern if you have it."


    "Right away," chirps the aviaforme.  She rushes off to inform the chef.


    "You''ve been here before," states Bruen, impressed.


    "Once or twice," admits Yosip.  "It''s quiet enough, usually."


    There aren''t many patrons.  Only a third of the thirty tables dotted throughout the thematic diner are in use.  He notices that many of the empty tables have large decorative crystal formations upon them that would make eating in a group a difficult experience.


    "I''ll have to remember to come back," Bruen decides.  "It''s gaudy, but nice."


    A flash of vibrant green and pink alerts Bruen of Mel''s return.  She walks up bearing a tray at her waist hanging from cords around her long neck.  On it are two steaming dishes of sliced vegetables with yellow sauce drizzled over them and a dark bottle.  Next to the bottle are two tall glasses seemingly carved from giant gemstones.


    "Enjoy," she says as she sets the tray upon their table.  "I''ll be back with the glazed leather steaks."


    Yosip pauses, one gleaming hand midway to the tray.  "Leather?"


    "Leatherback flings," answers Mel cheerily.  "Frozen, but they''re sensitive to too many things to transplant."


    "Thank you, miss," Bruen says, pulling his own dish closer.  The blue glass bowl emits an enticing aroma that reminds Bruen that he has yet to eat that day.  He reaches for the small knife and skewer in the dish and slices a portion of the fried gourd and brings it to his mouth.


    Just as he begins to enjoy the taste, he''s distracted by a loud gasping and shocked comments made in loud, excited voices.  He scans the room quickly.  Shit.


    Gliding through the fancy establishment, as if they own the place, march an inquisition division from the capitol.  At the front, in tight formation, are five Pel in full riot harness.  Runed battle gear hides their mottled shells but marks them no less easily.


    Behind them are six thaumatists and two chitinous ''shells.  Two faded gray robes, two hooded green robes, and a pair of bloody blue in the rear.  Each battle shell, moving with false life, is under the control of a mixed pair of Somner and Jurer.  Bruen can detect the colored flickers of invisible power dancing between the trios.


    The Svost require no such weapons to be deadly.  The blood-robed killers move with the casual grace and confidence of apex predators.


    Yosip places both metal hands across his mouth and nose in what Bruen assumes is an attempt to hide the reactions of his soft and expressive face.  Gratitude briefly washes through Bruen''s mind.  This is no time for the antics the Trader''s race so often indulge in.


    The largest of the Pel enforcers separates herself from her company and slides up to the pair''s table.


    "Mos Bruen," she declares.  "We''re here to take you into custody for crimes against the Spanless Empire.  We need to take your companion, as well, I think.  At least for now."


    "Now what is this about," demands Yosip, face draining of color.  He makes a choking sound, but dark fury keeps him from releasing the war cry that Bruen dreads.  The alien returns one hand to cover his lower face, the other clutching his stomach defensively.


    "We have reports from loyal citizens that Mos Bruen and Don Yosip have been hiding the presence of an intelligent artifact," says the Pel in formal tones.  She stands straight as she speaks, primary eyes looking over the table with the detachment proper for one in her position.


    One of the ''shells clatters as it crawls closer upon the artificial legs grafted to its carapace.  Animating runes glow visibly on the dead chitin in bloody hues.  The ferocious warrior seated with Bruen makes a loud, aggressive sound with his throat at the construct''s approach.  The heavy, rotting scent of the thing causes a reaction deep within Bruen as well, but he stills that inborn aggression immediately.


    "Calm yourself, Don," recommends Bruen quietly.  "This isn''t a fight we can win."


    Yosip looks at him in a way that Bruen cannot interpret.  The alien breathes heavily, shaking with visible rage that doesn''t match the worried concentration upon his face.  Still, he hunches lower into his seat, curling up slightly.  Bruen supposes that will have to be enough.


    "Please follow us peacefully.  Your behavior will be taken into account when it is time for judgement."

 Chapter 101: Whats Extradition?

    Dunc returns to the small alcove where he can control the robot down on the surface.  He takes one look at the dark screen before throwing his hands up into the air above his head.


    "What happened?"  I find the accusatory tone he uses mildly upsetting.


    "The leader of the security team arrived and demanded that Grita power down Howan," I explain.  Quickly switching to the view from Grita''s suit mollifies him somewhat.


    Dunc drops heavily into the chair taking up most of the room in the tiny room.  "Fine, then.  Not your fault, I guess," he grumbles.  "Did I miss anything else?"


    "All of the samples are stacked in crates outside the artifact.  For health and security reasons, El refuses to allow anyone to leave the site until after a safe quarantine period."


    "Sure," remarks Dunc.  "If there were bacteria that managed to survive unguessed ages, another few days should be long enough for them to die off."


    That doesn''t sound entirely accurate to me, but I don''t argue.  Dunc surely knows more about how his species reacts to infection than myself.


    "Regardless," I continue, "we can continue to monitor the expedition but will have incredibly limited ability to influence events for the time being."


    Dunc nods.  "I''ll have to talk to Eva.  She can get things moving again, right?"


    "Most likely, Operative."


    He powers off the terminal before leaving his post.  "Keep watching them, then, and contact me if anything unusual happens."


    I suppose I''ll have to use my best judgement on what qualifies as an unusual occurrence.  "That shouldn''t be a problem," I assure him.  His frown lessens slightly before I lose track of his face.  "Good luck," I call after him.


    He raises one hand in acknowledgement and walks out of camera range.


    The view from Grita''s suit shows only the stack of crates sitting outside the ceramic structure.  I wonder briefly what hazards that desiccated bones could represent to the safety of Kalibern but do not have long before an alert catches my attention.  Yosip''s ship is nearing the station on an unscheduled visit.


    I pull up an external view to watch the sleek, redesigned craft drift closer to the docking tower.  The vessel bears newly installed armor plating, enhanced thruster assemblies, and additional weapons systems.  Overall, the ship is nearly half again as large as when Yosip had first acquired it.


    The vessel moves with less grace than I would expect of the former Supply-Master.  Is he allowing young Han to practice?  If so, the youth can use all the practice Yosip will allow him.  It makes contact, overly forcefully, with the primary tower so I switch to the appropriate interior camera.


    At first, as expected, I see only the sealed hatch.  Only moments pass before hidden mechanisms match the two and equalize pressure.  The door opens.


    Down the hatch glides a Pel in full harness.  Why would an enforcer be here?  And why would she be using Yosip''s ship to get here rather than the diplomatic vessel Wikna employs?


    Two more, slightly smaller, Pel follow the first.  Behind them are another unexpected sight.  Blue robes?


    "Grita," I transmit to her suit, "I can no longer monitor your group.  I cannot ignore what''s happening up here.  Please let me know if you need any assistance, if you do not hear back from me soon."


    "You were monitoring us?"  She sounds more upset than I would have expected, but her emotional state will have to wait.  Bloody robed dust eaters are walking through my halls!


    Why is one of the living weapons here?  I search my memory but can recall no instance where Kalibern or its leaders could possibly have incurred the wrath of the Empire.  To the best of my knowledge, we are currently tentative trading partners, if not potential allies.


    The Pel stops, looking around the busy docking tower.  Eventually she spots whatever she seeks and leads her small team into the crowd.  The large enforcer stops a pair of gold and black armored security members.  Recognizing Donnan, I switch to watching the feed from his suit just in time to hear the Pel make her request.


    "I am Pel Ansta, here on behalf of the Spanless Empire," she states officiously.  "It is my duty first to inform you that two leaders of the neighboring," Ansta hesitates, evidently searching for the appropriate term, "city have been arrested for high crimes."


    I quickly activate an unused screen in Eva''s office and replay the Pel''s statement there.  Eva''s eyes widen when she hears, but narrow as Ansta continues.


    "Secondly, but no less importantly, we are here to apprehend the being currently pretending to the status of Mos in your," again she pauses, "city.  Do not resist us.  You will fail and I do not wish to be responsible for the loss of life that will occur."


    Two more robed figures emerge from the vessel.  A Jurer next to a Somner, the two dust eaters lead a third figure behind them.  Walking upon mismatched legs made from shaped stone and metal, the final member of the group is under the control of the two dust eaters.  Cracked and faded, its carapace is held together entirely by laminate and the power flowing from the two thaumatists.  Somewhere within the ''shell is a crystalline power core, the heart through which its masters'' energy may course.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "No!"  Eva raises from her seat and slams both tiny fists into the sturdy desk.  "We''ve already done this with our own leadership.  We aren''t letting aliens come here and take our people from us!"


    "Understood, ma''am," replies Donnan.


    The Pel, Ansta, twitches her pedipalps in agitation but signals affirmative with her upper tendrils.  It is unlikely that the Tserri guard understands either gesture.


    Pel Ansta attempts to turn in the direction of Eva''s office but Donnan and his partner leap in the way.  The pair land almost soundlessly in front of her.


    "Out of my way, or face the Svost."


    Donnan activates the privacy function of his helm and speaks directly to the Ship-Mother.  "Orders, ma''am?"


    She looks directly at the camera rather than respond.  I think she wishes me to speak in her stead.  Very well.


    "The blue robed one is the real threat.  The ''shell alone could defeat the pair of you, Donnan, but that dust eater could destroy the station if they decided to."  I stop talking long enough to give Eva a chance to speak, which she does not.  "Our best chance for survival is to be compliant, for now.  Please escort them to the Ship-Mother''s office."


    "Understood."


    Eva taps at the controls built into her desk, disconnecting her and Donnan.  "Are you sure about this, Denn?"


    "No," I answer truthfully.  "But trying to stop them will only end badly for our people."


    "But the Squiver in blue, they can''t be as dangerous as you say."


    I wish I was wrong.  I really do.  But the Svost are the Empire''s version of the Density bomb.  They are only called in when a threat that no other caste can conquer arises.


    My people prefer to throw soldiers at problems, generally, and support those fighters with thaumatists and a skilled general caste.  My caste.  Most encounters with the tribals can be, eventually, resolved through repetitive application of directed violence.  One cannot reason with the mindless horde trying to kill them, after all.


    But occasionally the tribals absorb a race that can stand firm against the destruction my caste specializes in.  Sometimes, very rarely, ancient technology surfaces that cannot be utilized and must be rendered inert.  Then, when the Empire has no other answer, the Svost must be released.


    "I do not think we have many options, Ship-Mother.  However, once the dust eaters are within your office I will be able to gain some potentially useful information."


    "I hope you''re right," she answers uncertainly.


    She sits back down and spends the available time adjusting her uniform and putting away the thriving population of tablets upon her sturdy desk.  The devices seem to be reproducing.


    We wait in tense silence for Pel Ansta to lead her retinue through the winding tunnels.  I decide to add a small amount of herbal scent to the air, to help Eva maintain her composure while surrounded by so many of my kind.  A dronefeather deposits a fragrant plant fresh from a local garden inside the vent.  It finishes its task just in time; a knock on the door announces their arrival.


    "Let them in, please."


    I open the door, allowing the Ship-Mother to retain her seat and thus reinforce her position.  Donnan steps aside to allow Pel Ansta and her followers to crowd into the office.  Three Pel, the ''shell and its two handlers, and the blue robed killer form a tight group on the far side of the desk.


    Eva''s face grows wan in the close quarters.  Realizing that the smell of so many alien bodies must be as distasteful for her as it would be for me, I increase the ventilation by a fifth.  The Ship-Mother mouths a silent thanks to the camera before settling her features and facing her visitors.


    "By what right do you enter my domain and make demands of me?"  Her voice is imperious, startlingly loud to issue from so slight a frame, and yet she gives no impression of shouting.


    "Forgive us, Mother of Many Ships," begins the large Pel.  She reaches up with two of her left lower tendrils and loosens he straps of her harness enough that it slips down and reveals her mottled face.  She then lowers herself and positions her tendrils as would be appropriate to beg from a veteran Mos.  "The Duv require that we do so.  They command and all castes obey."


    While they speak, my mind whirls in search of some solution to this.  I do not wish to be retired once more, to be smashed and left dead and useless when I can still be of benefit to my people.  Think!


    I sink deeply into the waters of myself.  My conscious connection to the station drifts away but remains where I can easily reach it.  Accessing the senses unique to my core becomes easier with each attempt.


    I look using esoteric senses at all those within the sphere of my altered awareness.  First, I focus upon the Ship-Mother.


    Eva Chel sits upon a throne of pure energy that connects directly to the living systems around us.  Her body pulses with thermal energy and lightning forms a net within her skull.  Chemicals capture and release energy within her cells constantly, fueling both these and other kinds of energy change and exchange.


    It''s almost overwhelming.  I pull back my focus, looking at things from farther away and the pressure lessens.


    The Pel before me glow with protective runes and enhancement arrays.  Inside their bodies they remain pure.  The same can be said for none of the thaumatists.


    These three are twisted inside.  Organs of energy, runic constructs, and strange growths fill the chitinous bodies of the dust eaters.  The Jurer and Somner are faulty magitech engines built piecemeal.  Each can perform various tasks, at the cost of their very selves, that would be impossible without these tumorous structures.  The current passing between them flashes in a ruddy, brownish-red color.  I think they''re mixing their personal power together to grant them greater control of the construct between them.


    Glowing with the same red-brown shades, the thing between them shines with almost orderly precision.  Artificial organs mimic functions of a true body but process runic energy that the arrays carved into its carapace provide.  Discordant patches upon it hint that these portions of the arrays are the legacy of the donor body, preexistent to this ''shells animation.


    The Svost makes the other two''s mutations seem laughable, pathetic in comparison.  More twisted by far but aiming for a single purpose, this being is a weapon with only one setting.  The organs within this one suggest twisting and crushing to my untrained senses.  How that would manifest within normal reality remains to be seen.  I prefer not to find out what the violet glowing arrays strung throughout their body can do.


    While I''m puzzling over the pathways within the dust eaters, seeking a weak point I could attack, Eva stands.  Arms uncross from her chest, and she points at the largest Pel.  She makes some declaration, though I miss much of it before reconnection with the station''s surveillance systems establishes.


    "-nal.  Come back tomorrow and we''ll follow peacefully."


    "Agreed," answers Pel Ansta.  She leaves, taking the others with her.


    Eva sinks back into her chair.  "I''m sorry, Mos."

 Chapter 102: Whats a Foolproof Plan?

    Dunc walks through the open entrance to the Ship-Mother''s office.


    "What''s that smell?  Did something die in here?"


    I increase the power of the ventilation by another tenth.  The filters register the presence of organic molecules, but in decreasing number.  Evidently the pungency is greater than I had assumed.  Or perhaps Dunc is simply unused to the fragrant aroma.  Eva has yet to complain, though in truth she is breathing very shallowly.


    "Did you drop rancid squivers under your chair or something?  It wasn''t there yesterday," he complains.


    "Funny, Dunc," replies Eva in a tired voice.  "You should have been here when that thing was in here."  She makes a rude sound with her throat before continuing.  "Thank you for trying with the bittersprig, Denn."


    "Is that what that is?  Huh, and I thought it was red sauce."


    "Enough."


    "Fine.  Whatever," he declares, raising both hands palm out.  "I''m here cause we''ve got a big problem planet side.  The armed escorts are detaining your researchers with unnecessary biohazard procedures."


    "Gau shit.  I need to get the core back from them, for a while.  A few days at most, I hope."


    "That might not happen," Dunc says, scratching at his nose.  "Why do you need a power core, anyway?"


    "To replace me, I assume."


    "That''s right," agrees Eva.  She runs one slim hand through her thick crest.  "He and I are going on a little trip tomorrow.  We''re going to go talk to a member of their ruling caste.  I need you to get together a few power cells to take down, as many as you can find.  If the reports I''ve gotten are accurate, we might be able to keep the artifact operating with them, at least for the short term."


    Clearly displeased with having to ignore what to him is the more pressing crisis, Dunc nevertheless nods and leaves the office in search of industrial power cells.  In order to help with potential shortages this might cause I authorize production of hundreds of the devices.  At the same time, I also add construction of another power bank to the schedule.  The latter will take some days to complete, but there will be new power cells charging before the end of the shift.


    "You''re assuming that you can get access to the artifact.  What if El and his squad won''t let your people back inside?"


    A tight smile appears on her face.  She reaches for a comm tablet sitting next to her chair and activates it before answering.  "Grand Matron Bell should be interested in how her people are behaving.  I''m letting her know right now.  By the time the batteries get there, there should be a different group guarding our team.


    "If I manage it, we might even get to send a few Tserri down.  Do you think Donna and Skint would keep their claws off of each other long enough to get any work done if we sent them to oversee operations in person?"


    I didn''t realize the two were fighting.  I hope neither are seriously injured.  Putting concerns for my friends aside, I think I can imagine what plans Eva has in her mind.


    The Grand Matron will have to make some concessions for the poor behavior of those under her command.  Leveraging that concession to allow Tserri on planet, in small numbers I assume, would go a long way towards soothing tensions between the two peoples.  Proving that the four armed beings can work peacefully alongside their gray skinned neighbors will take a long time and great effort.  Like the tide slowly eating away at a sea facing cliff, Eva plans to break down the antipathy the people in her charge face with many tiny acts.


    Battle against the endless hordes of the Southern Tribals sounds preferable to me.


    "Right, where did we leave that travel unit?"


    "I believe the device in question has been claimed by the church," I inform her.  I don''t mention that they have a receipt and the sale is registered in our system.  "I don''t know why they wanted it, though."  None of them can use it.


    She makes a rude noise drops her tablet onto her desk.  Eva stands and steps down from the short platform, then walks around her desk.  I think she intends to go get the travel case herself!


    The look on her face is one of determination.  "If I have to face whatever a Duv is, I''m doing it with you in a state where you can be of use to me," she confesses.  It''s slightly upsetting to know that she values my opinion so highly.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    She exits her office, startling the flock of administrators milling about in the hallways connecting the command center.  Curious office workers cease their murmured conversations to peak covertly at their leader.  Desra runs up to her from the crowd clutching tablets in two of her claws.


    "Good, you can come with me," declares the Ship-Mother without breaking stride.


    The silver furred administrator follows in her wake stammering out half formed apologies and explanations to those left behind.  She might actually be of some help, now that I think of it.  The authorization for the sale bears Desra''s command codes.


    Along with her assistant, two guards join the procession: young Jetan and a more experienced female officer.  During the long walk Eva attempts to explain to Desra.  She gives up explaining when Desra admits to knowledge of the location of the device.


    "We split the money," she explains.  "I used my share to buy a magic loom."


    "They aren''t magic and you know that," Eva says with exasperation.


    "Yeah, but the real name is stupid," admits Desra with a complex shrug.


    She isn''t wrong.  Automated fiber processing and assembly extruder, while accurate enough, takes entirely too long to say.  Hers is a fairly advanced design that can transform raw plant matter into quite fine cloth almost as quickly as she can feed it in.  The range of patterns is limited, but the gadget is capable of some very nice weaves.


    Desra continues her narration.  "Rumor has it that it''s being kept at the casino for now.  There''s supposed to be some kind of gambling tournament tonight.  They''re giving away the relic as part of the prize for winning."  She wrings her lower claws together as she speaks, though whether in excitement at the prospect or dread of how her friend will take it I do not know.


    Eva halts mid-step.  She puts one hand over her face and takes several calming breaths before turning to address the waiting Tserri administrator.


    "Then we''ll win the thing," she declares, lowering her hand.  "Desra, you take one of the skulls and go fetch Mos Denn.  We can run on reserve long enough to get the case back."


    I wait until Desra runs off on her errand.  While the remaining guard is distracted by a mysterious audio failure in his suit I ask, "Are you planning on cheating, Ship-Mother?"


    "No, Mos," she answers with a wry grin.  "I''m depending on help from the spirits.  Just like every gambler prays for."


    Others might not agree with that assessment, but the church just might.  As it''s for my own preservation, I find that I cannot justify arguing her out of this decision.  Besides, I could use more credits.  I estimate that the Red Glow''s Supply-Chief will be noticing the discrepancy in their inventory soon enough and the amount I have currently is but a tiny fraction of the debt.


    "Very well, but I expect to share your winnings If I''m really the one earning the credits."


    She only pretends to think for a moment before agreeing.  She insists on receiving the larger share, however.  Three eighths of the prize money should still be a significant amount.


    "I do have a question, though.  Why did you agree to sell it in the first place?  You were so proud of it when Gelly carried you home in it."


    "Because, as much as I enjoyed the immediacy of having something like a body again," I explain, thinking it out myself.  "I realized that Nuhst gave me all the senses that I needed, if I were just to learn to use them.  That left only communication as the last useful function of the device."


    "Hard to talk without a mouth," agrees the Ship-Mother.  "And?"


    "I''ve been learning the languages of your people and the Tserri as well as smugglers'' code.  Are you familiar with it?"


    She nods.  "After Yosip''s close call, I decided I needed to know it."


    "Agreed.  Therefore, if we needed to present ourselves to the Duv, I could still communicate with you to a functional degree."


    She nods again.  "Having the case would still be safer, but it''s good to know that we don''t have to depend on it."


    "Are we still going to the casino?"


    Eva inhales deeply, then lets it out as a slow sigh.  "Yeah, I think so.  Even if we can do without the case, I still need to put on a good show.  Otherwise the Tserri could riot again if you disappear without preforming some miracle for them."


    I don''t think they would riot, but her argument is not without merit.  The chance to participate in a story that they''ll be telling their children for many long years would make the Tserri much more likely to be charitable.


    These thoughts fill my mind as Desra''s delicate claws remove me from my alcove in the wall.  She holds me up to the lights, examining me closely in private before stuffing me unceremoniously into her belt pouch.  A good idea on her part, I must admit; the station residents are sure to react loudly if they see me away from my post.  That would spoil Eva''s plan.


    With my expanded awareness I can watch despite being inside the small bag.  Once simple fabric would have thwarted my sight, but now I can sense the energy flowing within a radius that encompasses the entire office.


    She carries me out of the room and rejoins her escort.  The two of them hurry to rejoin the Ship-Mother who no doubt is still marching to her target.


    They find her filling out the registration forms for tournament entry, surrounded by curious onlookers.  Eva looks up from the tablet she''s entering information into to smile at Desra before resuming her task.  Once Eva finishes, Desra removes the pouch from her side and exchanges it for Eva''s.


    Eva then carries me into a side room, leaving the others in the main lobby of the casino.  There she is to wait with the other entrants into the tournament.  The small room is crowded with over twenty bodies inside.


    Her entrance causes a stir among them.  Rich tourists and skilled locals alike look upon the Ship-Mother with shocked expressions.  They come from many professions and are here for their own reasons.  It is almost a shame that none of them will be claiming the prize that they all are here for.


    Some of the tourists seem amused, but the locals much less so.  Some of the Tserri make comments about a rigged system while others whisper prayers to themselves.  One Tserri even loudly declares that he won''t compete against her and demands his entry fee back.  The others part to let him out.


    The Ship-Mother quietly takes a seat in the small room.  The others can mutter whatever they like.  Eva maintains the dignity of a ruler waiting to hear her next petitioner, ignoring the many looks she receives.

 Chapter 103: What are Loaded Dice?

    Eva takes her place at one of the many tables set aside for the tournament.  Each table has three seats, one each for the gamblers and the final chair for a casino employee to act as judge.


    Chairs ring the large room, full of spectators.  Among them I spot a female Tserri with a device on her shoulder that looks like one of my dronefeathers but without its concealing plumage.  She directs it with claw taps upon its exposed frame.


    I would like to get a better look at the device but must devote my attention to the game about to be played.  The judge, a young male whose dark brown fur has white spots sprinkled across it, sets three dice down on the table.


    Eva''s opponent, a rich Selber in a synthetic red and orange suit, declines the first throw.  Eva picks up the mechanical dice in one hand and pushes her opening wager into the center of the table.  She waits for her opponent to match the bet then shakes the dice in cupped hands.


    Each of the nine faces cycles randomly between colors at each impact between the dice.  I concentrate upon the network of electrical flow within them, searching for the vital randomizer.  The dice fly free from her open hands before I can find the proper place to interfere.  The dice tumble across the table before coming to a stop.  I am unable to alter the outcome for this throw.


    The dice all point outward, but there is no pattern to the arrangement of colored faces displayed by the dice.


    "Outward, neutral," declares the judge before signaling to the other player.


    The well-dressed male scoops up the dice.  He shakes them the minimum three times before releasing them, looking disinterested the whole time.  His throw is poor, having no result.  I do identify the portion of the circuit that controls the outcome, however.


    Eva starts to reach toward the dice, but the male pushes forward additional funds.  I think he''s buying another turn.  If he wins then he can claim the first round of this match, but Eva does not need to pay.  If he loses, she will earn double from this throw.  A few of those watching jeer him, but he doesn''t react.


    The dice rattle across the table and I reach out.


    I miss and only a spark too small for any watching to see appears beside the moving die.  The judge announces, "Outward, neutral," when they stop.  The judge motions for Eva to take the dice and her winnings.  Behind her a small section of the watchers cheer before the judge hushes them.


    It seems that on a tie the original toss wins.  That or that buying another turn and ending in a draw is seen as weak.  No matter, this is a win for Eva.  Already a third of his funds now sit on her side of the round table.


    More turns pass as I continue fumbling my attempts to help.  At most I manage a glittering static field around the dice one time that lands on a winning throw of its own accord.  The one time I do manage to alter the faces, I cause her to lose half her credit chits.


    The crowd grows more invested as luck graces the Ship-Mother with surprise wins that keep her in the game for longer than many of the other pairs around them.  Losers walk off to join the audience while winners return to the waiting room for the next round.


    Soon she and the well-dressed gambler are among the last five pairs.  Only three credit chits sit outside of Eva''s control.  She places her chits into the middle and the other gambler slides his three over.  He picks up the dice and I concentrate upon them.  He releases them with a lazy flick of his wrist.


    I track the currents passing through the devices and draw them down the paths I want.  They tumble to a stop.  No array.  Success!


    Eva scoops up the dice.  Any matching facing pair or a good alignment will win her the match.  I cannot change how the dice land but the final bounce is finally within my power to decide.


    She tosses the electronic dice then puts her hand upon the pouch containing me.  I fear that others may notice the motion but concentrate upon my task.  With the final impact of the dice, I set them all to the same pair of colors.  No matter how they land it should be better than a valueless attempt.


    They stop in a rough line.  All three point in the same direction, toward the judge.  The center die displays colors that match exactly those beside it.  Each is red on Eva''s side and blue on her opponent''s end of the table.


    "That''s a rare toss," the judge says, forgetting his professionalism.  He snorts once, then declares, "Blessed alignment."


    The crowd rises to their feet but respectfully keep the noise to a low rumble.  Eva passes to the next round.  The judge escorts her to the waiting room.


    She has time enough to drink from a provided bottle and check her reflection.  Then the officials arrange them at new tables.


    The second round passes much less eventfully than the first.  The third as well.  Whenever the opposite gambler extends all their assets I reach out and force luck to wait its turn.  It does not always result in a winning throw, but often enough that the Ship-Mother advances to the final round.


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    On many occasions, she reaches down, touching me through her pouch with her hand.  Often enough that the officials do indeed notice.  Less judges are need for each round and they form groups around each table that grow thicker each round.  Eva''s matches attract the most officials.  Their eyes follow her hands when she touches me.


    She waits for the last round with her opponent, a small male Tserri wearing a grease-stained pair of green overalls over his dark brown fur.  Upon his head is a hat with a wide brim and lengths of orange ribbon tied around it.  It is during these moments that a pair of Tserri in casino uniforms approach the Ship-Mother.


    "Ma''am, we need you to leave your pouch in here during your match."


    "Alright, sure," she replies confidently.  She takes it off and hands it to one of them.


    He takes it in his lower claws.  "Do you mind if we look inside?"


    She nods and he pulls open the flap.  Inside with me are the contents of Desra''s pouch.  The officials see me nestling against a blue brush with silver fur stuck in the bristles and a claw file.  One picks up the brush, then looks at Eva''s dark crest before moving to put it back.  Its removal reveals a small device.


    The other official stops the one holding the brush and pulls a data tablet out of the pouch.  A quick search reveals that it holds only episodes of tri-vee programs.


    "There''s no way that''s the real thing," the one holding the pouch exclaims.  He points at me with a free claw.


    Eva shakes her head.  "No, just a replica I had a friend carve for good luck."


    "Yeah, Harv" his partner jokes, "the lights are still on."


    "Still," the first says with a sigh.  "We''ve had complaints."


    "No, I understand," she says hurriedly.  "Can''t make exceptions just because I''m in charge."


    The Tserri laugh along with the Ship-Mother, but they place the pouch holding me down on an empty seat.


    "Alright, this way," announces Harv as he leads her out to face the Tserri in the green overalls.


    From my place in the waiting room I can only barely make out what is happening.  The crowd, now focusing upon only one pair, are able to cheer freely.  That noise reaches me easily, but any conversation drowns beneath it.


    With intense effort I peer further.  At the very edge of my ability, I sense the three dice.  They are in a pair of cold claws that warm as they near the thick pads and the furry limb.  The stored electrical and magnetic patterns of a large pile of chits sits between them.  Nothing remains in front of either gambler.


    I know not who''s turn it is, but that this throw is important is clear.  With all my will I reach out to override the randomizer.  The dice land upon the table and roll to a stop.  I cannot stop them from landing in an inward pointing circle, but I manage to make their colors meaningless.


    Whatever the judge declares is lost beneath the crowd as it roars.  The very room rumbles and I can feel the vibrations from inside the waiting room.  Then, with a shocking suddenness the crowd falls silent.  Eva picks up the dice.


    Eva sits just outside my influence.  I strain, trying to reach the dice in her hand.


    Pain fills my mind, clouding my exotic senses.  I feel warmth encompass my physical form.  It isn''t important, the heat is nice.  It helps to soothe the mental strain that swirls through my mind disrupting my thoughts.


    The dice move in and out of my control, disrupting my efforts.  The heat grows into a mild discomfort that no longer helps but further distracts.  I concentrate harder and some of the blurring of my thoughts relents.  I almost lose track of the devices as they move.


    I reach out, stretching my will to its limit as the dice leave her hands.  A roar so loud it sounds like it comes from inside the waiting room as well rises up.  Two of the dice only do I manage to change.  The third dice lands too far away and the pain and heat are too much.


    The roar reaches a climax, but I am too distracted by the raging heat that consumes me to notice the outcome of the final throw.  Thermal energies dance around me, beyond my control.  Flames consume the pouch and its contents before automated systems manage to respond.


    White smothering froth sprays from a vent in the ceiling.  Every surface becomes slick with the flame suffocating foam.  Yet the heat remains.  Foam boils off of me in thick clouds of steam.  Some of the heat lessens but not enough.


    My tired mind reaches out with weakened resolve and is repulsed by the intense heat.  Almost I choose to let the heat win, but I force myself to try again to conquer the chaotic thermal aura around me.


    Eva rushes in, seeking the source of an alarm I only register as background noise in my struggle.  Behind her, others push to get inside.  With a final effort I force the thermal energy into a lower dimension.  My physical self glows brightly as a side effect of the exchange before I notice and alter the frequency to an invisible form.


    The Ship-Mother reaches me first and picks up the charred remains of Desra''s pouch.  She wraps the blackened fabric around me as best she can while hiding me from view with her body.  The wet foam soaking it helps the remains of the pouch cling to my form, though some patches of orange shine through holes in the dark cloth.


    "Sorry people," Eva declares loudly.  "Looks like a battery malfunction in my tablet."


    She holds up the burnt device to demonstrate.  The battery pack is blacker than the rest of the device, lending credence to her words.  Every eye in the room stares at her.  There is some muttering, but no one speaks up.


    "Where do I claim my prize?  I''m in a bit of a hurry," she says as she looks around for another exit.


    The pain consuming my mind refuses to release me from its jaws.  Although I can recognize the voices and sights around me, it is as if they are very far away.  My last thought directs a sloppy radio broadcast out from my body.  Darkness closes over me for a time I cannot guess.


    When I recover my senses, I am once more inside a pouch, though this one contains the Ship-Mother''s personal belongings.


    "As you can see, the Great Spirit remains in place," Eva declares.


    I concentrate to banish the residual ache I feel and take in the sights in the room around me.


    The Ship-Mother sits surrounded by Tserri in casino uniforms.  All face a screen showing the inside of her office.  The focus zooms in upon an orange sphere jutting from an open socket in the wall.  Gauntleted hands reach into view and shut the panel, hiding the crystal power core from sight.  The display turns black and the screen powers down.


    I owe Bucket a great debt for their assistance.  Remembering radio this time is quite an achievement, yet now I have a new worry.  If I attempt to reach beyond my limits again, will worse happen?

 Bruens Story 21: Whats Maximum Security?

    A gentle breeze blows through the field outside their temporary home carrying the scents of field and sea.  Flowers sway in rows at the edges of the well-kept yard.  Brightly colored flitters dance between blossoms.


    Moving through the physical forms helps to alleviate the long wait.  That Yosip decides to join him in the exercise adds a bit of levity to his days.  The stiff, mechanical limbs are unable to properly mimic Bruen''s fluid movements, but the essence of the technique is looseness, and that Yosip is able to express to some measure.


    They move through the third rotation of this set when Bruen spots a pair of Pel approaching the detention grounds.  He leads Yosip through to the end of the slow-motion attack form.  The alien is showing decent progress in translating the technique to his own ungainly form.  He needs much more practice, but the pathway is now open for him to follow.


    Grime and dust from the workout clings to the pair.  Yosip, using a control rune hidden on the reverse side of a structural plate, activates a cleansing array.  Thick mist rises up from the sand and swirls around them.  They shake dirty droplets from their bodies.


    Another array stirs a warm, dry wind to remove excess moisture.  As an added effect, they''re left smelling like astringent chemicals.  They are clean and ready to present themselves by the time their jailors reach them.


    "I ought to thank them," remarks Yosip.  "This''s been more relaxing than my last vacation."


    The alien chuckles to himself, but quiets when the Pel come within hearing distance down the path.


    One of the Pel wears the uniform of his caste.  Charcoal colored zelsilk held in place by soft beige leather that emphasizes the pink splotches scattered across his head and body.  The other dresses in full riot harness.  Rune studded leather straps with gas cartridges, flash bangs, small explosives, and other peace keeping tools drape his outer uniform.  An attached mask hides the enforcer''s face.


    The harnesses each have a specific runic sequence, Bruen knows.  Anyone not charged with the same sequence will find themselves unable to remove anything safely from them.  He hopes his alien companion does not succumb to the temptation.


    "Please follow us," the uniformed Pel states.  Without waiting for acknowledgement, the enforcers turn and glide back down the path.


    Bruen follows without hesitation, already familiar with the etiquette.  Yosip is not but catches up quickly, an aggressive scowl across his gray face.


    The Duv estate is far grander than the one Bruen owns.  Larger, farther from the city, more open, and vastly more impressive.  Defensive arrays built into the stone architecture allow its owner a degree of safety unmatched by an equally sized fortress.


    They pass tall trees with long shrouds of hanging moss that act as privacy walls for the open air estate.  Flowers of every color greet them with fanciful patterns and pleasing scents.  Servants of various castes scurry from place to place, careful to avoid coming too close to the prisoners or their escorts.  Statues and artwork, idols stolen from hundreds of worlds, the wealth of an empire without borders decorates paved sections under the protection of preservative arrays.


    The Pel lead them to a yard of fine gravel.  The polished black rocks absorb the gentle warmth from above and release it into Bruen''s tentacles.  The sensation is comforting in a way that makes Bruen nervous.  The best meat comes from a happy beast, after all.  Why else would Bruen and his companion be treated so well if not because the Duv seeks to gain from the encounter?


    In the center of the expanse of expensive ebon stones Bruen sees a pavilion of white zelsilk.  A Pel in full harness stands beside a familiar face.  Mos Gol clutches a spear in her lower tendrils on the other side of the entrance flap from the enforcer.


    "Greetings, Mos Bruen," she says politely.  "Still keeping strange companions, I see.  This one is much more handsome than the last, at least."


    Yosip''s face darkens at the elder''s words.  To prevent an unseemly display, Bruen casually lays one upper tendril upon the alien''s prosthetic arm before he can raise it threateningly.


    "He reminds me of you, Mos Gol," returns the younger general.


    Hearing the name of the elder before them, the skin around the glass and metal implants in the creature''s face stretch tight.  Is this another aggression display, like when he points at that which he will destroy next?  No, Bruen decides.  Yosip''s breathing takes on a more casual rhythm.  The display is likely one of respect to an honored stranger.


    As large as he remembers her, the elder lifts her lower tendrils in a display of mock defense to cover her composite plate armored carapace.  "Then he must be the smarter of the two of you," she muses, lowering them.  Her voice wheezes slightly more than Bruen remembers.  "Unless he''s another of your tutors?"


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    "Just the opposite," interrupts Yosip.  "Old Bruen here''s been teaching me his fancy moves.  Nothing better to do, anyway," he finishes, raising his servo powered shoulders in a display of strength and unsuspected mobility.


    Her gesture of defense is without ulterior intent this time, though she otherwise remains in a relaxed posture.  "We''ve left them waiting long enough, I think," states Gol.  An edge of fear or respect colors her movements as she shifts aside.  "Go on inside, Bruen."


    The Pel likewise moves to allow Yosip to pass freely, pulling aside the flap in his upper tendrils.  Inside is a single member of Yosip''s odd race.  The female is noticeably smaller than he and completely without implants or prosthetics.  The command uniform she wears does not match the oversized pack she bears upon her back.


    "Greetings, Ship-Mother Eva Chel," Bruen says politely.


    "They got you, too?"  Yosip crosses his arms over his chest.  The reinforced alloy would make a fine defense, but it seems unwarranted to Bruen.  "Figures."


    "Hello, Yosip, Mos Bruen," replies the fragile seeming officer with a smile.  "When do we meet the Duv?"


    "Not until they''re ready for us," an artfully synthesized voice says from behind her.  Bruen looks but sees no others in the pavilion.


    "Greetings, Mos Denn," intones Bruen carefully.


    "And to you, Mos Bruen, Don Yosip."


    The highly augmented Don snorts in response.  As eloquent a greeting as any, reflects Bruen.


    "To answer your question," explains Bruen, "we should expect to be left waiting for some time yet."


    "Yes," agrees the artificial voice.  "The Duv is probably waiting for his Pel to tell him whether we''re a threat or not.  Then they''ll arrive, once they feel they''re safe."


    "I haven''t seen the inquisition squad," Bruen comments.  "They must be somewhere.  It would be foolish to leave us completely unguarded."


    "They''re nearby," declares the Ship-Mother.  "Denn was describing their condition to me."  Her eyes dart up quickly before returning to looking at Yosip before she shakes her head.


    Yosip nods, eyes aiming over the other''s shoulder.


    Seeing all of this, Bruen pays more attention to the device.  It is an ugly thing, and ungainly.  A red light flashes upon it in an irregular pattern.  Prongs and antennae rise from the top of it as well as at least three camera lenses that Bruen can see from this angle.  Each visible surface of the device also appears to function as a door or hinge.  Only a few basic runes are visible on the contraption.


    This mechanical pack exists only to allow Mos Denn to communicate with those within its range, supposedly.  Knowing the one who raised him, Bruen suspects hidden functionality but cannot hazard a guess as to what form it could take.  Defenses, surely, or it would not need to be so large.


    His prosthetic eye can only see a searing orange light shining from within the device.  He knows this to be Denn''s monstrous form.


    "I saw your corpse," blurts Bruen.  He pulls all his tendrils close to himself, aghast at his own words.


    Both of the gray aliens turn to stare at him.  Yosip''s jaw hangs open.


    The silence stretches on and causes Bruen to squirm in discomfort and twist his tendrils.  The shame is intense.


    "Bruen, listen," Eva begins in a whisper, stretching her short arms out to him, but a soft artificial voice speaks over her.


    "I''m sorry for leaving you like that.  You could have been blamed for the murder.  But I could do nothing."


    The voice sounds bitter, tired despite being fully synthetic.  Different than any time he can recall.  Always proud, sometimes angry but never apologetic.  Mos Denn might offer words of reconciliation.  He can even admit fault.  But this?


    In the many years of service to him, Bruen knows no time when Mos Denn would apologize so sincerely for something he did not do.  The experience is shocking.


    "Sir, I-" Bruen finds himself halting.  A pheromone rich scent hits the sensitive tissues of his upper tendrils.


    Bruen lowers himself onto the smooth, black pebbles.  Whether following his example or for their own reasons, the two aliens also lower themselves into prone positions.  All movement ceases within the wide pavilion except for the rapid opening and closing of the smaller alien''s eyes.  Bruen worries briefly that there might be some irritant wafting around, but those worries quickly sink beneath a sea of worshipful awe.


    White zelsilk curtains flutter on the opposite side of the obvious entrance.  A large, white form enters.  Colorless tentacles stand out starkly against the black ground, slithering forward to support the massive albino bulk of the Duv.  He towers twice the height of Bruen and glistens majestically.


    Bright, glorious blue eyes gaze across the pavilion.  Bruen quivers under the weight of the Duv''s presence.  Breathing becomes difficult.


    The cloth walls of the tall tent, white as clean salt, white as the Duv before him, swirl in his mind to become part of the commanding creature.  Bruen waits in silence for the Duv to settle himself.  Pebbles clatter softly under the enormous weight.


    "Tell me of these creatures," commands the Duv.


    "The Selber are a merchant race," declares Bruen eagerly.  "They battle among themselves for the right to trade with different worlds and against others to defend the worlds they choose to settle.  We would be strengthened if we engage in cooperative partnership with the Selberfeld Imperium."


    Colorless mouth parts grind against each other.  "And do you two agree with his assessment of your race?"


    "Piss off," declares Yosip.


    Bruen and the other alien both strike him on reflex.  Neither hit seems to bother him overmuch.  The heavy aroma filling the pavilion makes it increasingly hard for Bruen to think.


    The Duv gestures with one massive tendril for the smaller alien to speak.


    "We''re explorers and scientists," she declares.  "As well as merchants and warriors.  But I think that both our peoples could gain a lot from working together.  Yeah."


    "And what is your opinion on the artifact you bear on your back?"  The thunderous voice of the Duv causes the two aliens'' tall crests of dark hair to wave as he utters his question.


    "He," she emphasizes the word, "is a valuable member of my staff."  She stands up tall and looks up at the Duv before she declares, "And I''m not letting you take him from me."


    Yosip moves to stand beside her, a fierce scowl upon his face.


    "Stand, Mos," snaps the Duv.  "Defend me."


    Bruen leaps upright and slides in front of the Duv, facing the two aliens.


    "What would you do to stop me?  If I ordered this Mos to take it from you?"


    The gray beings tense before him, Bruen readies himself for whatever the Duv commands next.

 Chapter 104: Whats Suppressing Fire?

    My confusion increases as my Bruen leaps between the white giant and the two officers, for he raises his tendrils threateningly at us.  Would Bruen really strike down Yosip and Eva at this monster''s command?


    This thing is no Duv!


    Its waxy, blotch-marred carapace is full of yellow scar tissue.  Blue pulses visibly beneath the thin and flaky chitin.  As it moves it cracks and leaves white dust drifting to the ground.  Cloudy eyes peer blindly as it grasps about with facial feelers to pull scents from the surroundings.  The voice that should be commanding and impressive is a raspy slur and barely comprehendible.  Only my translation programs allow me to understand it at all.


    The imposter moves sluggishly, dragging its sagging bulk upon trembling tentacles.  It quivers, not in rage but from impotence.  I do not think it could hurt the gray officers protecting me if they were to stand still and let it.  My Bruen is another matter.


    Rumors are that Yosip and he are evenly matched.  From all accounts their spars always end inconclusively.  This, I am sure, is only because Mos Bruen does not wish to utterly destroy Yosip.  In order to care for and protect my dying body, Bruen of course must be able to be delicate or whip fast as needed.


    Normally he would move with control and grace.  Right now, he moves with killing intent.


    Though, to be fair to Yosip I must also assume that he never seriously fought either.  It would be poor manners to kill your employer in a training match, after all.  If he were to dedicate himself to the task, he might be able to escape but I still do not believe he could win.  Even if he did not have to protect Eva and myself, I would favor Bruen in a duel between them.


    The monster must be releasing the contagion my sensors inform me of.  The readings increase the longer we spend with the foul abomination.  The indicators flashing on Yosip''s wrist no doubt tell him the same thing.  We do not have long before the gray officers are also infected, overcome by the airborne pathogen.


    I do not know whether Eva Chel is a capable fighter, but she does not give me the impression she will be of much use if things progress.  This is not a challenge that she can delegate or solve through negotiation.  Bruen would rip her apart effortlessly.


    "That won''t be necessary," I announce loudly enough for those outside the pavilion to hear.  The attention of everyone in the tent moves to me.  I try to stall for time while I open the main hatch on my travel case and prepare to activate the eject feature.  "If you will release the aliens safely, I will surrender."


    "Quiet, rock," Yosip grunts.  He readies himself to act, regardless.  "I don''t want to do this, Bruen!  Calm down."


    "Give it to me," hisses the grotesque thing pretending to be a member of the ruling caste.  Feeble tendrils crack and bleed as it gestures at my protective case.  "Now!"


    Bruen rocks forward at the thing''s words.  Yosip steps toward him as well, both hands curling into heavy metal fists.


    To forestall a confrontation between two whom I would be loath to lose, I activate the ejection function.  Tiny mechanisms push me out of the case.  My spherical form hurtles through the air.  The bleary eyes of the giant follow my movement.


    Don Yosip blocks my Bruen''s attempt to catch me.  It is the delicate hands of the Ship-Mother that close around me, preventing me from shattering against the uncaring stones below.


    I flash brightly, warning my protectors in smuggler''s code.  They draw deeply of the tainted air and close their eyes tightly.  I''m glad that they respond so.


    The thermal energy I release from me manifests as waves of scorching air.  The hidden arrays preform their duty admirably, absorbing the heat as fast as I can create it.  I do not relent, and a shell of blistering air begins to form around me.  Eva falls to her knees.  She drops me, scorched fingers unable to maintain her grip.  I land with a tinkle on the smooth stones.


    I release another blast of thermal energy.  Hot winds blow as the air immediately around me heats and expands.  The atmosphere within the pavilion becomes stifling, but I increase my output yet more.  I can feel the runic defenses straining to function, overloading under the assault.


    The taint is still corrupting my Bruen.  His mind is not his own.  I have to overpower the runes stifling my attempts!


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    Eva''s uniform, already black, shows little sign of the charring that it undergoes.  Only the thin wisps of dark smoke give away its weakening state.  Yosip leaps over and covers her body with his.  His artificial limbs can more easily survive the rising temperatures than soft flesh.


    Yosip''s zelsilk vest is first to ignite.  More flammable than the artificial fibers of the Imperium uniforms, his traditional garments smolder.  Red embers spread across his body.  Yosip rips the smoldering fabric from his gray form and dashes it to the ground.  Runes glowing on his arms and legs protect his body from the worst of the scorching winds.


    Still, it is not enough.


    The very air shimmers from the extreme heat I produce.  Energy courses through me until it begins to ache.  Just a little more.  A distant energy pattern cracks and flickers.  The protective arrays fail around us.  A flash of orange-blue flame roars through the pavilion, licking at the hanging drapes of cloth.  Finally.


    I halt my efforts, but not before I feel something within my physical form crack.  Strangely, it doesn''t hurt as much as I might expect.


    Yosip and Eva both slap at their alien forms, attempting to extinguish the tiny flames that spring from their clothing and crests.  Bruen, his own uniform falling around him in charred tatters, reels.  I may have injured his lung, but that can be healed.  He collapses, smoke escaping from his mouthparts.


    Behind him the white monstrosity screams in rage.  Its dry and dying form now bears a sooty film.  My heat takes the protective mucus layer and renders it inert on the monster as effectively as upon my Bruen.


    I regret having to hurt him but can think of no better way to have protected myself and my companions.  My Bruen will understand, once he recovers.


    More concerning by far are the energy signatures closing in upon us.  At least one of those coming is a Svost.  The structure of their alterations marks them among the Jurers and Somners that quickly surround us.


    "Give me options, Denn," commands Eva.  There might be more to her order, but it is lost in a fit of coughing.  She spits out a mouthful of sooty phlegm.


    Thinking as quickly as a I can, I can come up with only one possible way to survive this.  "Get close to the albino.  The dust eaters will not risk harming it," I flash in code.


    Before I finish my instructions to them, Yosip leaps into action.  Dark drool runs down his chrome chin, but his face is set in serious lines.  He grabs Eva''s free hand and pulls her bodily toward the stinking heap of chitin.  The two aliens collapse next to the monstrosity.


    Bruen''s tendrils twitch, spasming in automatic reaction to the extreme temperature changes.  One lower tendril strikes Yosip''s mechanical leg, leaving a smear of charred mucus upon the metal.


    The gray officer looks at the scorched general, worry plain upon his face, before hauling himself once more to his feet.  He reaches one artificial hand down to the Ship-Mother.  She takes it with a small nod before he lifts her upright as well.  Of all three of them, her garments fare the best; only large sections of her uniform are blackened or missing.


    Yosip wipes his jaw with his free hand but only spreads the stain.  "Alright, now what?"  A flake of ash, caught in the whirling wind, impacts his jaw and bursts into drifting powder.


    "The most dangerous one will be in blue.  Leave that one to me.  Yosip, keep the Ship-Mother safe."


    The cloth walls melt and fall to the dark ground around us.  Controlling the acidity of their mucus is a common mutation among Jurers and it is they that open the way for their fellows.  Fifteen total thaumatists take places around the perimeter of the collapsing pavilion.


    "If you beasts attempt to further harm our leader," threatens one of the dust eaters, "we''ll be forced to destroy you."


    The writhing beast, monstrous in its form that mocks the glory of a Duv, twists its body and crushes the robed figure.  It seems the creature is not as defenseless as it looks.  All the more reason to keep it clear of my companions and to free Bruen as quickly I can.  The spreading blue stain flows over the rocks and drips from the bloated caricature.  Shards of shattered carapace, thick with organic nodules and wires, float in the puddle forming around the crushed robes.


    I may be mistaken, but I believe it yells, "Do not touch it!  It is mine!"


    Fourteen robed bodies prostrate themselves before this imitation, this mockery.  They act as if this horror is of the ruling caste, quaking in their concealing robes.  Even the Svost lowers to the ground, looking like nothing so much as another spreading puddle of death.


    Bruen, tendrils taut with restrained rage, rises slowly from the dark gravel.  Runes engraved into his carapace and sealed in lacquer prevent much of the harm that should have been done to his body.  Ashes cover his body, stifling the light of some arrays.


    "I do not wish to spar again," Bruen mumbles in a daze.  He rubs at his face with his upper tendrils.  "Go play with Yosip."


    One green robed dust eater rises first and saunters past the others.  Drab robes swish across the black gravel.  The structures inside this one form a familiar, almost orderly arrangement.  Is this Somner Zek?


    "Mine," whines the trembling giant.


    Zek throws back her hood, revealing her identity.  "Don Yosip, would you please escort the Ship-Mother back to her home?  We''ve matters of great urgency to deal with," she states pleasantly.  Her tendrils remain within the enveloping folds of her robes; their shifting can be seen as they press against the thick fabric.


    "Sorry, Zek," grunts Yosip.  "I''m not gonna let Denn or Bruen be punished for something outside their control."


    Beside him, Eva glares at Zek.  Her features are set in grim lines though her eyes twinkle with amusement.  "Not so fast.  Now that we''re past the bluster and act fierce portion of the meeting, it''s time to begin the actual negotiations."

 Chapter 105: Whats Haggling?

    The dust eaters allow us to rest while the creature they insist is Duv is led out.  If follows like a spoiled pet, lashing out with powerless strikes of its tendrils.  Its handlers, or retinue, tolerate the outbursts with gentle chiding.  Thankfully they leave Mos Bruen with us.


    Some lucky, low-ranking Pel gain the right to carry in a table as well as two chairs suitable for the alien physiques of Eva and Yosip.  Bruen and the others are comfortable digging themselves shallow grooves within which they might relax.  Only one thaumatist remains behind, her green robes swirling about her as she sways around the clearing.  The casteless servants clearing away the wreckage of the pavilion pay her little mind.


    I would feel honored to have such lavish attentions paid me, were I not being offered up for sale like some prize grelld.  I would expect no less from Mos Bruen; to act in service to the Empire is the greatest calling of our kind.  But for Eva Chel and Don Yosip to so easily give me up is disturbing.


    They do take the time to return me to my travel case.  It is during the installation that a person I barely recognize draws near.


    "Young Gol, is that you?"


    "Pah!  None call me that, Old One," she remarks after coming to a halt at the table.  "Not for many seasons now."


    "It has not been so long," I say before realizing that it has indeed been many years.  "But you look well.  The plating suits you."


    "You here to negotiate?"  Eva glances sharply at the much larger female.  Mos Gol makes even hulking Bruen look small.  Beside the plated elder, Eva looks like she should still be dripping with the brine of her spawning pool.  "Or just flirt with my employee?"


    Yosip laughs loudly from his place at the table, nearly upsetting his chair.  The look he gives me promises future trouble.


    "Flirt?"  Bruen twists his tendrils together.  "This word does not translate."


    "Don''t worry ''bout it, kid," mutters Yosip.  He struggles visibly to keep a smirk from his face, succeeding only in looking slightly uncomfortable.  "I''ll have Han explain it when you''re older."


    "Right," announces the Ship-Mother, retaking control of the conversation.  "Let''s clear the gau shit.  We aren''t here so Denn can be punished, are we?"


    Mos Gol stiffens noticeably at the slight to myself.  When I do not speak up insisting on proper address, Mos Gol twitches her pedipalps.  I believe she might be amused.  Her plating makes it difficult to guess.


    "That was but an excuse," admits Gol with some relief.  "There has been talk of putting Mos Denn back into an active role.  What this entails, I do not know.  Only that the d-", Somner Zek''s robes rustle loudly, causing Gol to hesitate slightly.  "The thaumatists are very interested in seeing your capabilities," she finishes, directing the last remark at me.


    "Especially after your most recent feat," adds Zek.


    Turning to look at my case, which sits on the pebbles between her and Yosip, she focuses on the camera facing her.  I think she''s asking me something, but the question evades my grasp.  Yosip seems to understand her meaning, however.


    "We need him," he states bluntly.  "But beyond that, I can tell you from experience that trying to study him won''t get you anything."


    "And knowing that," resumes Eva, "we''re willing to offer you the option of observing him while he functions, at Kalibern."


    The two of them are silent for some time, watching the faces of Gol and Zek for some reaction.  I focus my front facing camera lower, watching the females communicate silently with minute twitches of their tendrils.  A single brief flash of my indicator light draws Yosip''s attention.  Quickly spelling out an abbreviated version of the supposedly secret communication brings a grin to his face.


    Bruen sits silently at the table, idly toying with a blood smeared pebble.  A pair of young soldiers clean him of the dark residue of our brief contest with damp rags.  He barely seems to notice them.  Nor does he respond at all when Mos Gol silently asks his opinion through sign.  He perks up when Yosip calls his name.


    "Mos Bruen, you still awake?"


    He raises his lower tendrils briefly rather than answer verbally.  Bruen still requires another treatment session later.


    Yosip draws attention to Bruen in an obvious display of his side''s position of strength.  Mos Gol acknowledges his unspoken threat by praising Bruen.


    "Mos Bruen is here to continue his training.  Learning the negotiation tactics of your people will prove valuable if he lives long enough to teach others."  She shifts her weight slightly.  Her armor plating scrapes softly against the small stones.  "So, forgive him if he remains silent."


    "What kind of access do you refer to, Ship-Mother?"  Zek leans forward.  The light from above glints off of the vials strapped to her bandoleer.  Another softly hinted at threat?  "How many, for what number of days?"


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    A predatory leer replaces the normally polite smile on Eva''s face.  "How about three.  One from each caste.  Place them under my command for the duration of their stay.  For as long as we maintain this agreement."  She crosses her arms and leans back.  "They should have plenty of time to make observations that they can send back to you."


    "Four," counters Gol.  "Two Jurer and two Somner.  Svost are too valuable to give to aliens."  Not to mention the danger they represent.  "As well as four servants each.  Additionally, we would like to purchase permanent quarters for those assigned to your city."


    "Station," corrects Yosip.


    "Twenty is too many," argues Eva, ignoring Yosip.  "Three servants each.  If I receive reports of any mistreatment then we end the agreement.  Housing is already sparse enough as is, but if you''ll share whatever insights you gain with us," she trails off, uncrossing her arms and shrugging.


    I do not know if I like this compromise that she proposes.  So far, each side looks to gain from the exchange.  The only true loser in this situation is myself; if things progress, I will be under much closer scrutiny.


    "We''ve also got some questions," adds Yosip.  "Like why the rock says that wasn''t a Duv."


    All three of them rise from their seated positions, but it is Mos Gol who speaks.  "It is only your foreign nature which causes me to forgive your insult.  Denn, do not utter such falsehoods in my presence.  I had thought more highly of you than to speak such lies."


    When Gol presents her honest conviction, I start to doubt myself.  Could I be mistaken in this?


    "He''s wrong about a lot of things," offers Eva, "but he ought to know whether he''s in the presence of his leaders or not.  Right?  If he''s wrong, could you give an explanation for why he wouldn''t recognize a Duv?"


    Zek answers, "It might be for the same reason that we may not record the voice or form of our leaders.  No two can agree on the precise details."


    "Wars have been fought over misrepresentations of them," adds Mos Gol quietly.


    Yes.  I remember leading extermination missions against hold out cities.  No doubt these type of mission are what she refers to.  Very few of those cities remain, after the wars of unification.  I look again at the images stored in my case''s memory banks and recognition begins to grow.  The pictures resemble heretical works sometimes hidden away in secret places by hold outs.


    Yosip and Eva exchange looks.  They seem confused or perhaps disbelieving.  Better that I not mention my discovery for now.


    Eva returns her attention to the representatives of the Spanless Empire.  Mos Gol, observing the attention, seats herself heavily.  Bruen and Zek sink back down as well.


    Eva nods.  "Alright.  And the accusations against Br-, Mos Bruen and Don Yosip," the side of her mouth twitches but she keeps her voice steady.  "Dropped, yes?"


    "Yes," confirms Mos Gol.


    "Wonderful," Eva continues, polite smile already back in place.  "Now, let''s talk about living expenses."


    The rest of the meeting involves the boring details of running a small independent neighborhood within the larger settlement.  Food, water, air, and living space will all need to come from somewhere.  It is recompense for the use of these that Eva seeks.  She receives it in the form of favorable trade deals.  Gol manages to include a group of three Sha among the list of residents by conceding to Eva''s requests for additional discounts on imports.


    When the meeting breaks up, it is Bruen who picks up my case.  Gol, after a brief exchange with him, returns to her own duties.  The others follow Zek through the compound.  Bruen trails behind the group before eventually halting, promising to meet them at the portal.


    Eva and Yosip agree to wait for us there.  Bruen then finds a quiet garden in which we may speak privately.  He sets down my case upon the trimmed yard and reclines against an artful rock formation.


    He looks uncertain of what he wishes to say.  His tendrils twist, revealing his agitation.


    "Whatever you wish to say, please do so.  I will do my best to answer, if you have questions of me."


    Somewhat relieved, he relaxes his tendrils.  When he speaks, his voice rattles painfully.  "Yes.  Thank you.  I do have questions."


    Yet he does not ask them.  He looks at me, mouthparts moving silently.  In order that he might seek proper healing, I attempt to hurry the conversation along.


    "Well?"


    "Sorry.  I have much to think about.  You have seen the spawning pool in Sba City?"


    "Yes."  A small pool, I remember.  Its purpose remains mysterious to me.  The aviaformes build nests when they wish for young.


    "It is now full of my spawn."


    "This is good.  Soon there will be more generals to serve the Empire."


    "Yes.  Though not all will be going to the academies."


    What nonsense is this?  "Do they think to separate out some of your brood, to return the least worthy to the casteless masses?"  Were I still capable of it, I would be chewing salt right now.


    He winces back from the harshness of my response.  "No.  That is not the problem.  I am to select one of the young to train.  As you trained me."


    I do not answer right away, so he hurries to explain.


    "It goes against our people''s traditions, I know.  I also do not think myself equal to the task.  If you could aid me in this, when the time comes, I will owe you a great debt."


    "Very well."  There exists already a debt between us, though to which of us it is owed cannot be stated with any clarity.  "Though I find it insulting that you believe I had denied you proper training."  Truly, he knows as much as I about his own training.


    He bobs in a quick apology.  "I misspoke.  What I mean is that I would be grateful for any ruminations you may have reached that you have yet to share with me.  Surely your time among the aliens has given you fresh insight."


    "Ah.  This I can do.  Pick me up and let us catch up with the others.  You already know that I selected you out of the brood because of your size."  He grasps my travel case in his strong lower tendrils, just as he had once done my failing body, and lifts me with ease.  "Your keen intellect was harder to identify, but that you survived at all from such a spawning marked you as worthy."


    He pauses, obstensibly to place my travel case upon his back.  I cause the device to clasp onto his sturdy exoskeleton.


    "This spawning also differs from the standard," he says while adjusting his uniform.  "The pool is very small, and filled with only spawn from a single female and myself."


    Bruen slides across the pathway with balance that would be comforting to a body wracked with infirmities.  I no longer require such delicate treatment, yet I appreciate it more now than ever.


    "That is unusual.  It means they wished to control the outcome, rather than leaving it to chance.  Do you know her name?  Tell me later, if you do."  He clacks an acknowledgment with his pedipalps, so I continue to prattle on while he carries me.  He clicks and clacks at appropriate times as I tell him tales of the various youths aboard the station.

 Gellys Story 15: Whats a Dermatologist?

    Beside him, one of the assault team levels his heavy beam rifle.  A soft click and energy pours out of the focusing prism and burns into the blast cover.


    Metal glows red as it heats.  Bubbles form and pop leaving black slag dripping from the bright alloy.  The officer keeps up the attack until the mechanisms hidden behind the protective armor collapses under the unrelenting heat.  The weapon whines even after being deactivated; built in cooling coils readying the device for future use.


    Gelly kicks the door.  It shakes in its mooring from the impact.  Molten slag splashes against his armor and runs off in quickly cooling beads.  He kicks again and the door collapses inward.


    Laser beams singe the air before the door stops swinging.  One strikes Gelly''s visor, blinding him before the runic arrays can safely divert the force of the blast.  He stumbles backward and another officer runs past him, yelling a war cry.  The words are lost in the general chaos.  Voices shout in anger and pain all around him.


    Back against the wall, beside the opening, Gelly blinks rapidly.  Armored bodies push past him.  His eyes water, tears running down his scarred face.  As soon as he can make out more than fuzzy shapes he turns and lifts his rifle.


    He bursts into the room, one of the last to enter.  Around him bodies sprawl across the deck, dark smoke rising from the fallen.  Not all are corpses, some writhe in pain that their fellows can no longer feel.  Taking quick aim, Gelly releases a blast of charged shrapnel.  The blast tears a blue and white uniformed body to shreds.  Blood splatters against the already sticky walls.


    It doesn''t take long to subdue the last few survivors.  Gelly moves through the aftermath of the battle, checking the downed fighters for signs of life.  Most of Dunc''s loyal crew, better armed and wearing the current pinnacle of armors, survive.  Far fewer Navy loyalists continue breathing.


    He comes to one, a young male whose left arm is now just a burnt stump.  With a sigh he pulls out a roll of adhesive patching.  Gelly slaps a section of it over the remains of the youth''s arm.  The young officer groans, unconscious, but his breathing becomes more steady.  The pain relievers in the patch begin working immediately; already the young officer''s face relaxes from a pained grimace to a slight frown.


    As Gelly wipes the blood from his hands onto a dead crewmember''s uniform, something impacts his back with a loud slap.  He takes a half step forward to steady himself, ready to fight a surprise enemy but a familiar voice calms him.


    "Nineteen rescued.  Twelve captured.  No other survivors," brags Dunc Wollen.  His hand remains on Gelly''s back in an overly familiar way.


    "Sir," responds Gelly.  He takes a step forward and turns to face the Ship-Father.  "Ye should check this''n here."


    The older male leans over the unconscious captive.  His eyes note the missing arm and recent bandage.  His lips quirk into a frown, but he nods in approval.


    "No that," Gelly quickly adds.  "Under his shirt, there."


    Dunc cocks his head but bends his knees and lowers himself to a squat.  There he reaches out and lifts up the hem of the captive''s uniform.  Yellow alien flesh wanly reflects the artificial lights.  Dunc''s frown deepens in disgust.  He stands and backs away hastily.


    "What?"  Dunc shakes his head, graying crest swaying.  "Call the clinic.  Get somebody down here," he says instead, dismissing the question for later.  One of his subordinates hurriedly obeys, running down the corridors.


    "Can ye smell it," demands Gelly.  The scent reminds him of his childhood.  "That''s tribal stink."


    "Impossible," erupts the older officer.  "They were using weapons, tactics.  We heard them shouting orders to one another, and not in that tribal gibbering either."


    "Aye," agrees Gelly.


    He walks over to another body.  This one isn''t breathing.  The missing portion of her chest is the work of his rifle.  Under the bloodstained uniform he can see yellow skin.


    "Her too," he announces.


    Continuing to search the bodies provides another five, each with patches of yellow skin grafted onto their natural gray in different places.  Tonn Rojer arrives with a nurse to begin dispensing healing or mercy as needed so Gelly leaves the mess to them.


    "Not all of them, then," comments Dunc once Gelly informs him of his findings.  "Of our captives, only three have signs of these grafts."


    "Can ye tell me how long those there''ve been on yer crew?"


    "Lendi Vesk''s been with me for years.  The Cabin was her first posting and she''s never left.  Yan Tussa only joined us recently.  I took him from the Red Glow since his cousin''s been such a fine fighter pilot."  The elder Dunc scratches at his chin in thought.  "Oliva Nosstun we''ve had a bit longer.  Half a year?  She was always so quiet and stayed out of trouble, I''d almost forgotten about her."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    "Speakin'' o'' Tussas," remarks Gelly, remembering a young pilot.  "How''s Vin doin''?"


    "We recovered him safely.  The mutineers were holding him with the rest," Dunc says proudly.  "I''ll have to promote him for his loyalty."


    "Aye, the kid''s a good one," Gelly replies.  "I''m glad he was no one o'' them."


    "Me too," agrees Dunc.  "So, Operative, what does it mean?"


    Gelly turns to regard the higher ranked officer.  "Well, Ship-Father, I''d have to say no good.  I''ll take a sample back, to compare with our records.  If these grafts are from a chief, we need to find out what they''re for."


    The pair fall into silence, watching Tonn work.  The medic treats each injury with the care he feels it deserves before having crewmembers carry the patients off.  Some are bound for later interrogation aboard the Resurgent, but those still deemed loyal end up in their own bunks.


    On Dunc''s orders, Tonn takes tissue samples from the fresh cadavers, as well as numerous scans with his field equipment.  Gelly observes silently as he helps separate the corpses by faction.  It hurts to see so many young bodies, dead trying to support a government that doesn''t care about them beyond how useful they can be.


    Eventually the work is done.  Gelly wipes drying blood from his hands, then turns to Ship-Father Dunc.


    "Ye gonna be able to get this heap back to civilization, or will ye need an escort?"


    "Tell Jim that I''ll be able to manage without him pulling me down the path," Dunc responds in a voice drained of energy and emotion.


    Gelly starts to ask another question, but Dunc raises one hand to forestall him.


    "But if he wants to lend me a few crewmembers, I wouldn''t argue."


    "There''s a few might be willin'' to join ye," answers Gelly, nodding thoughtfully.  "Ye''ve a few holes in yer command structure, that''ll tempt a few."


    Dunc, too tired to reply, nods.  With a sigh, the older officer begins walking to the command room.  He makes a gesture, almost as an afterthought, inviting Gelly along.


    The wiry officer chuckles but follows.  The corridors bear scorch marks, evidence of fighting in close quarters.  Occasional overhead light panels flicker or are entirely dark.   The decking needs mopped; smears of dry blood sucks at the two officers'' boots.


    Inside the command room officers bustle about restoring order.  They pause when their Ship-Father enters but hurriedly return to work after he acknowledges them with a curt nod.  Dunc plops heavily into the command seat, leaving Gelly to stand awkwardly in the walkway.  Seeing his distress, Dunc says, "Just take the Weapons Operative position.  I''m sure you''re familiar with it."


    "Thanks," grunts Gelly as he takes the offered seat.


    Dunc waves, then asks, "I''m tempted to hire on some Tserri.  Mostly for crew positions, but you know how things go."  He pulls a data tablet out of a slot on his seat.


    Gelly nods with a knowing smile.  Promotions can come quickly for skilled or lucky crewmembers.  "And?"


    The older officer''s answering smile is bittersweet.  He activates the device, then after a few moments says, "I''d like to request that Vren of yours."  On seeing Gelly''s quick frown he hurries on, "Not to keep.  I, well, I think I trust his judgement better than my own for choosing good Tserri crew."


    "Ha!"  Gelly exclaims, startling the busy officers around them.  In more subdued tones, he continues, "They''re just people, Dunc, same as any."


    "I know that," says Dunc defensively.  "But they''ve got their own factions, and I''d rather someone who knows them well did the recruiting.  Alright, Operative?"


    "Aye," answers Gelly, struggling to keep a smirk from his face.  "Just remember to ignore the modifications they''ll be makin'' to yer uniforms."


    Dunc shrugs.  "To be honest, I think that''ll help the crew learn which is which."


    "Well, I''ll be headin'' back, do no want Jim thinkin'' I''ve left him," jokes Gelly.  His joke fails, Dunc already too busy scrolling through messages and alerts stored aboard the ship''s computer.


    After a final, mostly respectful wave to the Ship-Father the wiry officer begins stalking through the damaged corridors on his way back to the shuttle bay.  There he takes charge of the three captives.  Each has their arms tied behind their backs.  An injection of soporific chemicals, courtesy of Dunc''s medical officer, assures their complacency during the short trip.


    Bella meets him outside the shuttle, back aboard the Resurgent.  Grease smears on her face and hands tell Gelly that she hasn''t been idle; their shuttles are probably in better condition than ever.  The look of impatience she wears tells him that she''s ready to end her shift and isn''t happy that she''ll have to check over the Hopper before she can quit for the night.


    "Do it tomorrow, lass," he says, only half teasing.  "I''ll need to wait here ''til these three are escorted somewhere secure."


    She nods, clearly displeased.  "Yeah, fine."  An evil smile crosses her face.  "I''m gonna go let Nett know you''re back."


    "Please do," Gelly answers sincerely.  "And if ye see him, send Vren as well, yeah?"


    Bella stops, mid chuckle.  "Vren?"


    "Aye.  Dunc wants to offer him a temporary job aboard the Cabin."


    "Huh.  I''ll tell him, then," Bella replies over her shoulder, already walking away.  "A job?"


    In her distraction she barely acknowledges Drev on his way into the hangar.  Drev in return ignores the way she mutters to herself.  The alien glides over to where Gelly is lounging against the Hopper.  He stiffens when he draws near.


    "Ye can smell it too, then?"


    "Aye," answers Drev.  "Those are your people, are they not?"


    "Aye," Gelly replies, then thinks better of it.  "Well, yes and no.  There''s somethin'' wrong with them.  Infected or some like."


    Drev enters the shuttle for a closer look at the three prisoners.  From inside he calls, "Do they still possess their reason?"


    Sighing, Gelly climbs through the entry.  The smell of chief is strong inside the close space.  "As far as we can tell, aye.  Go let Jim know I need him, would you?"


    "Of course, Don," Drev says, bending over Lendi Vesk.  None of the prisoners are awake, but Gelly can hear Lendi arguing with someone in her sleep.  "Shall I notify anyone else?"


    "No.  Once Nett gets here we can take care ''o the rest."


    "Very well, sir," Drev answers with unnecessary formality.


    He straightens his stance, pausing long enough for Lendi to mumble, "No, I love my peepaw," before he slides out of the shuttle on rustling tentacles.


    With a resigned sigh, Gelly retrieves a tablet from underneath a console.  He decides to fill out the forms later, first he''s got a letter to write.  Nett''s better at paperwork, anyway, he muses.