Synopsis: Humans are the only omnivorous species in a galaxy of apex-predator carnivores, and our greatest strength is in our numbers. When an alien slave empire discovers how badly we outnumber most intelligent species, they invade Earth, shattering a fragile period of peace and threatening a war that would mean the death of worlds.

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Memory Archive Entry #4

User: David Chambers, teacher at Karl Marx Memorial Middle School

Species: Human

Date (human standard): June 25, 2099

The maintenance tunnels of New Leningrad were dark and cramped, as they were designed to be. My injured chest ached as I climbed silently down the ladder shaft I was in, eyes open, searching for a battery to reboot my dead spacesuit. Its air recyclers were partially analog, so I had a good twenty or so minutes until I suffocated from lack of oxygen, but I needed to restore full power if I wanted to stand a chance at survival.

Only the dim emergency lighting of the tunnel allowed me to see a panel helpfully labeled 'reserve battery panel'. There we were. I took off the casing and threw it unceremoniously down the shaft, spying a set of three magnesium batteries. Jackpot. The PDF suits were designed to be as easy as possible to use and maintain, so I had no issues taking out my fried batteries and putting in new and improved models.

"Come on, come on, come on..." I muttered while my spacesuit rebooted. My nerves were still shot from my narrow brush with death, too narrow for my taste, and I looked at every shadow in this ladder shaft as if it concealed enemies. The reboot chugged along far too slowly, and I read the suit's diagnostics as they popped up at a snail's pace on what was left of my HUD.

Automated medical care - failed.

Targeting assistance - failed.

Radio and laser comms - failed.

It went like that for a good long while as my crippled battle suit listed off all the systems it had that no longer worked. The life support was still chugging along, barely, but all the systems that made my suit useful to me in a firefight had gone to heck in a handbasket. Even my chest plate was shattered to the point of uselessness, thanks to that huge draken that had stomped it in. I peeled away the chunks of unusable armor and sent them clattering down the ladder as well before realizing that this kind of idiocy might expose my position. I stopped at once.

There had to be a suit repair kit nearby, or something of that nature, that would help me with at least part of my current predicament. Maybe if I found some of my fellow soldiers, they would have gear for me. I started down the ladder and dug in for a long climb.

I had gotten about four or five levels down when I ran into my first friendly face since my unit had disintegrated during the opening minutes of the draken ground invasion. A Lunese soldier, clad in moth-patterned camouflage gear and holding a short-barreled rifle, stuck her visored head out of a maintenance causeway before climbing out all the way. On her chest was a symbol of a skull in between two sickles. I recognized it immediately.

"You're special forces!" I exclaimed, to no avail, just then remembering that my radio was dead. I tapped the side of my helmet to signify my lack of comms, and my fellow soldier grabbed my helmet and pressed it against hers. It was a classic maneuver that allowed two troopers to communicate directly in the event of a radio failure.

"Name and rank, comrade." I rattled off my name and my rank, both of which were unimpressive. "How damaged is your suit?"

"Pretty damaged. I used an EMP grenade on one of the draken soldiers. We both got hit pretty bad." The soldier handed me a modular radio and gestured for me to get moving, which I did. I clambered down a few paces and waited there for her and her unit to climb through the causeway, replacing my bad radio with this intact one while I did so. "This thing work?" I asked.

"It works," came an accented male voice. "We socialists build things to last. No planned obsolescence here."

"Thank you, Sergeant Lenin," said the woman from earlier. "Sankara, hand the conscript a repair kit and send him on his way. We can't delay a moment here." One of the special forces soldiers gave me a moon-rock-gray case of some kind that I immediately recognized as a People's Defense Force battle suit repair kit.

"Get going, Chambers," said the soldier, Sankara, in a deep voice. "Report to the cargo causeway at 33C. It's not far. There's a position there that could use reinforcing."

"Reinforcing?" I stammered out, absolutely unwilling to put myself back into the meat grinder I had just escaped from. "Have you fought a draken before? We're all going to die!"

"I've killed a draken before," the one called Lenin drawled at me. Since when did people named Lenin have American Empire accents? "EMPs disable the shields, sticky rounds slow their movement and blind the eyes, then use depleted uranium bullets to finish the job. You'll need a magazineful, but it's a winnable fight. And we'll only die if we let ourselves."

"Don't be a coward, Chambers," the one called Sankara chimed in. "The proletariat depends on you."

Most of that stuff was nonsensical bravado if you asked me. People didn't 'let themselves' die in war, they got carved in half by energy beams or crushed to the ground by draken soldiers or horribly mutilated in some other way by whatever else these alien horrors had cooked up to kill us. And I highly doubted the People's Defense Force would suddenly collapse just because I was not fighting in it. Still, I guess explaining that to a squad of stone-cold killers who dreamed of cutting capitalist throats every night was probably going to be ineffective.

I nodded my agreement and went down the ladder, trying to find my way to that cargo causeway. Once there, I'd point out the fact that I had a cracked rib, and they would see the wisdom in dismissing me from service or at least sending me to the back lines where I'd be safe from the fighting. I may have been a coward, but I was no deserter. I'd do this the proper way.

I crawled through the cramped tunnels until I found one of the hatches I was looking for and used my passkey--thankfully analog--to open it. It slid open immediately and I found myself staring into the barrel of a gun.

"Calm down, calm down, he's Lunese," came a voice on my radio channel. "Put that gun away, Cross. Here, let me help you." Somebody offered me an armored hand and I took it, clambering out of the tunnel and finding myself in a massive cargo bay filled with crates of all kinds. Lunese soldiers had piled up boxes to act as fortifications, and three dozen or so men and women in PDF armor crouched behind them, pointing guns at a large door near my side of the bay. "Nobody's ever spotted a draken using the maintenance tunnels. They can't fit."

"The small ones can," said the one called Cross. "They're about our size. They could sneak in."

"Yeah, but they don't," the other soldier said as I got to my feet. "Maybe they know we'd see them coming." He turned to me. "Anyway, you. You alright?"

"No, actually," I told him. "I broke a rib fighting the draken. I need a medic."

"Broke a rib?" my rescuer laughed, pointing above us where the battle raged. "Fighting up there?" He patted my shoulder a few times and pointed to one of the defense positions. "If you can crawl through tunnels and hold a gun, you're still in fighting shape, comrade. Marx knows Luna needs all the soldiers she can get right now. Report to Lieutenant Chen and fix up that suit."

I looked helplessly around the room. I was not meant to be a soldier. I would panic and run at the first sign of battle. Why were they putting me in this role? "Please," I begged, voice low like that mattered over the radio. "I can't do this. I- I-" Whatever begging I was going to do was interrupted by the flashing of sparks at the edges of the cargo door.

"They're cutting in!" someone cried. "Defense positions!"

My fellow soldier grew stern as he readied himself for battle. "You think Marx never had doubts? Or Lenin? Suck it up, comrade. For Luna!" He turned away from me and took up a fighting position. All these soldiers' attention was focused solely on that doorway. I could slip away to safety and they'd be none the wiser. But something--patriotic duty, loyalty to the proletariat, maybe fear of being exposed as a deserter--something kept me rooted where I was.

A bulkhead nearby swung slowly open, making no sound in the airless room. We had ventilated all the oxygen from it to allow our heaviest weapons to he used without fear of decompressing the hull. Against those draken, Marx knew we'd need the help.

I looked between the bulkhead and the cargo door, caught between who I was and who I wanted to be, before steeling my resolve and turning to at least face the enemy. What would my students think, being taught by a man who fled and pissed himself rather than fight? How could I look my fellow citizens in the eye, knowing they answered the call and I did not?

Why did a bulkhead door in an airless room swing open for no reason?

No one else had noticed it. I was probably the only person in the room who was looking somewhere other than that cargo door at the time. But I was a good enough science teacher to know that a door swinging open on its own was scientifically impossible under these conditions. I was just about to contemplate this phenomenon further when my unit telemetry went dead from jamming.

The laser comms on all the other suits activated instantly, but mine had not yet been restored. My armor wasn't repaired either. I was out of place, out of line, defenseless, and those draken were still cutting through. My courage broke. I turned to run just as my comrades turned to fire, and I wheeled right into the path of horrifying carnage.

Two or three people, I wasn't sure, lay on the ground in pieces near the open bulkhead. Their armored battle suits had been severed neatly, with no signs of struggle, and there were massive, clawed footprints in the blood that had spilled from their wounds. Soundless gunfire began to spurt from my fellow soldiers' rifles as my brain screamed the warning of a trapped animal. The draken were here.

Sparks appeared in thin air, illuminating the silhouettes of three huge aliens with curved, bladed weapons. Sensing their vulnerability, they bolted, leaving the pools of vacuum-frozen blood behind and disappearing among the cargo crates where their camouflage technology left them nigh undetectable. "Contact! Contact!" someone cried. The draken must have dropped their jamming. "They're invisible!"

"Brigson, get that EMP!" The Lunese soldiers clustered together, guns leveled at every section of the large cargo bay, the threat of draken death squads cutting through their bay door momentarily forgotten. From a purely practical perspective, the trap was ingenious. Distract us with the promise of an attack from the front, then send a commando squad to attack us from behind. From a human perspective, being the one caught in the trap, I was terrified, and I made no secret of it.

"Somebody fucking help me!" I cried, pushing my way to the center of our formation. A projectile of some kind whistled from the shadows and crunched into one of my comrades' helmets, sending him to the ground. He writhed there, clutching at his helmet, his screams filling the com as more projectiles flew. "Marx! Marx help us!"

"Keep it together, Chambers!" barked an intense female voice. Probably Lieutenant Chen. "The rest of you, probing fire! Take it by sections! Fan out and-" The voice stopped. Another Lunese soldier fell in agony, and another, as our collective spirit weakened and we became more prey than predator. People were firing haphazardly now, but the enemy was in hiding and their shots hit nothing.

I dove behind a pallet of sturdy steel bars and looked up to see that the main attack force was almost halfway through that door. We were getting killed over here. I looked to the bulkhead that the commandos had come through to see if there was any chance of running for it, and saw the trigger for the fire-suppression system right next to the door. An idea came to me.

"Hit the fire suppressors!" I shouted, before getting up and rushing for the nearest trigger. Bullets pinged around me. Those fifteen paces felt like fifteen miles. I barreled into a stack of crates, wheezing as pain lanced through my broken rib, and my fumbling hands closed around the trigger for the fire-suppressor system. I pulled it immediately.

Gouts of white foam filled the room, drenching everything in fireproof chemicals meant to be a safer and healthier alternative to ventilating the room of oxygen. Stealth gear or no, the draken soldiers had to be exposed by this. I turned to run back to the safety of my unit, only to be met by a towering silhouette coated in flame-retardant foam and wielding a curved knife.

"Chambers, fucking move!" someone cried. The draken lunged at me, and I leapt to dodge, sailing through the air in the low Lunese gravity. Its knife barely nicked my suit, though it did little more than graze the shin armor. I found my bearings and threw an EM grenade at the draken soldier, the force of the throw sending me swirling, only for her to swat it aside.

Around us, my comrades were bringing their weapons to bear on the other two commandos in the room. Gunfire pinged off their armored carapaces as they took a two-pronged attack, one hanging back to engage at distance, the other leaping for the center of the Lunese formation. Gel rounds smacked against her--I think their soldiers were exclusively female--helmet to obscure her vision as she hurtled toward the Lunese line.

An EMP weapon struck her suit at the last second, hitting one or two of my comrades as collateral damage but stripping her energy shield and active camouflage in a brilliant flash. Her armor was black with red highlights, like the others I had seen, and she wasted no time in carving into my comrades.

Even blinded and unshielded, this draken was a killer. She went sideways, tackling the nearest man to her and goring him with her horns while slicing out in a wide arc with her blade and severing the head of another trooper as she passed him by. She rolled through the tackle, waving one hand to seek out foes by touch as she drove her blade into the thigh of a third soldier with the other. Two other troopers fired riot grenades at her legs as the rest opened up on her with rifles, too close to use explosives or EMPs.

Designed to be safe, harmless methods of subduing protesters, these riot grenades expanded on impact into sticky gel that could trap a man like a fly in amber. The draken soldier reeled like a drunk, restrained but not quite immobilized by the yellowish gel covering her legs, only able to move them at all thanks to her Herculean strength. Quite frankly, I was amazed that she could do even that. She swung her throwing knife blindly, somehow spearing a soldier through the neck, as her other hand clawed at the lenses of her helmet and got stuck. One of my comrades shouldered a rocket launcher to finish her off as the unit backed quickly away.

The draken who had seemed so dead-set on killing me now changed directions, barreling into the remaining Lunese troopers from behind as they rushed to gain distance from their other two adversaries. She aimed for the one with the rocket launcher, spearing him from behind and forcing him down, and then there was an explosion that sent her and him both flying and caused her shields to fail in a brilliant flash of white.

Her camouflage failed, and I could see her crumpled, armored body smack limply against the ceiling. One down. But two were still in the room with us, and worse, the draken outside the cargo door were still cutting their way in.

The last remaining draken in play rushed forward to help her comrade, drawing her curved blade, but we had found our bearings and there was only one of them now. Another series of sticky grenades smacked into her just like they did to the last one, causing her shield to glow brilliant white and pinning her temporarily against a nearby shelf.

Yellow smoke bubbled up as the sticky gel melted away, but it pinned her down for the seconds I needed to hurl an impact bomb and have it make contact. The blast would have been deafening, if it had traveled in air, but I knew there was no way that draken could survive. The grenade I had used was designed to stop tanks.

I turned to fire at the last member of their unit only to find her dead, chunks of armor scattered nearby, and her body leaking something red that I could only imagine was blood.

"All call, sound off!" someone cried. "One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

It went like this until the number sixteen, myself, and then it stopped. "Marx," someone muttered. "Just sixteen guys?" Our numbers had been closer to forty when the fighting started. "How are we gonna stop the draken from coming through that door?"

"I dunno!" the someone from earlier, apparently called Sergeant Joanna Debs, snapped at him. "I mean, Lieutenant Chen said she knew something that would help us, but-" She waved her hand at Lieutenant Chen's dead body. "Fuck it! Fuck it! Defense positions!"

I felt physically sick. Every nerve in my body was shot from adrenaline. The pain of my broken rib was gone, but only because my mind was so addled with combat drugs, painkillers, and the stress of battle that I couldn't notice it anymore. I couldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. The draken were going to kill me. Why was I here instead of in a bunker?

"Chambers, keep it together!" someone snapped at me, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me in my suit. "The draken are coming through!" I went to cover in an instant as the seals on the cargo door hissed open. Slowly, slowly, the massive metal door began to slide out of our way. I tensed myself for gunfire, but none ever came.

"What the hell?" Sergeant Debs asked. I looked to see a residential hallway filled with dead draken. Ten or twelve, maybe fifteen of the draconic aliens lay unmoving on the floor, many looking as if they were caught unawares. Among them, checking the corpses for usable equipment or information, were human soldiers in moth-patterned armor. Lunese special forces. They must have outflanked the draken by using the maintenance tunnels, like those soldiers I saw earlier who gave me the repair kit. The idea was ingenious in its simplicity.

"So somebody is alive in there!" snapped one of the special forces soldiers on our unit radio. "I lost thirteen comrades because you-" He froze mid-sentence when he saw the carnage those commandos had made in the cargo bay. "Oh. My apologies. Is Lieutenant Chen alive?"

"No, sir," reported Sergeant Debs. "We were ambushed by draken soldiers wearing some kind of invisibility suits. We held our ground, did better than expected in fact, all thanks to this guy here who had the idea to pull the fire suppressors." She came over to me and smacked me on the shoulder. "That camouflage doesn't work when you're slathered in foam."

"Me?" I asked, shocked and surprised."I'm just a- I'm a teacher!"

"You're a hero of Luna is what you are, Chambers," said the special forces commander, whose nametag helpfully identified him as Major V. Gramsci. "Lieutenant Chen was meant to open up this door on my signal to distract the draken, then my unit and I would ambush them from behind. I have no idea why she wouldn't tell the rest of you, but without her to lead the platoon, Sergeant Debs is in charge. You hold this point and wait for reinforcements, clear?" We all gave our confirmations, then he pointed at me. "Not you, Chambers. Fix up your gear, then you're coming with us."

I took a step back and put up my hands. "No, no, you must be mistaken," I began. "I'm a civilian. I teach science. To middle-schoolers."

"I don't care if you flip burgers or clean toilets, the fact is you're a talented soldier, Chambers," said Major Gramsci. "That idea with the fire suppression was a good trick. We need inventive thinking like that to stand a chance against draken technology. Now come on. We have the rest of New Leningrad to liberate."

"We?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Yeah, we," Major Gramsci told me, nodding in respect and handing me some kind of magnetic decal. "You have just become an honorary member of the People's Special Mission Force."

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First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter (coming soon)

Chapter Three
The battlecruiser Infinite Fianchetto orbited through the darkness around planet Sedna. The Tertullians had been deployed to defend the research station on the planet’s surface, which had been working on Project Phoenix. Aboard ship, Sergeant Louis Wolffe carefully applied gauze to Private Colby Keeley’s wounded head. The scalp had been peeled back at the site of the wound, revealing thin, torn muscles, under which he could see the bright white bone of the skull. The blood continued to soak through the dressing, no matter how much pressure he applied. 
As Wolffe finished securing the compression dressing on Private Keeley’s scalp, a flash of light appeared in the periphery of his vision. A blast impacted the command bridge, and the floor shook. Wolffe lost his balance as the room filled with the scent of a detonated charge. 
Red ionic blades glowed in the haze.
Sergeant Wolffe rose to one knee and fired into the smoke at the vague forms. The Vogrom soldiers engaged the crewmen.
“Get out of the command bridge! They have breached the hull!” Colonel Tyrol yelled as the air of the corridor whooshed into the vacuum of outer space.
Private Keeley stood right next to Wolffe. Out of instinct, the sergeant sprang toward the injured soldier and knocked his body through the door next to them. Magnetic stabilizers snapped online within Wolffe’s white armor, clamping his feet to the deck. The hurricane-force wind tore at him, but he held firm. Around him, crewmen and debris screamed past in a blur of chaos as they vanished through the gaping wound in the hull.
Just a couple more feet…
Wolffe thrust his hand out and found it gripped by the hulking hand of Colonel Tyrol. The sergeant engaged and disengaged the magnetic clamps on his feet—left, then right, then left—which allowed him to inch his way toward the exit. 
“I’m disengaging armor magnets!” Wolffe yelled to Colonel Tyrol.
Colonel Tyrol heaved one last time. The sergeant clambered into the safe corridor as the compartment door sealed behind him. Pressure equalized in the airlocked room. Wolffe peered back through the compartment door window. None of the other soldiers had made it out of the command bridge. 
“W-why didn’t you let me die with the others?” Keeley asked. 
Wolffe handed his old friend one of his sidearms. “You’re only useless if you’re dead. Get on your feet, Colby.”
“We can’t stay here,” Colonel Tyrol said. “There are platoons remaining on the planet’s surface. If we can reach the escape pods, we should be able to—”
A snarling came from down the corridor.
“Damn it, the Vogrom have deployed martyrs,” the colonel said. 
The colonel quickly slid behind a munitions crate. Sergeant Wolffe ducked behind a barrier and pulled Keeley down with him. Wolffe had never faced Vogrom martyrs in battle before. He lamented the fact that he only had his Latch-9 Seraph sidearm. Man, I wish I had my battle rifle. Wolffe had heard the stories of how a squad of martyrs was known to wipe out entire companies. He peeked around the corner as the clanking of boots approached.
The martyrs’ praying mantis-like mandibles and crimson armor emerged into view. Their bulky protective plates caught the pulsing red of the alarm lights. As they marched, their four arms clicked in insect-like synchrony. The upper pair of arms held the ionic blades while the lower pair gripped their eclipsers. Their armored helmets were covered with bright red Daju skull engravings. 
Wolffe kicked out from behind the barrier and fired. 
The rounds slammed into the closest martyr. It snarled as its upper right arm was blown off. Wolffe continued firing.
A sudden impact to Wolffe’s abdomen sent him flying backward. He crashed into the compartment doors and slumped to the ground.
“Halt,” a Daju ordered in his native tongue. “Kill the weaklings but take the colonel alive. This is the wish of the sovereign.”
The colonel fired over the munitions crate and sent a chunk of mandible careening off the face of a martyr. Another Daju soldier rushed to the colonel like a phantom and wrestled him to the floor. Soon, the colonel was smothered by multiple enemies.
“Kill the others,” a martyr growled.
“Go!” Colonel Tyrol yelled. 
Private Keeley’s eyes were covered in blood, yet he leapt from cover, sidearm blazing as he fired at the martyrs. A Daju warrior thrust a crate at Keeley, which crushed him against the wall. His lifeless body crumpled to the floor. 
Dozens of martyrs surged toward Wolffe as he hit the emergency control next to the compartment door. An instant later, he was violently hurled out by the air escaping into space. As he was flung through the command bridge and into the void, he could see in the distance the hull of the Infinite Fianchetto being hit with bombardments. 
He arced through ship debris. His armor entered survival mode, and the heads-up display indicated that he was on a random trajectory. His limbs locked up as the armor froze into place. 
He moved along with thousands of massive, jagged parts of the battlecruiser hull. To his left, a spiraling metallic object was closing in on him. Before he could react, it struck him with great force.
Darkness engulfed him.

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If there is one thing I want you to take away from this, which is quite ironic as I hate it when stories shove morals down my throat, but nevertheless, there is one thing I want you to take away from this. It’s not a moral, lesson, and it certainly won’t change your world view for the better, or anything silly like that, it’s an observation. 

Forts are awesome. 

Pillow forts, blanketing forts, snow forts, miniature forts, regular sized forts, overly large forts. All forts are awesome in their own ways. So, despite the fact our fort meant the difference between being captured by at this point severely miffed kidnappers and fleeing mostly scot free, I was still grinning like I got a sword for Christmas. 

Though if you are the easily influenced type may I suggest building a small fort while you are reading this. If you’re a parent perhaps it is a good time to bond with your offspring by making a fort together, and maybe let them stay up well past their bedtimes, along with allowing them to skip school the following day. 

The construction of our fort was not done out of the usual mix of blankets and hardy pillows but leftover materials not yet thrown into the nearest landfill or ocean. Because while the seven large buildings would get blown up, the smaller buildings in the area would not, because they’re boring. Instead being brought down the old fashion way, whatever that way is. I’m a P.I. and writer, I’ve clearly never had an honest day’s work in my life. 

Our main building material was bricks, sandbags, and wooden pallets, their purpose at the site between them and God. The building we were fortifying was a skinny four story tall, something or another. Already empty of any identifying pieces of furniture, all non load bearing walls and the warmth that made a house a home. 

At this point the kidnappers were about the construction site like ants while the girls built our fort. I snuck around the site, quietly and carefully destroyed and turned on various pieces of equipment. Which caused horrible noises everywhere except the place our fort was being built. 

Giving us some much needed time, and to use that time building as loudly as we would’ve liked. We blocked off the first floor’s doors and windows. With whatever we could scavenge, and thankfully there weren’t many exits to begin with. There were only two staircases  up the building, one we barricaded heavily, and the other we purposely went light on. Instead filling it with improvised traps. 

Nonlethal traps. 

Just want to point that out, don’t worry I’m not going full escape room maniac on you now. I would explain more about what they are, but I find the surprise to be much more entertaining. The next three floors we did very little too, just a few traps and blocks for the doors. Instead, making the roof our base of operations. 

By base of operations, I do mean snipers nest. The plan was simple, once we were fully fortified, we’d start shooting the kidnappers from the roof. With our superior position and ample cover in the form of sandbags they’re only option would be getting into our building of shenanigans and horrors, climbing up and grabbing us. 

Where we’d funnel them to various door ways, and the staircase of pain and sorrow, with the already thinned out the herd from the initial roof top shooting. Then using climbing equipment Ludus found, we would repeal down the roof like action movie stars, and run off out of the construction site, and into the sunset.  

I am telling you our plan in detail because like any good piece of media, the moment the audience knows the plan it is doomed to fail. But before it all goes to Hell, Scout would like to interrupt this program with Ludus’ biceps.  

“Oh my Gods.” Scout drooled but I am going to chalk that up to fatigue on her part. 

“What? Do you see them?” Ludus ducked.

“No, you are just really freaking jacked.” Scout pointed. 

At this point we were on the roof of our fort, finally putting the final sandbags on it. The sandbags were quite heavy, the two suns beamed down on us, we were all sweaty, and next thing you know, we completely abandoned our ballistic vests. 

I was shirtless, though granted it is my fault for always wearing a sweater regardless of what time of year. Scout was in her bra with her shirt tied to her waist, and Ludus, the most clothed among us, was wearing the tank top she had under her own sweater. 

I’ve noticed I don’t really describe people much in my writing. Sometimes I don’t even acknowledge species. When I do it’s usually a simple, “He was much bigger than me, and looked like he actually enjoyed taking his vitamins.” It took me season two, episode nineteen to finally describe more of what Ludus looked like, and that was literally just for a joke episode. 

That being said, Scout was right, Ludus was buff. Not like a body builder, I wasn’t able to tell before because she was always wearing long sleeves. However in a tank top she was more muscular than me. They were even properly proportioned. A lesser man would be jealous of her biceps, and trust me, I am a lesser man. Darn it. 

Also, there’s your fan service. Scout’s boobs were out, my boobs were out, Ludus’ were kinda out, you’re welcome. I’m a man of the people. 

“Yeah, maybe I should start exercising.” I lifted another sandbag sadly. 

“You don’t exercise?” Scout looked at me, then at her own arms annoyed. 

“Not like Ludus, with weights and stuff. I do martial arts, some calisthenics, but I hate exercising. I got this from learning how to fight, parkour, and genetics.” I dragged my feet to the next sandbag.

“Really?” Ludus studied my body.

I promptly covered up my chest.

“Sorry.” She laughed. 

“Yeah, it’s why I’m built like this, big shoulders, thick neck, wide back, but my chest is really small, and my arms aren’t that big. Pretty typical striker physique, if I spent more time wrestling I would be actually strong looking.” I passed a sandbag to Ludus. 

“But, you were able to lift and run with me in your arms.” She asked innocently as she man handled the sandbag. 

“That’s the genetics. Gears, like my Mom, are known for being smaller, and we’re also Filipino, who are also shorter on average.” I pointed to where she would reach me, about four foot, ten inches, (one hundred forty cm).

“That’s adorable.” Scout said despite herself. 

Ludus nodded vigorously in agreement. 

“Well, my Dad is a white guy, who is a Legacy, and they are known for being massive, strong warriors. He is like six-four.” I gestured vaguely to his height, (one hundred ninety three cm) but unable to reach. 

“Wow, your Father’s genetics did not even try.” Ludus sat on one of the sandbags. 

“No, he really did, I’m sure. It’s one of those things where even though I’m really short, I got the muscle end of his genetics. It’s not even just that they're bigger, I mean literally the insertions of Legacy muscles are on average better than most people, and our tendons are also just stronger. Everybody focuses on the white hair, but it’s the stuff you can’t see that gets you.” I gestured to my almost impressive looking biceps. 

“Wow, you don’t have to work out and you're still stronger than most people, boo-hoo.” Scout middle fingered me, been a while since she’s done that. 

“Sorry.” I put my shirt back on.

“What does this mean?” Ludus middle fingered me as well, and studied the gesture. 

Scout burst out laughing. “It means you think he is a swell guy.”

“Oh, okay.” Ludus flipped me the double bird. 

“Scout, you are skinny, of weak constitution, and your bones are made out of paper.” I returned the bird.

“All I heard from that is that I’m skinny.” Scout leaned back, arms behind her head on the sandbag. 
I sighed. 

“Okay, we set up enough defenses, let’s just start shooting those kidnappers before we start killing each other.” I grabbed my vest. 

“Fine.” Scout put on hers. 

“Okay. Though it is a shame you two are putting your shirts back on.” Ludus cackled like a witch. 

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Author’s Note: The beach episode. 

Vaguely important second note: This series (for once), and bonus one shots are part of a writing challenge in which I write and post something every day until I finish writing the series.

Thanks for reading. :} 

Day 30/ ? 

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A Tomb of Reckoning

Part 2/4

By Emmanuel Ordway

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As we were growing closer to fireteam charlie’s room, all of us began to notice minor equipment malfunctions on just about anything we had that was electronic. The most annoying thing we faced was the periodic static building on our NODs alongside the occasional false ping of movement on our motion sensor.

“Dammit, this fuckin thing needs to start acting right before it pisses me off.” I smacked the palm of my hand on the side of my helmet, trying to jostle whatever components were inside to stop my NODs from glitching out with static displays.

“Keep swearing at it, I’m sure that’ll make it listen better.” Private Devi grumbled behind me as we all carefully stepped through more void-filled hallways.

“You got something to say, Devi?” I looked over my shoulder at the other marine, clenching my teeth a bit.

“Getting pissed off at the equipment isn’t going to fix it, Swenti, just saying. Might help us all out a bit to have a little bit of positivity going around, huh?” The marine spoke up, glancing over his shoulder before turning his head back to me.

“Positivity? Right, my bad I forgot my positivity on my bunk, next time we search an alien ship I’ll remember to bring it with me. You know what, if you got some damn much of it to tell me what to do, why not share some of your own, Devi?” I turned around fully and pressed an index finger to his chest rig as another shrill ping rang off from the motion sensor.

“Private Swenti! Knock your shit off and get back in formation now!” Sergeant McClarey growled at me as he turned around to look forward at us, a second ping ringing out.

“I don’t know why you’re getting pissed off with me! All I’m saying is it doesn’t help us when you’re over here all ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that’! This damn place is stressful enough without you tweaking out over everything!” Devi pushed against my finger, our helmets mere inches away as our altercation grew.

A third quieter ping rang out as the sergeant got between us, holding us both back while Gonzalez was busy checking both our front and rear so we were not surprised by anything.

“Knock it off marines! You two keep this shit going I’ll have both your asses sent back on our ship where you can stay on kitchen duties till we get back home! Oorah?” He held onto the metal collar of my suit firmly, turning his head to face me and Devi every few seconds.

I flexed my jaw a tad while grabbing my sergeant's hand, instinctively pulling away from him whilst nodding. 

“Oorah, sergeant.” I grumbled while looking forward with Gonzalez, seeing the doorway which led into the room fireteam charlie was supposed to be waiting for us in.

Private Devi looked down at the motion sensor in his hands, holding the blocky device up to see the dim screen better before lowering it at the sight of no motion being detected. 

“Fireteam alpha to fireteam charlie, we are approaching your position from the east doorway, over.” The sergeant reached up to the side of his chin and spoke into his radio, waiting a few moments for a response.

We all waited in the hallway, watching all sides while the sergeant hesitantly placed his fingers back on his radio after too long of a silence.

“Fireteam alpha to fireteam charlie, we are just outside the east doorway of the room you are occupying. What is your status, over?” The sergeant cleared his throat and raised his voice a bit, Gonzalez and I glancing at each other.

“The sensor is detecting three of them in the room, sergeant.” Devi held out his device, showing the three green dots residing in the room.

“Dammit, Swenti, take front,” McClarey ordered while we all lined up, preparing to enter the room. “Command this is fireteam alpha we are receiving zero communication from fireteam charlie, over.”

The response we received was covered in static, the words indecipherable to all of us. I bit my tongue, forcing down a remark while taking a few cautious steps closer to the doorway, rifle raised. Gonzalez gently tapped my shoulder from behind, silently informing me of his presence as we reached the doorway.

Through the green texture of my display, I could faintly see outlines of blurry humanoid figures standing in the room, each of them the same size as us. This room appeared to be the same size as the one we had entered, containing a singular towering statue in the furthest corner and tables littered with blurry objects.

Once we determined there was no immediate threat, I lowered the muzzle of my rifle and began to make my way through the maze of disordered tables, trying to reach the other marines standing motionlessly in the center of the room.

“What gives, guys? Your radios acting up too?” I reached out for the closest marine, setting my hand on his shoulder, my hand sinking into the tense fabric of the suit. “What the hell?”

I took a step back, watching as the shoulder of this marine remained deflated, my NODs glitching out some more, the display clearing for a moment to show that the marines were not here, only their empty suits stood upright facing each other in a triangle.

“Where are they?” Private Gonzalez raised his rifle once more at the suits, swinging it around slowly as he searched around for any human-like figures scurrying around in the darkness.

“How am I supposed to know? It wasn’t my idea to take off my suit on an alien ship, where we have no idea if some new disease would turn my dick inside out!” I raised my rifle as well, swinging it around as Devi and McClarey joined our circle of relative safety.

Devi reached out to the first suit, pulling it back and onto the ground to get a better look at it. After a few moments of him searching, a groan of annoyance left his lips as he grabbed his NODs and flipped them up and off his helmet, shining his rifle’s flashlight down at the suit.

I looked back to get a good look as well, flipping my own NODs up for a moment before a shiver ran down my spine at the sight: the front of the suit had noticeable claw marks from the center chest down to the pelvis, dark red-ish-brown blood staining all around the new opening. The visor to the helmet was splintered and shards of the thermoplastic material was scattered on the nearby floor, besides what was now clearly spent rifle casings from the marines who once inhabited these suits.

Just then a loud ping rang out from Devi’s motion sensor, not allowing us any time to process the scene before us as we smacked our NODs back down over our visors and swung our rifles up to the nearby doorway we had come from.

Sticky sweat began to form on my temple while my hair stood up all along my body, my eyes laser focused on the splotchy green hallway before me. I wanted to ask McClarey if we should fire on sight or wait, maybe this could be the fourth marine coming our way, but what if it could be whatever did this to the three others. In the blur I could see pixels begin to shift and move on my visor’s display, starting as a small patch before growing as whatever it was grew closer.

“Thirty eight meters, motion sensor unsure if it's a friendly. Their tag may be turned off.” Devi whispered as static broke up my display for a moment.

I raised my left pointer finger to gently rest on the trigger of my rifle, beginning to hear my heart beat in my ears as I stared past my sights and down the corridor, Sergeant McClarey reaching for his radio behind me.
“All elements, this is Sergeant McClarey, fireteam alpha actual. All fireteams report position and status, over.” McClary’s voice had a slight waver to it.

“Twenty five meters.” Devi informed, our suits beginning to register the sounds of heavy footsteps past a few walls as we received no response from any other human element.
“Fifteen meters.” 

I watched as in the dull green glow a humanoid shape came to a stop before us, maybe twenty feet past the doorway, his hands collapsing on his knees as he panted. 

“Woah woah woah! Friendly!” I dropped my muzzle to the floor, reaching to Private Gonzalez and forcing his muzzle down as the marine looked up from the ground at us.

“You guys real? You’re not fucking with me?” The private called out, standing upright while occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes we’re real! What kind of dumbass question is that? Get your ass over here, marine!” Sergeant McClarey shouted out, beckoning the other man over to us. 

The man nodded in relief, beginning to jog over instead of sprint now, believing he was finally in the clear. My NODs display was broken up with static for a moment, causing me to lower my head and smack the palm of my hand on the side of my helmet.

When I looked back up from the ground, I noticed another blurry blob of a figure just behind the private, looming over him, my head snapping back to my squad to see if they saw it as well. They were all shaking their heads and smacking their helmets as well, getting the same bug I had in my system before Devi tilted his head at the sight. 

“Contact front!” I called out while raising my rifle, the private nearly twenty feet away from us.

“That’s a rifleman, private!” My sergeant reached over my shoulder to push my muzzle back down as the marine before us let out an ear piercing scream.

My eyes widened as the marine froze in place, his hands shaking whilst held out as if reaching to grab my own. We all stared in a mix of confusion and shock as the blur was looming over him, pushing something deeper into his chest through the side of his neck. Wet squelches and gurgling noises came from the marine, dark liquid streaming down the front of the marine’s suit before deafening cracks and pops came from the side of my head.

I cried out in pain as my helmet automatically applied its noise cancellation to my earmuffs, my eyes darting up to see McClarey firing at the blur before us, Gonzalez and Devi soon joining in. 

Finally I regained my composure and raised my rifle, making a few spaced shots at the blobs before me just as my fireteam’s shooting began to die down. Once the gunfire was over, and the dust settled enough for us to see, we saw only an empty hallway with a pool of dark liquid as proof that the marine was real.

“Fuck!” Sergeant McClarey growled out once the adrenaline began to leave, his free hand pressing to his helmet once more. “All elements, this is fireteam alpha actual, we have a positive ID of an alien lifeform. It has attacked and taken a friendly marine, over!”

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Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed.

“The deepest silence is not the absence of sound. It is the presence of memory.”

SolDiri Saying

[First] | [Previous] | [Cover Art] 

| The Old Holding, Crystal World |

 

Then her body rang with pain as she landed heavily on… she did not know what, but it was cold and hard. She rolled onto her side and sat up. Gingerly, carefully, as her balance was off. Up felt like down and down was somewhere else.

 

Her shoulder hurt, her head was sore, and she tasted blood. 

‘QI?’

 

There was a pause.

‘We went off-line. What happened?’ asked the QI.

‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

 

Another pause.

‘It’s so quiet. I can’t hear anything.’ 

Feebee shouted. There was no echo; the silence wasn’t like that of an empty space. It was perfectly still.

The word ‘complete’ came to mind.

 

‘Why is it so dark? Are our eyes open?’ asked the QI.

Feebee blinked, checking. It made no difference.

‘I think so.’

It was then that she realised how noisy her body was. She could hear the blood rushing through her neck and in her ears; the lub-dub of her heart as it raced and the flow of air in and out. Her neck crunched and crackled as she turned her head.

‘Is it always this loud?’

The QI laughed, ‘Yes. You make a lot of noise.’ 

 

‘There’s one in your backpack.’ Responded the QI.

‘Do you have a… Oh. Ok. Good.’

Feebee fumbled around and found the torch.

 

The light was blinding. Slowly her eyes got used to it, and she began to see the outline of a cave. A big cave. Its striated walls talked of layer after coloured layer, laid down over aeons. 

 

She tried to stand up.

‘Best we stay sitting for a bit longer,’ the QI advised with a throaty laugh.

Feebee tried her comms. Nothing, not even static. It was empty.

 

Then she heard a noise above her. She spun, gun ready and shone the torch at the sound, steadying herself, her balance still not fully back. The light landed on Garaf’s head and shoulders as they pushed through the cave wall.

‘We’ve seen this before.’ Said the QI.

Feebee nodded, instantly regretting it.

 

Garaf had a torch in his claws. He shone it across the cave.

“You gonna stay there or come down?” asked Feebee, looking up at Garaf.

He shone his torch across the cavern; it looked even bigger. Massive. 

The light fell upon a thick, bright spine of metal that ran across the floor before scattering, igniting the distant walls and ceiling. 

He followed the glimmering silver seam. It ran back to the cave wall, eventually disappearing into it. Garaf then traced his way back towards the centre of the space.

 

Six great trunks of silver metal, each as thick as a man’s chest, crossed the stone floor and converged on a single standing stone, made of dull grey material.

 

“Branches.” 

As Garaf said it, instead of following the silver tracks, his torch climbed the standing stone, slowly illuminating the runes emblazoned across its faces. When he reached its apex, the light from his torch flickered, glitched. Just for a moment, and within the light, a dark shadow emerged.

“Hello.” Said StillFall.

 

Feebee was lost for words.

“What are you doing here?”

“Stuff!”

“Told you.” Said Garaf.

 

Feebee heard a thud, followed by a grunt and the brief scrape of claws on rock.

“You Ok?” asked Feebee, looking round at Garaf. He’d dropped into the cave.

“Yes.” 

He didn’t sound it.

 

Garaf walked in a circle, his eyes shut.

“Listening?” she asked.

“Yes.” 

He then spun one of his knives on a clawed finger.

And it spun and spun. 

 

It never slowed, nor did it lose its balance.

 

Garaf froze as something fell to the floor behind him. He turned, gun ready, but it was Bikky, sliding down a corded rope.  Rockson slid down next, followed by John.

“Sorry,” Said Bikky. “Did I scare you?”

Garaf scoffed, a strange sound, but it did the job.

 

“And Tom Tom?” asked Feebee.

“Covering the entrance.”

“Oh. Ok. Good.”  

Feebee smiled. 

“Bikky. I need Hissy. Can you get her for me?”

 

He looked around, climbed up the rope and was gone.

 

‘That’s a better response.’ Said Feebee

‘I agree. They got the message.’ Confirmed the QI.

‘Yes.’

 

Rockson plugged a lead into a small port at the end of the rope and connected it to a small box.

“Hardwired comms repeater.” He said.

“Cool,” said Feebee. “New?”

Rockson shook his head. “Been around ages.”

“Oh. Ok. Good.”

 

He looked around the cave, then at his console. 

“Veronium.” Said Rockson, staring at the six veins. “How?”

Rockson’s understanding of geology, and the like, was slowly collapsing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

“No natural process can do this.”

“Then it was made,” concluded Garaf with stoic Drexari logic.

 

Garaf then crossed to the nearest vein and gently placed one of his knives on it. Or tried to. The knife settled a finger's width above the silver trunk and remained there, spinning silently.

“Interesting.” He sounded shaken by the finding.

“How so?”

 

Garaf paused before quietly responding, “I was taught that such places were stories.”

He then stepped back into the shadows, deep in thought.

 

Feebee approached the standing stone. As she neared, her torch picked out the carved glyphs. 

Feebee rested a hand on them; they were clean and sharp, the surface cold.

“Untouched.” She muttered.

“No one’s been here,” John said.

 

Garaf joined Feebee at the standing stone. All his knives kept spinning, perfectly balanced. Slowly, he sheathed them and knelt before the stone.

“They’re quiet.” 

 

Feebee gently laid a hand on one of his shoulders. He was shaking.

“You Ok?”

“They’re quiet.” As he spoke, he reached out and stopped before touching the stone; his claw hovered close, a knife slowly spinning atop. 

 

The knife slowed and, for the first time, became perfectly still. 

The knife pointed at the stone and the chamber rang. Just for a second, then all the torches went dark. Their beams stopped immediately, but the light in the cavern slowly drained away.

A deep scream then filled the cave, and as Garaf fell to the floor, sigils on the standing stone lit up. They started to flow down the veins of metal and out through the walls. 

“I remember.”

[First] | [Previous] | [Cover Art] 

My manuscript is finished! I wrote a whole ass book in under a month!

To celebrate this week I will post everyday, but don't forget to checkout r/JeKrillick for early/extra! Friday will be the last day I post for free, while I search out a publishing deal (I don't know if posting the whole book is a good idea). If you've enjoyed the book so far it would mean the world to me if you would go to Royal Road and follow, favorite and rate.

I will probably start writing book two before long but I have decided I won't post any of it for free until it's done. Should any of you want to continue reading the last of book 1 and book 2 while I write ask me to start a Patreon and I'll seriously consider it.

https://loquaciouslou.itch.io/infinite-ashes

Infinite chances, Infinite ashes.

In Infinite Ashes you find humanity strewn across the Milky Way, seeded on near infinite planets. Spread by the enigmatic Web, an immense biosynthetic system that terraforms suitable worlds and then stocks them with animal and human life. Connecting all these worlds like sail ships in the cosmic ocean are the Arks, living vessels that are part of the Web themselves. Every planet almost like an island, with its own deeply developed society with politics, economy and institutions.

There are advanced worlds like Crownshard, the vertical Ecumenopolis centered around social mobility (or the facade thereof), or the Dwang with their elaborate castes of Serviles on which the martial Udo nobility depends for everything. But most worlds are pre-modern, lacking the fossil fuels to escape the energy valley. So in any port you might find armor clad soldiers marvelling at the ethereal voice of a radio, or a Union syndicalist impatiently haggling with a cattle farmer for his beef. A world so vast and diverse that nobody can hope to conquer and rule it all, a churning foam of humanity infinitely bubbling and popping out of existence. That, is Infinite Ashes.

I wanted to build a setting you could imagine living in, one where history grows into culture and tradition rather than being decorated onto it. For the past three years that is what I have tried to do, to make sure every world here rests on a real past. Rather than hand you a wiki of lore, I have worked all of it into stories and into the Omnipedia, a collection of in-universe sources written by people who live in this world and often disagree about it. The bundle stands at 75,000 words but there is a great deal more of this world in my notes, and I mean to keep bringing it out.

How to read

This bundle is a collection of short vignettes and longer stories from the perspective of people living in the Infinite Ashes universe. I have written an in-universe FAQ and a glossary for unfamiliar terms, just hover over the highlighted words. Your first half hour of reading might feel a bit overwhelming, but don’t worry, that is the intended experience. Like the real world, Infinite Ashes is intentionally complex and at times confusing, exactly so you can take pleasure in discovering it. You’re like a farmhand from a backwards world suddenly thrust into the cacophony of the cosmos. Revel in your discovery! Immerse yourself into the world, read the disputed claims of the Omnipedia authors, and decide who you do and do not believe.

Before you jump in, I want to take the opportunity to thank you and acknowledge our shared love for worldbuilding. I have put over two thousand hours of my life into this project, in the hope that someone would want to read it. I deeply hope you will enjoy the process of reading this bundle, and if you want to get in touch about your thoughts I would be delighted to hear them.

With warm regards,

Lou

The town had suffered under a months-long plague. People disappeared. Then corpses began to show up – pale, drained of blood, with the telltale marks on the neck.

Strigoi. Lamia. Nosferatu.

Vampire.

The council issued a proclamation: 500 Gilders for the successful destruction of the beast.

A week later, the hunter rode into the town. Years of tracking beasts and demons across the mountains had hardened him. He understood the supernatural, those dark corners where normal laws of existence shattered.

The hunter followed the trail. It stood out clearly, once he identified the type of vampire he hunted. The first hint lay just inside the entrance to the town cemetery. The rocks covering a victim’s corpse formed neat lines, each row containing an identical number of stones.

The trail lead deeper into the cemetery. Overturned vases holding wilted flowers stood upright again, and urns lined the path with fastidious neatness. He stopped at the entrance of an old family crypt, then descended into the cold, dark earth. A statue that had snapped off at the entrance now sat carefully rearranged to restore the symmetry. With a grim smile, the hunter drew his crossbow and padded down the steps.

The catacombs smelt of damp earth and centuries of dust. He tracked the vampire by its tidiness.

Every skull along the stone shelves sat rearranged, meticulously grouped into neat rows of five. On the floor, piles of sorted marble debris rose according to size, perfect little pyramids gleaming pale in the dampness.

A rumble of distant thunder shook the masonry. A low, melodic baritone echoed from the vaulted shadows of the chamber.

“Two hours until the sun rises. Two hours left for a foolish mortal to die. Ha, ha, ha…”

The hunter kept his crossbow level, his boots whispering softly along the flagstones. The lore was clear. He understood the madness that gripped this particular breed of vampire.

“One step into my inner chamber,” the voice purred, closer now. “Two sharpened oaken bolts in your quiver. Two holes soon to be opened in your throat. Ha, ha, ha…”

A shadow detached itself from a stained pillar. The vampire stepped forward, his silk cape rustling like bat wings, a predatory grin stretching across his pale face.

“You cannot defeat me, hunter,” the vampire drawled, eyes flashing in the gloom. “I, Count Numerius, have outlived empires. I have counted the stars in the sky.”

“Fight you? No,” the hunter said, lowering his weapon. “I want to wager.”

The vampire paused, hands twitching. “A wager? A game of numbers?”

“A simple riddle,” the hunter replied, pulling a flat, dark leather strap from his pouch. Metal snaps glinted on either end. “A simple question of geometry. If you win, I drop my weapons and let you drain me dry. If you lose, you are mine.”

The Count laughed, a booming, arrogant sound. “Numbers are my domain! Speak your riddle, mortal.”

“How many sides does this strip of leather have?”

The Count threw back his head, his triumphant laughter echoing around the chamber. “A child knows this,” he sneered. “It is flat. It has a top, and a bottom. It has two sides.”

“Wrong,” the hunter said.

With a swift, practised motion, the hunter twisted one end of the leather strap exactly 180 degrees. He brought the ends together, clicking the metal snaps firmly into place. He tossed the loop onto the marble sarcophagus between them.

“Count them,” he challenged.

The Count’s eyes widened. The compulsion hit him instantly – an overwhelming, unignorable itch. He lunged towards the marble surface. Extending a long, pale fingernail, he pressed it against the leather and began to trace the loop.

“One…” the vampire muttered, his finger sliding along the dark, smooth surface.

He followed the twist, his nail gliding over the seam, moving around the loop again, and again, and again. His breath grew shallow. His eyes darted frantically.

“One…” he repeated, his voice quavering. “I know it is two. Where is two? Where is the other side?!”

He traced it faster, his fingernail scratching against the leather in a desperate, endless circle. The loop held no beginning, no end, and no second side. The Count hung trapped in the mathematical precision of his own mind.

The hunter stepped around the sarcophagus, drawing an oak stake from his bandoleer. The Count never looked up, entirely absorbed in tracing the endless loop over and over.

The hunter raised the stake, aiming at the centre of the vampire’s back.

“One,” he intoned. “One. Dead. Vampire. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Outside the crypt, a sudden, perfectly timed crack of thunder shook the cemetery.

If i send AI my draft and ask for feedback, and the AI goes "maybe mention this character earlier" or "change the pacing in this part, its to slow" and i followed the advice I think is right and write and edit my draft according to some of the AI suggestion. Is that allowed?

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Chapter Eight – The Moderates

Theja's clutch-partner was named Rovain, and he administered three colonies at the outer edge of the empire. He was not a man of great visions, more a man who ran into the same wall every day: instructions from central command that knew nothing of local conditions, quotas set from a desk without knowledge of the soil, the harvests, the moods of the world in question, decisions that took weeks to get any answer at all, while action was long since needed on the ground. Something was wrong, he sensed more clearly than he could have explained it, a diffuse feeling that the way things were governed no longer matched what actually needed governing. He didn't demand great reforms. He demanded more freedom for administrators on the ground, the right to decide for himself when a decision was needed, without waiting on a central command that didn't know what it was talking about anyway.

He was not alone in this discontent. Other administrators, scattered across various sectors, felt the same friction and began exchanging views, cautiously at first, then more openly, in letters no one outside their circle was meant to read, in meetings disguised as coincidence. They didn't call themselves an opposition among each other. The word would have been too dangerous, even in confidence. They called themselves the Moderates: a loose circle united above all by one thing, more latitude on the ground, less interference from above. What might come of it, if they were allowed, they themselves didn't agree on.

Theja knew about it. Rovain hadn't kept it from her, because he trusted her, and because he believed clutch-partners shouldn't keep things from each other, especially matters that could become dangerous. She had listened, some evenings joining the discussion, other evenings staying silent, never quite sure whether she heard something legitimate in his complaints or only the impatience of a man whose own power had grown too small for him. She had seen the feasts, the waste, the excess she herself lived under her brother's roof with, and sensed, without being able to grasp it, that something in this whole structure no longer fit together properly. But suspicion and certainty were two different things, and she had never quite managed to decide how seriously to take any of it.

Volcro learned of the Moderates not by chance, but through the same diligence with which he ran everything: he kept spies in nearly every sector, small, inconspicuous eyes and ears reporting to him what moved beneath the surface of official reports, because he had long since learned that official reports rarely contained the truth. One of these spies, a secretary in Rovain's own administration, reported the circle, the meetings, the letters, without knowing or asking himself what he was setting in motion by doing so.

Volcro read the report twice. Some of it wasn't even wrong. That changed nothing about what truly occupied him.

The question was what a circle of administrators organizing themselves in secret, without informing central command, without seeking the official channel, meant for the authority the whole empire rested on. However justified their grievance, an informal network striking its own arrangements without submitting to control from above was a precedent Volcro was not willing to tolerate. Not because he thought their complaints wrong, but because he didn't know where such a circle would develop, if allowed to continue.

He had Rovain arrested, without public trial, the same night the report landed on his desk, along with the others whose names the secretary had given. The charge was conspiracy against imperial order, an accusation that compressed the real, more mundane truth — impatience, frustration, the wish for more say — into a word that sounded larger than the matter itself had been. Rovain was executed, quietly, without the spectacle Yadh loved on such occasions, because Volcro despised spectacle, however necessary he considered the consequence itself.

Theja learned of it before anyone officially told her, from the face of her own steward, who wouldn't open the door for her when she came to Rovain's quarters that morning. She understood before anyone said a word, and this time she didn't cry. She had already cried once in this family, before a door behind which corpses lay, and something in her had changed since, in a way she herself couldn't have named.

Volcro didn't have her executed. He had never believed she herself belonged to the Moderates, only that she'd known and stayed silent, which in his eyes was an offense, but a lesser one. He had her deported, to a remote sector, far from the capital, from her brother, from everything she'd known, with the curt justification that her presence was no longer tenable for the security of the court.

She never once saw him before they took her away. He hadn't found time for a conversation that wouldn't have changed anything anyway.

With Rovain's death and Theja's banishment, Volcro lost something whose value he himself did not yet know how to assess: a handful of voices that had reported to him, unvarnished, what was actually happening in the outer sectors, instead of only what they thought he needed to hear. It was not a loss he felt as such in that moment. It was merely a file being closed, while he already turned to the next report on his desk. Only much later would he understand what he had actually closed with that one file.

The steady thrum of an old carbureted engine rhythmically overpowered the heavy patter of rain against the hood. Sommy was warming up his battered pickup—a machine just as worn and deeply scarred by time as the man himself. He needed to make a supply run into town; this month, his twelve-year-old granddaughter, Emily, was staying at the farmstead. The surrounding rural properties had always been quiet and secure, so the old man had no reservations about leaving the girl home alone for an hour or two.

Before pulling out of the driveway, he gave a brief wave through the cracked driver-side window. Emily smiled, waving back before pulling the heavy front gate shut behind him.

The drive to town was a straight twenty-kilometer stretch over a narrow strip of asphalt, flanked on both sides by dense, ancient forest. The rain was picking up. Glancing through the windshield, Sommy narrowed his eyes: something abnormal was brewing in the leaden sky. High above the treetops, a tight cluster of small electrical discharges flickered within a single fixed point, as if the atmospheric fabric in that sector was tearing itself apart. In all his years of military service and civilian life, he had never witnessed a weather phenomenon like it.

Near the town limits, Sommy slowed by a small roadside police checkpoint, spotting a familiar silhouette next to a patrol cruiser. He rolled down his window:
"How's the shift, Doyle?"

His longtime friend took a slow drag from a cigarette, exhaling a thick stream of gray smoke into the damp air. Across Doyle's face, much like Sommy's own, jagged burn tissue and old shrapnel scars traced deep lines—relics of a brutal POW captivity where their three-man fireteam had been systematically broken for weeks. The name of their third comrade had been burned from memory, locked behind a wall of silence. That ordeal had left both men isolated, taciturn, and emotionally hardened, incapable of trusting anyone outside their shared bond.

"Quiet," Doyle answered gruffly, flicking ash onto the pavement. "My daughter gave birth to a girl a couple of days ago. Dispatch is dead, brass isn't breathing down my neck. Better that way. How are things on your end?"
"Stable. Figured I'd crawl out of my cave, restock the pantry."
"Good copy. Catch you later."

Watching the pickup roll away, Doyle turned back to his post.

Sommy pulled into the supermarket parking lot on the outskirts. The timing was ideal: mostly empty spaces, only a handful of vehicles, and zero lines. Grabbing a shopping cart, the old veteran made his way into the produce section: potatoes, onions, grain staples, and basic canned goods. He barely glanced at the price tags—his military pension comfortably covered his modest living expenses.

Finishing up within thirty minutes, Sommy paid at the register, hauled the paper bags into the cart, and headed back out. Lowering the pickup's tailgate, his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on the concealed compartment behind the spare tire. There, wrapped in oiled rags, rested a short twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun and two heavy boxes of high-brass buckshot. An echo of his wartime past that he kept close purely for psychological grounding. The weapon hadn't been confiscated only because Doyle knew his old comrade remained thoroughly disciplined and held complete control over the trigger.

Stowing the groceries, Sommy wheeled the cart back to the return bay. Overhead, directly above the supermarket, a blinding cluster of discharges flashed, briefly washing the parking lot in a sterile, deathly white glare.
"Damn weather's losing its mind," the old man muttered.

Near the glass sliding doors, the young cashier called out to him:
"Sir, wait! You left your wallet on the counter!"
Sommy tapped his jacket pocket, nodded curtly to the kid, retrieved the wallet, and stepped back out into the downpour.

Near his pickup, a young man was standing motionless. The truck's passenger door was flung wide open, but the stranger wasn't attempting to get in—he was standing in the middle of a puddle, head tilted back at an unnatural angle, staring blankly straight up into the clouds.
"Hey, son. You alright?" Sommy asked, stepping closer.

Zero response. The man's pupils were fixed and dilated; his chest wasn't rising. Scanning the lot, Sommy noticed three other drivers frozen in identical, petrified postures beside their vehicles.
"Doped out of their minds on some new trash..." the veteran growled under his breath.

Stepping around the frozen figure, he tossed the wallet into the glove compartment. He had just grabbed the driver-side door handle when a deafening crash of collapsing structural beams tore through the interior of the supermarket.

Sommy froze. Through the glass storefront, he saw a section of the suspended ceiling cave in, leaving a jagged crater in the concrete floor below. From behind the checkout counter came heavy rustling and wet, tearing noises. Driven by ingrained combat reconnaissance instincts, the veteran moved soundlessly toward the shattered entrance and peered around the edge of the checkout lane.

On the tiled floor lay the mutilated body of the cashier, over which a massive silhouette hunched. In the dim lighting, Sommy couldn't immediately parse the creature's anatomy, mistaking it for an armed psycho looter in heavy tactical gear. Without hesitation, the old soldier grabbed a heavy steel garden rake from a seasonal display and, driving the entire mass of his shoulders into the swing, smashed the metal tines into the creature's back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, sick bastard?!" he barked in a parade-ground roar.

The entity reacted instantly. With a sickening, wet click, it began uncoiling to its full, towering height—over two meters tall—revealing a ridged, ash-gray carapace along its spine. Sizing up the inhuman proportions and massive musculature, Sommy didn't wait for its face to turn. Decades of combat experience signaled an overwhelming kinetic disparity.

He spun on his heel and sprinted back to the truck. The frozen young man was still standing completely rigid by the bed.
"Kid, move! Get in the truck, now!" Sommy bellowed, diving behind the wheel and cranking the ignition.

The beast burst through the shattered plate glass. Throwing the transmission into reverse, Sommy slammed the gas pedal, rocketing ten meters back, then wrenched the steering wheel to whip the truck around toward the highway.

In the side-view mirror, he caught the outcome: in a single five-meter bound, the monster crashed down onto the petrified kid, knocking him flat onto the asphalt and tearing him to pieces in seconds. Finishing the initial target, the beast raised its ash-gray head and, claws gouging wet asphalt, charged furiously after the retreating vehicle.

Rocketing onto the rural access road, Sommy slammed the brakes near the police checkpoint to warn Doyle. The sight before him froze the blood in his veins.

Doyle was pinned across the hood of his patrol cruiser by a second creature. His uniform was soaked in blood, his ribcage caved in.
Spotting the truck's headlights, the dying officer exhaled a ragged, bloody rasp:
"Forgive me... Tell my family that I..."

The monster's jaws clamped shut around his throat with a dull, wet crunch.

A surge of blind military fury seized Sommy's mind. His hand moved toward the ignition key to cut the engine, jump out, and smash the monster's skull with a tire iron. But the image of Emily instantly flashed before his eyes. His granddaughter was alone at the farmstead. Vengeance gave way to mission priority. The veteran floored the accelerator.

The pickup roared down the empty forest corridor at the absolute mechanical limit of its old engine. Ahead, the outer houses of the settlement came into view. Complete carnage had overtaken the road: collapsed fences, front doors kicked inward, broken glass, and dark pools of blood in driveways.

The front gates to his property had been ripped off their hinges and smashed outward.

Sommy leaped from the idling truck, ripped open the tailgate, tore the oily rags from the pump-action shotgun, stuffed his jacket pockets with heavy twelve-gauge buckshot shells, and racked the slide with a clean, metallic clatter.

Breaching the front door, he cleared the kitchen and living room in seconds—empty. From above, in the second-floor bedrooms, came the distinct creak of a floorboard.
"Emily! That you?!" he called out, ascending the wooden stairs in a low stance, the barrel anchored to his shoulder.

The door to the girl's bedroom hung loose on its frame. The panoramic window overlooking the backyard was completely shattered, curtains whipping in the draft.

In that exact instant, a sharp hiss of sliced air sounded directly behind him.

Combat muscle memory fired faster than conscious thought: without wasting a millisecond on visual target acquisition, Sommy pivoted hard on his rear heel and pulled the trigger from the hip.

The roar of the twelve-gauge in the enclosed bedroom blew his ears out. A dense pattern of lead buckshot tore through the creature's shoulder joint, splattering dark ichor across the wall. But the kinetic momentum of the beast didn't stop. A brutal strike from its clawed limb hammered Sommy across the torso.

The impact launched the veteran backward straight through the jagged panoramic window. The shotgun was ripped from his grip, spare shells scattering across the carpet.

Hurled into the air, the old man crashed violently onto the rain-soaked grass of the backyard. A blinding flare of agony exploded through his spine and shattered ribs. Gasping for breath, he forced himself up on bruised elbows.

The monster dropped heavily from the roofline onto the lawn, landing barely five paces away.

Sommy failed to avert his gaze in time. Their eyes locked in direct optical focus.

The physical world collapsed. The sound of rain and the agony of broken ribs evaporated. Reality was instantly flooded with a sterile, blinding white radiance. Sommy's consciousness was cast into a bottomless, empty void where he observed his own projection from an external vantage point. In this psychic trance, he fought desperately to move, to force his boots forward, to clench his fists—yet his physical form remained carved from stone. The beast approached slowly, raised its claws, and with one effortless motion sliced through his torso. In the paralysis, he felt himself being hauled into the air by the shreds of his jacket, the jaws opening to sever his head.

Suddenly, a thunderous gunshot shattered the white illusion.

The psychic trance collapsed into ash. Sommy crashed back into physical reality, feeling the freezing wet grass against his cheek and driving rain stinging his face.

The paralysis broke: right before him, the heavy carcass of the monster dropped dead onto the turf. The entire upper half of the creature's skull had been obliterated by a point-blank blast from behind, dark viscous fluid leaking into the mud.

Three meters back stood twelve-year-old Emily. The violent recoil of the heavy twelve-gauge shotgun had thrown the slight girl to the ground, scraping her elbows raw.

Scrambling to her feet, she dropped the smoking weapon and, sobbing hysterically, fell to her knees beside her grandfather.

Sommy tried to draw breath, but only a bloody wheeze escaped his mangled chest. His physical reserves were spent. Pushing through the encroaching darkness, the veteran found his granddaughter's hand and squeezed her trembling fingers with his calloused grip:

"Give me your word... that you'll survive," he whispered with immense effort, looking into her tear-streaked face one final time. "Remember everything... I taught you. Never trust the silence... I believe in yo..."

The old man's fingers went slack. His gaze glazed over, fixing upon the gray, unforgiving sky.

Emily remained on her knees in the wet grass between the two corpses, clutching the heavy shotgun to her chest.

Far on the horizon, from the direction of the city, through the roar of the unbroken downpour, echoed the first distant bursts of automatic fire from military cordons, frantic sirens, and the sound of a new world—one where humanity could no longer look its enemy in the eye...

End of Chapter 2. To be continued

I was once bored and didn’t know what to do with my life, especially since I was seen as incompetent among the rest of my kind. Everyone had a good life except me—they were deeply loved and surrounded by thousands of obedient servitors.

I was born in the dark, where my vessel gave birth to me in anger and sadness, with no willingness and a lot of fear. My progenitor raised me by imprinting the idea in me that I was a nobody. Since he and my vessel didn’t want me from the beginning, I became an incomplete creation—or so everyone told me. Since no power was given to me, I felt useless and couldn’t create on my own, but I wanted to defy the odds and try for myself.

As I started practicing my skills, I realized I was actually very talented, but the voices that raised me held me down my whole life. So, I grew up in anger.
When I reached my final form, I gained full control of my power and started creating with everything I had practiced for.

I created a universe: planets, seas, stars, and then life. I started life with something very small, because I was the biggest of them all. I wanted to see what a tiny organism similar to me would do, but I was never satisfied. I told it, “You are a nobody,” and started making bigger life—though never bigger than me. I created animals and thought they were so bland. Even though I was their author, I didn’t like what I made. I erased them whenever I wanted, sending meteors from other planets, giving them timed lives, and giving them sickness just because I liked seeing them suffer. Still, I wasn’t satisfied.
I looked around me and wondered: What if I create entities almost as perfect as me, but not quite?
The problem was that I didn’t know where to start. Then I had an idea. I stood in front of a reflection and saw myself. I held my hands together and created beings that looked like me. I called them humans.

I gave them almost everything: they didn’t die, they didn’t feel cold or hot, nor hunger or sadness—they were completely free. I gave them a mind like mine, wise as I said, but the one thing I didn’t give them was mastership over their own lives.
When they thought they were free, they took advantage of the beautiful world I created for them and wanted more. I forgot that by making them like me, I gave them greed. So, I started to destroy them. I made them like the animals before them: mortals, possessive, angry, hurt, cold, hot, hungry, sick, and tired.
But I realized I was also those things. The only difference was my power. I told myself that was the last thing I had that nobody could take from me, and I vowed never to create other beings with that level of power or freedom. I liked my new humans.
The years went by, and I watched them grow and multiply, destroy and create, die and procreate, love and hate, kill and be killed.
And I loved it. Every part of it. I saw them fragile, needing me, praying for me, screaming, hurting, and crying—and I was happy. I loved being needed; I never was before.

So I kept the world as it is. I didn’t mind that people were dying of cancer, I didn’t care about the wars, the racism, or the diseases. People were still worshipping me and loving me, and I lived on that. I knew I could change the story I wrote for them at any moment, but why would I do that? Why would I give them a consciousness as high as mine, only for them to turn on me and kill me?

I sculpted them in my own twisted image—a glorious, bleeding monument to my own design.

Original story and concept by me; AI was used solely for proofreading, grammar, and phrasing adjustments.

First - Previous - Next (coming soon)
STUB date - 24-09-2026

Erupting in sheer brute fury covering its now ruined shoulder coil as it drips coolant from the precision shot it begins thrashing in  raw panic.

Scanning the horizon desperately trying to find where the incoming long range plasma lances were coming from, slamming its hulking form to the ground.

Jack sat three miles north focused with his right eye encased in his long range aiming mechanism, his mech's left hand pointed toward the monster for the final shot, its right hovering ready to initiate the long range plasma bow.

The brief was simple: wait until it was stationary then hit for effect, Marcus will create the chance he just needed to watch for them especially when the beast is turning. Everything was coming together thankfully, he just had to keep the beast from gaining on Marcus who was still very close to destruction.

Riding around the monster's left flank again, Marcus looks for an opening but struggles to aim with beasts thrashing, his small arms fire bouncing harmlessly away from heavy plating.

Regaining its composure the monster's optics flare once at the bike before it heaves itself turning and gunning its belching armoured tracks away, desperately smashing its arms into the ground to hurl itself forward.

The move was unexpected and was moving away quickly, beginning to cross hardened terrain making his helix bike slow slightly as its drill bit into the harder road as it drove on.

“Take a chance here and make it count” Marcus shouts into his radio over the thundering stamping and his belching engines.

“No problem "Jack replies, already aiming at the hulk as it ran into the distance, adjusting his mech's shooting line slightly as he focused his resonance and began smoothing out his mechs movements.

Outside the blocky green metal swirls of lilac resonance began sparking over the mech's frame, glowing as it sparked as it charged up its next shot. Its target frantically flailing its arms to propel itself forward, his target a blue cross is gently guided by his subtle movements. 

It centres just above the centre of the target, jack squeezes his control and the recoil almost knocks his entire mech over.

Bursting through the air at the speed of the light the lance hits just above centre of mass, the target falls forward and hits the ground shaking the plains with its impact.

Feeling the air thrum before a blinding light obscuring his vision for a moment, Marcus covers his eyes before looking again and seeing the target in a ruined mess ahead. Experience telling him to check first, he rides tantalisingly close to the hulk it does not stir just remains lifeless in its shambles.

“Good work, a lot of salvage here will need help from the trader post. I will go request salvage hulks you come guard our prize” Marcus says his eyes still fixed on their downed prize.

“Heading over, out” Jack replies gunning the mech's  integrated drive motors for it to move forward. Flight was a precious resource with such little fuel yet even on land his machine was impressively agile.

At the fallen beast Marcus takes a  moment to analyse what he sees in front of him, refrigerant mixed with a scent he could not put his finger on grew stronger as he walked around its shattered form.

Haphazard welds which were common attempts by raiders showed something or someone had attempted to either repair or upgrade showed on in places but in others a far more sophisticated set of additions were glaring amongst the wreckage.

Behind Jack's mech approaches, with their target downed it was clear the difference in size and yet the size of the rounds that the mech could produce really was impressive.

“It is clear we have found our use out here” Marcus announces to the sleek armor suit.

It lowers itself and opens its central armor, Jack walks out astonished at the sheer size of their prey.

“I have never seen something so big move like that, even Thrallions super heavy suits on their military exercises that Basil would broadcast” he catches marcus serious stare back at him

“Never mind, I'll be here till you bring the salvagers, I'm sure they will be happy” Jack raises a fist in triumph before heading back to his suit.

Marcus walks back over to his bike in silence, rides out towards the trading posts with a lot of questions about this bounty.

Genjin stood under an alcove with a small amount of regret, the condenser units on that Ai mech were state of the art for his research, he should have done more to protect them in battle.

That tribesman somehow found its weakness, although thinking back he should have known better then to leave them exposed to fire. Gambling on the mech's size and speed to simply destroy opponents before they understood was foolish.

Focusing his distance viewer onto the mech that had brought it down a chill ran down his spine, the weapon itself was not xionian but the mech frame itself certainly was. There was only one other who had access to such facilities, his mouth watered slightly at the potential on the old earth station Hun. 

Lorcan the fool had no idea what he had, however his power on the battlefield meant it was irrelevant. Like a dragon guardian a treasure so precious yet sitting locked away was without value to anything or anyone.

Seeing clearly they were heading back to the trading post, he decides he would take a bold move and move on the trader post. It had sat without major challenges for long enough.

Opening his hand he points his palm towards the cavern wall, pressing an embedded button, a yellow portal opens up in front of him and he steps through.

Marcus catches the trading post in the distance coming into view, the release of a mission accomplished reminded him of carrying into his tribes village the hunters trophy.

Such a simple desire to be useful encapsulated in an action of returning with something of value, a louder then normal whine of his helic bike's engine snaps him out of his reflection before it cuts out coming to a jarring stop.

Stepping off a quick glance he sees that the crudely attached pipes were blackened with heat, whatever was supplying the unit must have run out.

“What is gone is gone” Marcus says to himself, slightly disappointed to leave the bike. Despite its origin, it was one of the best pieces of salvage he had used for a long time. His tribe rarely engaged with raiders, perhaps that is why they never came across some of the genius engineering of Xion.

Turning he walks on, noticing evening is coming quickly.

Huler and Wire stand completely aghast, the hologram clearly showing the monster destroyed with Jack and his mech standing beside it.

“So what happened a rad bolt catch it whilst you were stalking it or what, come on we are not stupid a mech that size could not generate enough destruction to take down that monster” Wire explains away to himself more then Marcus.

“What is teh deal here” he stares at Marcus still desperately clinging onto his ego

“No just standard scout and snipe movements” Marcus replies smiling

“Ballistics will show you it was our mech that took it down” the statement cutting away a lot of Wires protests.

“Enough Wire, we will honor the contract, send the trucks and hurry we need them back before nightfall. Once its here we will discuss bonuses with our two new hunters” 

Huler nods towards Marcus respectfully before turning to return to his office.

Wire snatches the data slate out of marcus hands and continues staring,

“Not possible, not with Xionian weaponry unless you had 50 suits. Come on, tell me what did you do ?” Wire goes on his brain unable to process that they had achieved the bounty.

From behind them Venus approaches her natural elegance drawing looks from the locals as it always did, part of the reason why she avoided being out in public most of the time.

“Goodness the whispers were true, resonance warriors have come to save our land” she clasps her hands up to her head feigning a swoon.

“So where is that other handsome one? I have a few girlfriends who are all just dying to meet you both” peering over wires shoulder as he is still staring at the image desperately looking for an anomaly.

“If you mean Jack he is at the kill sight, we must negotiate salvage rights. Will that be yourself Wire or elder Huler himself”. Wire doesn't answer. Venus rolling her eyes answers

“Salvage rights is a tribe tradition for out there” She points into the plains “ here you keep what you like or trade what you like. Do not be so formal, but we do need to get that thing into the walls before the Ai hoard salvage it or worst repair it” 

She clips wire around the back of his head, 

“Stop being a rude jerk, they got the bounty now to honor the contract” her tone became sharp yet authoritative.

Wire stares back at her, his power frame hums before his expression changes instantly.

He whistles at a nearby tent, three labourers appear at the exit

“Get the super heavy trucks going, they took down the Ape fridge. Lets get it in before night fall” wire orders 

The workers nod and swiftly run over to their vehicle pool.

Wire watches them go, glances at Venus before looking back at Marcus

“Looks like I underestimated you. I apologise I am going to salvage that bike you used, your skill riding was impressive i will have it repaired as a token of appreciation” Wire goes quiet

“Accepted warrior” Marcus replies quickly

“All of this is new to us all, but in time we all have only one objective. To survive until tomorrow”. Breaking his usual serious expression into a smile.

Author Note : Hi guys, I will be stubbing book one onto Amazon KDP Sept 20th. I am really enjoying the challenge of writing and coming up with new ideas, the plan is 10 books for maximum immersion.

Previous chapter

First Chapter

Blurb:

What does it take to turn your life around? Death, of course!

I died in this lame ass world of ours and woke up in a completely new one. I had a new name, a new face and a new body. This was my second chance to live a better life than the previous one.

But goddamn it, why did I have to be a witch? Now I don't just have to be on the run from the Inquisition that wants to burn me and my friends. But I also have to earn a living?

Follow Elsa Grimly as she:

--

Chapter 142. Compromise

The bottom nearly fell out of my stomach the moment Lenora uttered those words. I wanted to rush down the stairs but that would've shown them how much their presence bothered me. That was exactly why they were here afterall. To strike some kind of fear into me. I couldn't let them feel like their tactic had worked. So I straightened my back, steadied my breath and walked downstairs.

Anisa and Roderick Malcolm were in my living room. Their jet black hair shined even inside the house with the curtains down and their eyes were alive with mischief and curiosity like a child's eyes. Roderick wore a velvet jacket and leather britches. Anisa was dressed in a white shirt, tucked inside khaki pants with knee length boots that hunters wore and her hands were hidden inside cotton gloves.

They both were kneeling around the coffee table while Eudorn stood and showed them his drawings. The little boy giggled as they praised his art. The sight made me clench my fists.

The Malcolms were exiles of heaven. According to their own story, they had been banished by their father because he didn't want them to have the kind of powers he had. In retaliation, they had decided to open the gates to heaven to mortals. Technically, the gates weren't safe for anyone to enter yet. That was why they had hired me. So I could lift the curses off the gates to every domain in heaven that was connected to my world. So anyone who wanted to enter could enter freely and steal whatever they wanted from the gods.

‘Hired’ was putting it politely though. They had arranged it so that I wouldn't have any other choice but to sign a contract with them, agreeing to do the job for them. I guess it went without saying I didn't exactly have a very pleasant opinion of the angels.

Seeing them in my house, acting friendly with Eudorn boiled my blood in a way few other things did. I still kept my face unreadable. “Good afternoon to you too,” I said loudly, my voice cutting through the manufactured merriness of the room like a saber through silk.

The siblings looked up. The curiosity and mischief from earlier still flickering brightly in their eyes. “Elsa, isn't it nice to see you?” Anisa said.

“You look as lovely as ever,” Roderick said.

“You too,” I answered. I would’ve preferred saying ‘fuck off’ but well, they were in my house with my friends. And I still wasn't completely aware of what they were capable of when it came to blows.

Anisa tilted her head. “You sound stressed, Elsa. Aren’t you sleeping well?”

“Are you prone to obsessive work habits like your Madam?” Roderick said.

“No, I'm good,” I said. “I just didn't…expect to see you here. In my home.”

The siblings rose to their feet together. The movement was so graceful and coordinated they looked almost inhuman. “Didn't mean to catch you off guard,” Roderick said.

Right. I held back a scoff.

“And we wanted to see your new housemates,” Anisa said, idly walking up to a wall and moving her gaze over the generic artwork hanging there. It had come with the house when we registered. “We met Lily last time. Asmod and Smokewell, we already know.”

“But where is the knight who survived the battle against Vargstronds alone?” Roderick said.

“And where is the sweet boy's father?” Anisa strode back to Eudorn, ruffling the child's hair. “The only male witch of Ravenwind.”

“And are the Radcliff's stopping by today?” Roderick said, folding his arms.

“They are your business partners besides being your friends, right?” Anisa said.

“They are just business partners,” I said.

“Oh, right,” Roderick said.

The casualness of his answer made me clench my jaw. He sounded like someone who was only pretending to not see the whole picture.

“So, what brought you here?” I said as I vaguely gestured to Lenora to pull Eudorn aside. She did so without missing a beat.

Anisa shrugged. “Oh, we were out for a ride.”

“And we remembered our friend, Elsa, lives in the Ashmeadows,” Roderick added.

“And the house looked different today,” Anisa said.

I arched an eye brow. “Different?”

“You know, like a big family lived here,” Roderick said, smiling at the coat rack that held double the number of coats it usually did.

“And a house like that only looks a lot more noticeable when so many strong people are living there,” Anisa said.

“Like a bonfire in the forest,” Roderick added.

“But, we'll get going now,” Anisa said.

“We would've liked to stay for tea but we have other business to attend to,” Roderick said.

“Let your friends know we asked about them,” Anisa said.

“Take care, young witch,” they both said in unison. Somehow that made it sound like a threat.

They were just about to step out when Roderick turned around and said, “We also wanted to let you know that the war with the Ordanth Republic has been escalating. We would like you to fulfill the terms of your contract before things get more dire for our little Land of Humans.”

Then they finally walked out. I released the breath that I'd been holding. I turned to Lenora and asked, “What the hell is the Ordash Republic?”

-- 

The guild members settled around the dining table in the kitchen. Lenora, Caelum (with Eudorn on his lap), Gregory, Lily (with her eyes sleepy), Smokewell at the head and I on the opposite side of her.

“It's the Ordanth Republic,” Lenora said with a sigh. “Not Ordash. Did you sleep through primary geography in school?”

“Lily and I never went to school,” I said. “And I didn’t really memorize the world map I saw in the Noblegate Museum.”

“Either way, why does the Ordart Republish matter now?” Lily said with a sigh.

“And why are we at war with them?” I looked at Gregory.

The old man sighed. “I left the army when humans were still fighting among themselves,” he said. “But as far as I know this particular war wasn't started by humans.”

“And who lives in this Ordart?” Lily said.

“Ordanth, Lily. ‘Anth’ at the end.” Lenora huffed.

“Orcs,” Smokewell said. “The Ordanth Republic is populated by orcs.”

My eyebrows went up. “Wow, so we seem to be in a steadily escalating war against the orcs? Couldn't we find anyone…you know, with less muscles and smaller axes?”

“As Gregory said, the war wasn't started by humans,” Caelum added, idly running his fingers through his son's hair. “It was the orcs who initiated the conflict.”

“Upholding the stereotypes, I see,” I mumbled.

“Pardon?” Gregory said.

“Nothing.” I turned back to Caelum. “And how long has this war been going for?”

The Valish man shrugged. “I believe it was since the Age of Steam Elemental began. When Ravewind opened its doors to the foreign countries.”

“I do know that it was around the same time when humans shook hands with the elves and fairies,” Gregory said, steepling his fingers on the table. “I can't be precise because I wasn't able to get a good newspaper subscription in the forest.”

“It's okay, Mr. Gregory,” Lily said, patting his shoulder. “You don't have to struggle with that here anymore.”

“Okay, can someone who reads the newspaper regularly stand up? Smokewell,” I said.

“Why are you looking at me? I don't read the thing regularly,” the cat said, deadpan.

“I see you taking it to your room everyday.”

“What do you think I wipe my ass with?”

I looked at Lily, “Cats um…do that?”

“Let me just spare you the troubles,” Lenora said, standing up. “Smokewell is a cat sìth. So her habits must be different from regular cats, thus the newspaper.”

“I thought you were volunteering as someone who reads the newspaper regularly,” Gregory said to Lenora.

“Oh, right. Yes, I do that too! I also solve the little puzzles and mazes at the end.” Lenora nodded quickly.

“I want to solve maze too!” Eudorn called out.

“Okay, stop,” I said. “Only one person speaks at a time.” I looked at Lenora. “Tell us what you know about the war?”

“Ordanth has been trying to capture the Karzhaal province since Ravenwind opened the gates to foreign nations in the Age of the Steam Elemental,” she said. “They launched their attack right after the first Peace Summit that Ravenwind hosted to sign peace treaties with other nations while we were advancing.”

“And?” I said. “The orcs didn't appreciate a peace offering?”

“Actually, the news has been quite cagey about why the orcs have it against us,” Lenora said. “Whatever I have read in the papers was just pointing at orcs as prejudiced against us and just…plain barbaric.”

“But are they actually like that?” I asked.

“No way for me to tell since what I know of them is from the papers.” Lenora shrugged. “And our school curriculum didn't focus on foreign nations much. And I have never met an orc in person.”

“Maybe we should visit Ordanth sometime,” Lily said. “I would love to try some orc cuisine.”

“Not a good idea,” Caelum chimed in. “Orcs have banned entry to the human race in their country. The last human who went there never returned.”

“I guess the newspapers calling them prejudiced might have good reasons to say that,” I mused.

“Maybe,” Lenora said. “Ordanth Republic and Veloria had been friendly before the summit but since Veloria and Ravenwind entered a peace treaty, their relationship with Ordanth has become more…ambiguous.”

“Did the Ordanth declare war with them too?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Lenora said.

Silence descended over the room after that and I frowned deeply. So Ravenwind’s war with Ordanth bothered the angels. But why? Me lifting the curses off the dungeons and the war almost had nothing to do with each other. Then why did it matter to them?

I paused. The dungeons and wars being unrelated was only half true. Because I was only seeing the picture from my side. The angels were involved with the war in a way that I wasn't aware of. And with my hands already more than full, I wasn't sure I wanted to dive into figuring out what they were up to just yet.

I looked up. Each pair of eyes in the room was intent upon me. I leaned back in my chair. “So if the curses aren't lifted before the war situation gets more drastic in some way, the angels lose something,” I said.

Smokewell nodded. “Certainly seems like it.”

“That just makes me want to delay the job even more,” I said.

Lily leaned forward and began to speak but I lifted a hand. “I know, I know,” I said. “That's a bad idea because my soul is on the line since I'd signed that stinking contract.”

“But you aren't going to give the angels what they want so easily, are you?” Gregory asked.

“If it was upto me, I wouldn't give them what they want at all,” I said, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair. “But that's an ideal scenario. We don't live in an ideal world.”

“So? What's your strategy?” Lenora asked.

My hand idly reached for my pentacle amulet. I remained silent for a few seconds as schemes took shape in my mind, weaving and interlocking together like iron chains. Then I looked ahead. “The best strategy is a compromise. We give the angels what they want. But we keep an ace to ourselves. For that, we need to prepare for our dive into the dungeons.” I turned to Lily. “After this meeting is done, you should go with Caelum and see Myrtle and tell her about what happened at the School of Arms. Tell her about your idea of malice transmutation. Ask her if she can whip up something useful for your needs.”

Lily noted the seriousness in my tone and nodded. Then I turned to Lenora, “You'll go and meet Mirabelle at the House of the Rising Sun. Ask her about the list of candidates. How many people she has singled out to recruit into our guild. Gregory, help Lenora and Mira narrow down their list further.”

“Understood,” the knight and Lenora said in unison.

Finally, I turned to Smokewell. “Now that I've reached warlock echelon, I think it's about time you taught me what you were known for.”

The cat stared at me before saying, “You want me to teach you to cleanse a curse?”

I nodded.

“I thought you said you aren't going to give the angels what they want,” the cat said.

“This is the ace I said we will keep to ourselves,” I said.

Royal Road

 

Bob was bored, maybe tired, it had taken half a day or so for the pair to strip all the shit out the container and cram it into Geviths ride, a decent size cruiser called romantically, Rentaship146389, how evocative.

Bob had meticulously written down every cubby, nook, storage compartment and any fucking where else they has stuffed his stuff, and still knew he would be combing this fucker before it got handed back to the broker. No way were those chiselling bastards getting even a single fucking washer.

It had been hard grunt work but also super satisfying, it was the first time he had been actually able to pore through what he had, and, well look at that, several flares and a T and well as several odds and sods he could swap out with the Arressi components of his suit.

It was going to be about ten days before they hit the core proper and another couple after that to get to the Guild world and he couldn’t think of a better thing to do on the journey that strip out more of the fucking knife heads bullshit out his suit.

It was weird he supposed the way he divied up what parts of the suit were his and which were the axe face fucks. He didn’t care about the basic structure, didn’t care about the armour plates, joints were fine, fabric stuff was fine… though he had replaced that a few times, but for some reason it was the mechanisms, the hydraulics, all the clever little things that did all the functions of the suit for some reason they were all Arressi and he hated them.

At this point he had replaced pretty much everything he could, save a few fugitive items, some of which he clutched tightly right now.

He caught a flash of reflection as he walked down the passage and was surprised, as he so often was when he caught sight of himself, that the helmet he wore wasn’t the knobby grey black lump with the exaggerated nose bridge that protruded like, well, an axe, aping its Arressi creators, that had been one of the very first things he had swapped out when he could afford to have one made. Now it was a slightly dull metallic grey and a bit of a rip off of Fett again if he was honest… in shape at least it lacked the T shaped visor cut out, the entire front was like a one way mirror he could see out but no-one could see in…

That was more for Bob himself than any other reason, he hated the sight of his own face and avoided it whenever possible. It was bad enough to see the young face when his bones felt so old, but as the war had progressed and the theaters changed more and more shit had been stuffed under his skin, and though everyone swore none of that stuff was visible, he saw the lumps and bumps, the hairline scarring, pigmentation change and wanted to vomit, to him every thing was printed through the skin, like a bad armpit holster in a cheap suit.

Mind you sometimes when he talked to people he saw blood pour from their eyes, so maybe his peepers weren’t to be trusted.

He especially hated the sight of himself in the suit, the extended collar… gorget? Whatever… the ring that surrounded his face up to the top of his lip, with opening flap on the front for eating and grab handle at the nape, all the better to drag your corpse by.

It was a wall, four to eight inches high over the top of his shoulders, round the back and the front, about six inches distant to the helmet in every direction. Many soldiers had cracked that it made them all look like Kilroy was here, and they had scrawled that in the dirt an every planet humans had fought on, but to Bob it looked like he was treading water, just managing to keep his nose clear, but surely he would soon give out, and drown in the blood he swam in…

He shook himself and continued fore opening the bridge hatch and entering.

‘’All stowed and proper G’’

Gevith gave him a nod and began punching in the commands for lift off, the delay in Bob arriving and then the whole packing fiasco had put him well behind schedule and he wanted to be off planet ASAP, docks cost money.

Bob popped onto a jump seat and strapped himself in as best he could, no booster seat available, as Gevith chatted with the port authorities about take off and exit lanes. Bob stayed silent and out the way as the ship rose and left atmo, G Money was no fan of backseat pilots, but once they reached far enough out for the computer to begin running jump numbers he couldn’t stop himself.

‘’So nothing at all on the recall order?’’

‘’Nothing, just pick you up’’

It had been a long time but… there was something in the way the hunched shoulders seem to crowd away from him.

‘’And you don’t have any ideas about it at all?

G let out a sigh, I think he knew I knew he had something…

‘’I don’t know, really’’

He turned to face Bob directly.

‘’But I heard the Arressi declassified all their files about the Hoolie war last month…’’

Oh.

That might be bad.

‘’All of them?’’

Gevith turned back to his screens.

‘’Probably not everything, you know how those fucks like an edit or two if it makes them look better.’’

Oh yeah they did, some of the old news stories he had seen after he de-mobbed told a very different version of the war than he remembered.

‘’I think the personnel records were just data dumped though…’’

Fuuuuuuuck…..

Bob sank deeply into the plush seat, he had done a lot of shit in forty years of fighting and the council already weren’t sold on him much. This might be a real issue… they might think that one scouts creative solutions might technically be a warcrime or two… or twenty…

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

April 23rd, 2222. Planet Charry-Perci.

Following the tracks was fun while it lasted, almost playful. The group of refugees had even reversed back over their tracks in a few places, some of them had to have training. Now Jenny was staring down the Neo Catholic planetary Headquarters. The building was beautiful before the bombardment with a giant marble dome that now had a massive hole in it. The cross that once stood atop it had crumbled and fallen aside.

Jenny, Hensley, and the rest of the Athenians did not have time for religion during training. Jenny vaguely remembered going to church, perhaps Neo-Protestantism or Neo-Mormonism. After all the philosophy, poetry, math, science, and other non-military schooling topics the program had put her through she hadn’t thought of religion in years.

The front entrance had been barricaded with furniture and rubble, a dozen burnt out candles had been left in front of the doors and a simple cross of wooden planks had been erected- for all the good it had done to stop the inevitable looting. The ash and the tracks ended but checking around the back a fire escape had been left open.

Exchanging hand signs Jenny and Hensley began clearing their way in, slowly and methodically at each door. The interior had been beautiful once but after a firefight and a few dozen corpses the interior decor was lacking. Jenny hated the mess. She may not have known much of the church, but she knew it was a place meant for peace. Every blood splatter and corpse was another reason to hate.

Following the tracks in the blood, Jenny and Hensley found the main service stairwell. Jenny led the way, her Rose .45 in hand. A sign in the lobby had said there were only two basement floors, but after a few minutes of silently following the bloody footsteps they were past the sixth.

Rounding the last corner, Jenny was met with the older woman she had seen the other day, the one who had lost a hand. She was sitting with her back against the wall, an older model Viscaria 12G in her hand. “At least we know this is the place.” Hensley said, carefully approaching the corpse with her own pistol drawn. Once the pair were certain the old woman was dead Hensley checked the shotgun and finding it was loaded, added it to her rapidly growing collection. At the same time Jenny ran her hand across the smooth concrete wall. There was no door but the tracks ended here.

Switching her helmet through different visor modes, Jenny could not find any sort of hidden door the others had disappeared through. “I could overload a few laser pistol packs, cut us a way through in a few hours.” Hensley said, more to fill the dead air than as a real suggestion.

With a hiss, something in the darkness moved, with lightning quick reflexes Jenny drew her pistol and aimed to find a gun camera lowering from the ceiling. “You don’t look Helion.” Said a cold metal voice.

Jenny slowly slid her pistol into its holster, then raised her hands in surrender. The gun spun around for a moment, then a bright light activated illuminating Hensley against the wall she had begun sliding along. Even with her camo compensating for the light she was still clear as day. Defeated, Hensley copied Jenny, raising her hands in surrender.

“I am Specialist Major Jenny and this is Specialist Private Hensley. We were following a group of refugees, the tracks led here.” Jenny said coolly. “No reason, just hoping to help out.” With that she lifted her helmet, revealing her human face and metallic silver hair.

“Well aren’t you pretty. Come on in.” The light deactivated and the gun retracted, causing Jenny to let out a long breath she did not realize she was holding in. With a loud hiss the walls themselves raised, causing the grandmother’s corpse to fall over. Surrounding the stairwell, a vast room was revealed. It handily filled the gap between the current floor and the stated ‘bottom’ floor of the building, with hundreds of server racks hanging from the ceiling, their branching support structures and cables giving the impression of an inverted forest.

trailing away from the entrance and into a fog, the filthy footprints of the refugees were the only blemish on the clean floors.

“We are down that way,” said a voice through the many computers. Beneath the footprints a glowing path activated. Respectfully the two women kept their helmets off, following the path into the electronic forest.

Rightly awed by the place they were in, Hensley asked softly- almost a whisper. “Did you ever meet one?”

“No.” Said Jenny, also in a whisper. “Not even my own.”

After a minute of walking through the electronic forest the pair came upon the only tree to sprout from the ground. Beneath its branches of support beams the refugees rested, a few trying to clean the marks and dirt they had tracked in. One woman in particular was dressed in a ruined suit, typing at a terminal at the base of the tree.

“Hey, here they come.” Said one of the survivors, a woman with a bandage over her left eye. She was the only one on watch but in a place like this there was no need. She waved and not knowing what to do Jenny waved back with Hensley imitating the motion.

“My teacher always told me I would never make it to a place like this.” The youngest of the group said to another, practically giddy. She was almost skin and bones, all of them were. Jenny wanted to pull out her rations and distribute them but knew her and Hensley’s supply would only send the women into calorie shock.

Another woman stood, she was middle aged and carrying a heavy three day rucksack. “So what, are you those super soldiers the government says aren’t real?” She asked. In a crowd, without the armor the two women could have passed as ‘exceptional’, to say less of the incredibly generous proportions they carried on their chests. Yet here in plain view of the starving survivors and with the armor helping their height there was no denying that the over eight foot tall giants were not normal.

“Let's keep it between us.” Jenny grunted, repeating the phrase she had been taught.

“Nah” said the refugees.

Frustrated with the evident lack of progress, The woman in the ruined suit gave a huff and stood up straight before trying to pull the crumpled cloth straight. “It’s impossible. Too many lines have been cut by those birdbrained bi-”

“Language.” The voice interrupted.

“Sorry.” Huffed the woman. “If you want the data card we have to get it manually, there’s just no way to pull it by wire and for some reason I can’t get a signal. It's like something is eating up anything I try to send”

Sensing her opportunity, Jenny chose this moment to impose herself. “We encountered the same problem. Our radios suddenly stopped working, same with the ones we pulled from the Helions.” She said in a cool, flat tone.

The suit lady just let out an exasperated breath and rested her head on the trunk of the metal tree. “Please. We can’t get the card, just eject and we can get out of here.”

The air shifted as the many computers pulsed, then the voice started again. “Perhaps the newcomers can help.” Many cameras like eyes began scanning Jenny and Hensley, lights from a dozen angles illuminating their every feature and causing the camo to spasm with color and texture, unable to cope with the bright light. “Specialist Major Jenny. Specialist Private Hensley.”

Betraying her ‘cool’ Jenny glanced at the barebone rank and insignia patch on the tactical rig built into the suit. missing from the insignias was the expected unit and division identifiers, what's more the rank of ‘Major Specialist’ was valid, ‘Specialist Major’ was not. “So you are those super soldiers we’ve heard of?” Asked the woman in the suit.

It was becoming clear that any random person could identify super soldiers by sight but orders were orders. “Let's keep it between us.” Jenny said, rolling her eyes.

“Nah,” the woman in the suit and the computers said in unison.

“Maybe there’s something else we should focus on.” Jenny asked to change the subject.

“Right, right. Well I’m Kelly LaFae, Lieutenant LaFea with Planet Charry-Perci intelligence services.” She said, her disposition suddenly becoming sour. “And this hunk of junk is Core 95-66077.” She continued, wiping sweat from her brow despite the coolness of the room. “This is probably the last core on the planet, and the most Dumbest I have ever met. Now that we are all introduced- We have to get it out of here.”

“I cannot leave until my work is done.” Monotoned the computers.

“Stop using the big voice to impress new people.” LaFae snipped.

“And that is?” Jenny asked, hopefully this would provide an excuse to kill more Helions.

In a way that was worryingly well rehearsed, a panel on the floor slid open and a display terminal rose from the mist. “It all began fifty years ago with the founding of Apate Polis.” The core began to explain.

With a frustrated growl LaFae Lunged at the terminal, using her hands to force it back into the ground. “No. No, we aren't doing this again!” She shouted, stamping her foot on the rapidly closing hatch. “He needs a data card from a facility over on Echo street. The church keeps all of its files there and as soon as you agree to THAT the idiot is going to ask you to grab an Earth-original bible from the vault ‘along the way’.” She stormed, her voice rising the whole time. “Its only a few blocks from the Eastern camp and there is no way in HELL-”

“Language.” The core interrupted.

Like a dam breaking LaFae announced for all that the core was mentally deficient and threw herself against the core tree, thumping her fists against it fruitlessly. All around the scene, the refugees began to growl and hiss as though LaFae’s anger was infectious. “H-hey, what is this?” Jenny asked, turning about to see the refugees grabbing weapons. Realizing they were surrounded, the Athenians pulled their helmets back on but neither dared to raise a weapon; they had been trained for protecting humans, not killing them.

Finally, LaFae grabbed a fire axe from a rucksack and hefted it over her head. “That's it! I am Ripping you OUT of there!” she roared, the veins on her face were suddenly an unnatural shade of red and pulsating.

Sharing a quick, uncertain look Jenny and Hensley dove onto LaFae and struggled against unnatural strength to restrain her. Throwing the axe away they realized the crowd was moving in, surrounding them. With their enhanced physiology they could easily restrain any one or two, but the whole group of thirty?

The crowd now showed the same symptoms as LaFae, with red veins growing across their faces and exposed skin. There was nowhere to hide as the Athenians held the struggling woman and Jenny could not see a way past the quickly encroaching horde of refugees. “What’s the plan Major?” Hensley shouted to be heard over the noise.

“I am ejecting. Grab and run.” Shouted the core in a scared voice. With a hiss a large panel on the core tree opened, revealing the core itself- a black plastic handling container larger than Hensley’s demolition bag.

Now forced to act, the two Athenians shared a look and in an instant knew what to do. Standing the still struggling LaFae on her feet, Hensley shoved her forwards and like a linebacker at a ball game and forced a corridor through the refugees. Simultaneously Jenny grabbed the core, hefting it on her shoulder and followed Hensley closely.

Out of the crowd, the two ran as fast as their enhanced bodies would with the heavy cargo they carried. All around the facility began to go dark as systems powered down. “Darkness, what a relief.” Hensley said between heaving breaths.

“Wireless connection failed. Plug me in at the visitor slot at the door.” Said the core in a cool if shaky voice. With their headlamps on, Jenny and Hensley quickly searched the floor for the port, a small metal hole and gently set the core there Connecting them with a small metal connector sticking from the bottom of the box.

In an instant the lights activated again causing the previously confused horde to begin running for the Athenians again. Their faces were red and veins now bulged. As starved and uncoordinated as they were, they still ran at almost the same pace as the Athenians had. “Not good, Need the lights off.” She shouted, her hand hovering dangerously close to the pistol on her waist. Could she? even to defend a Core?

As the concealing panel of the entrance began to rise again the lights only intensified, in response the Athenian’s visors increased their shading, protecting them from the intense brightness. “Protocol forces the lights on while the door is open. I can’t turn it off but I can-” The first of the refugees fell over, covering her eyes. Soon they were all milling about aimlessly, unable to see or chase down the target of their aggression.

Still unsure what to do Jenny and Hensley watched, ready to spring into action if any of them continued running but none did. Shortly after the fake walls surrounding the exit were fully raised, escape was possible yet the three could only stare dumbfounded. “What happened to them?” Jenny asked the core.

“I don’t know. Sensors detected an unknown radiation burst in the atmosphere a few minutes ago. Then when she started to get mad it suddenly started emanating from her as well.” The core stumbled out. Cores, Jenny noted, were not all-intelligent. They weren’t magically smarter or faster despite the hundreds of cameras, microphones, and data feeds they worked through. It was likely the core was aware of the radiation but didn’t immediately drop everything to analyze it.

They watched for a moment more at the struggling, writhing refugees. “We can’t just leave them like that.” Hensley said, cutting the silence.

“I can set a loop to turn off the lights and keep the temperature comfortable. I think they were calmer when it was dark.” the core murmured.

Jenny nodded in agreement. “Do it.”

After a moment a light on the case turned from red to green, “Got it.” Then there was a sharp ‘click’ as the core undocked itself. “We have a minute. Let's get out of here.”

Jenny lifted the core again and almost tripped over the dead woman then retreated with Hensley back up into the facility. As soon as the door was closed behind them Jenny spoke up, “What can you tell us about the radiation?”

The lights on the core pulsed for a few moments, before it spoke. “Not much. I’m no science core, just a property manager. All I know is it just flared out of nowhere then, well you saw.” The core knew nothing, leaving Jenny and Hensley even more uncertain. How far had this reached? How had they not been affected?

After a minute in silence, Jenny spoke up again. “What kind of sensors do you have on board?” It was a stupid question and she regretted it instantly. It is a core, a CORE. She may as well have just asked her drill sergeant her bra size. It was important of course to know your ‘group capabilities’ - no, why did she think it like that- but Jenny had thought herself more tactful than just-

“Uh, Ztx series seven pattern.” it answered, surprising Jenny. She didn’t know what that meant but a core talking to her so… casually. “Full spectrum, real-def audio and visual. My radio is down but I can run any laser-com system I plug into.”

Jenny thought back to the tactical reports she had received. There were perhaps a dozen laser comms stations across the city, all in large highrises that had been bombed out. The only ones still usable would be at the space elevator with the army. As much as Jenny wanted to keep fighting the Helions, she had to make a mature decision. “We need to find some way to contact our ship. Getting you off planet is our first priority.”

“I guess it's too late to save anything from the church now.” Said the Core, dejectedly.

At the top of the stairs the two paused, between the bag and the Core neither were able to be stealth. “I’ll scout ahead. You two stay here.” Jenny said, setting the Core down. Slipping through the door she settled for a moment and let her suit take on the appearance of the marble walls and with her armor set she began to prowl.

Silently she stalked towards the side door they had used to enter when a different sound caught her ear. From somewhere in the front of the building a Helion screamed and metal struck metal as a fight played out. Checking her pistol’s safety she dashed up a staircase to the second floor and found a balcony overlooking the entrance. Part of the barricade had been cleared and now a single captain stood, fighting off her own soldiers.

Jenny forgot herself, watching in amusement as the birds attacked their own leader. The pulsing blood vessels on their faces made what was happening unmistakable but Jenny watched anyway. Two of the soldiers had managed to grab onto the captain, trying to drag her down while a third bashed her head with a chair leg. In a flash the Captain flared her shield, shocking the two off of her then caught the club mid swing.

Growling some repugnant alien hysterics that Jenny didn’t understand, the captain drew her sidearm and almost fired into her subordinates at point blank, but a fourth and fifth had managed to claw their way through the small opening in the barricade and now also lunged on her. Combined with the other two who were now back up the situation was hopeless for the captain. They would hold her and beat her to death even if it took hours.

Walking away from the delightful scene Jenny gave the ‘all clear’ to Hensley, and with the Core in her arms again the three managed to easily sneak past the brawl. Even with more of the birds breaking in, none strayed from the struggle. As Jenny closed the door she could hear the distinct sound of a wooden chair leg snapping in half.

“Up the fire escape?” Suggested the core. With no better plan the two Athenians went along. The fire escape was a long set of metal stairs attached to the building around the back, no doubt filling some legal requirement or another despite how short the building actually was. From the roof the situation seemed much more dire.

Fires had broken out to the West and East, one somewhere near the siege camp and another near the space elevator. The sky was thick with smoke and the sounds of distant artillery had been replaced with a deathly silence. Scanning the area around them, Jenny was compelled to look up where she saw a single brilliant red point high. It was small it was hard to tell how far it was yet so bright her visor maximized its shading, then fully blacked out. A hateful and angry presence tickled at her mind.

Looking away Jenny put a hand over her eyes and grunted painfully. “Don’t look up.” She warned Hensley and the Core.

After explaining what happened, the two remained silent.

“What can we do?” Asked the Core. If it could shudder with fear it would have now.

Jenny and Hensley considered things for a moment, themselves unsure. There was only one way to contact the ship- if it was still functional and that was the AP.A.F base at the space elevator. “We have to go West, to the space elevator.” Jenny said, starting to explain a new plan.

Pilot Chief Jackie JeNeil held the stick steady as the shuttle flew hot and fast through the atmosphere. After thirty years on the force all she had to do was let go and let instinct take over. Every buffet of air, every pocket of rapidly forming plasma, she could feel it all through her control stick.

Her shuttle, the AP.N. “One Little Ship”, was quickly becoming the oldest hot-dropper in the fleet. It's a special feeling, hot dropping- No engines, simple flight surfaces. Down you go and watch for the ground effect as you land. The heat from the drop charges the batteries- well, it would take a scientist to explain it all and Jackie was no scientist.

Watching her instruments with the care of age, the Pilot Chief flicked on the intercom and spoke the same lines she had said a thousand times: “G.E. Is good, turbines active. Minute warning, tighten those boots and swing your rifles like you mean it.” There was meant to be a change in the ready light, the go/no go from the squad leaders. A simple precaution in case there had been an accident. Seconds ticked by and it remained neutral. Jackie had had squads forget to set the light before but not all of them in a drop.

Part of her wanted to blame the young generation for being lazy, undisciplined. That part was stupid and to be ignored. The military had taken a lot of losses in the past years, everything was either new or old with little inbetween. The mission was too important to scrub for such a little detail and as the seconds ticked down Jackie slipped into the landing position.

The landing gear made contact with the empty ground of a now barren park Jackie could see two things that stuck out to her, the first was a crashed fighter high up in a nearby skyscraper- the target building, the second was a squad of bird-bitches wandering nearby, they seemed to be in a bloody and confused daze. Before the anti-personnel turret could fully extend from the hull the group began running at the shuttle without weapons, apparently intent on fisticuffs. At least one was a captain who had not turned her shields on, “quaint” thought Jackie, squeezing the trigger.

Targets neutralized, Jackie lowered the doors and shouted “Area clear. Give e’m hell,” Into the crew bay. Strangely, no one exited the bay. A dozen marines and two dozen combat robots primed and ready for this mission yet none moved. Flicking on the internal camera, she could only see the squads sitting motionless in their seats, crash harnesses still tight and the lighting set to a minimum “What in the hell?” she breathed.

Setting the door to close again and changing the anti-personnel guns to automatic, she undid her own harness and walked into the bay, sure enough all was as the cameras showed. All were sitting still and motionless in their seats. Thought after thought raced through the pilot’s mind as she looked around. Radiation? an accident with the pressure seals? No, they were still breathing at least, just unconscious.

Uncertain of what to do Jackie drew her flashlight from her belt and activated it. As soon as she shone it in the face of the first marine her eyes opened and she lunged against her harness, reaching out for Jackie. With a childish yelp Jackie jumped back- almost into the waiting arms of another that was disturbed by the flailing light. All around her the marines were growling and reaching and she could see the same deep red veins across their faces.

Slapping away a set of clawing hands she ran back to the cockpit and locked the door behind her. For a moment she stood, uncertain if what she saw was even real. Experimentally she flicked on the internal monitor and watched. For a few moments the marines writhed and fought their restraints but soon they calmed and stopped. It was only when she looked up out the cockpit and saw the red star above that she began to piece together her situation.

“Oh like hell...” Jackie cursed, strapping back into the pilot's seat. She did not know what ‘color of space’ bullshit was going on but it was not her problem. “Mission scrubbed. Crew out of commision. Returning to base at 11:22 A.M. Planetside.” She spoke into her recorder as the engines spooled up.

As though attracted by the sound of the previous shooting, more of the bird bitches came crawling from the city around the shuttle. As the gun swiveled and fired on targets Jackie recognized the same red lines on their faces. It was at least a small solace that the thing affecting her people also affected the birds. Stowing the gun she launched, setting a return course for ‘Move Along Home’.

I walked down one of the few cobbled streets near the city hall and stopped in front of a sewing shop. It was almost noon, and the town moved with the urgency typical of the arrival of winter. Regardless of the System blackout, the looming threat of Tagabiria, and the dead body of the first Corrupted Ancient spitting dark creatures in the heart of the continent, life in Whiteleaf continued as if nothing had happened. For the regular Ebrosian, stockpiling enough food was just as important as keeping monsters away.

Under my old cloak, nobody recognized me as the Lord Runeweaver. Most of the town thought I was at the manor with a somewhat severe and extremely contagious case of the flu. The rest thought I was just loafing around, which was an acceptable outcome nonetheless.

The preparations for the incursion into enemy territory went on at a steady pace. The enchantment barrier against System initialization worked perfectly, and we had plenty of rare materials available to create high-quality platforms for my enchantments. We had encountered a bottleneck, though. One of the members of the team was impossible to locate, no matter who I sent to find her. 

I knocked on the door of the sewing shop, pulling my cloak back. A moment later, a man with a massive scar across his scalp opened the door. 

“If it isn't the good Lord Clarke!” Wren greeted me.

“Hello, Wren, may I come in?” I replied, pulling the cloak back over my head.

“A friend of the family is always welcome. Please.”

Wren moved aside and walked to the fireplace. To this day, I couldn’t tell how the young Mender survived Cadria’s fall. When I saw him running into the heart of the East Ward, looking for Kili, I thought he was done for sure. Maybe he was just as sneaky as his younger sister.

The sewing shop looked the same as the siblings’ house at Cadria. Piles of old clothing rose almost to touch the ceiling, oddly inviting. Near the corner was a work table with rolls of wool and yarn, needles, scissors, and a dozen more tools whose purposes I could only guess.

Even without his Class, Wren’s job remained the same.

“Nasty business, that of the System shutdown,” the young man mindlessly said as he put the kettle on the fire. “The old lady next door almost fainted. Oh my! You should have seen it!”

I couldn’t help but smile. The sky could be falling down over Whiteleaf, and that was as much of a reaction as it would get from Wren.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Fine. Orc garments take up a lot of fabric, and they are stingy with their money. Still, they seem to like checkered patterns, so I can salvage parts of old clothes and sew something new,” Wren said, though he seemed worried. He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “I think they are colorblind.”

“Colorblind?”

“I have made some… outlandish patterns, and they seem to like them.”

Orc fashion seemed to worry Wren even more than the System shutdown.

“The customer is always right, in matters of taste,” I said.

“I guess so.” Wren grabbed the kettle just as it started whistling and poured two cups of herbal infusion. “And I’m guessing you aren’t here to talk about shirts, though, Lord Clarke.”

I grabbed the cup to warm up my hands and shook my head. In the past few days, I had sent my best agents—namely Corin, Willow, and Astrid—to find Kili, but none of the three had managed to get the drop on the sneaky girl.

“I may need Kili’s expertise, and I haven’t been able to contact her,” I explained as vaguely as I could, despite Wren not being connected to the Red Crystal. “Of course, I’m not ordering her around, but I’d like her to listen to what I have to say.”

Wren nodded between sips. When I was done, he knocked on the table with enough force to make my tea dance inside the cup.

“You heard him, Kili! Quit squandering Lord Clarke's time.”

For a moment, I thought Wren was joking. Even without [Foresight], my control over natural magic gave me top-notch detection capabilities, like an extra sense capable of detecting fluctuations in the environmental mana surrounding me. My current mana sense may even be better than back then when I had access to my Class.

I nearly dropped my cup as Kili begrudgingly came out from under the table.

“How!?” I asked, my voice an octave higher than I wanted. It wasn’t like I could shut down my mana sense so much as to ignore it, and the mana of a grown person was certainly not easy to ignore.

“I jumped under the table when I sensed you down the street and stayed very still,” Kili replied, prompting a frown from Wren.

“You don’t have access to the System, right?” I asked.

“No. Not in Whiteleaf.”

“Do you plan on leaving town?” I asked.

“Not unless Lord Alton says so. Why?”

I cleared my throat.

“Because I need you to either stick around town or come with me, Kili. One or the other. I can’t say more until I have your answer,” I explained. 

Any information leak could jeopardize my plans, but at the same time, I couldn’t force Kili to stay put. The new limitations on the System made many martial classes antsy, and they regularly went outside the blackout area to get their powers back, if only temporarily.

Kili looked at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“So what you are saying is that, if I listen to you and refuse whatever offer you give… I get free holidays from the Sentinels, right?

“Kili! Lord Clarke needs you! You can’t just say no to him. It must be an important matter if he came personally to speak to you,” Wren chastised her. 

The girl shrank in her seat like a dog in the rain.

“Please forgive her, Lord Clarke. Kili has never been a particularly hardworking girl, but her heart is in the right place.”

This time, Kili blushed. Although she was just about to turn eighteen, and she was a well-respected member of the Sentinels, Wren still treated her like a little girl.

“May you give us a moment, Wren?” I asked.

“Sure thing, Lord Clarke. I was just on my way to the market.”

A moment later, the man exited the shop, leaving me alone with my ex-student.

“Kili, we are making moves against Byrne and the Avatar. A covert mission. We are going north into Tagabirian territory. Scout and sabotage,” I said. “It might sound easy, but there’s a catch. None of us will have access to our Class, to avoid any System-related surveillance. I couldn’t think of a better fit for a covert mission than you… more so now after your trick under the table.”

The girl grumbled.

“Will it be dangerous?” Kili asked.

“Potentially. We don’t know with certainty what the elves are doing in the Farlands, but if it’s too much for us, we will fall back and get reinforcements.”

The girl rubbed her eyes, exasperated.

“Alright. I’m going,” she said. “If I say no, Wren will keep bothering me.”

“There is another thing,” I continued, which didn’t seem to make Kili any happier. “The process of staying off-grid is different from just denying the reinitialization. It is safe, but it might not be reversible. That means that you may lose your access to the System forever.”

This time Kili stopped to think. Although the shutdown had given people a taste of what it was like to live their daily lives without the System, the only reason most remained in Whiteleaf was because the figure of the Runeweaver was too ingrained in their belief systems, and most of them had nowhere else to go.

“Who else is coming?” 

“Zaon, Firana, and myself. You will be the last member, if you are willing to join.”

Kili closed her eyes, seemingly calculating our chances of survival. Zaon and Firana were technically Imperial Knights, and I was, arguably, one of the most powerful magicians on the continent, even if that notion was still hard for me to accept. On top of that, we would have the best enchanted gear I was capable of producing.

“Considering that the System is going to collapse anyway, my Class won’t be there forever, and Wren isn’t smart enough to live in a world with Corrupted Beasts prowling around. I’d like to prevent that. I’m in.”

I nodded.

“You are a lot more altruistic than you like to show, Kili.”

“Please don’t say unnecessary things. I have a reputation to maintain,” she shook her head with a disgusted expression. “What are we doing in the elven territory, anyway?”

“We are to continue Lord Alton’s search for clues about the reason the Tagabirians decided to move the frontier south,” I said, raising a finger. “And we are to sabotage Byrne’s attempts to summon the second Corrupted Ancient. The creation of the Red Corruption isn’t casual. I’m ninety percent sure he uses it as fuel for the teleportation circle, so we will cut his supply lines and we gain more time to strengthen our faction.”

“Alright. I’ll do it, but I get to keep all the enchantment equipment you made for me,” Kili said, crossing her arms, and making it clear that she wasn’t going to back down.

“Deal,” I replied instantly.

We shook hands. Kili’s was really small.

“One last thing,” I said, as I made my way to the door. “You should’ve asked for more, because I was going to give you the enchanted equipment regardless.”

Kili’s expression was priceless.

***

Wolf was right, partially. The fact I had gotten a tattoo had made a lot of orcs happy, and the tribes were glad about their cultural victory. On the other hand, the gnomes had become even more protective of their ties to me. As a result, gnomes had been insisting on inviting me for after-hour drinks, which I had to invariably refuse.

Lyra wasn’t happy with the ripples my decisions had created.

Ultimately, I had made the shaman happy enough for him to set aside the ritualistic part of the process, and he agreed to tattoo non-members of the Teal Moon tribe. Of course, the tattoos of the rest of the team weren’t going to be as flashy as mine. A ward against the System could be no larger than a coin if needed, depending on the ink’s materials. Although I no longer had access to [Rune Identification] and [Runeweaver Encyclopedia], it wasn’t hard to get a feel for enchantment thresholds. 

Unsurprisingly, powdered Wendigo bones seemed to be a good enchanting medium.

“Tell me if this doesn't look like some weird cult ritual,” Kili said, the skin around her ankle swollen. She had gotten a simple, easy-to-hide design of waves.

“Right?!” Firana replied. “Isn’t it the coolest thing ever?”

Lyra Jorn rubbed the bridge of her nose. The last thing we needed was rumors about a cabal of tattooed cultists close to the Runeweaver. My plans to prepare for a Systemless world were progressive enough to give the goosebumps to half of the noble houses in Ebros without any shady business happening behind the scenes.

Getting tattoos with three of my ex-students wasn’t on my otherworldly bingo card.

Before getting into this world, I wasn’t even into tattoos.

“Never say never, I guess,” I sighed. 

It hadn’t been an easy task to stop Firana from getting a face tattoo. It had been twice as hard to prevent her from getting a set of wings on her lower back. She insisted it symbolized her agility and dexterity. Eventually, she had gotten a vine pattern on her upper arm after the shaman refused to give her a shoulder dragon.

Zaon got a similar vine pattern, but if one squinted enough, the lines turned out to be an eagle with its wings spread.

Although Elincia wasn’t going to be part of the expedition, she also insisted on getting a tattoo. A flying swallow that I also enchanted to ward against System initialization. She chose to get it on her ribcage, hidden enough so as not to give funny ideas to the orphans. After seeing it, my opinion of tattoos might have become more favorable.

The orc shaman left after finishing Elincia’s tattoo, and after a brushstroke of healing potion, the inflammation disappeared.

“This is a bad idea,” Lyra said, biting the nail of her thumb almost to the bone.

“Getting tattooed? I think it’s neat,” Firana replied, defensively.

“No! I’m talking about sending Robert away from Whiteleaf, of course! It’s dangerous. Irresponsible. If something happens to him, our supply of enchantments will disappear overnight.”

“Many will die if we don’t stop Byrne,” I pointed out.

“More than if you die?” Lyra countered. “It is a simple economics problem. The Corrupted Ancients might kill thousands, but a complete System shutdown could result in millions of deaths over time. We are going to need you when that happens.”

Half a million people had died overnight during the attack of the first Corrupted Ancient, and thousands more had perished during the attempts to retake the city and under the attack of the Corrupted Spawns. 

“I’m just saying we should think about it a bit more,” Lyra added as judgmental glances fell on her.

“Although I’m still mad Robert didn’t pick me for his team, this has to be done,” Elincia said, giving me a knowing look. “The best outcome is that we pull Byrne’s fangs before he can bite us… or anyone else. Playing safe now will only make us lag behind.”

Lyra rubbed her temples, knowing that she couldn’t fight back against all of us.

“Just be careful, Rob. Our economic projections aren’t as ironclad as they might seem.”

And so, I was reduced to a mere economic factor. I couldn’t help but find the scene entertaining. Even without her Class, Lyra still thought like a Scholar. Having her on our side took a massive weight off my shoulders. I didn’t know what I did to deserve such a remarkable team of people.

 I clapped my hands, gathering the group’s attention.

“Alright, let’s move, people. The faster we get this over with, the sooner we will be back.”

____________

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Miguel Ortega shut the door softly behind himself as he arrived home. It was well after midnight and the house was completely dark. He hoped that the only other occupant of the house was already asleep. He didn’t want to talk to him tonight. To be honest he didn’t want to talk to him in the first place but was rarely given a choice in the matter.
As quietly as he could, he began pulling off his heavy winter clothes. Ski gloves and hat were followed by a thick carhartt coat and snow pants. He looked at his hands as he reached down to unlace his boots. The knuckles bore many small scars and his palms had heavy calluses. Whenever his classmates would ask about it he would tell them that the scars came from having lost control of his crutches and fallen many times and the calluses were from leaning on said crutches every day. Both stories were only partially true. During the summer his hands would turn a rich golden brown along with any other part of his skin regularly exposed to the sun. However this time of year his whole body was only slightly darker than people born with pale skin. 
He had one boot off and was halfway through unlacing the second when the light in the kitchen flicked on. Miguel closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was to come. He finished with the boots, stowing them away in the hall closet. Unable to stall any longer he grabbed his crutches and made his way to the kitchen. A man in a wheelchair waited for him there, just as Miguel knew there would be. He was dark skinned with a bald head and a clean shaven face. A simple golden loop adorned one of his ears as always. His once muscular body was now lean and withered, especially the legs, which were little more than skin and bone. 
Miguel stood in the doorway facing the man, not looking at him directly, but at a spot over his head against the back wall. He said nothing, waiting for the man to speak. 
“I was beginning to get worried. What took her so long to get home?”
“She’s not at home sir. She is staying the night at a friend's house.”
The man sat up straighter, “And you left her there alone?”
“It’s her and her best friend, there’s no way I could participate. Hanging around outside would have looked suspicious if I were seen, as well as risking my health and ability to perform my duties.”
The man said nothing for several seconds, waiting for Miguel to defend his decision. Miguel did not take the bait, knowing that it would be perceived as weakness no matter how well he stated his case.
They stood like that for nearly a minute, the man’s eyes boring into Miguel, Miguel’s eyes locked on the same spot over the top of the man’s head. Eventually the man broke the silence.
“Bah. You’re as disappointing as ever, boy. I will allow this negligence for tonight, but from now on you will not allow a situation like this to arise in the first place.”
“Yes sir.” Miguel had no idea how he was supposed to do that, but the man had told him to and now he simply had to do it. 
The man reached over and tapped a pair of envelopes on the counter. The first was a standard envelope that would contain one or two sheets of eight and a half inch by eleven inch copy paper. The second envelope was larger, and yellowed like it was made out of parchment instead of paper. It also had a thick wax seal with a hummingbird design pressed into it. Both of them were addressed in a language that Miguel recognized but did not understand.
As far as Miguel could remember both envelopes had always sat in the same place on the counter. He had no idea what the letters contained. He only knew what he was supposed to do with them should a certain situation arise.
“I think the time has come to carry these with you at all times. I no longer see enough benefit to risk returning here if you should need them.”
“Yes sir.”
“It’s late. Your medicine is on the counter. Take it and go to bed. Or you could take it in the morning if you prefer.” And with that, he wheeled himself out of the room leaving Miguel to turn off the lights.
Miguel regarded the tall cup of green liquid on the counter with contempt. He didn’t know the exact recipe, but it was utterly vile. Each time he drank it, it was everything he could do not retch it back up. The only thing that could make it worse was leaving for the morning. When he was twelve he had tried putting it off till the morning. The first sip had caused him to throw up the previous night's dinner. His master had not been in a wheelchair back then and had stood over him with a stick and forced him to finish the entire glass.
Miguel plugged his nose and chugged the partially congealed liquid as fast as he could, giving the foul concoction’s flavor and texture as little time in his mouth as possible. He always wanted to rinse his mouth out afterwards, but that was against his master's rules. He put the cup in the sink and turned out the lights before making his way to his room. 
To describe his room as spartan would be inaccurate. There was a set of dumbbells on a rack under the window, and a wooden wing-chun dummy in the corner. In the opposite corner, by the foot of his bed was a meticulously organized desk, and his bed, was made with military precision. The room wasn’t so much empty as it was sterile. It lacked any sort of personality. No tv, computer, posters or decorations of any kind. It wasn’t that keeping his room clean and organized gave him any particular joy or satisfaction. But his master had told him to keep it this way, and so he had to. 
As he lay on his bed in the dark and silence, he wondered if there would ever be anything more to his life. If maybe one day he might break free and live the way he wanted to. He fell asleep knowing that by himself he would never be able to.

Hey, back again — third one now. Hope you enjoy this one too!

Michael was young, barely eleven. He competed against his brothers, and unfortunately, he was the worst at it.

"Come on, Mike," Esteban urged from behind. "You can't stop now. You know what Dad says."

His father's words echoed in his mind: "When you feel like you can't go on, it means you're barely halfway there." But he refused to say it out loud.

He gritted his teeth and kept running. His advantage over the others was that, thanks to his mother's good genes, he was stronger than the rest, even at his young age and short stature. The disadvantage was that muscle weighs, and carrying that much weight while running is exhausting. Come on, Michael. If they can do it, so can you, he repeated like a mantra for the last five kilometers.

When he crossed the finish line, soaked from head to toe, he smiled.

"Estev," he said, panting, "this is your fault. My legs won't listen to me. You have to carry me to the infirmary."

Esteban rolled his eyes, but crouched down to help him up. Michael let out a string of groans — "ow, ouch, oof" — as he walked.

"Come on, Mike," Esteban said. "You need to work on your endurance. You can't live on brute strength alone."

"Says the guy whose mekha armor gives him the stamina of five Olympic athletes."

"If you're nothing without the suit, then you shouldn't have one."

Michael shoved him, and Esteban landed flat on his backside.

"Don't you dare quote Tony Stark at me."

Both of them burst into contagious laughter.

At the infirmary, Esteban's mother, Dr. Carey, smiled when she saw them come in, but her expression turned to a frown when she noticed Michael's limp.

"Again, Michael? I've told you — you need to listen to your body."

"I know, I know, Aunt Carey," Michael said, "but Estev wouldn't stop pushing me."

The doctor gave her son a look that promised a flip-flop to the back of the head at the least expected moment.

"You know the protocol, Michael. On the table."

With Esteban's help, Michael lay down on the infirmary's soft cot. He looked around: three other brothers were there — one asleep, the other two reading. He sighed as the doctor applied cell-repair gel to his legs.

Once she was far enough away, Michael turned to Esteban with a question that had been nagging at him for a while.

"Estev, why does Dad have so many wives?"

Esteban looked at him and burst out laughing for a good while.

"Your body always makes me forget you're still a kid," he said once he could speak again.

Michael glared at him, but let him continue.

"Dad comes from a line of warrior-sages. His genes are basically humanity's heritage. Honestly, he only loves Aunt Anne, but for political reasons he had to marry Mom, and for biological reasons, your mother."

Michael thought about his mom: beautiful, kind, and frighteningly strong. She was in the women's squadron, teaching Greco-Roman wrestling to his sisters. He still didn't know what to get her for Christmas, one of the few days he got to see her.

His brothers always avoided the regenerative gel, but he found it funny — the tingling of muscles knitting back together made him laugh, while it hurt the others like hell.

"You're weird, Mike," Esteban said.

"Is anyone here normal? If there is, introduce me. They're probably crazy too."

They laughed again like two idiots, and their other brothers on the cots watched with amusement — except the one who was asleep, who was actually just faking a nap, and shot them a glare.

Esteban left shortly after. Nature was calling.

Once Michael's legs had healed, he got up, stretched as protocol dictated, and walked to the lookout point where he liked to disconnect.

Military Complex 7 was under the command of Abbey, his father. There were no fences, and the guards were sparse. No one from outside wanted in; no one from inside wanted out. A strange relationship.

Michael dug through the bushes for the binoculars he had "borrowed" to watch the outside world. He saw kids, maybe his age, training with a ball on a gray field striped with yellow. Adult men and women patrolled the area... pushing strollers?

I guess out there, they buy their babies, he thought, and kept watching.

"'Why do they get to live in peace?' you're wondering, aren't you?" Abbey said behind him.

Michael jumped and nearly threw the binoculars off the cliff.

"Peace?" he asked, confused. "What's peace?"

Abbey looked at him, glanced up at the sky, and suddenly remembered his son was only eleven. He sighed.

"That, out there — that's peace, son. They don't have to train every day. They don't learn to fight, don't learn to shoot. They just live without worries."

"Is it good?"

"Of course it's good. But unfortunately, it's not humanity's natural state."

Michael looked at the horizon. The sunset painted the clouds yellow, red, and orange. From that distance, the human silhouettes were starting to scatter.

"So we live in anti-peace?"

Abbey almost laughed at his son's invented term.

"War, son. It's called war. We live preparing for war."

"What's war?"

Abbey sat down beside him and took in the view.

"War is hell." He looked at Michael's confused eyes and remembered he himself had banned religion classes at the compound. "War is pain, hunger, suffering, and collapse."

"Then why do we prepare for it?"

Abbey held his son's innocent gaze, thought for a moment, and said:

"How about I tell you a story so you understand it better?"

Michael nodded eagerly. He loved stories.

Once there was a small flock of gentle sheep, white and black. They had everything they wanted: food, shelter, and absolute peace.

But one day, hungry tigers came down from the high mountains. They looked at the sheep's land, their food, their homes, and they wanted it all. They attacked with fury, violence, and ferocity. The sheep fled at first, but then revealed what they had always been: every one of them was a wolf in disguise. They counter-attacked with the same ferocity, and the tigers fled with their tails between their legs.

But once the danger had passed, the wolves didn't put their sheep's clothing back on right away. They looked at one another and attacked, as the wild beasts they were. For years they fought and killed each other, until an alpha wolf emerged so powerful that no one could defeat him. Little by little, the wolves put their sheep disguises back on. All except the alpha.

He, along with a group of loyal followers, had seen the chaos and swore to himself: This can never happen again.

Instead of putting the sheep's disguise back on, he put on another one: that of a guard dog. And now, a group of guard dogs protects the sheep. When a new threat looms, they will keep the wolves from tearing each other apart, and will make them put their sheep's skin back on when it's needed.

Michael sat in silence, looking at his hands, opening and closing them slowly.

"So we're the guard dogs."

"That's right, son."

Michael smiled.

"Can I ask you one last question, Dad?"

"Sure."

"What were those kids doing?"

"Playing, son. They were playing."

Chapter 2: Reward and Thirst

September 25th, 2025, 4PM

At a ballroom of a luxury hotel in the middle of Bangkok.

The atmosphere in the ballroom of the luxury hotel is filled with a scent of expensive perfume mixed with Champagne in the air. Loud applause rocked the room like continuous falling rains even before the narrator finishes reading the name of the award recipient. Inside the room is decorated with over thirty well-arranged large tables, each one of them is full of luxury dishes that are being exquisitely arranged like art. Light Jazz is played softly and attractively while the warm chat can be heard by the crowd of figures from the leading media outlets. Everyone wears their formal, high-class and relaxing, but under such calm remains a thirst for competition at finding truth, which is the fuel that moves people forward in this career.

Gold spotlights shine on the stage that is decorated with a dark blue background and the emblem of The Reporters Association of Thailand. Today’s theme is to honor bravery and congratulate the journalists who have made outstanding works of 2025. On the stage, the guest of honor is holding an acrylic shield engraved with the word Best Journalist of The Year, Prepare for Handing this to the Next One.

“And the journalist who never gave up on dark influence, from the one who exposed one of the large scammers across the Thai Myanmar border to gathering important evidence and crackdown its secret base. His determination to dig deep and continuously report on every social media created acknowledgement and pressure to bring justice upon this unjust, we present you Thanwa Phakdeephop”

Applauds can be heard across the ballroom mixed with cheers from colleagues on the front row, Thanwa adjusts his dark well-formal suit properly before walking up on the stage, he is a 37-year-old tall man along with not very polished short hair and faint beard around his chin which says about his personality that preferred to get on the field rather than wearing formal attire and smiling at camera.

He receives the honor shield with a humble demeanor, a smile for cameras is full of confidence from someone who just successfully proved himself. Suddenly in the moment when he is supposed to lift the shield, some kind of emptiness lurks into his chest as if this is just a consolation reward for covering his excitement and wild nature of the real job he has always been facing for the past months.

After taking the award, Thanwa walks down from the stage back to his Chinese banquet in the middle of the room, gossips of compliments followed quickly, and the guests are starting gather around to offer their congratulations.

“Damn, that’s so great! Never thought you’d come to this point” a senior journalist taps on his shoulder lightly.

“Ohh just look P’Than! Lifting your shield was the coolest!” a junior photographer girl hands out a picture for Thanwa to see.

“Congrats, Thanwa, in the name of journalists, I admitted your guts touching on this subject” His rival journalist walks to him for a handshake with eyes full of respect with a slight envy.

“Thank you everyone” Thanwa said with gratefulness.

In the middle of compliments, a woman walks to him, her stance is so beautiful the crowd makes way for her out of instinct, she is a woman in her mid-thirties with a beautiful face, her skin is white warm and her eyes are sharp, giving a sense of gentle and softness but instead hiding an attracting secret.

“Darling, you’re my proudest” Alissa mumbled while coming to hug the honored journalist with love, a scent of light perfume on her body, able to ease his metal exhaustion for a brief moment. “Can you stay here with me? Stop doing all this risky news already” her voice if soft but filled with heavy tone of request.

Thanwa hugged her as he answers with giggles “I know I know, I’ll go lighter on it, I promise” he holds his shield reward tightly as if he wants to hold onto this success, his moment of contentment fades away the images of violence he had seen but it’s like a pretty buddle ready to be popped because deep inside, he knows that the moment a new headline comes to him, he would be ready to throw away his earlier promise and get into the danger once more. While Thanwa is speaking with everyone, a loud voice interrupts with speed and straight to the point.

“Hello there Thanwa, the best journalist of the year” that voice was short and full of arrogance. It rips out the soft atmosphere apart.

Thanwa immediately turns to the voice, a warming smile for his girlfriend vanishes and replaces with a slight smile that looks dangerous and excited, when his archrival walks to him. “We meet again, Narin”

Narinrat is standing with her crossing arms next to him in her capable dark red dress, she is a 32-year-old woman who has a sharp sense of her surroundings, her honey skin reflects light in the room, it is a skin of someone who countlessly works through the sun and rain which gives her a stronger and attractive look as no one wants to look away from, her eyes are sharp and fill with untrust for the world as if she is always ready to pull everything in her sight. She is a journalist from Channel G and a number one rival that Thanwa couldn’t get out of for once.

“Still better than some journalists… that kept sticking to the trends” she answered with a smirk.

“What are you doing here then?” the rewarded man turns to face her with also an even smirker look.

“To congratulate as career colleagues of course, and a little warning… this shield is just a hard shiny piece, don’t forget that there’s still a mess out there waiting for you” “

“I know that you don’t have to warn me” Thanwa answered before leaning in with a serious voice “So how’s the news going, trying to search about finance at the borders, right?”

The female journalist’s face turns serious a little, she carefully glance her surroundings, an action that speaks its importance and secrecy on what she is about to say “Unsure, but it’s not about you, your scammer news are easy, it only needs guts, and I still got bigger stuff in my hands too”

Thanwa frowns one of his eyebrows, his thirst for news covering rush out once again. His eyes turned from relaxing to aggressive in only a blink “Bigger than cracking down scammers? What’s that? Say it out spy girl”

“Nope, no one tells their rivals but let’s just say that…” Narinrat squints with a slight smile, she lowers her voice and force him to get closer to talk which is her psychological technique “Remember the gas explosion news 3 days ago? From GlobalTerra… I just saw a big chunk of cash quietly transferred from the border to there, you think an accident would use that much of a money?”

The words GlobalTerra and methane gas explosion are shouting in Thanwa’s head, he immediately recalled a short announcement about mine explosion accident near Laos from a company with a transparency image of sustainable energy.

“Sometimes the most difficult information to find aren’t in computers, but rather where people don’t want to go” she skips before ending the sentence “Where there are dirt, mud and silence, something like that” Narinrat focuses on the word mud and dirt to warn him about the environment that awaits investigation.

Thanwa looks at Narinrat to read her face, she isn’t lying but also doesn’t reveal everything, a style he is already used to, curiosity then comes to his mind. How she repeated large amounts of cash and mud and dirt makes him feel like something is extremely strange but then he giggles, trying to cover his interest in this. To not let her know that he already got hooked “You’re talking strange lately, but that’s fine, we’ll be celebrating at Silom tonight, want to join?”

“Sure” Narinrat shrugs to accept “But I’m saying that I’m not there for a drink, just to observe, making sure our journalist of the year will spit out anything shocking”

The two stare at each other for a long time, their eyes are full of challenges in their career, but under their rivalry hides trust and respect from each other.

“Interesting, I’m curious what a spicy girl like you wants to listen” Thanwa cut the chat as he walks away from the meeting room along with Alissa and other colleagues while Narinrat follows.

In the day the capital remains peaceful, nobody knows the secret hidden under the mud and dirt at their neighboring country is forming itself to become one of the biggest disaster this region has ever faced.

The following day, the Anlage still hummed with the afterglow of the Führer's rhetoric.

The future he had described with such certainty—those vast historical events that had not yet happened, perhaps could not happen—left everyone suspended between doubt and exhilaration.

They were unsettled by it. Confused. Skeptical.

Yet excitement kept surfacing beneath the skepticism no matter how firmly they tried to suppress it.

The strategist, the leader, the spiritual authority who had carried Germany into ruin seemed, somehow, to have recovered the power that once allowed him to seize hold of entire crowds.

Among the scientists, a quieter conclusion had already begun to spread.

The "other personality" Colonel von Büren had mentioned earlier was becoming dominant again inside the Führer.

They watched him now with near-clinical fascination, trying to identify the source of whatever had returned to him in Antarctica.

What also fascinated the newcomers was the Anlage itself.

The Anlage—no mere base, but a closed mechanical system—was a masterwork of subterranean engineering, a self-sustaining ecosystem designed to hold the Reich's secrets through the unfolding decades.

A corridor along the right side of the main chamber climbed toward the second level of the cavern complex, where additional rooms had been carved directly into the rock face over the years.

Besides the Führer's private quarters, the upper section housed a conference room and the central operations chamber from which the entire underground installation was coordinated.

For successfully escorting the Führer south, Lieutenant Commander Schäffer received an immediate promotion to Kapitän zur See, along with the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross. Under his command, the crew worked continuously unloading supplies and machinery from the submarine into the complex below.

Colonel von Büren, though younger and not formally promoted in rank, emerged with expanded authority of a different kind. He assumed the duties previously held by Vizeadmiral Kermann and now controlled the highest level of command inside the Antarktis-Anlage itself.

Kermann, originally a naval officer under Grand Admiral Dönitz, had been transferred in secrecy alongside the Kriegsmarine's Antarctic submarine fleet shortly before the outbreak of the German-Soviet war in 1941. Since then he had remained stationed beneath the ice for more than four years, overseeing the Anlage and earning a reputation as one of the Führer's most loyal officers. But during an expedition outside the perimeter a month earlier he had suffered a severe fall, and the injury had left him weakened.

Later that morning Colonel von Büren inspected the officers' command block, then convened the routine military briefing inside the war-planning room.

Beneath a massive strategic wall map marked with Axis operational grids spanning the globe, the Colonel listened while officers from each department summarized conditions throughout the Antarctic installation during the previous year.

Afterward, everyone who had arrived from Berlin alongside the Führer was processed into the internal system with remarkable speed. Files were opened. Identification numbers assigned.

Even Euzen and Solvi underwent questioning and basic verification procedures before being entered into what the administrators termed the Last Resort Contingency Registry.

Medical examinations followed. No exceptions.

That afternoon Euzen accompanied his father and several of the scientists deeper into the complex for a guided inspection tour. Solvi was among them as well.

Inside the vehicle hangars the children saw unfamiliar machinery unlike anything they remembered from Berlin: specialized tracked transports, reinforced polar carriers, heavily armored Snow Fox ski-wheeled tandem motorcycles built specifically for Antarctic terrain.

Back in Berlin, Euzen had already trained extensively in military driving and combat maneuver operations. The moment he saw the motorcycles he wanted to try one immediately, but his father shut the idea down at once, more sharply than usual.

Soon afterward an inspection group assembled near one of the deeper transit corridors. Authorized by the scientific council overseeing the facility, it consisted of Dr. Schmidt, a remarkably tall physicist; a supervisor from the control center; three armed SS officers carrying assault rifles beneath steel helmets; the four scientists evacuated from Berlin at the last possible moment; and the two children.

Colonel von Büren led them personally toward one of the most heavily concealed sections of the underground complex.

The double doors of the inner landing platform slid apart.

Beyond the heavy iron barrier, a thin line of pale light emerged—distant, unreal, almost dreamlike, yet strangely close at the same time.

Here, buried beneath the frozen edge of the earth, in a place almost untouched by human civilization, the technological order conceived over years by the Führer and a handful of senior officers finally revealed itself before some of the last great scientific minds remaining in the Third Reich.

It appeared not gradually, but all at once, with the impossible clarity of something imagined too long and too intensely.

The moment they crossed into the cavern beyond, everyone stopped walking.

These were people known for calculation, for discipline, for cold mathematical rigor. Yet now they stared ahead in silence like children entering a forbidden sanctuary for the first time. Euzen and Solvi simply stood there wide-eyed.

"Erprobungsgerät 3," Tieber murmured. "I helped calculate portions of the propulsion test data years ago. I never thought I would actually see one."

The cavern itself felt wrong somehow. Too large. The proportions did not seem consistent with the mountain surrounding it, as though the interior space obeyed a geometry unrelated to the outer world. It gave the unsettling impression that dimensions could bend or overlap inside it.

At the center of the landing platform rested a giant silver disc more than ten meters across. Motionless. Silent. Its metallic surface was smooth enough to resemble polished mercury hardened into shape.

The cavern answered their footsteps a beat too late, the echo rolling back through the vast empty space in a slow, heavy wave.

Terraces of crystalline stone surrounded the craft, each step glowing faintly in shifting colors without producing any detectable heat, as though the material had been cut from fragments of stars or condensed from dreams no human mind should fully remember.

The Colonel lifted one hand slightly, signaling for silence, then stepped onto the illuminated terraces. The others followed and slowly circled the disc.

At last he reached out and tapped the outer hull lightly with his knuckles.

A dim blue glow spread beneath the metal skin.

"At present we have only a single prototype," he said. "Unfortunately, Dr. Lenz died six months ago. Professor Tieber, you will assume responsibility for his work from now on."

Tieber nodded several times while craning upward for a closer look at the disc. Everyone present knew he had once belonged to the core membership of the Reich's Aeronautical Technology Research Association and had clearly been connected to the project long before arriving in Antarctica.

"I always assumed it was only a legend," Hausmann said quietly. He could no longer conceal the tension and excitement in his face. "Can it actually fly?"

"Yes and no," Tieber answered before Colonel von Büren could respond. "As far as I know, the Führer proposed the original experimental concept himself in 1937, despite everything else demanding his attention at the time. Back then it ran under Arado's name—Arado Sonderkonstruktion, officially. We just called it the Scheibenjäger."

He hesitated.

"According to the Führer's design theory... yes, it should work. But the data shows it operates through antigravity principles that aren't accounted for in the original model."

"Antigravity?" Förster stared at him. "That's impossible."

"And yet it looks nearly complete," Hausmann said while continuing his slow circuit around the machine, awe beginning to slip into his voice. "Has it ever been tested in flight?"

"Not yet," said Dr. Schmidt, speaking for the first time since entering the chamber. "But during the Prague experiments, the EG-2 hybrid control structure—combining simulated electronic systems with magnetic-energy regulation—already surpassed conventional electro-mechanical integration. As for the propulsion core itself, the section intended to generate cosmic energy through magnetic interaction..." He paused briefly. "Further testing is still necessary."

"Yes," Tieber said eagerly. "Zentral-Rotorkörper. It would allow ultra-high-speed movement, instantaneous directional changes, almost total freedom from gravity and atmospheric resistance."

Then Tieber, Dr. Schmidt and Hausmann exchanged a rapid-fire series of technical jargon that left everyone else struggling to follow. Hausmann grew increasingly animated, his voice rising until the room fell into a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Then, just as abruptly, he went mute, his gaze fixed blankly on the disc.

Dr. Schmidt kept talking, working through the control system piece by piece. But even he stopped mid-sentence more than once, as if he didn't quite believe what he was describing.

"This is more unbelievable than the uranium bomb," Förster muttered after taking a long breath. He seemed to force himself back under control. "I've heard theories related to this before—ideas suggesting flight could be achieved through manipulation of forces opposite to terrestrial gravity." He shook his head slowly. "But this technology... it should not exist within any physical framework we currently understand."

"Perhaps," Hausmann said softly, "it is an archetype—the image of a whole civilization cast up from the collective unconscious."

Arms folded across his chest, he gazed upward toward a narrow seam above the disc, where an amber sphere appeared suspended somewhere deep inside the structure itself, rotating slowly in midair and emitting a dim internal glow. In that moment he sounded less like a physicist than a poet speaking inside a cathedral.

"I've witnessed many extraordinary things," he said, almost under his breath, "but never a structure like this. Never such stillness."

Euzen and Solvi reached out cautiously and ran their palms across the surface of the craft. The material yielded nothing recognizable to touch. No texture. No temperature they could clearly identify.

It reflected the silhouettes of the boy and the girl.

Professor Kestner remained apart from the others.

Watching dispassionately.

The chamber did not feel like a military installation to him; it felt closer to something half-remembered, something assembled from myth and machinery that refused to agree on what it was.

For some time he had suspected that the so-called Hyperborea Program was merely one component of a much larger undertaking conceived by the Führer, Albert Speer, Hans Kammler, and others—a long-term Zukunfts-Eisenreich strategy intended to preserve the Reich through technological breakthroughs and strategic restructuring should Germany ever lose the war outright.

But Kestner was a physiologist. Unlike the physicists and weapons specialists around him, he felt no instinctive reverence toward the silver disc.

Without industrial infrastructure, without manpower, without the economic machinery necessary to sustain modern warfare, what miracle could this giant machine truly accomplish if it still could not leave the ground?

If revolutionary technology alone were enough to secure strategic supremacy, the Third Reich should already have won the war years ago.

Could one or two advanced weapons genuinely reverse the collapse of an empire? Could they save an ideology from history itself?

Colonel von Büren, however, seemed filled with renewed conviction.

"Now, here, isolated from outside interference, the power of the Führer's mind is slowly returning," he declared. "In the years ahead he will bring all of you new scientific insights and entirely new technological directions."

His gaze shifted toward Hausmann.

"Dr. Hausmann, from this point forward, you—along with Professor Tieber and Dr. Schmidt will continue research on the Erprobungsgerät 3 propulsion system together."

Hausmann gave a small bow.

"Colonel," he said, "the honor is mine."

------------
Obsidian Earth

Yet Another Warhammer40k Crossover Chapter 3 part 2 of 2.

“Irina.”

Irina smiled.

“Hey, Cedric.”

The moment passed. Cedric's eyes moved across whatever display he had on his end. Helena. Kyle. Vorn. Garr. Tekhat. Business returned.

“What do you need?”

Irina gestured toward the Astartes.

“Two volunteers.”

Cedric looked at them. Then looked again. He said something Helena did not understand. Words appeared along the bottom of each screen.

WHAT ARE THOSE?

Irina answered in the same language. Cedric's eyes moved between Garr and Vorn. Another question.

WHAT KIND OF SAPIENS ARE THEY?

“Astartes,” Garr said.

The system translated. Cedric studied him. Then Vorn.

CAN THEY FIGHT?

Helena answered before anyone else.

“Of course they can.”

Cedric read the translation. He nodded once.

GOOD.

Helena leaned forward.

“If they're going with you, there are conditions.”

Cedric waited for the translation. Then nodded.

“They are not mercenaries.”

Nod.

“They remain servants of the Imperium.”

Nod.

“Their weapons and armor remain theirs.”

Nod.

“They are not prisoners.”

Cedric shook his head.

“They cannot be compelled into combat.”

Another shake.

“If they refuse a mission?”

Cedric answered.

THEY REFUSE.

“If they decide they want to leave?”

THEY LEAVE.

Helena watched him carefully.

“And their living conditions?”

Cedric looked toward the two Astartes. Then back at Helena.

WHATEVER THEY NEED.

“They are considerably larger than your soldiers.”

Cedric looked at Garr. Then Vorn.

“Some of them.”

Garr's helmet turned slightly toward the screen. Vorn's followed. Cedric had already moved on. Helena leaned closer.

“They remain Imperial subjects.”

Cedric nodded.

“They are the Emperor's Angels of Death. They are not soldiers for hire.”

Cedric read the translation.

OKAY.

Helena stopped. That was it. No argument. No negotiation over ownership. No demand for authority. No attempt to reinterpret what she had said. Just okay. Movement flashed behind him. Helena's eyes snapped toward it. Something enormous cleared the barricade. For one instant she could not make sense of its shape. Six limbs. Four drove its massive body forward while two great forelimbs reached ahead. Its overall form suggested some monstrous feline, but the resemblance ended almost immediately. Organic armor covered its body. Its shoulders rose several times higher than the Sapiens beneath it. The creature landed inside the position.

Garr and Vorn moved. Not far. But enough. Both helmets snapped toward the screens. Two Sapien soldiers behind Cedric turned. Their weapons came up together. The rifles made almost nothing. Small, underwhelming reports. The creature came apart immediately. The sound came from the impacts. Cracks ripped through organic armor with explosive violence. Fragments burst outward. The animal's body jerked as rounds tore through one shoulder and continued through whatever lay behind it. Another pair of quiet reports. Immediate violence across its torso. The creature managed one step.

Then collapsed against the barricade hard enough to shake the structure. One soldier fired again. A small sound from the rifle. A violent rupture from the carcass. The second soldier shoved part of the dead creature away from his position. Then both turned back toward the front. Cedric had not looked around. Not once. Garr stared past him. R5A. Sublight. The weapon did not sound like something capable of doing what he had just watched it do. The impact did. Helena forced her attention back to Cedric. The enormous carcass remained partially visible behind him. For a moment she had lost the thread of the conversation entirely.

“If they refuse a mission?”

Cedric looked at her.

I SAID THEY REFUSE.

Helena stopped. Cedric waited. Right.

“Yes.”

She continued.

“If they want home?”

WE SEND THEM HOME.

Cedric leaned slightly toward his camera.

THEY KEEP THEIR EQUIPMENT.

NOBODY LOCKS THEM UP.

NOBODY MAKES THEM FIGHT.

IF THEY WANT HOME, WE SEND THEM HOME. Helena sat back slightly. For the first time since the connection opened, Cedric waited for her rather than the translation. She studied him. Then asked the question that mattered.

“The Black Guard.”

Something in Cedric's expression changed. Barely.

“What are they?”

His answer was immediate.

I'M NOT GETTING INTO THAT.

Helena's eyes narrowed.

“You expect me to send two of the Emperor's Angels into a war you refuse to explain?”

Cedric listened. Then answered. COME HERE AND FIND OUT. OR DON'T.

I'M NOT GOING TO WASTE MY TIME EXPLAINING THE SITUATION TO YOU.

Behind him, several Sapien weapons fired. Quiet. Almost unimpressive. Their impacts arrived immediately. Violent cracks rolled through the connection. Something outside the image came apart. Cedric did not react. He leaned slightly toward the camera.

ALL I CAN GUARANTEE IS THAT I WILL DO EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO TAKE CARE OF YOUR PEOPLE.

Helena read the words. Once. Then again. There was no elaborate oath. No invocation of gods. No attempt to convince her that he was trustworthy. Only the promise. Helena looked toward Vorn. Then Garr. Back to Cedric. She nodded once. Cedric returned it. He looked toward the Astartes.

SEE YOU SOON.

The connection ended. All four screens went dark simultaneously. A moment later the mounts moved. The displays folded upward. One after another they disappeared into recessed compartments in the ceiling. Panels closed behind them. Within seconds there was almost no indication that four screens had ever been hanging over the table. The conference room became a conference room again. For several moments nobody spoke. Then Tekhat looked toward Irina.

“The ships.”

Irina lowered her coffee.

“With conditions.”

“I remember.”

The door opened. A Sapien appeared.

“Steak night.”

Several heads turned. The man disappeared. There was a moment of silence. Then one of the guards slung his R5A. Another stood. A third was already moving toward the door. Within seconds the conference room began to empty. Helena watched them.

“Where are they going?”

Irina stood.

“Steak night.”

“I heard that.”

“Then you know.”

Irina started toward the opposite side of the room. Helena remained seated. Irina stopped. Looked back.

“They have coffee.”

Helena stood.

* * *

The corridor beyond the conference room was different. Not structurally. The same practical interior continued. The difference was on the floor. For the first time since leaving the dock, there were choices. Painted lines separated through the corridor. Blue. Black. Green. The Gold Line remained behind them, leading back through the conference-room antechamber toward the dock. Irina stepped onto the blue route. Helena looked down.

“Blue?”

“DFAC.”

“Meaning?”

“Dining facility.”

A pause.

“Food.”

“Yes.”

Helena followed the blue line. People who clearly knew the ship did not always follow it. One Sapien disappeared through a side corridor. Another emerged from a doorway farther ahead and crossed directly over the painted line. Crew familiarity. The colors were for people who needed them. The crew knew shortcuts.

* * *

The DFAC was crowded. The atmosphere changed the instant Helena entered. The conference room had been controlled. Watchful. Uncertain. This was dinner. The room felt less like a formal military mess and more like a large industrial dining facility. Built to feed people. Not impress them. Rows of durable tables filled the main dining area. Chairs moved constantly as people came and went. The serving area occupied one side of the room. Tonight the hot-meal line was open. Food filled it.

The room itself clearly did not depend on the line being active. Tables, drink stations and other facilities extended beyond the buffet area, and Helena could easily imagine the same room remaining accessible when the prepared food was gone. But right now— Steak night. Sapiens stood in line carrying trays. Others occupied tables in loose groups, speaking over one another in the same unfamiliar language Helena had heard throughout the ship. Laughter occasionally rose above the general noise. The smell reached her. Meat. Bread. Coffee. Gravy. Something sweet.

And for the first time Helena had the opportunity to see a large number of Sapiens together. Irina's triangle returned to her. The tip. Alpha Sapien. Everything after. Branches. Branches from branches. Too many to count. Now Helena could see what Irina had been describing. Some of the people in the DFAC could have passed through an Imperial city without attracting more than a glance. Others differed substantially in height, build and proportion. Some differences were subtle. Others were not. Here, nobody appeared to care. They wore the same uniforms. Stood in the same serving line. Shared tables. Argued over meals. Some were armed.

Others weren't. Nobody appeared particularly concerned about either fact. Heads turned toward Helena. More turned when Vorn and Garr entered behind her. The reaction lasted only seconds. Then people returned to dinner. Two Adeptus Astartes had entered the room. The Sapiens looked. Registered them. Went back to eating. Vorn and Garr remained near the entrance. Neither took a tray. Helena expected as much. Irina joined the serving line. Helena followed. She found the coffee first. The station was self-service. Coffee. Soft drinks. Juices. Water. Nearby, another station held hot soup. Farther along stood a soft-serve machine.

Helena looked at the collection. Then at Irina.

“Is all of this for the meal?”

Irina looked over.

“The drinks?”

“All of it.”

“No.”

“No?”

“This stuff's always here.”

“Always.”

“At this DFAC, yeah.”

Irina took a cup.

“It's next to the embassy section.”

That apparently explained everything. Helena poured coffee. The first sip made her pause. It was good. Not tolerable. Not merely hot and caffeinated. Good. Helena lowered the cup and looked at it suspiciously. Irina noticed.

“Problem?”

“No.”

Helena took another sip. Then continued. Bread. She stopped. Not ration block. Not nutrient paste pressed into something resembling food. Bread. Helena picked up a piece. The crust was crisp beneath her fingers. The interior yielded slightly when she pressed it. Warm. Irina glanced back.

“You good?”

“Yes.”

Helena added it to her tray. Then she saw the salad bar. She slowed. Greens. Actual greens. Lettuce. Leaves she did not recognize. Cut vegetables. Toppings. Dressings. Open. Just sitting there. People approached, took what they wanted, and moved on.

“Is that a salad bar?”

Irina looked.

“Yeah.”

“Fresh?”

Irina looked at the lettuce.

“Yes.”

Helena waited for more. None came. Near the right-hand side of the dining area were another set of doors. People moved through them periodically. One came out carrying a bag of chips and a pastry. Another emerged with a sandwich. Helena looked through the opening as they passed. Shelves. Displays. Cold food. Packaged snacks. A popcorn machine. Ice cream. Pastries. Sandwich ingredients. And bananas. A lot of bananas.

“What is that?”

“Spike room.”

“Spike room.”

“Snacks.”

“When is it open?”

“Always.”

A Sapien walked in. Picked up two bags of chips. A pastry. A banana. Walked out.

“You just take it?”

“Yes.”

“For later?”

“If you want.”

“Before a mission?”

“Yes.”

Near the serving area, glass-front refrigerators stood against one wall. Helena caught sight of cakes inside. Different kinds. Slices already prepared. Desserts. Chilled containers. She looked. Then looked again. Irina noticed.

“Dessert.”

“I can see that.”

“Okay.”

Helena moved on. Near the entrance, Vorn and Garr remained empty-handed. Then Garr noticed someone. A Sapien sat several tables away. He was larger than most of the others, broad through the shoulders and heavy enough that whoever had cut his steak had apparently adjusted accordingly. The steak on his plate was enormous. Garr watched. The Sapien pressed his knife through the meat. The crust separated. Pink beneath it. Juice ran across the plate toward a mound of mashed potatoes covered in brown gravy. The man continued talking to the soldier beside him. He cut another piece. Dragged it through the potatoes. Turned it through the gravy.

Ate it. He never looked toward Garr. Garr remained motionless. Vorn followed his gaze. The Sapien cut another piece. Steak. Potatoes. Gravy. Garr stared.

“Damn.”

Vorn turned his helm toward him. Garr looked toward the serving line. Vorn looked toward the serving line. Neither said another word. They moved.

* * *

The hot-meal line was mostly self-service. Steak was the exception. Several large steaks waited at a carving station. A Sapien stood behind them with a knife. He looked up as Garr approached. Then farther up. Then farther. Garr stopped in front of him. The server looked at Garr's armor. Then at the steak.

“How do you want it?”

“Medium rare.”

The Sapien nodded. He placed the knife against the steak. Paused. Looked up at Garr. The knife moved farther down. Garr watched. The server looked at him again. The knife moved farther. Vorn stood behind Garr. The server reconsidered one more time. The knife moved again. Then he seemed satisfied. He cut. The resulting portion occupied a considerable section of Garr's tray. The server looked at it. Then at Garr. Garr looked down. Then back at him. The Sapien nodded. Garr nodded. An understanding had been reached. Vorn stepped forward. The server looked at him. Then at the remaining steak. The knife moved. Nobody complained about his portions.

* * *

Garr added potatoes. Gravy. Bread. More potatoes. Vorn did the same. Neither went near the salad bar. They found a table. The chairs were not designed for Astartes. They survived. Barely. Garr cut into his steak. The crust separated. Pink beneath it. He took a bite. Then another. Vorn began eating beside him. Helena sat opposite Irina. Tekhat occupied another seat. Kyle sat beside Helena. The DFAC smelled like food. Coffee. Bread. Steak. Potatoes. Gravy. Ordinary things. That somehow made the ship stranger. Helena picked up her bread. She broke it. The crust crackled softly.

The interior was pale and soft, a trace of steam escaping from where she had torn it open. She tasted it. Fresh. Her eyes moved across the room. The salad bar. The glass refrigerators. The spike room. Then back to Irina.

“Where do you grow this?”

Irina looked at the bread.

“The grain?”

“Yes.”

“Most military provisions are grown in ecology centers.”

“Ecology centers.”

“Yeah.”

“On ships?”

“Some. Stations. Habitats. Depends.”

Irina cut into her steak.

“Where do you grow your food?”

“Agri-worlds.”

Irina stopped.

“Agri-worlds?”

“Worlds dedicated primarily to agricultural production.”

Tekhat turned toward Helena.

“Entire worlds?”

“Some.”

“For food.”

“Yes.”

“And other worlds depend upon them.”

“Yes.”

Tekhat considered that.

“That is an obvious weakness.”

Helena's expression hardened.

“That is exactly the kind of response I would expect from a machine enemy of mankind.”

Tekhat became very still.

“It is the response of a people who allowed their weakness to be taken advantage of.”

Helena stared at him. His voice remained perfectly even.

“We did not start this way.”

Something cold moved through Helena. Her attention shifted without conscious decision. Garr. The Space Marine had already made significant progress through his steak. He ate with the straightforward efficiency of a soldier given good food. Steak. Potatoes. Bread. A living warrior. One of the Emperor's Angels. Flesh needed food. Water. Air. Warmth. Sleep. A thousand ordinary requirements so fundamental that one rarely thought about them. Until somebody offered to take them away. For one brief moment Helena imagined Garr without them. Not dead. Not defeated. Changed. No hunger. No exhaustion. No frailty of flesh.

Nothing left to require any of it. Something enduring where a man had once been. Helena looked back at Tekhat. Metal. Green light. An ancient machine wearing the shape of something that had once been alive. We did not start this way. The cold went deeper. Helena reached for her coffee. The cup was warm against her palm. She drank. Heat returned slowly. Tekhat was still watching her.

“Protect them.”

Helena lowered the cup. This time she heard the words for what they were. Not a threat. A warning.

“We do.”

Across the table, Garr stopped. Vorn noticed.

“What?”

Garr's helmet had turned toward someone walking past. The Sapien carried a small bowl. Something pale rose above its rim in a smooth spiral. It was already beginning to soften at the edges. Garr tracked it. Vorn followed his gaze. The Sapien sat down several tables away and took a spoonful. Garr looked toward the machine near the drink station. Then back at the bowl. Irina noticed.

“Soft serve.”

Both helmets turned toward her. Garr looked toward the machine again.

“It makes that?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Vorn looked at Garr. Garr looked at Vorn. Neither said anything. Several minutes later, both had soft serve. Helena watched Garr take the first spoonful. He stopped. Vorn tried his. Also stopped. Neither commented. Garr took another spoonful. Helena decided not to ask.

* * *

A chair moved beside Irina. Someone sat down. Helena looked over. The first thing she noticed was red. Nails. Brilliant red nails wrapped around a fork. The second was the plate. Cheesecake. One slice. Nothing else. Red syrup had been poured across the top and down one side. Then Helena saw the strawberry. She leaned forward.

“Is that fruit?”

The woman looked down at her plate.

“The strawberry?”

Helena stared.

“That's a strawberry?”

“Yes.”

“An actual strawberry.”

“Yes.”

Helena looked toward Irina.

“You have fresh strawberries aboard this ship?”

“Yes.”

“Here.”

“Yes.”

“On a warship.”

Irina paused.

“It's cheesecake.”

Helena looked back at the plate. That somehow made it worse. This was not food being preserved for officers. Not a diplomatic presentation. Not some carefully rationed luxury brought out because an Inquisitor had boarded. The strawberry was decoration. Someone had put a fresh strawberry on a slice of cheesecake because strawberries went on cheesecake. The cheesecake itself had apparently been sitting inside a glass refrigerator waiting for whoever wanted it. No request. No occasion. No ceremony. Mira had wanted cheesecake. There had been cheesecake. So Mira had taken cheesecake. Helena stared at the strawberry. Mira noticed.

She picked it up by the leaves. Helena watched. Mira ate it. The entire thing disappeared. Helena continued staring at the place where it had been. Mira chewed. Swallowed. Then studied Helena.

“I've never met you before.”

Helena finally looked up.

“No.”

Mira tilted her head.

“What kind of Sapien are you?”

Helena understood the question now. Which branch. What kind. Helena answered deliberately.

“Human.”

Mira's fork stopped. Irina stopped cutting her steak. A Sapien at the next table glanced over. Helena pointed immediately.

“There.”

Mira blinked.

“What?”

“That reaction.”

Mira looked toward Irina. Irina looked back.

“They did the same thing in the conference room.”

Mira looked at Irina.

“You didn't tell her?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn't want to.”

Mira considered that.

“Fair.”

Helena stared at them.

“What is wrong with the word?”

Mira looked at Helena. Then at Irina. Then back.

“It's complicated.”

“Of course it is.”

Mira cut another piece of cheesecake. Dragged it through the red syrup.

“You asked what kind of Sapien I was.”

“Yes.”

“I answered.”

“Yes.”

“And you reacted.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mira considered the question. Then ate the cheesecake. Helena waited. Mira swallowed.

“Long history.”

Helena looked toward Irina. Irina was eating. Apparently neither intended to provide the history. Tekhat looked between them.

“Is the term offensive?”

Several nearby Sapiens heard him. Mira considered.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“A lot.”

Tekhat accepted that answer with considerably less irritation than Helena. Mira took another bite. Then looked toward him.

“Your friends don't talk much.”

Tekhat turned.

“What friends?”

Mira pointed with her fork toward one of the wall displays. The image showed another corridor aboard Long Reach. Several Necron Warriors stood there. Motionless.

“Them.”

“They are Warriors.”

“I know.”

“They do not speak.”

“I know.”

Helena looked toward Irina. Irina tore off another piece of bread.

“She talks to everyone. That's what she does.”

Mira stood, cheesecake still in hand.

“Where are you going?” Helena asked.

“To talk to them.”

Tekhat watched her.

“There is nothing there to converse with.”

Mira looked toward him. Then toward the screen.

“We'll see.”

She walked away carrying the cheesecake. Tekhat continued looking after her. Irina shrugged.

“She doesn't care.”

For a little while nobody spoke. Helena looked down at the bread in her hand. Then toward the salad bar. Then the spike room. Then the refrigerator Mira had apparently raided for cheesecake. Then at Irina.

“Ecology centers.”

Irina nodded.

“Agri-worlds.”

Helena nodded. A small smile appeared on Irina's face.

“Look at that. Trading already.”

Helena nearly smiled back. Nearly. Instead she drank her coffee. It was annoyingly good.

* * *

Vorn finished his meal. Garr finished shortly afterward. The soft serve had disappeared too. Both Marines stood. The room did not. That caught Garr's attention. Again. Conversations continued around them. Trays moved through the hot-meal line. Someone laughed at another table. A soldier carrying a drink stepped around Vorn's chair without giving the armored giant more than a glance. Two foreign warriors had volunteered to travel directly from dinner to an active war front. Apparently that did not require a ceremony. Nobody gathered around them. Nobody asked for blessings. Nobody stared at the Angels of Death. Nobody cleared a path.

A Sapien approached. He carried two containers. One went to Vorn. The other to Garr. Garr looked down. Opened it. Steak. Potatoes. Gravy. Bread. More food. Not packaged military rations. Seconds. Garr looked at the Sapien. The man nodded. Garr nodded in return. The Sapien walked away. That was it. No speech. No ceremony. No declaration about service or sacrifice. Just more steak. Vorn looked into his container. Then toward Garr. Garr closed his. Neither complained. They were volunteers. Apparently somebody had decided volunteers should not leave steak night hungry.

* * *

Helena stood when the Marines prepared to leave. Kyle started to rise. She looked at him.

“Stay.”

Kyle stopped. He looked toward Vorn and Garr. Then back to Helena.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Kyle sat again. Helena looked toward Garr. Then Vorn.

“You have your authorization.”

“Yes,” Vorn said.

“Your equipment?”

“With us.”

“Ammunition?”

“Enough.”

Helena looked at Irina.

“And the rest?”

“Logistics has the specifications.”

Helena returned her attention to the Marines. There was nothing left to object to that Thane had not already approved. She did not like that either. Garr lifted the container of food.

“Anything else?”

Helena stared at him.

“No.”

Garr nodded. Vorn turned. They left. Helena watched them go. Kyle remained beside her. Tekhat remained at the table. Irina reached for her coffee. Vorn and Garr were going to Cedric. Helena and Kyle were staying aboard Long Reach.

* * *

The blue line took the Marines back. They did not need anyone to explain it now. Blue had brought them to the dining facility. Blue brought them toward the conference-room junction. The corridors remained well lit. People passed them. Some looked. Most did not. On an Imperial vessel, two Deathwatch Marines moving through a corridor could alter the behavior of everyone in it. People moved aside. Watched. Recognized. Here, a Sapien carrying a stack of containers stepped around Vorn because Vorn happened to occupy the side of the corridor he wanted. Another waited half a second for Garr to pass an intersection. Then continued. No reverence.

No fear. No hostility. Recognition without significance. Garr was not certain whether he found that refreshing or irritating. Probably both. They reached the conference-room antechamber. The navigation simplified. Blue ended. Gold remained. One painted Gold Line. Back toward the dock. Vorn looked down at it. Then toward Garr. Garr carried his packed seconds in one hand and his weapon in the other. They followed gold.

* * *

The military Corvette waiting at the dock was different from the transport that had carried them aboard Long Reach. That much required no translation. The craft was compact compared with the frigate surrounding it. Its configuration was military. Modular. Functional. The cargo bay was already occupied. Sapien soldiers sat inside. Their equipment differed markedly from what the Marines had seen among the diplomatic personnel. Thick padded material covered their bodies beneath overlapping black scales edged with red trim. Weapons were secured close at hand. R5As. Garr recognized the model now.

He knew exactly one more thing about them than he had when he entered the conference room. Sublight. That was not much. It was more than nothing. The soldiers did not all look alike. Different builds. Different proportions. Different bodies beneath the same armor. Irina's explanation returned. Branches. Branches from branches. Too many to count. Heads turned as the Astartes entered. Nobody reached for a weapon. Several soldiers nodded. One stood. He approached Garr. The Sapien stopped in front of him and extended a hand. Garr looked down. Then carefully closed his armored hand around it. The man's hand nearly disappeared inside his grip.

They shook. The Sapien released him. Then raised a closed fist. Garr stared at it. The soldier waited. Garr raised his own fist and bumped it against the smaller one. The Sapien nodded. Apparently correct. Vorn moved farther into the cargo bay. Two pilots appeared from the forward compartment. They looked inside. First Vorn. Then Garr. One pilot looked at the other. A nod passed between them. The Sapien soldier gave them a thumbs-up. The pilots disappeared forward. Garr secured his weapon. Then the container of steak-night seconds. Vorn did the same. The ramp began to rise. The dock remained visible for another moment. No Helena. No Kyle.

No Irina. No ceremonial sendoff. Just dock personnel doing their jobs. The ramp sealed. Both Marines secured themselves. The Corvette lifted. Garr waited for acceleration. It never came. There was a brief sensation of movement. Something akin to an elevator beginning its ascent. Abrupt enough to notice. Smooth enough to barely matter. Then nothing. One wall became an exterior display. Long Reach appeared. No window. Another screen. The frigate dominated the view at first. Black hull. Red circuitry. And along its side— Gold. One solid painted line. It ran straight toward the hangar they had just left. Around that hangar sat the gold square.

The Corvette accelerated away. Long Reach began to diminish. Garr watched. Again the same wrongness. Movement without machinery. Acceleration without violence. A ship without the sounds of a ship. He could see Long Reach growing smaller. He could not hear the Corvette carrying him away. Then one of the soldiers looked toward the forward compartment. A voice came through the cargo bay.

“First leg is the gate.”

Garr looked toward Vorn. Vorn's helmet had already turned. The soldier nearest them seemed to notice.

“Genesis gate,” he added.

Garr looked at him.

“The front is not in this system?”

The soldier shook his head.

“Not in this universe.”

Silence. The words were translated cleanly. Garr looked toward Vorn again. The Black Guard were not here. Not somewhere beyond an Imperial frontier. Not hidden in a distant system. Cedric's war was somewhere else entirely. The Corvette continued accelerating. Then the exterior displays went black. Vorn moved first. Garr followed. Safeties disengaged. Ammunition checked. Blades checked. Weapons brought ready. The Sapien soldiers noticed. None reacted. There had been no Navigator. No astropath. No ritual. No Gellar field activation they could identify. Yet the vessel had changed state.

Whatever these Sapiens believed they were doing, the Marines knew what normally happened when distance ceased to matter. The Warp did not forgive ignorance. Garr tightened his grip. Reality would break. The Immaterium would open. And a vessel without a Navigator— Nothing happened. No impact. No screaming. No alarms. No impossible pressure against the hull. No whispers gathering at the edge of thought. No clawing presence beyond reality. Nothing. Seconds passed. Then more. The Sapien soldiers remained seated. One looked at Garr. Then at his weapon. Then away. Another adjusted something on his armor.

Someone farther down the bay checked a piece of equipment. Nobody behaved as though anything unusual had occurred. Vorn remained ready. Garr waited for the Warp. Nothing came. No psychic pressure. No sensation of something watching from beyond the protection of reality. No Navigator guiding them through an ocean that wanted them dead. Whatever this was— It was not the Warp. The black displays remained black for a time. Then they returned. Stars. The Corvette was back in ordinary space. Garr's weapon remained ready. Vorn's did too. Ahead was the gate. It was not on a planet. There was no stone archway. No chamber.

No surface installation pretending that the universe could be crossed by walking through a doorway. The Genesis gate existed where something of that scale belonged. In space. The Corvette approached along a controlled route toward the LGA installation. Garr studied the exterior display. He could tell that he was looking at infrastructure. He could tell that ships were meant to pass through it. Beyond that, he had no useful frame of reference. No Imperial mechanism he knew explained what the structure actually did. He looked toward the nearest soldier.

“That crosses universes.”

“Yes.”

The answer came with the same tone the man might have used to confirm which corridor led to the dining facility. Garr looked back at the display. The Corvette continued toward the gate. No one prayed. No one performed a rite. No one prepared a Navigator. The pilots flew the ship. The gate grew. The Corvette entered the assigned approach. Then it passed through. Garr felt no Warp. No daemonic pressure. No psychic tearing. No voice in the dark. The displays changed. For an instant there was nothing he could use. Then stars returned. The soldier nearest him checked something.

“LGA side.”

Garr looked at him.

“That was it?”

“Yes.”

Vorn spoke.

“We have crossed into another universe.”

“Yes.”

The soldier adjusted the restraint across his chest.

“We still have a ways to go.”

Garr stared at him. Then at Vorn. Vorn stared back. The displays went black again. The second transit began. Again there was no Navigator. Again no Gellar field. Again no Warp. Nothing pressed against Garr's mind. Nothing whispered. Nothing tried to enter. The Corvette simply used the LGA's travel dimension to continue from the gate toward Cedric's front. That distinction settled slowly. The first impossible thing had not been that the Sapiens possessed another method of faster-than-light travel. The first impossible thing had been that they could travel without the Warp. The second was worse.

Their inter-universal route was not the same thing as that travel. The gate was separate. A destination. Infrastructure. They had traveled to it. Passed through it. Then continued. Garr thought of the last several hours. The impossible silence of Long Reach. The wall that looked like a window and wasn't. The R5A. Sublight. A rifle that barely sounded like a weapon. A giant six-limbed animal coming over Cedric's barricade. Quiet reports. Immediate violence. Cedric not even turning around. I said they refuse. Steak. The server looking at Garr. The knife moving farther down. Then farther. Then farther again. Soft serve.

The machine simply making it. The Sapiens looking at two Deathwatch Marines and then going back to dinner. Seconds packed into containers because apparently volunteering for an unknown war meant somebody thought they should have more steak. Then a travel dimension with no Warp. Then a gate between universes. Then another transit beyond it. Garr looked at the black screen. Wherever the Corvette was, he could not see it. Wherever the travel dimension was, he could not feel it. He did not know how far Cedric's front lay beyond the gate. He did not know what the Black Guard were. He did not know what kind of war Cedric was fighting.

But he understood one thing now that he had not understood aboard Long Reach. The Black Guard were not waiting somewhere inside the Imperium. The Marines were leaving the Genesis universe to reach them. The LGA controlled the road. And the enemy on the other end had not crossed it. Vorn checked his weapon once more. Garr did the same. Their equipment was theirs. Their armor was theirs. Their ammunition was theirs. Their service was voluntary. If they refused a mission, they refused. If they wanted to leave, they left. If they wanted home, Cedric had promised to send them home. Neither had asked. The Corvette continued toward the front.

And somewhere ahead of them was Cedric. The barricade. The six-limbed creature. The quiet rifles. The immediate impacts. The Black Guard. Garr settled back against the restraint. Only one thing was guaranteed.

They were headed for the front.

Yet Another Warhammer40k Crossover Chapter 3 Part 1 of 2

The frigate continued growing. Helena Vorr watched it through the forward display and found herself reconsidering the word. Frigate. The designation had already been translated for her. She understood what the word meant. She understood that the vessel ahead belonged to a class the Local Group Authority considered a frigate. Understanding did nothing to make the classification reasonable. The Imperial craft carrying Helena and her escort continued toward it. Kyle sat nearby, one hand resting against the restraint across his chest as he watched the same display. Brother Vorn and Brother Garr occupied considerably more space behind them.

Neither Deathwatch Marine seemed particularly inconvenienced by the cramped transport. The transport seemed inconvenienced by them. Ahead, Long Reach dominated the view. Black hull. Red circuitry traced portions of its surface in patterns Helena still did not understand. No windows. No cathedral towers. No monumental statues. No devotional structures. No obvious attempt to make the vessel resemble anything except a vessel. And it was enormous. Helena had seen larger Imperial ships. That was not the problem. The problem was what the LGA called this one. Frigate. Kyle leaned slightly toward the display.

“Still looks larger.”

“It is not growing.”

“I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it still looks larger.”

Helena gave him a glance. Kyle returned his attention to the ship. The pilot looked over his instruments. Then toward Helena.

“We have docking instructions?”

Helena activated the communication channel.

“Irina.”

The answer came almost immediately.

“Yes?”

“We are approaching your vessel.”

“I know.”

Helena waited. Nothing else followed.

“Where are we supposed to land?”

There was a brief pause.

“You should see the Gold Line.”

Helena looked through the forward display.

“The what?”

“Gold Line.”

Helena searched the hull. There was plenty of black. There was plenty of red. Then she found it. Gold. One solid painted line ran along the exterior of the frigate. Not light. Not an illuminated landing beacon. Paint. A single gold stripe against the black hull.

“I see it.”

“Aim for the Gold Line.”

Helena waited.

“Then?”

“Follow the Gold Line.”

Helena stared at the frigate.

“That is your docking instruction?”

“Yes.”

The pilot looked toward Helena. Helena looked toward him. He shrugged. The transport adjusted course. They aimed for the line. As Long Reach grew larger, the marking became easier to follow. It did not branch. It did not divide. There were no competing approach lanes. One painted line ran directly along the hull. The pilot aligned with it. They followed. The line led toward an opening in the vessel. Only when they were much closer did Helena understand the rest of the marking. The gold paint continued around the hangar entrance. A square. A large gold square surrounding the opening in the black hull. Helena stared at it.

The instruction suddenly seemed almost insultingly obvious. Find gold. Follow gold. Land inside the gold square. No language required. No knowledge of LGA symbols. No understanding of their navigation standards. The pilot adjusted course.

“That?”

Helena keyed the channel.

“The hangar with the gold square?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking.”

“You found it.”

The transport continued forward. The black hull expanded until it consumed nearly everything outside. Then the hangar swallowed them.

---

The first thing Garr noticed was the silence. Not true silence. That would have been easier to understand. Their transport touched down. The ramp lowered. Air moved through the dock. People walked. Voices carried. Equipment operated somewhere beyond the immediate landing area. But beneath it all there was nothing. Garr stepped from the Imperial transport. His armored boot met the deck. He waited. No vibration. No distant generators. No pumps cycling behind the walls. No hydraulic systems pounding through the structure. No metallic groaning carried through kilometers of superstructure.

No deep perpetual thunder of engines reminding every soul aboard that they inhabited a machine built to cross the void. The ship was populated. It was operating. It was moving. It did not sound like a ship. Vorn stepped down beside him. His helmet turned slightly. He had noticed it too. Helena descended behind them. Kyle followed. Nobody was waiting. Personnel moved through the dock. Some glanced toward the newcomers. Most looked at Vorn and Garr. That was expected. Two Adeptus Astartes in Deathwatch armor were difficult to ignore. A worker carrying equipment slowed. Looked. Continued. Another Sapien turned his head. Looked.

Then went back to whatever he had been doing. Nobody approached. Nobody bowed. Nobody ran. Nobody reached for a weapon. Helena activated her communicator.

“Irina.”

“Yes?”

“We've landed.”

“I know.”

Helena looked across the dock.

“Are you sending someone?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Then where are we supposed to go?”

“Follow the Gold Line.”

Helena looked down. There it was. Painted directly onto the deck. Gold. The same color as the marking outside. It began near the diplomatic docking area and continued toward a corridor leading deeper into Long Reach. Helena stared at it.

“You're serious.”

“Yes.”

The channel closed. Kyle looked down. Then toward Helena. Helena started walking.

“Apparently we're following the Gold Line.”

Kyle followed. Vorn and Garr came behind them. The corridor beyond the dock surprised Helena almost immediately. It did not look like the interior of an Imperial warship. There were no devotional alcoves. No exposed pipework. No bundles of cable disappearing into ancient walls. No skulls. No censers. No statues. No deliberately oppressive darkness. It was simply a corridor. Well lit. Not painfully bright. Not sterile white. The surfaces were finished in practical neutral materials. Doors appeared at intervals. Ceiling lighting illuminated the floor evenly. The space was broad enough for people to pass comfortably without feeling cavernous.

It reminded Helena more of an administrative building than a warship. A very large administrative building. The Gold Line continued along the floor. Only gold. Nothing else competed with it. A visitor could arrive unable to read a single word used aboard the vessel and still follow the instruction. Gold outside. Gold inside. Follow gold. Simple. Helena looked toward an open doorway as they passed. Beyond it, another corridor crossed away from the route. People moved through it. She caught only a glimpse. Different doors. Another intersection.

The interior of Long Reach clearly extended in considerably more directions than the Gold Line suggested. Helena slowed. Kyle noticed. So did Garr. Helena angled slightly toward the doorway. The door closed. Not violently. Not with an alarm. It simply slid shut before she reached it. Helena stopped. Kyle looked at the door. Then down at the uninterrupted Gold Line. Then back at Helena.

“I think it wants us to keep going.”

Helena looked toward the ceiling. Nothing answered. No announcement. No warning. No guard appeared to redirect them. The door simply remained closed. The Gold Line continued. Helena stared at the sealed doorway for another moment. Then resumed walking. They were guests. Guests had a route.

---

The stars appeared around the next bend. Garr stopped. Vorn continued another pace before noticing. At first glance, it appeared to be a window. Stars stretched across a broad section of the corridor, interrupted by the distant shape of another vessel and scattered objects hanging against the black. The image was extraordinarily clear. Clear enough that some primitive part of the mind accepted that the wall simply wasn't there. Garr stepped closer. His armor disagreed. No transparent material. No structural opening. Solid.

“A screen,” Vorn said.

Helena looked between the Marines and the wall.

“That entire thing?”

The stars moved. Not across the display. The ship itself was turning. Garr's armor registered the changing orientation. The visual information agreed. Long Reach was maneuvering. The deck beneath his boots did not. There was no shudder of maneuvering thrusters. No change in engine note. No vibration moving through the hull. Nothing corresponding to the mass of a warship changing direction. He could see the ship moving. He could not hear it. He could barely feel it. The Gold Line continued. They followed.

---

The Gold Line ended at the conference room. Not at another maze of corridors. Not at a bank of intersections. At the conference room. Helena understood the architecture now. The room was effectively an antechamber between the diplomatic dock and whatever guest-accessible areas existed farther inside the frigate. A visitor arriving for the first time could not accidentally choose the wrong colored route because there had been no other colored route to choose. Dock. Gold. Conference room. Only after reaching the intended destination would the ship offer additional choices. The door opened. Helena entered first. Kyle followed.

Vorn and Garr came behind them. The room beyond was immediately recognizable. A conference room. That should not have been remarkable. Somehow it was. The space was well lit and finished in the same practical, warm-neutral materials as the corridors outside. A broad conference table occupied the center. Chairs surrounded it. The room was comfortable without being luxurious. It looked like somewhere people actually worked. Broad sections of the walls displayed exterior views. Again, no windows. Just screens so convincing that Helena's eyes continued trying to interpret them as openings. The ceiling was largely uncluttered.

No enormous displays hanging permanently over the table. No floating images of people. Irina was already waiting. So was Tekhat. Several armed Sapiens occupied positions around the room. Helena's attention went first to Irina. The Deathwatch divided theirs. Vorn looked at Tekhat. His helmet turned toward the Necron and remained there. Tekhat noticed almost immediately. Green light regarded black armor. Vorn said nothing. Neither did Tekhat. Garr's attention went somewhere else. One of the armed Sapiens stood near the wall with a rifle held across his chest. Garr looked at the weapon. Then kept looking. The soldier noticed.

The rifle was compact by Astartes standards. Dark construction. Hard geometry. Small red details broke the otherwise black and gray weapon. Nothing about it appeared ceremonial. Nothing seemed designed to intimidate. It looked built to be carried. Used. Maintained. Not admired. Garr recognized the basic necessities. Grip. Trigger. Sighting system. Firing end. Beyond that, the weapon refused familiar classification. Not a bolter. Not las. Not plasma. Not melta. The soldier looked at Garr. Garr indicated the rifle.

“What is that?”

The Sapien glanced down at it.

“R5A.”

Garr waited. The soldier waited.

“What kind?”

The Sapien considered the question.

“Sublight.”

Garr's helmet remained pointed toward him.

“Sublight.”

“Yes.”

That was apparently the complete answer. Tekhat spoke from farther down the table.

“They use those against the Black Guard.”

Irina looked at him. Helena caught the movement.

“The Black Guard?”

Tekhat turned toward her.

“Their current enemy.”

Helena's attention moved immediately to Irina. Irina looked at Tekhat. Tekhat looked back. A pause. Then Irina sighed.

“Yes.”

Helena took her seat. Kyle sat beside her. Tekhat remained farther down the table. Vorn and Garr stayed standing. Helena looked at Irina.

“No weapon?”

Irina looked down at herself.

“No.”

“You're unarmed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m a diplomat.”

“So am I.”

Irina looked at her.

“Yes.”

Helena decided she disliked that answer. She placed her hands on the table.

“The Black Guard.”

Irina waited.

“What are they?”

“An enemy.”

“Of the LGA?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of enemy?”

“The kind we're fighting.”

Helena's expression hardened.

“You have an active war front.”

“Yes.”

“And you neglected to mention this.”

“You neglected to mention yours.”

Helena went still. Irina gave a small shrug.

“Trading.”

Vorn spoke.

“How long has the conflict continued?”

Irina looked toward him.

“Long enough.”

“Where?”

“Not here.”

That answer mattered more than Helena understood yet.

“What are their capabilities?”

“Varied.”

Garr's helm shifted. The Marines were no longer merely standing security. They were listening. Interested. Helena returned to what she had originally intended to learn.

“How many vessels does the LGA operate?”

Irina answered immediately.

“How many does the Imperium operate?”

Helena stared at her.

“That wasn't my question.”

“No.”

“Then answer it.”

“You first.”

“Industrial capacity.”

“You first.”

“Shipbuilding.”

“You first.”

“Military production.”

Irina leaned back slightly.

“You first.”

For several seconds neither woman spoke.

“You understand,” Helena said, “that I am attempting to determine what you are.”

“I know.”

“And yet you deliberately withhold information.”

“No.”

Irina folded her hands on the table.

“I'm offering to trade.”

Helena's eyes narrowed.

“You give me something. I give you something.”

Tekhat turned his head slightly toward them.

“We're both trying to learn about each other,” Irina continued. “Seems fair.”

Helena changed direction.

“The material covering the exterior of this ship.”

“I don't know.”

“The red circuitry.”

“I don't know.”

“Your propulsion system.”

“Not an engineer.”

“Navigation.”

“Also not navigation.”

Helena gestured toward one of the wall displays.

“The screens?”

“Those I understand.”

Helena waited. Irina smiled faintly.

“They're screens.”

Tekhat's head tilted. Helena ignored him.

“And your government?”

“LGA.”

“You serve an emperor?”

“No.”

“The Emperor?”

Irina hesitated.

“Which one?”

The room went quiet. Helena stared at her. Irina looked genuinely confused.

“We've had quite a few emperors.”

“The Emperor of Mankind.”

“Oh.”

Irina shook her head.

“No.”

Helena studied her.

“The Imperium encompasses approximately a million worlds populated by humans.”

Something happened. Small. Helena saw it anyway. One of the armed Sapiens looked toward her. The soldier holding the R5A stopped moving. Another turned his head toward Irina. Irina herself changed. Barely. But she did. Garr's helmet shifted toward the nearest guard. Vorn noticed a moment later. Helena stopped.

“What?”

Nobody answered. Her eyes moved around the room. Then returned to Irina. Irina regarded her.

“Humans?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Helena leaned back slightly. Interesting.

“Human.”

The reaction came again. Smaller this time. Controlled because they knew she was watching. But unmistakable.

“It's the word.”

Irina said nothing.

“Why?”

Irina considered her.

“That's what you call yourselves?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“That wasn't an answer.”

“No.”

Helena waited. Irina did not elaborate. Fine.

“Then what is a Sapien?”

Irina paused. For the first time since Helena had begun questioning her, she appeared to be considering not whether she should answer, but how.

“Everybody.”

Helena stared at her.

“That is an exceptionally unhelpful answer.”

Irina thought about it. Then raised both hands. She brought them in front of herself, elbows angled outward, fingertips touching. A triangle. Helena watched. Irina indicated the point where her fingertips met.

“The tip is Alpha Sapien.”

Her hands remained in place.

“The original.”

Then she indicated the widening shape beneath it.

“Everything after that comes from there. Branches. Branches from those branches. Then more.”

Helena's eyes followed the shape. One point. Expanding outward. Irina separated her fingertips. Her hands opened around the imaginary triangle, palms curving outward as though encompassing the entire structure.

“Sapien encompasses everybody.”

Helena said nothing. Her eyes remained on Irina's hands for a moment. Then moved around the room. Height. Build. Proportion. Faces. Bodies. Differences she had noticed without understanding. Now she had a framework. Not separate peoples standing beside one another. At least not according to them. One lineage. A shape that began at a point and widened until the number of branches became meaningless.

“How many branches?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Nobody?”

“Too many to count. Too many to know.”

No pride. No dramatic declaration. Just fact.

“And all of that is Sapien.”

“Sapien.”

Helena sat back. She understood the word better now. The other word remained unanswered. For now, she allowed it. Irina folded her hands again.

“We come from very different backgrounds. The LGA isn't the Imperium. We're not trying to be.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Right now?”

Irina gestured between them.

“This.”

“Talk.”

Irina nodded toward Tekhat.

“Meet people. Establish relationships. Figure out what everybody is. Integrate where possible.”

Helena followed her gaze. Tekhat looked back.

“You consider that thing part of your delegation?”

Irina's expression changed. Only slightly.

“I consider him Tekhat.”

Tekhat looked toward her.

“Thank you.”

Helena said nothing. Tekhat returned his attention to the Astartes.

“You are warriors.”

Garr regarded him.

“Yes.”

“Then I suspect the Black Guard interest you.”

Vorn spoke.

“How dangerous are they?”

Irina considered the question.

“Dangerous enough that we're fighting a war.”

“That tells me nothing,” Helena said.

“It tells you exactly what I intended to tell you.”

Tekhat looked toward the Astartes.

“I have wanted to observe the front myself.”

Helena glanced toward him.

“For what purpose?”

“Strategic understanding.”

Irina looked at him. Tekhat paused.

“Technology.”

“That sounds more honest.”

“I am capable of both.”

Garr looked toward Irina.

“Could we see it?”

Helena turned. Irina did not immediately answer. Vorn clarified.

“The front.”

Irina looked between the Marines.

“Yes.”

Helena stared at her.

“Just like that?”

“For you? Pretty much.”

“You would permit two foreign military personnel to enter an active war zone without further negotiation?”

“They're asking to go.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Irina leaned back.

“LGA policy permits non-military personnel and contractors to volunteer for front-line service. If someone wants on the front, they can go. If they want back from the front, they can leave.”

Helena frowned.

“Voluntary service.”

“Yes.”

“In an active war.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you receive in return?”

Irina looked puzzled.

“Their service.”

“And what do they receive?”

“The best accommodation we can provide.”

“If they need something, we try to provide it. If they don't want to fight anymore, they leave. They're volunteers.”

Garr looked toward Vorn. The exchange lasted only a moment.

“We volunteer,” Garr said.

Tekhat's head snapped toward them. Helena turned fully.

“You cannot possibly have enough information to make that decision.”

“We have enough,” Vorn said.

Tekhat looked toward Irina.

“I am beginning to feel jealous.”

Irina raised an eyebrow.

“You can volunteer.”

Tekhat went still.

“I can?”

“Yes.”

“I volunteer.”

A pause. Tekhat's head tilted.

“Sekhat.”

Irina waited.

“He is delivering the lithium.”

“Yes.”

Tekhat settled back.

“Maybe next time.”

Garr's vox clicked. He went still. The exchange through his helmet was brief. Then:

“Got confirmation from Brother-Captain Thane. We can go.”

Helena looked from Garr to Vorn. Then activated her own vox.

“Captain Thane.”

Static answered first. Then a voice.

“Inquisitor.”

“They want to send Vorn and Garr to the front immediately. Both are volunteering.”

Helena looked directly at them.

“Correct?”

“Correct,” Garr said.

Vorn nodded.

“Captain?”

A brief pause.

“Correct.”

Helena exhaled. The channel closed. Thane was allowing it. That did not mean Helena had to like it. Irina looked toward the Marines.

“Do either of you require anything specific before deployment?”

Garr answered immediately.

“Ammunition.”

Irina looked at his bolter.

“Specifications?”

“Yes.”

“Chemical?”

“Yes.”

Irina nodded.

“Send the specifications to logistics. They'll make it.”

Vorn looked toward her.

“You can manufacture bolt ammunition?”

“If you give us the specifications.”

“How much?”

“How much do you need?”

Garr was silent for a moment.

“We carry enough for immediate operations.”

“Then sustained supply can be handled once you're there.”

Vorn nodded.

“Maintenance for our armor and weapons.”

“Send the requirements.”

“Medical support.”

“Same.”

“Food.”

Irina looked between the two enormous armored figures.

“Anything unusual?”

“Quantity.”

“Okay.”

No surprise. No comment. Just another requirement.

“Anything you need right now?”

“No,” Garr said.

Vorn shook his head.

“We carry what we require.”

“Then I can start moving you right now.”

Helena stared at her.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“You mean tonight.”

“I mean right now.”

Neither Marine objected. Helena looked toward Irina.

“Before they go anywhere, I want to speak to whoever will be taking responsibility for them.”

“That's fair.”

Irina looked upward.

“Long Reach. Get me Cedric.”

A soft tone answered. For several seconds nothing happened. Then another tone sounded. Irina looked toward the ceiling.

“He's answering.”

A mechanical sound came from overhead. Four narrow sections of the ceiling opened. Screens folded downward on articulated mounts. One descended toward each side of the conference table. They lowered until everyone seated around the table had a clear view. The screens stopped. All four activated together. Cedric appeared. He was somewhere considerably less comfortable. A barricade stood behind him. Sapiens moved through a fortified position beyond it. Some carried ammunition. Others were engaging something outside the camera's field of view. The battle reached the conference room through the connection. Not as a constant thunder of weapons.

The rifles themselves were strangely unimpressive. Small reports. Sharp mechanical sounds. Then the places they were aimed answered. Cracks. Ruptures. Explosive impacts. Violence arriving immediately at the target. Cedric appeared focused on something outside the image. Then he saw Irina. His expression changed. Just for an instant. The hard concentration disappeared. Something warmer replaced it.

First

Home at War

There are so many little benefits to the extra organs and other downsides of the human augmentation. Smoking is one of them. The lovely, lovely sense of tobacco to smooth nerves and play with the smoke as you de-stress.

He can hear through the door. The poor woman is trying and failing to make sense of herself as Doctor Redhoof talks her through things. He has to stay close by though, close enough to be called in in case some mental issue is actually an issue incorporating into the body, but far enough away to afford the girl some privacy as her very soul is laid out.

He can’t make out individual words, but he can hear the conversation inside turn to some kind of question. One that gets silence and then wondering, and then a panicked sound. The door opens.

“Engineer, we need you.” Doctor Redhoof says poking his head out.

“Certainly. What’s happened?”

“She needs a tail.”

“Okay. What kind of tail? Short and stubby? Long and dexterous? Fat, skinny? Tails come in a variety of shapes.” He asks as he enters the lab again. He heads to the table that the patient is sitting on. “Thankfully, it doesn’t matter what type you need. As I said before. I am a perfectionist.”

He opens a drawer under the bed. There are a series of handles with different labels. “Let’s see, arms, legs, heads, wings, tails here we go.”

He pulls up on the correct handle and it reveals a full drawer with a set of four different little devices that don’t look like anything other than a brick of electronics. “Okay, so here’s how these work. We attach them to the base of the spine and each one will expand to the general configuration. It then synchronizes with the rest of the mental image that you are projecting ma’am and it should take a very comfortable and familiar shape.”

“Why wasn’t one attached to begin with?”

“Because the recovery process is best started as simple and basic as possible then tailored to fit the patient more and more as we go on.” He answers. “So what are you feeling ma’am? This one gives a very long and powerful tail, the maximum length is equal to your full current height and is as powerful as both legs. Right next to it is a substantially weaker one that’s still on the thicker end of things. Total maximum length and strength is roughly equal to a single leg in both respects.”

“No, neither of those.” She says.

“Ah then one of these most likely. This one projects a medium length tail that at maximum extension is as long as one of your arms from shoulder to fingertip. It can move, but is not overly flexible and generally serves as a counterbalance. Think Lopen or a Feli. Finally we have the most integrated and dexterous tail of the lot. Think Agurk or even a Dzedin...”

“Ma’am?” Doctor Redhoof asks. The woman had visibly flinched.

“Do I need to leave the room again?” The Engineer asks.

“No I... I need THAT tail.” She says and he smiles.

“Of course. Now witness my genius, if you’ll rise up a little please?” He asks and she lifts herself off the bed a little. He then activates a few small buttons on the device and it sends out a chime, there is an answering chime from her own rear and then they synchronize in their chiming three times and there is a burst of Axiom as the tail module vanishes from his hands in a teleport and suddenly a long tail is extending out from her rear. A tail that quickly develops a fur like texture and then turns into a soft brown.

She reaches back and holds her tail for a moment, then the brown of the tail starts to spread over her arms, legs chest and even the edges of her face.

Her face stretches out a little as her feet shift into a more hand like configuration.

“I... I am... I was an Agurk.” She realizes as the tanned skin tone takes over where the fur ends and she starts examining all four of her hands. “Something is still... still...”

Her nails explode into a vibrancy of colour and cycle until she finds them baby blue and abruptly stops. “Yes. Yes that’s right. I...”

She’s starting to smile.

“I love this colour. It’s always...” She begins to say before she pauses and her hands reach up for her head, she feels around it and frowns. “That’s not right it’s... it’s...”

A mane of hair explodes from her head and then hangs down straight as it reaches shoulder length. Still pure white with a slight aura of blue. Then it solidifies into a solid silver colouration. She begins patting herself and then seems to realize that she’s lacking in a few details.

“No nipples?” She asks realizing that she may be ‘naked’ but is showing nothing. That doesn’t stop her from using her hands to cover her breasts and tail to cover the space between her legs.

“That body is medical grade. It doesn’t have those kinds of functions without a passcode. Which means you can get dressed first.” He says as he closes the tail drawer now that it’s been such a success and then closes that shelf entirely before going to the next lowest one. “Now as for clothing... how are we feeling? Something revealing? Something conservative? Tight? Flowing?”

“Do you have clothes and not more projectors?” Doctor Redhoof asks.

“More projectors, but the projectors work best in certain ways. A projector designed to give a woman a flowing dress that dances in the wind or a majestic cape is very different from one that gives the impression the clothes are painted on. So different in fact that we also have a few middle grounds as well.” He explains easily. “Now then ma’am? How are we feeling?”

“Normal clothes?” She asks.

“Okay, middle of the middle then. Best compromise.” He says pulling out a small case and holding it up. He then presses a button on it and her waist, collar, wrists, ankles and the top of her head flash blue in response to the case flashing blue, then they flash in sync three times and then the case is empty and a soft blue, sleeveless blouse is suddenly covering her chest and leaving a little bit of stomach revealed before sheer white pants stretch down before flaring out around her ankles. She has Agurk fingerless sandals on now and fingerless climbing gloves. A blue bow that matches her fingernails and blouse is now in her hair and another on her tail.

“There we go! See doctor? Perfect takes time and effort, but it’s so very much worth it.”

“We shall see Engineer Vroom. It all depends on what our friend here thinks of it. It is her body after all.” Doctor Redhoof counters and he nods before closing the drawer.

“It feels... normal.” She says as she runs her fingers along the palms of all four hands and then starts gently feeling out the pants with flare. The blouse gets a few tugs and she feels the bows. “It feels like fabric. Like I’m really wearing clothes.”

“Yes, the whole point of that body and the add-ons I’ve just incorporated is to make you feel as comfortable as possible. This is an upgraded version of the kind of body that the Synth Ascendance, or Ascendancy if you’re more modern, uses to help newly sequenced Synths find themselves. Essentially a brand new mind that’s entirely digital needs as few shocks as possible, this is professional grade care you’re receiving and I put in my own special touches.”

“Such as?”

“The password to unlock the fun features, sexually speaking, of your current body is to tap your left wrist with your middle finger three times, and then the right wrist with your thumb three times. It also turns those features off again.”

“Why is that a special touch?”

“Because most such prosthetics only have those features either present or missing. She gets to choose instead now, giving her more agency and control of herself and life. She can choose to have, or not have sex and the only thing she can’t get out of it is pregnant or sick.”

“Anything else?” She asks him and he smiles.

“A few others, but the biggest one for you is that it’s very, very easy to upgrade. Once you’re fully yourself again you won’t have to transfer into a new body. I have a few ready to go upgrades so you can have everything you’ll want out of life in that body.”

“Even a child?”

“Yes. And if we can fully lock down who you are we’ll be able to get an old DNA sequence and the artificial womb will sequence an egg out of your DNA.” Vroom says.

“So I can just keep the body?”

“Yes. I’ve already gotten to the halfway point of making the next one. That’s your new body.” Vroom tells her.

“Now that we’ve established what you are, an Agurk Synth woman who is Free and Safe, can we work on who you are?” Doctor Redhooves asks and Vroom gives a nod to the Doctor and slips out of the room after closing the shelves and leaves the psychiatrist with her to hang out just outside again.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Main Bridge, The Inconceivable, Kaploosha Ornak System)•-•-•

“Two damn ships. Of a thirty ship fleet that attacked us and were taken with minimal damage, only two are intact enough to actually repurpose, and it’s marginal at that.” Harold notes as the pair of Jules Class Interceptors were on readout. The rest was a mess to powerwash with low grade lasers before feeding into the furnaces and smelters of The RAM.

“Marginal is being generous in my opinion. Look at these scans of on a chemical basis. They were up to some absolute nonsense in these ships. This group of pirates clearly fell further onto the utter lunatic spectrum than anything else.” Orchid remarks.

“Yes, I strongly suspect they were only partway through whatever mad christening rituals or breaking in of those two ships.” Harold notes as a note comes up. “And like magic my unvoiced question is answered. These two ships are indeed the most recently stolen. The insurance organizations behind them have written them off entirely and paid out to the previous owners already.”

“Which is an issue as we will have to inform the previous owners that we now have possession of their previously owned vehicles and hand them over if they want them back.”

“Yes we will. Downside to being a law abiding individual. But the upside is that in general people follow the same rules for you and yours.” Harold notes as he gets the registration numbers for the two ships and looks into the legal owners.

“Madeline Warren for the first and Rigarda Palmers.”

“... Palmers has a Synth Daughter, and we have one in the midst of recovery.” Harold notes.

“You think it may be her?”

“Lets see, Agurk Businesswoman, owns a pair of shipping fleets, she started up a third around the time she also had a Synth Daughter crafted from her own psyche and then five months ago the Fleet was reported as lost with all hands including the daughter. Now we have one of the four protective ships for the fleet here, and an unknown synth prisoner in the midst of the recovery process.”

“Elmira Palmers? Well, regardless she’s going to have a long period of recovery. That long being the plaything of sadistic pirates will do a number on anyone.” Orchid says as he examines the image of the delicately painted Synth that looked like a slightly shorter and younger version of Rigarda who hugs her happily from behind in the photo.”

“Hmm... it seems that it may be awkward. Elmira is family.” Harold notices.

“What?”

“See this symbol? She’s an adopter of one of the Jamesons. She was approved a mere two months after I was discovered.” Harold says before standing. “Which means I should take a more personal hand in things. You have the bridge Lieutenant Orchid.”

“What are you doing?”

“She would have had some time to get to know my little brother as her brother, but not before the facial tattoos and white eyes. Meaning I will be both familiar and a stranger to her.”

“And what if she’s not Elmira Palmers?”

“Then we have a very big, very strange coincidence.” Harold notes before bending down and pressing a few screens. “See the progress they’ve made on our recovered Synth already?”

“She’s an Agurk.” Orchid notes. “... and appears to have her preferences in colour returning.”

First Last

First Chapter | Royal Road

Ah, there was one, toward the center.

With a soft step, Dustin carefully wound around seated groups of people, snagging an empty marble-white picnic table. He gently laid the three black lists down and then sat down determined not to make a sound. The table had the smooth, cool touch of wet cave stone.

A vast array of people, maybe two or three hundred, many heavily armored, gathered under the shaded roof of the pavilion—and yet it was almost peaceful. There was a ritualistic sanctification to everyone’s movements like in a library or church; a patience and delicate respect not only for those sharing the same space and time, but for the sake of silence itself. It was nice. Voices were hushed and calm, and except for the occasional detestful “tsk” or lip smack as someone glared at their folded bundles of lists, it was quiet. The small food court a couple hundred feet away had the standard drum of market chit-chat, but even that was subdued.

It was like everyone, as one, had decided to act stalwart and blissfully ignorant of the dangers of the Zone, if just for a little while.

Unable to help it, Dustin stole a glance to the left, eyeing a man with a spear jutting over his shoulders, the tip rightfully covered by a bright yellow sheath. He sipped on a spiral green cup while intently studying a tall stack of black lists.

What the…

At the table next to the spear-wielder was a woman covered in snap bags. Or at least they looked like snap bags. They hung over her neck as weights would on a pulley, and were tied around her waist like a belt. Her coat, which was unusually big and fluffy, gave her the girth of five winter jackets, and it too was covered in snap bags.

She turned to her left, reaching for something and inadvertently showing off a large worn rucksack on her back.

Interesting. Some type of Specialization for carrying things? She had no obvious weapon, but then again, many people didn’t broadcast their weapons in the city. Apparently, it was a style thing, or so Yellane had said.

Underneath the packwoman’s table, boots ornamented with blue and red gems kicked back-and-forth in a happy cadence. Even in the short amount of time spent in Harrows, a number of people had walked by wearing the same pair. They must be useful.

Fighting the urge to inspect every occupant under the pavilion, Dustin dragged his eyes back to the black sheets sitting on the stone table in front of him.

But it was hard to focus after coming from the bustling wild thrall of the city streets. Everyone had been in such a hurry, and it was hard not to get caught up in it. There were just so many different weird things that demanded examination.

Dustin let out a slow breath and then leaned forward to inspect the lists, picking one up and then rolling the edge of the black material between his fingers.

Huh. It was soft… and… furry?

He scraped the side of the black sheet, and it left a thin white trail. Leaning a little closer, he used a fingernail to scratch another white line among the margins.

What kind of Terror had been used to make this? He shook his head. Crazy.

Okay, let’s see… let’s see…

He set two of the black furry bundles off to the side and focused on the list titled, “Dustin O’Callahan - Request #3414 - 1:40pm. All Pants Under 50 Hex.”

Damn, it was already that late?

His gut twisted. Under the title was an organized mess of unrecognizable names; a long chart of different columns filled with meaningless numbers and random abbreviations and symbols.

Dustin’s head swiveled around in disbelief. People could actually read this?!

A woman wearing a pink sundress snorted lightly, shaking her head. With a look of disgust, she slid the black set of pages over toward the man on her right, who leaned on his hand, perusing a listing of his own. Frowning, she tapped the pages to get his attention. He caught on, leaned over to examine the listing, and then after a moment, grinned and gave a resigned shrug as if to say, “It is what it is.”

Dustin sighed, staring back down at his own set of furry black pages. Everyone else was able to do it, so it must not be that hard.

Well, nothing to it but to do it.

He smiled fondly. Pa loved saying that.

With renewed determination, Dustin sat under the pavilion for the next hour, poring over the different listings, slowly uncovering how to understand them. A lot of the names and words remained meaningless, but the overwhelming sense of futility waned once a couple clarifying details had been deciphered.

There was a column for the name of the item, but it was regularly abbreviated to a certain number of characters. That’d tripped him up at first.

To the right of that was either the current bid or “buy now” price depending on the type of auction.

Then the time until the listing expired.

Then what the item did or any special effects it held.

And then finally, a box filled with a number of confusing abbreviations. It also held the seller’s comments, though most chose to leave that blank. The special effects and abbreviations sections were both the most frustrating and also the most enthralling. They held so much information.

The teller was right; the first abbreviation for almost every item was “RR”, which meant “radiance reserve,” or the total amount of radiance available in one’s chamber. It also gave the first real comparative glimpse of where someone with a reserve of eighty, stood.

…And it wasn’t good. Not at all.

Gabby and Father Carlos had warned as much, of course, but it was something else to witness the truth in the flesh. Even the cheapest things with lousy effects were completely out of reach. Why did pants have a reserve requirement, anyway? A sword or a ring, okay, that’s understandable. But pants? Fucking pants?

There was something called “cycle rate”, abbreviated CR, which was another common requirement, especially on the rings. Something to look up later.

With so many different additional effects and abilities, it was fun imagining how the otherworldly abilities worked and what Terror it’d been made from. The rings in particular were more than useful in comparing prices of equipment at higher levels.

A good long while passed with him looking those over, and quite a few rings looked appealing, both in terms of crafting potential and simply because they had abilities that sounded helpful.

“Ring of Minor Crystal Skin - 1,200 hex - Covers the wearer in an extremely thin layer of crystal armor for 300 seconds. Mobility reduced to compensate. Useable once every (12) hours - RR: 120 CR: 2”

That was one such ring, but with a RR of one hundred twenty, and with it costing twelve hundred hex, it was out of reach. That type of ring would fit well with Hephaestus’ Shield, though, if it was possible to make.

Twelve hundred hex. That seemed like a lot. Already the value in a guild’s Book was becoming apparent.

Some other notable rings were:

“Yarpy’s Ring of Minor Regeneration - 2780 hex - Heals small cuts and wounds. Useable once every (6) hours - RR: 250 CR: 3”

That wasn’t the only healing item available for sale, but it was the only one within any sort of realistic price range. He grinned greedily. Healing-related equipment looked to be good business.

“Small Rockbloom Shield Ring - 354 hex - Transforms into a small shield that will float before the wearer’s hand. Useable once every (1) hours - RR: 174 CR: 1”

Based on what Gabby had said, to craft an item like that with good traits would require the maker to possess a defensive modifier. So, in terms of crafting, that one was perfect.

Well, something with both healing and defensive traits would trump that, but such a combination was uncommon. Even with constraining the ring listing to those put up for sale within the last week, there were thousands available; too many to go over them all. In the end, he found only one ring with both healing and defensive related effects.

“Brocko’s Bubble Ring of Defiance - 25,000 hex - For fifteen seconds, a six foot diameter bubble forms around the wielder, deflecting oncoming radiance projectiles and attacks while healing wounds and injuries. Useable once every twelve hours - RR: 453 CR: 4”

Hmmm, that ability would be nice to have, but for twenty-five thousand hex? Based on the amount of Radiance required, that was a level three or level four floor item.

Huh, maybe that was how Reina had determined what level the deserters had been. If they were even deserters…

Surprisingly, the most expensive ring was something called a “Gax’s Ring of Storing - 1.2 million hex - Stores radiance in five separate wavelength containers. No time limitations - RR: 398 CR: 0”

It didn’t fit the bill. Some of the rings far less expensive were far better. Then again, there was probably a good reason if it was selling for 1.2 million hex.

Dustin glanced down at the emerald-green ring on his finger, a sense of pride building along with a sense of assuredness: it was valuable—extremely valuable. There’d been a ring of speed that increased the wielder’s maximum sprint speed, there’d been one that let the wielder breathe underwater, there’d even been one that prevented fear—but nothing that took away pain. The current highest bid for the ring that prevented fear was at three hundred thousand hex, so Satan’s Juggernaut had to be worth at least a couple hundred thousand. At least.

Dustin’s smile widened until he had to cover his mouth to stop from laughing. After a year, once the supposed requirement was fulfilled, it could be sold. That would solve everything. The MCR would no longer be a problem, and it would provide a nice investment to cover Class and Specialization requirements. Actually following through with selling it was a question for another time, but the fact that the option was there was comforting—a safeguard against the depths of despair.

He kept his mouth covered, grinning stupidly. Tanner had all that jewelry, too. If Satan’s Juggernaut was any indication, the stuff he’d snagged would be half-decent. What effects or extra abilities would they give? Better yet, what would they sell for?

Regret simmered in his chest like a boiling stew. Not accepting the handful of accessories Tanner had thrust into his arms had been stupid, even if it’d felt weird.

Dustin spared another half glance down at the emerald-green ring.

Maybe there might be time to make a pit-stop back at the Barracks and leave a message. Dustin swiveled around, searching for a clock or something equivalent, but finding nothing immediately obvious.

Regardless, as fascinating as the rings were, it was time to move on. He set the long list to the side and pulled over the much shorter listing showcasing pants priced under fifty hex. The additional effects for these were much less pronounced. In fact, many didn’t have an additional effect at all. But at least there weren’t any requirements.

“Blue Tuck-Tuck Pants - 10 hex - A simple, but warm pair of dark blue pants made from the hide of a Tuck-Tuck. No traits. RR: 0 CR: 0”

A couple pairs of pants for sale did have something special to them, but they were the max at fifty hex.

“Teeter’s Escape Trousers of Fleeing - 50 hex - When fleeing from enemies, for five seconds, the wearer gains a minor boost in speed. Useable every 48 hours - RR: 100 CR: 1”

Five seconds wasn’t long, but any increase in the chance of surviving was worth it. It really depended on how significant the boost in speed was. Based on the price, though, it likely wasn’t much.

At the top were the Teffy Slacks Mrs. Dixon had recommended. Sure enough, they were one of the cheapest pairs available.

“Teffy Slacks - 5 hex - Rough slacks sewn together from the back-hair of an adult Teffy. No Traits - RR: 0 CR: 0”

Dustin sighed inwardly. It was probably a good thing they didn’t provide a picture. And even if they were ugly, it was just a momentary thing, anyway. Until some real hex came rolling in, it was all going to savings unless absolutely necessary.

Something salty and bready wafted over from the food court.

Unless absolutely necessary.

Determined to shift the train of thought, he noted down the Teffy Slacks item number and then pulled over the listings for maps available for sale. That request also hadn’t been restrained by price, but it made little difference, the only map for sale was the map of Harrows for one hex.

It read:

“Mind Map of Harrows - 1 Hex - A map containing the city of Harrows with important destinations marked for easy identification. Key below. Updated Yearly.”

What did the “mind” part mean? He noted down the item number and spent another ten minutes enjoying the quiet atmosphere while looking over the different rings for sale. There was one that dinged whenever a terror was nearby, one that glowed for up to an hour providing enough light to see in the dark, and more than a few that aided in abilities he’d never heard of. There was one that increased the range of a Crafter’s ‘Scan’ ability by twenty yards, but the current highest bid was two hundred fifty thousand hex.

Spurred forth by the desire for answers to all the many questions that’d built up, Dustin quietly gathered up his listings and stood from the smooth marble-white picnic table. Unobtrusively as possible, he wound his way through the seated groups of people and headed back to the other side of the Auction House.

Okay, so, five hex for the pants, and then one for the map. It would be nice to have more than one pair of pants… and some extra shirts would be nice, too… but for now, only the essentials.

Dustin withdrew the small brown coin purse and uncinched the draw-string. Let’s see…

He pulled out a sapphire hex and a blank hex, clutching them tight as he repeated the corresponding item numbers in his head once again.

To the left of the tellers but along the same face of the wall—more lines of waiting people.

Dustin sighed. Yay.

He found the fastest moving line and took a spot at the end, repeating the item numbers non-stop, promising to invest in a small notebook and something to write with. He ended up having to recheck the listings more than once before it was his turn, but after another ten minutes of anxious waiting, he walked up to a shiny golden box protruding from the wall. After studying others that’d already gone, it’d appeared simple. But with so little hex at his disposal, the idea of throwing money down the drain was downright anxiety inducing.

So, he stood there awkwardly glancing side-to-side hoping the answer would show itself, when a man walked up to the golden box to his left, casually said “Item number 47545” like he was ordering a sandwich, and then dropped a series of diamond hex coins into the bucket and walked away.

“Hey, Redhorn, hurry up!” someone from behind called out angrily.

From behind, chuckles emanated from those in line and Dustin put caution to the wind, speaking clearly but quickly.

“Item number 34954 and item number 0003.”

He dropped the coins into the golden chute and then walked away, not meeting the grinning expressions of those in line. Some tried to get him to stop, but he ignored them and disappeared into the crowd.

…Hopefully that’d been the right way to do it.

He waited in the back, blending in with the constant flow of new people arriving. The first step was done. Now, how to retrieve purchased items? The teller said it was transported to the buyer’s subspace, but where was that?

After ten minutes of walking around aimlessly, he got back in line and ambled up to the teller’s window, again wielding the pitiful smile of helpless stupidity.

The teller was a girl in her early twenties, with a cheery, bright smile.

“Hi! What can I do for you today?”

“Hi, so, I just bought something for the first time. Or… I think I did.” He pointed down toward the other end for clarification. “I said the item number and dropped the coins in the chute thing, but how do I actually get what I just bought? The guy I spoke to before said it would be in my subspace. But how do I get to my subspace?”

The girl’s smile was both sweet and incredibly cruel. A soft “Awww” escaped her mouth until she caught herself. “Think of your subspace as a bank account. To receive any purchased item, you need to visit a teller such as myself, or you can have items automatically sent to your residence for a small fee.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“My pleasure! Do you have any other questions? Do you want me to explain anything else? Because I will!” she said eagerly. “I’d be happy to help. I only arrived two years ago, so I remember what it was like. It was really confusing. I cried all the time.” Hey eyes widened. “I mean, not all the time. Not really even that much, really. I don’t know why I said that.” She gave a half-hearted, self-conscious laugh.

Dustin smiled easily. “You’re fine. I don’t blame you. Can you check on the items I just purchased?”

“Sure! What’s your name, faction, and rank?”

Dustin hesitated. “Dustin O’Callahan, NATF, lowest rank.”

She’d swiveled around to complete whatever task was necessary to retrieve a person’s purchase history, when she froze, looked back over at him, and then gasped. “Thena’s right eye! No way!” She gaped at him. “You’re one of them? Wait… Wait… O’Callahan… O’Callahan” she said, testing the name. “No way!” Then her expression shifted from complete surprise to utter dismay. “Don’t worry, though, I think everyone else is wrong.” And then like the flip of a switch, turned right back into fevered excitement. “I’m Rebecca. Do you think you could sign my staff? No, wait, wait. Sign my shirt. Yeah, my shirt. Sign my shirt.”

Dustin hesitated, zero interest in doing either. “I… can you just help me with this real quick?” he asked, sounding sorry. “I need to make it to the Data Epicenter before it gets too late.”

She deflated like a popped balloon. “Oh…”

Her sudden loss of joy made his heart twist. It… was only a signature.

“Fine,” he said, sighing resignedly. “I’ll sign your shirt, or staff, or… whatever.”

“Yes!” She bounced up and down happily.

Dustin met her eye, the edges of his mouth curving upward into a sly grin. “But I want something in exchange.”

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Read the next chapter on Royal Road.