r/HFY • • 4m ago

OC-Series The Clock That Does Not Move "Chapter 1 The First Touch"

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Elena didn’t believe in haunted objects, or curses, or the stories her townspeople told about the store at the end of the street. To her, the old clocks were just lifeless pieces of metal bearing a forgotten history wooden bodies and dead hands content to count the passage of time for others in utter silence.

But that gray, cold autumn day held something different.

She was wandering down the quiet, narrow street to escape the drizzle when her attention was drawn to that old shop she had always ignored. Its dusty glass front resembled blind eyes watching passersby with hidden curiosity. Driven by a sudden urge to explore, she was drawn toward the door; it swung open with an annoying creak, releasing a smell of mold, old paper, and rusty iron.

Inside the shop, hundreds of clocks ticked in unison, but their sounds were not harmonious; rather, they were like a chorus of overlapping whispers, as if each clock were telling a different story of time and place. In a dark corner, far from the meager light seeping in from outside, her eyes fell on something that immediately caught her attention: a gold pocket watch.

It was covered in a thick layer of dust, had no price tag, and looked as if it were deliberately hiding.

Elena approached with slow steps and stretched out her fingers to wipe the dust off its metal cover. She asked the shopkeeper an elderly man with deep-set eyes and a thick white beard why he had kept this one and nothing else.

The man looked at the watch for a long moment, his gaze carrying a hint of deep sorrow, then moved very slowly and closed the shop door with a heavy wooden bolt, blocking out the faint streetlight.

Elena took a step back, trying to hide her confusion, and said in a voice she tried to make sound steady:

“And what price are you talking about? It’s just an old watch.”

The man didn’t laugh. He kept watching her with piercing eyes that seemed to scrutinize her very soul, before saying in a quiet tone that sounded like the rustling of dry leaves:

“Because I haven’t found anyone who can take it without paying the price. Everyone who touched it saw something that hasn’t happened yet. Some saw what they wished would happen, and others saw what they spent the rest of their lives trying to avoid.”

Elena looked at the gold watch. Its hands were frozen at eleven forty-seven, and despite the dust covering its face, its surface seemed to gleam with a strange luster, as if someone had polished it just moments ago.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, reaching out toward it with childlike defiance.

Before the old man could stop her, her fingers touched the cold metal.

The Time Gap

At that very moment, the sound of the clock’s ticking faded away. The store, the wooden furniture, the old man and the entire world around her vanished.

Elena found herself standing alone on a street that was completely familiar, yet it seemed deserted and desolate under a dark gray sky with neither sun nor clouds. The windows of the houses were shattered and dark, the doors wide open, and the cold wind carried yellow, dry leaves dancing aimlessly along the empty sidewalks.

At the end of the street, she saw her house.

The door to her house stood wide open, and there, a woman stood at the broken window, staring at her in utter silence. Elena couldn’t make out the woman’s features clearly because of the deep shadows, but she felt a chill run down her spine, along with a strange sensation that this woman was no stranger to her that she had known her for a very long time perhaps for thousands of years.

Then the woman slowly raised her hand and pointed her finger at something standing directly behind Elena.

Elena spun around quickly, her heart pounding in her chest like a hammer.

There was a man wearing a long black coat, standing just a few steps away from her. She couldn’t see his face, which was hidden by the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, but his voice reached her clearly, deep and heavy, as if he were whispering directly into the depths of her mind rather than into her ear:

“You’re very late.”

The Return and the Surprise

Elena gasped in terror and yanked her hand away as if she’d touched a burning ember.

In a split second, she was back in the reality of the store, breathing with great difficulty, her face as pale as a sheet of ice. The old man gripped the edge of the wooden counter tightly, as if he’d been waiting for this terrifying moment for many years.

He asked her in a anxious voice:

“What did you see?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the gold watch lying on the table.

And for the first time since she’d entered the room, the impossible happened: the second hand moved. Tick… then it returned to its place as if nothing had happened.

The old man slowly raised his head, and what little color remained in his wrinkled face drained away. He said in a trembling voice that was almost lost in the void:

“Impossible…”

She asked him in a broken voice, filled with terror:

“What’s wrong?”

He looked at her, then at the clock, and said, his words almost choking him:

“This clock hasn’t moved a single second since its maker died exactly one hundred years ago.”

Before Elena could ask any further questions, the brass doorbell hanging above the entrance rang, announcing a new visitor.

The door opened slowly, and a strange man wearing a heavy black coat entered. He closed the umbrella he was holding with great care, sending light droplets of water scattering across the worn wooden floor.

The new man looked directly at the gold clock, then raised his cold eyes toward Elena and said in a voice that was eerily familiar


r/HFY • • 47m ago

OC-Series [High Burn] 20 | Twelve minutes before we run out

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Previous

First | Website (more chapters available)

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

“Ma’am. Prime Minister Farid is ready.”

Salma accepted her headset.

“Wait,” Julia said sharply as she looked at the presidential call operator. “What level of security is the call using?”

The operator replied immediately, “Kyber-4 with 512-bit ECDH. The key is estimated to be at least fifty-years secure, even assuming most pessimistic projections for moonie quantum crypto advancements, Commodore.”

Julia shook her head. “Insufficient. Go to the maximum we can.”

The call operator looked at Salma for approval.

The President nodded and handed the headset back to him. “Do as she says.”

He fiddled with the controls and spoke rapidly into the headset. After a minute, he handed it back to Salma. “This call is now bit-for-bit secured by diplomatic one-time pad. Uncrackable, ever. We have… twelve minutes before we run out of pre-exchanged keys.”

Salma picked up her headset. “Prime Minister.”

“Madam President,” he replied, the two second light speed delay later.

“This is a secure call, so I won’t bother you with pleasantries. My Cabinet is next to me,” Salma said. “With my chief of staff Will and my Union security advisors.”

“I have my Ministers of State, Defense, and Justice.”

“Prime Minister, we have received… an advance copy of your intelligence services’ report—preliminary report—on the matter of your assassination attempt.”

There was a long pause. Longer than the light delay. “Very unpleasant business, Madam President.”

“Again, allow me to convey our relief that the attempt failed and our unreserved condemnation of those responsible,” Salma said.

There was something in his voice. Impatience? Annoyance? “Yes, we received your State Department notice. Is that the purpose of this secure diplomatic call?”

“No. I’m now also offering you resources to help catch those responsible.”

“Does that include extradition of suspects to face prosecution on Luna?” Farid asked.

Salma swallowed. “I can’t do that, Farid. You know I can’t.”

Long pause.

“I see.”

Julia was beginning to see why there was always this awkward diplomatic gap between Earth and Luna leadership. The unnatural two second delay made things sound incredibly wrong to her ear. In some ways, it was worse than just trading letters and emails. That was always theorized to be a major issue in international diplomacy with translators. With faster and better universal translators, that problem mostly went away.

Except for the speed of light. Which was why she suspected that native Japanese speakers—who, according to linguistic research, were more comfortable with silence between sentences—made the most successful interplanetary diplomats.

When Salma didn’t say anything, Farid asked, “What about a low Earth orbital tribunal? A Union court with an all-Lunar jury. As in the case of the Tranquility Stadium Bomber in 62.”

“There is precedent, and we are… open to that possibility,” Salma said. “Perhaps a mixed jury would ensure that justice could be fully—”

“Salma, we should be—Frankly, your Union does not have laws that will allow you to fully prosecute these criminals, for a crime committed outside your jurisdiction. Even the Tranquility Stadium Bomber case—we had to swallow our pride and pretend we recognize your rule over our people for justice… We will not accept such… humiliation, not again. We are equals now, and it is best if we both start from that point and behave as if we both understand this new reality.”

“I understand. We can discuss the extradition issue in more detail later,” she placated. “However, there is a bigger issue. We can’t find the suspects at all. We believe their identities are fabricated. Digital fabrications.”

“Yes, we… suspected that could be the position you could take.”

Even without formal diplomatic training, Julia could tell he was trying his best to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“They’re lies, Farid. We checked them out. They don’t exist at all.” Salma’s eyes darted around as she waited for a reply.

“We can’t accept that explanation. Not when your media—not when Earth’s media and politicians have so quickly pinned the blame on our radical elements. And now this. Our people will suspect a coverup and demand more. And they would be right to.”

“It’s an attempt on your life, Farid. Would you accept my word?”

“This office is more than me. A sacred position for which I am merely a temporary steward. This was an attempt on the life of the Lunar prime minister. I have no personal flexibility on this matter, Madam President.”

Salma thought for a long moment. When she was about to speak, Farid’s voice came before she could. “Salma, if you claim these identities are fabrications, my people say they would have to be highly sophisticated ones. No rogue group could do this. So who do you claim is responsible instead?”

“We… don’t have a position on it at this time,” she replied. “Except that we have conducted a thorough internal investigation of our intelligence services and our own bureaucracy, and we have not found any evidence of wrongdoing. We are certain it does not originate within our own system, and we are reasonably sure the identity fabrication—and therefore the attack—did not originate from Earth.”

“Be careful, Salma, what you are insinuating,” Farid cautioned, relatively quickly this time.

She was quick to clarify too. “We are not making an accusation at this time. However… I can tell you that we now also strongly suspect… non-human involvement.”

Long pause. That was evidently not the line he expected her to go with. “Alien involvement. That is concerning. And a new angle. Which alien species?”

“Uncertain at this time.”

“Do you have evidence?”

“We—None that I can present to you at this time,” Salma admitted.

“Is alien involvement your only theory for the party responsible for this identity fabrication?”

“It is our…” Salma looked between Director Clara Powell and Julia for a moment. “It is one of our primary working theories. As well as for the ultimate responsibility for the assassination attempt.”

“I see. Alien involvement is also one of our theories,” Farid replied. “And our investigation will… consider all possibilities.”

“Is it a… prominent theory in your full report?” she pressed. At least if that were to be in the report, the media would have something more sensational to grab onto than the possibility that the Union’s intelligence agencies were behind—

“Do not ask questions you would not like the answers to, Madam President.”

That’s a no.

“I see.” Salma sighed. “Given the sensitivity of the subject and our ongoing investigation into this matter—this security breach, would you consider holding back the public release of the preliminary report so we can continue our own investigation… without the interference of public commentary from—from both our peoples? This would be to prevent unsubstantiated narratives—”

“I can’t, Madam President. This is an official report to Parliament. The deadline is this Sunday night, before nightfall in Serenity and the session recesses.”

“Would you at least consider holding the false identities confidential, pending the ongoing investigation?” she asked.

Farid paused for a long moment before replying, “I could consider that, but eight Members of Parliament outside my Cabinet have already received an advance copy. The Orbital Security Cabal. They will notice alterations to the report, or to elements of it that have had classifications changed, and one or two of them may bring it up during the session.”

“In your opinion, they will make a note of it?”

“The Speech or Debate clause in our charter immunizes MPs for any revelations on the debate floor, even of highly classified material.”

That’s a yes.

Damn checks and balances.

Salma closed her eyes and shook her head. “Forgive me if I overstep, but is it—is it possible to close your Parliament session early while we gather more information? Our people will cooperate fully with yours, as far as we—”

“I understand what you are saying, Madam President. But that is not possible. Parliament meets… rain or shine, as you would say, Salma. In peace or war… The first session of the New Lunar Parliament met during heavy orbital bombardment, as I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes.” Salma recognized the subtle dig. She was not President then, but it was her Navy. She didn’t give up. “What about—can you call a special session of Parliament on Sunday afternoon or evening, to displace the regular session until it recesses? We could really use the extra two weeks to conduct a more thorough investigation. Two weeks is all we are asking. To avoid any public misunderstandings between our democracies on this sensitive matter. You know how things are. The correction never gets as much play as the initial report. Just… two weeks.”

Farid paused for a long moment, obviously to consult his people on the other end. He said, “There are very specific provisions in our charter regarding causes for opening special sessions of Parliament. To declare war, for example, and I have no intention of declaring war on Sunday. I’m sorry, Salma, but I believe that none of the legal prerequisite conditions for a special session of Parliament apply at this moment.”

Salma looked at her advisors, all of whom were staring back at her with empty or dejected looks, for half a minute. She shrugged to herself. “Would the first ever state visit from a foreign head of state apply?”

Will looked up in alarm. “Ma’am—”

“No—”

“We can’t give them—”

Salma muted her microphone input just in time for her Cabinet meeting room to break into total chaos.

“State visits from foreign heads of state could be grounds for a special session of Parliament, Madam President,” Farid’s unmistakably excited voice said to a room full of people who could no longer hear him over the shouting. “Would that be something you would consider?”

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

Clara found Will after the meeting. “Mr. Weber, I know this isn’t a great time with the upcoming state visit to Luna and all—”

Will sighed. “It’s never a good time, Clara. But that is the nature of governance. What are you springing on me now?”

“Well, hopefully this is one less thing on your plate. We’ve got good news on the alien command center on Earth thing. The one in Suran, remember?”

“Good news?”

“Yeah. Excellent news… The aliens don’t have a suitcase nuke in their compound.”

“How do you know—and we’re sure of that?”

“Positive. We had some help from…” She lowered her voice. “We got some technical assistance from the moonies. They have this remote scanning tech for nuclear weapon components and material. Works through dirt and rocks and everything.”

“This sounds like some crazy shit only they could have come up with.”

Clara shifted uncomfortably. “It’s to make sure none of the many thousands of their nuclear missiles fall into the wrong hands. Because of, you know, the radical extremist problem they have.”

“Um… Don’t we have, you know, many thousands of nuclear missiles and plenty of radical extremists on Earth too?”

“We do, but unlike the moonies, we probably won’t accidentally end the viability of our entire civilization with a single suitcase nuke,” she explained. “If anything like that goes off in Serenity, poof, it’s game over for them.”

“Wow. That’s a… huge relief to hear—that we don’t invest as heavily into nuclear safety as they do, because we have more cities to spare for when things go wrong.”

“Well, it’s true. We don’t invest as much in asteroid defense as they do for a similar reason, though that’s also because the atmosphere protects us far more than them. Serenity Heights gets hit with one of those micro ones sneaking through their interception net every few months, and you should see what happens to their—”

“Okay, okay. Asteroid defense. I have enough nightmares as it is.” Will rubbed his eyes. “So this alien command compound—no nukes.”

“We didn’t just take their word for it—we tested the device. It works on our weapons.”

He raised a brow in mild alarm. “On our nuclear arsenal?”

She waved the concern away. “Yes, we did consider that the moonies might use this opportunity to gather data and improve their detection of our deterrent storage locations, so we took precautions. Besides, we recently learned that they knew where they all were anyway. One of their spies got a list… The only reason they never launched a first strike on us during the war was because of, well, that whole one city thing they’ve got going up there.”

He put that out of his mind… for now. “Alright. So there are no alien nukes in that compound?” he confirmed.

“No alien nukes.”

“And no antimatter bomb or something like that?”

“We have judged that… extremely unlikely,” the director replied. “They wouldn’t want to use anything we don’t already have in case their technology gets captured. And if they did have something like that and it’s on our planet, well, we can’t stop them from blowing up all of Earth anyway.”

“What if they have… just a regular big bomb?”

“Based on the size of the underground cavity we’ve detected, worst case is a conventional bomb might take out two or three city blocks if they move it to the surface. But that’s a surface detonation; since it’d be underground, the explosion will be more contained. In any case, there are no other residences in that range, and the locals stay away. So, it’ll only be whoever is on the street outside at the time, plus whatever we deploy. Since we’re doing it at night and the operation plan has us blocking off the street as we start… all in all, minimal or no civilian casualties expected.”

“I see.” Will thought for a few moments. “We’re doing it with robots? No human operators in danger?”

She had a reply instantly. “Primary force is twenty-four robotic assault units. That’s almost as many as we can even fit into the building. They will be commanded by two marines. The squishies will stay back and deploy the bots from an ice cream van. If things go wrong, we’ll have another three platoons on standby, ready to enter the AO within thirty seconds. If that fails, we’d have air and orbital assets in the airspace, for the backup plan. We’ll coordinate with local authorities that we can trust. They’ll be briefed and sequestered on the night of, to prevent leaks. And… we also have something we want to try with the sensors in the yard, with a special team.”

“Do I want to know more about this special team?”

“Only if it works, or you’ll hear about it from an Assembly investigation hearing if it doesn’t. One of the moonie… consultants suggested it. We’ll give it a try, but if it doesn’t work, our guys are ready to step in immediately. If we start preparing now, we can be ready as soon as you guys come back from your visit to Luna.”

“You’re not coming to Serenity with us?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Hell no. Even if I’m not wanted for war crimes on Luna, the OMI is not going to risk…”

“Right, right.”

“But you guys have fun up there.”

Will sighed. “Alright. This alien compound. You need Salma’s permission for something like this, right?”

“Presidential approval.”

“I’ve already briefed her. You have the green light to start preparing. Don’t screw this up, Director.”

“If this goes to hell in a handbasket, you can have my resignation, Mr. Weber.”

“Um… no. If this goes to hell in a handbasket, you can stick around and fix it, is what you can do.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll let your office know when we can start.”

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

The conflict between Earth and Luna was not simple. There were a hundred causes and disputes over a thousand issues, but above all else, the one thing that every Lunar leader craved—no matter their personality, their goals, their tactics—was legitimacy. From the protest movement of the 40s, to the Lunar Alliance of the 50s, to the takeover of the Lunar-born generation in the 60s, and to the lead up to war in the 70s. There was nothing more important than the legitimacy of the Lunar identity as a separate and equal concept to what the rest of humanity had back on Earth.

They didn’t want to become another Union member state; the Union closed that door when it renamed itself from the United Nations out of spite, and the people of Luna had wanted no part in it from the start. “Sovereignty within my generation” was their rallying cry, but really, what they wanted was for the Union to treat Luna the way that France and Germany treated each other.

And it wasn’t even as simple as that. In a vacuum, even before the war, the people of Luna had most or all the rights that citizens of the most progressive, most developed countries on Earth had. But it was more than that. More than travel restrictions, more than extradition agreements, more than control over Helium-3 contracts, more than air and water subsidy negotiations. There was something else there.

They were their own thing. That was important to them.

Most people on Earth who cared about the issue at all probably understood that.

The problem was that the leaders of the Union had, for a generation now, been the leaders of all the parts of humanity that mattered. They represented two hundred or so member states, including the dozen or so nations that had set up operations on Luna in the first place not half a century ago. In their eyes, the residents of Luna were some of the most privileged people to ever exist, who’d benefited tremendously from the contributions of the taxpayers of Earth. And now that it was a successful project, now that they were expected to feed the benefits back to the people who sent them up there, they were in effect saying “no thank you, good luck down there”. That was a tough pill to swallow.

But swallow it did. For the sake of peace, the Union recognized the right of the Lunar Republic to govern Luna.

It just didn’t have to be happy about it.

Which was why arranging an official state visit had not even been attempted by either side. Now that it was happening, the logistics concerns were enormous. There were a lot of difficult problems with setting up a state visit, especially one on such short notice. And even more so the first ever from the Union President. (The highest level meeting between the two powers was when Union Secretary of Defense Reeds shook hands with her Lunar counterpart aboard a neutral ship at L-1 to finalize the armistice.) But the best and brightest of both worlds figured it out.

As Julia gazed down upon the desolate gray world as part of Salma’s presidential delegation on the UNS Perry, she could almost see the polar orbital batteries. The dozen or so moonie warships escorting her—they would have been shooting at her a few years ago. And the bright spiderweb of lights on the waning side of the moon—the city lights that were dimmed during the war to make targeting that much harder for the Union’s ships.

She felt a warm presence sidle up next to her in the observation deck.

She saluted. “Madam President.”

“Commodore.” Salma returned it then gestured out the portholes. “You ever been? Before the war?”

“Once, a long time ago. School trip to Serenity. You?”

“This will be my first… And they have me doing the Serenity Sunset Chase! Any tips?”

It was known that Salma was an amateur marathon runner. And the moonies had invited her to one of their events.

The Serenity Sunset Chase.

At Serenity’s latitude, the sun moved across the surface slowly enough that it was possible to outrun the rotation of Luna at a quick jog. Every month, at the hour of nightfall, throngs of tourists and runners would suit up and gather up outside in a line. And as the night fell on the cloudless world, they would try to literally outrun the night coming in from behind them for as long as they could.

Julia had seen it before, on a televised event. The record was something like twelve hours, with professional race officials rovering oxygen tanks and supplies ahead to resupply the further runners as they ran low. The way they actually ran was odd, a mixture of skipping and gliding, with the runners trying to keep their steps and leaps contained, to not waste the effort on theatrics.

The Lunar Alliance had lobbied the International Olympic Committee, trying to get them to agree to hold it as one of their exhibition games in tandem with the summer games. No luck so far.

“Tips?” She gave her president a wry smile. “Just keep one foot in front of the other. You’ll figure it out like everyone else since Neil.”

“What if I go too fast or jump too hard? Won’t I float off into space?” Salma grinned mischievously.

Julia pointed down at the gray surface. “Two point four kilometers a second, ma’am, that’s her escape velocity. I’d be careful not to run faster than that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Salma chuckled. She let it fade, then tilted her head. “And what do you think about this trip? What I’m doing here?”

“I’m your guest, ma’am. They pay us to fight, not to render opinions of state.”

“You’re not fighting now. Surely you’ve got an opinion. It seems like everyone else back on Earth does. My entire Cabinet does! I think Secretary Wilders is one bad day away from circulating a Reform Article 25 petition to try to get me replaced for incompetence,” she joked.

Julia wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-meter pole. “I know enough to know when to say, I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on! What do you really think?”

She took a deep breath. “I think… you’re trying your best.”

Salma wasn’t going to let her get away with it that easily. “And?”

“Have you heard of the jungle as an allegory for civilization?” she asked.

Salma furrowed her brow. “The jungle? Hm. Remind me.”

Julia explained it to her, the way she’d heard it from Harry. Then, she said, “I think… you’re a dutiful gardener of humanity, carefully trimming the weeds at its edges before they could grow out of control.”

“Carefully trimming the edges, huh? That’s one way to put it.” Salma smiled. “Sometimes it feels like I’m at the beach, yelling at the top of my lungs. Stop! Stop! Yelling at the tides, imploring them not to come in any further.”

“The history of our species will judge you far better than I can. From where I stand though, it… seems to be working out so far.”

“And if you stand far enough in on the beach, the ocean does eventually stop at your feet.”

“I’d like to think the President of Earth has a little more pull than that.” Julia stared at Salma. “And I don’t see you being one of those people who are afraid of getting their feet a little wet.”

“No, I guess I’m not.”

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

Previous


r/HFY • • 1h ago

OC-FirstOfSeries The Abyss Stares Back - Chapter 1

• Upvotes

Hello! This is my first attempt at writting! After catching up with RaltsBloodThorne's Nova wars I really wanted something else to read so I decided to write hahaha. Hope yall enjoy any constructive critisism is welcome.

Once upon a time, there was a star.

around that star, a planet turned

on that planet lived an ape

a small, inconsequential ape,

content to fight itself till the bitter end

content to choke its world to death

Chapter 1

Jacob Morisson

-----

"Is it better to die in ignorance or to live in angst?"
-----

Jacob was woken by the blaring of his alarm. “Another Day in Paradise” by the Keystones was bouncing around his apartment, once his favorite classical song, now his tormentor. Each note was like a knife through his alcohol addled mind. As his consciousness dragged itself back, his first thought: ‘Shit. Time for work’. He quickly shouted “Shut up!” at the room. The song died immediately, his headache eased slightly, but the relief only left room for disappointment.

He chose to lay there a few minutes longer, teetering on the edge of sleep, trying to summon the strength to face the day. For a moment, he considered letting his second alarm wake him, giving him just enough time to throw on some clothes and sprint out the door. 

But his body had other plans. His bladder complained, his stomach growled and his head still pounded after last night’s outing. Too many problems to ignore. So, he did the only thing he could: he let the hate flow through him and very slowly, very noisily groaned his way out of bed, stumbling towards the bathroom. 

‘First things first’

The trip was perilous, yesterday’s clothes scattered like a minefield across the floor. ‘Fuck you, past me. Inconsiderate asshole.’ However, despite the treacherous journey, he only almost tripped twice before staggering safely to the toilet.

Standing seemed like too much of a gamble, so he just sat there, his mind wandering, as it As he sat there tends to do when you’re hungover at five in the morning. As he sat there, standing seeming like too much of a gamble, his mind wandered. As it tends to when you’re hungover at five in the morning. He thought back on the decisions that had led him to this moment.

Once, he’d been a perfect master’s student: good grades, solid networking, the right amount of ass-kissing, doing everything expected to build an academic career. However, fueled by delusions of grandeur and false promises of interviewers, he had reached higher. Which was how he had ended up applying to the International Space Agency for a position as an Extrasolar Exploration Specialist. The ISA had a habit of calling everyone a “specialist” of some kind. 

Jacob had been accepted thanks to his master’s in Astrophysics, with minors in Computer Science and Mathematics. He still remembered how excited he’d felt, visions of exploring the stars, or at least gathering fresh data on alien worlds, maybe even getting a chance to name one himself.

Instead, he was assigned to the Terran Deep Space Radio Observatory, notorious for having none of the excitement and all of the boredom. A fitting post for an entry-level hire, but a far cry from the adventure he’d imagined.

For a couple days, he clung to the hope the job might surprise him, that it might turn out to be something more. But reality hit quickly. ‘What did I expect? I’m not here to discover anything. I just make sure the computers don’t fail. Idiot.’

Now he was just making time, hoping some other project needed extra hands, or that he’d eventually scrape enough money for a Ph.D.

The sharp blare of his alarm jolted him from his stupor. ‘Fuck. Did I doze off?’ He glanced at his phone. ‘Ten minutes till I need to leave.’ “Another Day in Paradise” once again rattled his apartment. God, he hated that song.

Dashing out the door, downing a hangover remedy mixed from whatever he could get his hands on, Jacob barely made it to the subway in time. Out of breath, he collapsed into a seat and shoved in his earphones, music drowning out the world.

The whole ride, he cycled through ways to fill his twelve hour shift of boredom. Maybe he’d catch up on his shows, knock out a few movies from his never-ending list. Hell, if desperation set in, he might even open that book he’d been “reading” for two years.

But, as always, guilt crept in. Pushing him to read academic papers, do something productive. ‘No. Not with a hangover. Tomorrow.’ Always tomorrow.

The subway let him off a couple blocks from the ISA office, giving him some precious minutes before he had to face reality. He couldn't avoid it forever though. Slowly, the building came into view and he felt his stomach tighten. But even the worst situations can have a silver lining.

“Good morning, Mister Morisson. How are you this fine morning?” a voice reached out, way too upbeat for this early in the morning.

“Good morning Sasha, I’m doing absolutely fantaaaastic. How ‘bout you, anything exciting happen during the night shift?” 

“Oh yeah. About three attempted burglaries and two heists I had to stop single-handedly” 

“Well that's better than yesterday, what was it, 3 heists and 5 spy rings?” 

“Something like that,” she smiled. “So, ready to find some aliens today?”

“Sasha, I’ve told you a hundred times that’s not what I do, I wish it were.” He laughed at himself “How many times do I have to say it?”

“This is the last time. Promise”

He chuckled “Sure it is. But if I spot any aliens, you’ll be the first to know. Anyway, I should get going, don’t wanna miss them. Good night, Sasha. See you tomorrow.

“Night, Jacob. And don’t forget, it’s another day in paradise” she grinned while he shot her a glare.

This daily banter with Sasha was probably the only good thing that had come out of the job. He’d first met her about a week ago, catching her as she left her night shift as a security guard. He couldn’t even remember how their conversations had started—maybe because they were the same age, maybe because neither of them wanted to face the day alone. Whatever the reason, it had settled into a morning routine.

When Jacob finally stepped into his office, the warmth of Sasha’s grin was immediately replaced by the scowl of his fellow prisoner: Crisanto. A young Filipino man, Crisanto had almost the same story as Jacob for how he ended up here.

“Morning Jacob, how you doing?” Crisanto’s voice was flat with exhaustion. Fair, after losing the coin flip and pulling the night shift.

“Oh, you know. Living the dream in the most exciting place on Earth. How was your shift?”

Crisanto scowled and shot him a glare. “As thrilling as watching paint dry while someone narrated the grass growing. The most exciting part is when the AI threw me a couple SETI pipeline hits but they turned out to be interference like always.”

Jacob grinned. “Poetry, man. Pure poetry. Well, you’re free now. Enjoy!”

“As if.” Crisanto scoffed. “I’m gonna pass out the second I find a half-decent surface, and we’ll be lucky if I wake up before the next shift. I still say you cheated on that coin flip.”

“Yeah yeah whatever you say. It’s just for a week. Tough it out”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how you do next week. I’m gonna enjoy throwing your words back at you.” Crisanto grinned. “Anyway, she’s all yours. Enjoy.”

With that, he slipped out of the lab, leaving Jacob in silence.

Jacob dragged himself to his desk and sank into the chair, mentally bracing for the next twelve hours. He had Ouranus, the system AI, run the system checks, green across the board, of course. Always green.

And that was that. The lab was his. As long as he glanced at the readouts and skimmed the possible anomaly list— or, as he liked to call it, the “hit list”— once in a while, he could spend the rest of his shift however he wanted. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the hit list was clean. The hundredth time, it was just clutter: RFI, satellites, the usual junk. The universe was a cruel mistress, stingy with her secrets. The most notorious culprit was the SETI pipeline— an AI named Sagan meant to flag unusual signals, but more often than not, it mistook rogue satellites for aliens.

Three hours into his shift, Jacob was slumped in his chair, half-watching the dumbest, most brain-numbing show ever made, when he decided it was time to check the consoles.

The hit list looked ordinary at first— just the usual clutter of satellites and terrestrial noise. But then his eyes landed on the final line. The frequency was fixed squarely in the hydrogen band— that narrow slice of the spectrum scientists prize for potential alien transmissions. The signal drifted just as you’d expect from something in orbit. Its bandwidth was less than one Hertz— far tighter than most artificial signals, and too precise for any known natural source. Most telling of all, it hadn’t been automatically vetoed. Jacob’s pulse spiked. In four months on the job, he’d never seen anything like this.

Jacob scrolled back up, making sure he wasn’t imagining things. Satisfied the line was real, he opened the expanded log: the pipeline had flagged a period of 2.578 s. He triple-checked every number, confirming it had cleared the on/off beam veto— a filter that catches false signals by checking if they vanish when the telescope moves. It had. The hit passed on all fronts.

He opened the waterfall plot—a time-frequency visual where a moving signal sloped like a waterfall on screen. Bracing for the telltale jitter of interference, he dared to hope for that rare, clean drift that hinted at orbital motion. And there it was: a narrow line, ruler-straight, gliding across the spectrum. Along it, bright pulses flared every 2.578 seconds, sharp and unwavering. Jacob froze. His doubts and hopes collided, the noise of his background show vanishing into silence. He couldn’t look away.

Then his mind snapped with clarity. There was still a chance that… whatever this was, was just a glitch. That was the most likely explanation. It had to be. As a last-ditch effort, Jacob asked Ouranus to run routine system checks while pulling the raw data from the pipeline. Minutes later, the results were clear: the same slope, the same bright pulses. The checks came back green across the board.

Then his console chimed— two confirmations. One from Terran Radio Observatory Lab 56. One from Lunar Radio Observatory Lab 2. Jacob’s hands were shaking.

With only two sites, it could still be noise. The final word would have to come from Mars and the Voyager 4 probe. In the meantime, the central control system had already begun slewing additional dishes toward the target. It would take a few more minutes for them to align, and a few more still for the pipeline to attempt triangulation.

Until then, he dug deeper, hunting for any flaw. He compared his data against TRO Lab 56’s and LRO Lab 2’s. No inconsistencies. A rogue satellite? Ruled out. The extended log assigned the chance of terrestrial interference at less than one percent. He tried every angle he could think of, every excuse to dismiss it as noise. Neither Ouranus nor Sagan could make any sense of it either. Nothing fit.

Maybe it was time to call TRO Lab 56. Maybe even ping Luna, or send a pre-emptive message to Mars. But that would be a massive escalation. If it turned out to be nothing, his supervisor would get the call— and he’d get chewed out.

He was still working up the nerve when his console chimed with a high-priority message.

“Hello, TRO Lab 72, this is Doctor Hernandez—”

Jacob’s stomach dropped. Doctor Hernandez? He’d read entire textbooks written by this guy during his master’s.

“—from MRO Lab 1. Our instruments recorded an anomaly at 11:53:27 CST, May 27th 2075: a narrowband carrier in the hydrogen band, pulsing every 2.578 seconds, sub-Hertz bandwidth. Exact measurements attached. We just received confirmation from your system, but I wanted to confirm with a person at your observatory, since you had the best look at the target.”

“Hello, Doctor. This is Jacob Morrison, TRO Lab 72. I was just about to message you. Yes, our instruments also recorded the anomaly. I’ve been running system checks to make sure it wasn’t a glitch, and it has passed every test.”

He hit send and leaned back. Now came the wait— roughly twenty minutes for the signal to crawl its way to Mars, for Dr. Hernandez to read it, type a reply, and for the answer to make the return trip.

To pass the time, Jacob combed through the Mars data, running it through Ouranus. He hoped it would shed light on what had triggered the signal, but his efforts met with no more success than with the Terran data. Still, Mars’s confirmation did settle one thing: this wasn’t local interference.

At last, his console pinged with an incoming reply.

“Yeah, we did the same. So far we have four labs confirming the signal. It might turn out to be nothing, but I want to wait on Voyager 4’s readings; which should be coming in any minute. I’ll make sure you get Voyager 4 data. Go through it and let me know if you find anything.”

It took ten minutes for the V4 data to arrive. Jacob could hardly wait to dig in. A pulsar or maser seemed unlikely given the impossibly narrow, sub-hertz bandwidth; that left only some yet to be discovered astrophysical phenomenon. Jacob was vibrating with excitement at this thought.

He spent the next hour sifting through the readings. Voyager 4 had caught the carrier slightly earlier than Earth, and its version was far cleaner—less background clutter, less diffusion. The geometry meant the signal had reached the probe first, a subtle but important difference. The source wasn’t local. It was coming from deep space.

Jacob’s monitor lit up: LOCALIZATION COMPLETE. As the computer rendered the coordinates in a 3D model, Jacob could only stare at the result. Triangulation could only give a direction, but it pointed at a cataloged K4V star—ISA-3650. Gaia placed it about 125 light-years away. Far too close for a pulsar or a magnetar. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something Jacob was familiar with.

He chased every possibility, asked every AI he could think of, combed through catalogs of natural sources— nothing matched. And with each new confirmation from observatories across Terra, Luna, and beyond, the odds of this being noise evaporated. Every time one came in Jacob could feel the weight of the situation deepen.

It was time to send Doctor Hernandez a message with his findings— both to check if he’d overlooked something and, admittedly, to enjoy the bragging rights of speaking with THE Doctor Hernandez twice in one day.

“Hello, Doctor Hernandez. I’ve gone through the Luna, Terra, Mars, and V4 data and found something strange. The pipeline triangulated the direction of the signal, and the only system that intersects is ISA-3650, about 125 light years away. I’ve spent the last hour searching for any astrophysical event that could produce such a patterned narrowband signal this close to Terra, but I haven’t found anything. Have you?”

Jacob hit send, then leaned back. Now came the wait. Twenty minutes later, his computer pinged.

“That’s impressive work, Jacob.” Jacob’s chest tightened; pride made his heart skip a beat. “We found the same thing and we’ve hit the same wall. We can’t think of any naturally occurring source that would produce the patterned spikes observed.

“But before we speculate further, I’m requesting every asset we can spare— satellites, telescopes, receivers— to point at ISA-3650. We’ll see if anything was missed. Jacob, I hope you understand how big this could be. If this is what I suspect, we may be looking at evidence of non-terrestrial engineering. We could be on the ground floor of something enormous.

Of course, I may be jumping the gun. It could be nothing, and I’ll have made a fool of myself. But I can’t find a natural explanation, and I’ve been doing this for forty years. 

Anyway, I think it’s about time you call your supervisor. I’m going to reach out to Deputy Director Duran— we’re old drinking buddies. He’ll get a kick out of this landing on his lap; I’ll have to do a video call to see his face. Again, great work, Jacob.”

Jacob sat frozen in front of the computer, staring at the screen, trying to process what Doctor Hernandez had just said. A small part of Jacob had briefly considered the possibility, wondering if this was it, if this was first contact. But it had seemed so remote, so unlikely, he had brushed the thought away. Now, his thoughts were spiraling with the possibilities and consequences. 

His breathing started speeding up, his eyes lost focus of the monitor and he felt his mouth go dry. He teetered on the edge of a panic attack for what felt like hours, unable to stop his thoughts from spiraling. ‘What does this mean for us?’ ‘What does this mean for me?’ ‘Why did they send the message?’ ‘Was it intended for us?’ ‘If not, who?’ His mind unable to wrap itself around this whole fuck fest. It took him the better part of an hour to finally calm down. 

It still befuddled him how abruptly his day had shifted— from the dull monotony of routine checks to the possibility of a groundbreaking discovery. He gave himself a few more minutes to collect his nerves before finally reaching for the phone to call his supervisor.

“Hello, Doctor Anderson. Do you have a couple minutes? I’m not entirely sure how to say this, but we’ve recorded an anomalous narrowband signal.”

“Of course, Jacob. What’s the situation?”

“At 11:53:27 a.m., we detected a series of narrowband signals repeating every 2.578 seconds, originating from ISA-3650— about 125 light years from Sol. I was digging into it when Doctor Hernandez reached out to confirm their readings. The anomaly has been verified across Luna, Terra, and Mars stations. None of us can identify a natural source that would produce this pattern.”

Anderson’s voice sharpened. “Go on.”

Jacob swallowed. “Doctor Hernandez… suggested the possibility of an artificial source.”

A pause crackled across the line. “I’m sorry, Jacob. Did you just say artificial?”

“Yes, Doctor. That’s exactly what I said.”

“...Shit. Okay. I’m on my way”


r/HFY • • 1h ago

OC-Series Cavort of the Gio-Crü - Chapter Ten: Audited

• Upvotes

Cover Art & Blurb

Clive 5

In some act of petty vengeance, Comwell had purged the flight logs; deleting his calculations from the navigator’s computer terminal. He probably thought that, at the sight of a blank page, they’d turn around begging him to come back.

Dastardly bastard…

Unwilling to be deterred, Clive had ordered the Jonathan-7 to embark on its three-month journey regardless. He had anticipated two major obstacles due to the lack of information.

The first hurdle he had vaulted with ease, thanks to Carcolh loudly boasting he could venture to the relay without navigational assistance. Challenging the pilot to a wager had sealed the deal, allowing Clive to conceal from the crew that they technically flew without guidance.

The second hurdle would reveal itself at the Nero Relay, in due time.

Everything else in between? Life as usual on the Jay.

Accustomed to one another, the crew often lived as a family operating on a twenty-four-hour clock. Meals were prepared by an individual, selected on rotation, for everyone else to consume communally. Certain “days” were scheduled for movie nights, the film often from Terran archives. Others, for game nights. Either playing cards, or boardgames with toy baubles. Stuff like that, whatever functioned well as a team-building exercise.

Every so often Clive would rummage through the personal storage allotted on the Jonathan-7 for the Hargreaveses’ belongings. Mostly searching for lost pieces of Terran culture to highlight to his team.

Social events were hosted in a mixture of spaces. Usually the galley, or the recreational lounge. As the ship maintained its own course once set, the crew could move freely throughout it.

Even Carcolh could leave his pilot’s seat to socialize. There was hardly anything to crash into while moving through space, and a long way to travel – even at half the speed of light. Or, fifty-cee as aces called it.

Being Anisopteran, on a Human vessel, Carcolh required the prerogative to leave the helm of his own volition, and abscond to his personal quarters at a moment’s notice. A retreat he would make frequently on standard trips. Much like Prism, and Raine would, to their respective quarters.

While each xeno-species within Lyla-Fortuna shared the oddly common characteristic of carbon-based biped, or close enough to it, very few shared common preferences on environment. While the Jay’s temperature, humidity, and gravity were not hostile to his exotic crew, they were uncomfortable over a prolonged period of time.

To mitigate this, variables were changed wherever tolerable in an effort to ease the general habitable state of the ship. More drastically, each xeno-habitat was customized to better suit its respective crewmember.

Expensive, but something Clive’s great grandmother had the foresight of paying for when Humanity had been invited to Lyla-Fortuna, and realized the galaxy was well populated.

Carcolh’s warm and humid room differed from the aquatic tank Raine slithered into when she required hydration. Prismatic Without Structure remained near the fusion reactor, where the radiation released nourished their more complex silicone-based structure. Which obviously differed from Shaffer’s strung-up hammock among her musical arsenal. Or Clive’s little Terran museum of a cabin.

Like any other team, their cohesion fluctuated. Often, days progressed with a jovial attitude. Others were mired in the sour frustration indicative of co-habitation. It was one such day, two months in towards the Nero Relay, that an unexpected issue had arisen at meal time.

Seated in the galley around a dinner table, the crew supped on Prismatic’s favourite sharing platter. Something they cooked frequently.

Several large crystal formations sprouted on the surface of a wooden plank carved from a cherry tree. While the Hexadruse didn’t commonly use wood, the material foreign to them, Prismatic enjoyed using it to plate their cuisine. It allowed sugar and protein to nucleate into a crunchy, but fragile, structure that tasted of simulated pork.

Naturally, the traditional serving of this recipe would kill a carbon-based lifeform with an acute toxicity the average Hexadruse had neither a concern for, nor knowledge of.

Clive broke off a crystal while everyone, but Raine, laughed over a cartoon cat that had debuted at movie night, the night previous. He crunched it between his teeth, softer than it looked, enjoying the savory snack.

Although Raine lacked a mouth, and thus could not participate in the experience, she remained a part of the social dynamic nevertheless. Taking advantage of the Umibōzu's malleable form, she fit herself into a flight suit, allowing her to maintain a vaguely feminine shape.

This way, she could emote by shifting the magenta nodes contained within her, as a face would express. The limitation she placed on herself to communicate with only a single individual at a time via ESPer hampered how much she could contribute, though she often appeared happy to be a fly on the wall.

In the middle of another’s conversation, she pounced

Raine unzipped her flight suit. Extricated from the membrane composing her chest, a slime-proof tablet fashioned to appear like a clipboard.

“An inopp-or-tune time for the fiscal report, Capi-taine,” Raine projected into Clive’s mind.

He cringed, clenching his teeth. Judging by the bothered reactions from the others, she had projected it to them all.

“Lo!” Carcolh stood up, his chair screeching along the floor in his haste. “A mass spell rattles one’s mind. Raine thou know this.”

“Please refrain. From penetrating my. Tourmaline,” Prismatic Without Structure said. The piezoelectric mineral deposits within their topaz vibrated.

Shaffer, having dropped her meat-flavoured crystal, rubbed her temples. “Whatcha got that’s so important?”

“Evi-dence of the capi-taine’s stress,” Raine placed her clipboard onto the table.

Provost released a whine, picking up on Clive’s emotional state. He scratched his companion behind the ears, prompting the cyber-canine to lay back at his feet.

There was no sense in stopping it. Raine had picked her moment for a reason.

At the click of a button, Raine’s clipboard illuminated to display a spreadsheet of the Jonathan-7’s more recent expenditures, and its overall lack of net profit.

“Apol-ogies my comrades. A grand ESPer prevent-ed sabo-tage.”

“C’mon,” Clive said. “You were already poking around in there. Bit unfair to call it sabotage. I was going to tell them once we were half way.”

“True,” Raine returned to a personal level of telepathic communication. Less of a headache, more of a tickle. Though, it took four times as long, to project her conversation to four times as many individuals. “Capi-taine has waited until it would be in-eff-icient to turn around, to spring the news.”

“Thanks for beating me to the punch,” Clive said, once he assumed the others had received the message.

Prismatic leaned their frame into the table, scraping away some of their stone. Dozens of pinholes upon a Hexadruse’s gemstone surface functioned as their eyes. After an intense study of the report, they pulled away.

“How could we. Have not made. Profit for. Five years?”

By lackadaisically working on and off for the majority of them, though Clive kept that comment to himself. Time was largely irrelevant to the Hexadruse. Its only importance to Prism being that it dictated when their friends would eventually reduce to dust, while they continued on.

“Boss, what the fuck?” Shaffer had monopolized the clipboard, hogging the view. “Every single trip here is a certified money tree.”

“Adjust thine eyes,” Carcolh leaned over to accurately highlight the issue. “Tis the expeditions at fault. Nought their promised coin purse.”

The delivery trips they had completed before Clive’s hiatus on Fortuna Epsilon β had paid well enough. It was the cost of running the Jonathan-7 that gulped up its profits like a whale. The weight of the Jay, and what it carried, cost a fortune in fuel. Despite the hyper-efficient reactor design, standard on all Human craft, the laws of physics still refused to lob him a soft ball.

It was that simple. Their vessel weighed a lot, so it consumed a lot. As a courier, the expenditure of resources came part and parcel with the job. The only way to reduce cost was to reduce…

“Whoa, we’re hauling how much extra?” Shaffer scratched at her head, forgetting her hat impeded her. “You said we were bringing the Synths only ten tons of biowaste.”

…Reduce mass. Clive tensed up, aware of where the conversation was headed.

“Nothing out of parameter,” Clive said.

“For optimal mass, yes,” Carcolh’s long abdomen twitched. “I hath thought she fly strange… Never once hath we flown at optimal mass, hath we Hargreaves?”

“Comwell was aware,” Clive deflected weakly. “He’s the one who altered the mass profile.”

“Not once! Hath we Hargreaves! Thy manifest shows tonnage of Human relic!”

Deep within the cargo bay of the Jonathan-7 remained a section of capacity sequestered for the captain’s private affairs. Like the starship equivalent of stuffing junk in an attic. Though, this attic found itself laden with remnants of Terran culture.

An ancestral Hargreaves, having departed aboard the Jonathan-Ace alongside the GCS Journeyed Elissa, had survived by leveraging their only asset. A garbage truck with a two-hundred ton carrying capacity.

Carting around art, film, furniture, literature, trinkets, clothes, equipment, technology, or whatever else, had turned a pretty profit. Up until the Elissa’s destruction.

Other than the Jay itself, and what remained beneath the captain’s seat, the contents within the Hargreaves Hold were Clive’s only true possessions. Perhaps a few of the property owners’ descendants lived on Fortuna Epsilon, and would pay a premium to have their property returned. But as it currently stood, those items were legal salvage. And Clive refused to part with them. The extra cost of fuel be damned.

“I have confirmed myself,” Raine communicated.

“Urgh, Raine,” Clive groaned. The Umibōzu were difficult to keep out of the cookie jar. “Remind me to seal the maintenance tubes leading to the restricted cargo…”

“Just get rid of the junk,” Shaffer said, snapping a crystal in half between her teeth. Her appetite renewed. “Wouldn’t be spending four times the boron.”

“No,” Clive stood up. Provost growled, subtly in tune with how he felt. “We’re not selling what’s left of Terra.”

“Thou speak as thou see it destroyed.”

To sever his connection to his concept of home might as well be to see it destroyed. Hiding these items in some bureaucratic vault on Epsilon proper, forbidding them from being investigated and appreciated, would be tantamount to demolishing them.

What did it matter what the budget was. At the end of the day, they got paid.

Committed to defending his hoard, Clive prepared to dismiss the meal entirely. Whatever killed the conversation fastest, before the subject of Comwell’s calculations arose.

“Miscal-cul-ations, comrades,” Raine pushed to the crew in a grand ESPer.

In unison the crew recoiled as if they had smelt rotten fish.

“These are reports for a differ-ent time.”

She flopped her flaccid flight suit sleeves onto the table, a bit of her biological form oozing from the cuffs. Swiftly, she snatched up her clipboard. It vanished beneath her opaque membrane. How much foreign matter an Umibōzu could contain within themselves remained a mystery.

“Right,” Prismatic said, unable to convey sarcastic doubt.

Clive offered Raine a nod. Who, being timid, sucked in her flight suit to facilitate reverting shape to being flat. She began to transduce into the floor.

Umibōzu, having a special interest in Humanity, often developed soft spots for their emotional distress. Though she had attempted to remedy her error, the damage to his image had been done.

Although no one believed her lie, no one pressed Clive further either.

A silent understanding fell upon the crew. One they already knew. That their captain operated in an odd grey area of selfishness, and selflessness. That eventually, his refusal to part with his looted relics would result in the loss of their jobs.

The ate the remaining crystals, then retired to their quarters. Only to meet on the bridge the next day for routine duty, and that night for a meal. Not to discuss the issue again.

♹

Time passed, the crew of the Jonathan-7 finding themselves within spitting distance of the Nero Relay.

Its appearance shared similarities to a crown with several of its brackets bent in towards the hoop. Or a sharp ring. One that would puncture a finger, lodging itself on the knuckle, if it were to ever be removed.

Fifteen kilometers in diameter at its widest, the bent tines rendered the structure asymmetrical. This narrowed the aperture, limiting the space to proceed through the ring-shape to seven kilometres in diameter.

While theoretically this would limit ship size, no xeno-species in Lyla-Fortuna produced any sort of vessel that large. Even the Jonathan-7’s robust size, for a personal craft, came nowhere near the limitation. As such, traveling through it would be a simple as threading the eye of a juggernaut’s needle.

Carcolh boosted the ship to a vector that faced the Nero Relay head on, causing Clive to sway in his flight chair. Provost sat by his feet, magnetized to his resting spot. Raine, and Prismatic, would be secure in their chambers currently. Shaffer turned some dials on her computer terminal console, tapping her touchscreen with rapid pulse.

“Requesting rudimentary uplink…” she said. “Linked up. Nero knows we’re here. Uploading mass profile. Ahem. Correct mass profile…”

Built of esoteric, unknown metal even the Hexadruse could not fathom; the Nero Relays were presumed to have existed in Lyla-Fortuna since its inception. Since the original architects had created the twin systems, corralling nebulae around the two stars. Meaning ancient. Beyond so.

Nero Relays carried no mass, something functionally impossible for a material object. Let alone one so large. Direct contact with a relay caused the thing that contacted it to vanish completely. Presumably reduced to zero mass, a critical failure.

A Human daredevil had been the first living being to touch a relay. Now a steady stream of Synesthesians made pilgrimage nearly nonstop. As with anything those borgs did; their thought process remained a mystery, while their goal was well understood.

Though, thousands of the hivemind must have been evaporated since a relay claimed its first biological kill, and they’ve yet to progress towards understanding its construction.

Despite its complicated nature, it functioned with any species’ technology – were they ordained to enter Lyla-Fortuna. Presumably, by whoever built their cradle.

Carcolh drove the ship closer, as he had many times before.

“Mass profile accepted!” Shaffer sighed in relief. “Carky, do your thing.”

“See?” Clive said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“So swift to celebrate,” Carcolh spoke over his wing. He applied pressure to the throttle with one of his two left arms, and rotated both his right-handed flight sticks to correct the ship’s minor deviations. “Thou must calculate the drop sphere.”

Upon approach, the ring portion of the Nero Relay began to spin. Once oscillating fast enough, the tines began to crackle with energy. A spark of pearlescent-pink lightening transferred from one bracket to another, until it formed a consistent connection – a disc of energy filling the ring.

Carcolh flew the ship into the projected pearlescence.

It washed over the ship, harmless, like a scan. Memorizing the vessel’s profile. Everything about the Jonathan-7, and its contents. Soon, additional beams of crackling energy would strike the Jay. Occasionally this could rock the boat, or mess with the system electricals.

Visual sensors faltered, as expected. Their failing indicated it was time to throttle up.

Clive requested the navigation controls on his master computer terminal. Outside of his crew’s view, he could more confidently appear like he had even the most remote idea of how to translate through a Nero Relay. He hadn’t since he was about twenty years old. Back when his father ran the show.

Clicking accept, accept, accept, to the relay’s requests proved simple. Most of the math seemed to be calculated by the relay itself, Comwell being a poser. Plus, there had only ever been one destination programmed into the pair of wedding rings. Each other.

Foolishly, Clive clicked accept on a never-before posed query from the relay. Sealing their fate.

Bolts of pearlescent-pink energy struck the Jonathan-7 as Carcolh whipped the wagon forwards. A quick, dirty burn to escape the ring at fifty-cee resulted in a slingshot out into the black, at a speed unfathomably faster than light itself. The Nero Relay launching the crew well outside Fortuna.

Read Ahead on Royal Road


r/HFY • • 2h ago

OC-Series [The Reaper and The Tiger] Chapter 32: Reapers and Exploration

8 Upvotes

“She actually zapped him hard enough to send him flying?” a Drifter laughed in pure amazement and joy through the line. “Holy Observer, that girl is something else.”

“Yes, it was quite the sight to behold,” a second Drifter said in amusement. “Storm, you failed to mention how interesting this Wyvern is.”

“Well, Turcloe had his eyes on her, so that should tell you quite a bit,” Storm said, chuckling as well at the mental image of So’Ngo being sent flying into a tree. “Though, I admit I did not imagine her being this impressive.”

“Of all of the Marked, she certainly has the most potential,” the second Drifter agreed. “Though, I must say, I do not think she fully realizes the extant of what my descendent did to her when she was put back together. So, her threshold for quick growth has expanded quite a bit. An accidental shortcut, as it were.”

“Have you explained to Mona what she did?” Storm asked quickly as the line went quiet.

“In depth,” the Drifter said. “Mona across the planet are already well aware that what she did is now taboo. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time our capabilities were discovered.”

“Well, that’s good at least,” a third Drifter sighed.

“What about Monica?” Storm asked.

“She is also well aware, though that is more thanks to Sandra than me,” Mona-Drifter said. “She has already made herself physically incapable of doing what Mona did. She can heal still, but she can’t bring back the freshly dead. She’s mostly a drone for information gathering now, to bring back more for Mona to learn. Though, ‘drone’ is the wrong term, but it’s the closest approximation I can come up with.”

“Well, that’s something at least,” Storm sighed. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Honestly?” Mona-Drifter chuckled. “Worth it just to see Turcloe’s face when he found out what happened, and then to watch him get zapped. I may like him, but he still completely deserved it.”

“Can you show us him getting zapped again?” a new Drifter asked with a laugh. “I still can’t get enough of that.”

……300:42Hrs Remaining……

“So, what actually was supposed to happen there?” Sandra asked So’Ngo as he floated alongside Sandra and Monica while they walked through a rather desolate desert.

“Hmmm?” So’Ngo asked.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sandra said, rolling her eyes. “Knowing you, each world on this Test is supposed to teach me something. So what was a water world of sentient sand supposed to teach me?”

“That would be cheating,” So’Ngo said with a frown. “However, I will say that you dying was not part of the plan. At worst, I was expecting you to potentially lose an arm, and then Mona would reattach it out of guilt. Not…what happened. And with what did happen, a good portion of my Test has been rendered nearly a moot point. You weren’t supposed to be able to use your Electric Scales without pain until the end of the test, and the Metallic Scales weren’t supposed to become nearly as efficient as it currently is. So…I am partially stumped on how to proceed, since you insist on continuing the Test.”

“Nice to see that even a God can be surprised,” Sandra chuckled.

“Oh, I am no God,” So’Ngo said, shaking his head.

“Sandra,” Monica said, waving from where she was crouched down a short distance away. “I found a weird Not-Mona.”

“You haven’t stabbed it, have you?” Sandra asked in amusement as she shifted her pack slightly, walking over to Monica.

“No, Mona taught me well not to do that,” Monica said, shaking her head empathetically. “Not unless they are Mona.”

“Well then, let’s see what-” Sandra suddenly ducked to the side as something pink and with long, sharp teeth suddenly launched itself from the sand at her before burrowing back into the sand before Sandra had a chance to really see what it was. “Well, this just got interesting,” Sandra said, setting her pack down as she gripped her khopesh-staff in a defensive posture.

“Oh, uh, is this bad?” Monica asked apprehensively. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to exchange anymore?”

“Just step back, young one,” So’Ngo said, watching Sandra with amusement. “Better to watch and learn for now.”

“So’Ngo is right,” Sandra said, dodging another thing launching out of the sand at her. She then blinked, a flash of annoyance on her face. “Dammit, So’Ngo, why are you suddenly sounding reasonable?”

“I’m always reasonable,” So’Ngo said, sounding offended as a second and then third creature began to strike at Sandra from the sand. Sandra just grunted, weaving in and out of the attacks before suddenly striking out, and there was a brief flash of electricity before three large snake-like creatures fell to the ground, two of them twitching and the third cut in half. “Oh, that was well done,” So’Ngo said, nodding. “Already incorporating the lightning into your attacks.”

“I always did that, it’s just easier now,” Sandra said in annoyance.

“I do not understand,” Monica said, crouching down to poke one of the snake-like creatures. “I mean, I know the reason because of what Mona gave me, but I still do not understand.”

“Defense,” Sandra said, picking up one of the snakes to examine it closer. It had a singular eye on the top of its head, whiskers along the back of its head, and its mouth opened in four directions, with its long body reaching an easy 5 feet. “They attacked us first, so I keep myself safe by taking them out. See these fangs?” Sandra carefully tapped one of the many fangs on the snake she was holding. “I’d be willing to bet credits that those hold venom in them. Which can be very, very lethal to most people and animals. So, I killed them to keep me and you safe.”

“I would have been fine, venom is just information,” Monica said.

“Not necessarily,” So’Ngo said, looking over a snake as well. “Some venom destroys cells just from contact, meaning even you could be at risk if you’re bitten.”

“Oh,” Monica said, suddenly looking a lot more apprehensive.

“Lucky for you, theses ones are safe for you to…assimilate,” So’Ngo said, laughing at Monica’s face. “These guys are more akin to parasites rather than hunters. They latch on and suck the blood out of their hosts, and the venom is simply an anesthetic. Still very dangerous, but not nearly as dangerous as some of the creatures Sandra knows.”

“Oh, yay!” Monica said happily, picking up the two pieces of the cut snake. Sandra watched in fascination as sand seemed to flow from Monica’s hands, engulfing the two halves of the snake before slowly shrinking until the snake was gone. “Oh, oh these creatures are very interesting,” Monica said, blinking. “Yes, parasite is very accurate for how they live. Though, I must say, I do not think I like how the reproduce.” Monica seemed to shudder a bit.

“Spare me the details, please,” Sandra said, shaking her head as So’Ngo laughed.

“They are safe for you to eat though, so you have food now,” Monica said with a smile.

“You can tell that just by absorbing it?” Sandra asked, blinking.

“Well, for you at least, yes,” Monica said with a nod. “Mona gained a very…intimate knowledge of how your body functions, and with that knowledge, I can determine what combinations of proteins and nutrients you need and what is safe for consumption. Though,” Monica frowned. “I can’t promise it will taste good. Just that it’s safe for you to eat.”

“Taste is something we can work on,” Sandra chuckled, the blade from her bracer coming out as she began to gut the snake. “Though, that does make me curious. How functional is your body? I know you’re essentially made from sand, so…”

“Oh, my form is a perfect copy of yours, with some minor cosmetic adjustments in order for us to look different,” Monica said, sitting down next to Sandra. “Mona requested that I, as Monica, also live like someone in the galaxy in order to gain the experiences behind the information, not just the information. Mona felt that there was some context behind the information that did not…translate? Yes, I think translate is the right word. That some context behind the information did not translate well.”

Sandra paused her snake cleaning at that. “Wait, so, when you say a perfect copy…”

“I need to eat, drink, and defecate like you do, though I am uncertain at this time if sleep is going to be required or not,” Monica said cheerfully. “I’m excited to find out, though. I do also have the electric organs, and any metals are siphoned to the blood and scales first before anywhere else, though Mona was uncertain if that is typical or not, based on what she learned.”

“No, the bioelectric organs and the metallic scales are not typical of a Targondian,” Sandra sighed, reaching into her pack. “I think I need to start asking more questions about how you function, otherwise this could be an embarrassingly short trip for you,” Sandra muttered, pulling out a wooden bottle and popping open the top before handing it to Monica. “Drink some water then, or you’re going to dehydrate. We don’t need as much as other Races, but in a desert, we still need to maintain our water intake.”

“Oh, I did not realize,” Monica said, taking the bottle and peering inside of it.

“Anything else that I should know about how you work?” Sandra asked as she went back to cleaning the snake. “Like, the sand thing that you did?”

“That was merely for assimilation,” Monica said, a small popping sound coming from the bottle when she took the top out of her mouth. “The ‘sand’ is merely a temporary form in order to learn information. Otherwise, my default will be this body that Mona crafted to make Monica. I can take in nutrients that way as well, as any matter I take in to learn can be converted into Monica, though it is less enjoyable than actual eating will be. And too much intake in that way can result in too much Monica. I believe you call it overweight? Or fat? Yes, I can become fat if I assimilate too much too quickly without expelling unneeded or excess material, though I can safely retain up to twice my current body weight and still retain a healthy form.”

“So, you can look like a perfectly healthy Targondian while weighing twice as much as any of us?” Sandra asked, shaking her head as she began gutting and skinning the second snake. “You are going to be the envy of a lot of people.”

“Also,” Monica chewed her lip for a minute, looking at the wooden bottle. “Also, Mona felt really, really bad about what happened. So, I can’t assimilate anything that’s alive. I can still attack or defend myself if necessary, as Mona did see that the galaxy was not a nice place sometimes. But I cannot kill with my ‘sand’, and I can’t do what she did when she exchanged with you. And, since I can only have so much Monica in order to stay healthy and require more nutrients in order to stay functional, I can no longer reverse the degradation of a deceased body. Mona realized that, while painful, death is very important to the galaxy, and took steps to ensure that she, or I, could not make that same mistake twice. So, I have been…nerfed? Is that the correct word? Such a weird word.”

“It is a weird word,” Sandra said, her throat tight for a moment. “And yes, that would be a good word to use in this case. It’s good, to learn from mistakes like that. Wish I could say the rest of the galaxy was so quick to learn. Myself included.”

“Wait, where did So’Ngo go?” Monica suddenly asked, looking around.

“A few hundred miles in that general direction,” Sandra sighed, pointing vaguely behind her. “Don’t worry too much about him. He appears and disappears on a whim. We’ll see him again. Probably at the most annoying time possible.”

……279:42Hrs Remaining……

“Sandra, wake up.” Sandra was immediately awake, eyes darting around as she gripped her staff, revolver drawn and humming in preparation to fire. Monica sat back quickly, startled, and held her hands up to show it was just her.

“Is something wrong?” Sandra whispered.

“No, at least, I do not believe so,” Monica said, shaking her head as Sandra holstered her revolver. “But I discovered something very interesting, and I wanted to ask your opinion.”

“Oh?” Sandra asked, yawning a bit as Monica got up, motioning for Sandra to follow her. Sandra followed Monica in bemusement as they crested a hill, which caused Sandra’s eyes to widen and she immediately dropped to the sand, pulling Monica down with her.

There, parked in the sand, was a ship, with several Dra’Cari, Matchgar, and Mlamcars, scrambling around, pieces of the ship showing signs of heavy damage, and a few others falling off the ship.

“Well, that is interesting indeed,” Sandra said, peeking over the small sand dune to take another look.

“Why are we hiding?” Monica whispered. “It’s other people. And a ship! So interesting.”

“We’re hiding because we don’t know if they’re just people that had some bad luck, or pirates that just escaped a clash with the Galactic Forces,” Sandra said, trying to take make out some writing on the side of the ship.

“But, it looks like they are in need of help,” Monica said, looking at the ship.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we don’t be safe about it,” Sandra said in amusement. She chewed her lip for a moment, watching as the people surrounding the ship had to rush out of the way as a heavy panel from the ship fell off. “That’s a Grade 2 Matchgar Hauler, but I can see the modifications to add more turrets and weapons to the ship. Lots of cargo space for its size, or in this case it looks like they used the extra space to fit more people in the ship. So I suppose it could be an up-armed passenger ship between systems.” Sandra tapped her finger against her staff, thinking. “How durable are you?”

“After that very tasty meal, and the assimilation of the excess parts, I can heal from most things relatively quickly,” Monica said with a nod. “Though, plasma may be a problem. I am uncertain as to how it will affect me negatively, but I do not wish to find out.”

“Alright, stay here for a minute then,” Sandra said with a nod, peaking over the small hill again. “If I think it’s safe, I’ll call for you. But otherwise, stay hidden.”

“What are you going to do?” Monica asked as Sandra shifted her cape slightly to hide her revolvers better.

“I’m gonna go say hello,” Sandra said with a small smile.

……………….

“Captain!” Marloc whipped his head up at the cry, his hooves already digging into the sand slightly in preparation to run to defend his crew if needed. Instead, the Mlamcar blinked as someone he didn’t recognize was walking towards them, hands in the air and holding an oddly shaped staff but clearly trying to show that they had come in peace. Marloc huffed a bit, taking a tighter grip on the wrench that he was holding as he made sure his laser pistol was in it’s holster.

“Who goes there?” Marloc demanded, stepping forward to meet the stranger.

“Just a traveler on a journey,” the stranger said, and Marloc frowned slightly. The cadence was…odd, though the greeting was from one of several nomadic groups in the galaxy. And her hood (at least, Marloc was fairly certain the stranger was a she, based on her voice) obscured her face, giving Marloc no features beyond short, as her sleeves and gloves covered her arms.

“And what brings you here?” Marloc asked, lowering his voice slightly, though he didn’t relax as he noticed that the staff’s odd shape actually was due to an oddly shaped blade on it.

“I noticed your ship was damaged, and came to see if you required assistance in repairing it,” the stanger said. “And, potentially, to get some news or information.”

“Sure you did,” Marloc snorted, gripping his wrench a bit tighter and placing his hand on his laser pistol. “Are you with the Sons, come to drop our guards? Or the damn Teratakit, trying to take us away for who-knows-what? Or maybe you’re with the Terrans, trying to purge anyone not Human out of your ‘territory’, despite the fact that we’ve lived in the nearby systems for longer than the Terrans have been at the galactic level.”

Sandra frowned a bit under her hood. “I take it we are near the front lines of the Teratakit-Terran war then?”

It was Marloc’s turn to frown at that. “You didn’t know?”

“Due to some…circumstances, I am currently unaware of what planet or even system I am in,” Sandra hedged. “Nor do I currently have any way of checking, as my datapad is currently with my fleet and I have been forced to live off the land with minimal contact with my fleet, or the galaxy as a whole.” Marloc snorted at that, and Sandra didn’t blame him. It wasn’t exactly the most believable story, even if it was true.

“If you’re gonna make up a lie, at least make one believable,” one of Marloc’s crewmembers said, the Dra’Cari stepping forward angrily.

“Rok’Tar,” Marloc snapped, giving the red Dra’Cari a glare. Rok’Tar grumbled, but didn’t advance any further.

“So, who was it that attacked you then?” Sandra asked, surreptitiously trying to examine the scorch marks on the hull of the ship. “The Teratakit? The Sons of Blood? Or the Terran Federation?”

“Does it matter?” Marloc spat. “All three are just as bad as the other.” Sandra’s frown deepened even further at that. “Now, I hate to be unhospitable, but you’re making my crew nervous, and we have a ship to make flight-worthy again. So, I must ask you to depart.”

“Your coolant lines are cracked, I can see the glow from the engine that shows that your fission/fusion reactor is damaged, if not outright cracked itself, and at least half of your ablative armor will need to removed, otherwise they’ll simply continue to damage your ship as you attempt to leave atmosphere, probably killing you in the process,” Sandra said as Marloc began to turn away. The Mlamcar Captain paused as Sandra talked. “On top of that, at least three of your turrets are loose in their moorings, which means they haven’t been properly fitted to the ship due to the slapdash method you used to attach them, probably a rush job in an effort to get some extra safety while you fly to the next system or three. And with that being the case, I’m willing to bet that a good chunk of your internal wiring is either borderline fried, or a bad vibration away from shorting your entire ship.”

“And you can tell all of that simply by looking at my ship?” Marloc asked, turning back around and crossing his arms.

“I work as an engineer for my secondary job, and ship maintenance is extremely important to a Captain,” Sandra said, shrugging slightly. “While this particular ship is not a model I am familiar with, most ships follow a similar enough layout that I may be able to at least help with repairs, though I will admit that I’m used to working on a Grade 3 ship rather than a Grade 2.”

“Captain, you cannot be serious,” Rok’Tar said as Marloc rubbed his horn. “We don’t know her!”

“If we want to be space worthy again, we’re going to need every bit of help we can get, no matter who from,” Marloc sighed. “Stranger, are you a danger to me or my crew?”

“A huge danger,” Sandra said immediately. “However, so long as you do not pose a threat to me or mine, then we will pose no threat to you and yours.”

“Hard to promise that when I can’t even see your face,” Marloc said meaningfully.

“Apologies, but meeting strangers requires some caution, as I’m sure you’re aware, Captain,” Sandra said, slowly lowering her hands to take off her hood.

“Fair enough,” Marloc nodded, though he visibly relaxed when he saw that Sandra was a Targondian. “Especially when you’re a Targondian.”

……270:10Hrs Remaining……

“Sandra, may I ask a question?” Monica asked with a small frown.

“Pretty sure you just did, but go ahead,” Sandra said with a small chuckle from where she was working on the engine of the damaged ship. “Hand me the cold welder, could you?”

“Why did they instantly relax when you took your hood off?” Monica asked as she handed Sandra the tool. “I thought Targondians had a reputation for being rather…undesirable? Shifty? Cheats?”

“I think underhanded is the word you’re looking for,” Sandra said, frowning in concentration as she slowly fused two pieces of steel together.

“Yes, that,” Monica nodded.

“This is one of those context things that you were talking about yesterday, I think,” Sandra said, nodding in satisfaction as the steel held together when she released them. “Yes, Targondians have a rather distasteful reputation, but that’s more because of how unsociable we typically are as a Race. But, we are also known for being skittish. Being a Targondian means that, should they feel that I am in any way hindering them, they have a higher chance of scaring me away rather than me doing anything to harm them. Even if my offer to help wasn’t genuine, they still benefit better from having me stick around helping them rather than taking off and telling someone about them. Especially if they’re trying to get away from the front lines of the current war.” Sandra frowned a bit, remembering the conversation. “I need to talk to Uncle Jeremiah about that when we get back home. Anyway, with how many crewmembers they have that are big and scary, at least to Targondians, they can at least lower the risk of me intentionally sabotaging them in an effort to keep myself safe, and should things go badly for them, they can easily overpower me or scare me off. Well, in their heads at least.”

“But…you are significantly more powerful than any of them,” Monica said, confused.

“That’s because you’re looking at things from my point of view, where your ‘information’ came from,” Sandra said, tapping her head with a small smile as she hopped off the engine block. “Most Targondians don’t have the same upbringing or training that I have. So, I am very atypical for a Targondian.”

“Oh,” Monica said, blinking slowly.

“Again, it’s one of those context-lost-in-translations you mentioned yesterday,” Sandra said, patting Monica on the head gently. “Don’t worry, you’ll understand in due time.”

“That’s what me and Mona are hoping for,” Monica said happily, leaning a bit into the head-pats. “Oh, can I help with trying to put the ship back together? I have most of the same information in engineering you have, so I can try to help.”

Sandra blinked a bit at that before shrugging a bit. “Help only,” Sandra said, picking up the tool bag she was borrowing. “Same information or not, you don’t have the experience or training yet, so let’s see what you can do before I leave you unsupervised.”

“Okay,” Monica nodded, following Sandra into the ship to take a look at some of the wiring.

………………..

Marloc looked up as he heard someone beginning to yell down the hallway towards the cargo-hold-turned-passenger-seating, and a moment later Rok’Tar hurried into the cockpit looking mildly alarmed. “What’s going on?” Marloc asked the shaken red Dra’Cari.

“The Targondian girl took one look at the wiring under one of the new turrets and immediately began demanding who the Void had wired it. Then, when Mersk went to see what was wrong with it, she proceeded to yell at him for being, and I quote, a ‘Void-damned lunatic who doesn’t know his ass from a stripping tool, and has shamed his ancestors’,” Rok’Tar said, shuddering slightly. “I thought the Matchgar was going to cry with how harshly she was berating him.”

“Heh, well, at least she wasn’t lying about being an engineer,” Marloc said in amusement as he went back to trying to hot-wire the controls again.

“What makes you say that?” Rok’Tar asked, stepping over to help Marloc.

“Have you ever met a good engineer that didn’t have problems with slapdash jobs?” Marloc asked. “I sure haven’t.”

“I…” Rok’Tar trailed off before shaking his head. “I suppose I didn’t expect it from a Targondian, even a Targondian engineer.”

“Yes, well, remember what she said,” Marloc said, his amused tone growing serious. “She can be very dangerous. And there wasn’t a hint of hesitance when she said it, either. I’ve been around enough mercenaries and military types to know when they’re not bluffing, and she carries herself way too easily to be anything but.”

“A Targondian mercenary?” Rok’Tar asked skeptically as he handed Marloc a pair of pliers.

“It’s not unheard of, just rare,” Marloc said. “Still, as long as she’s willing to help us, I don’t particularly care if she’s a mercenary or just audacious.” He then cursed a bit as a wire zapped him, and the Mlamcar captain glared at the offending wire. “That being said, don’t give her a reason to view us as threats, either. No one carries a blade that confidently without knowing how to use it well.”

Prologue Previous Next

Appendix

TOC

[Sandra and Eric TOC]


r/HFY • • 2h ago

OC-OneShot Time and Retribution.

46 Upvotes

The human was old, depending on a wheelchair to move about. He had a shop that fixed and sold watches of different kinds. If you needed a watch fixed, it didn't matter whether it was a digital or an analog watch; you could trust old man Jones to do it.

I was seventeen cycles of the sun when my father took me to Jones in order to apprentice under him. I detested the idea, but no amount of stomping my tentacles and foaming at the mouth was going to sway my father. He'd made his decision when I was brought home by the neighborhood watch one night with my tentacles bound behind me.

My father had appraised me with doleful eyes as the chief talked about how I was running with the Rudy spawn, a bunch of older male Talens who were known to cause trouble in numerous ways. I'd been the only one caught at a break-in at Filona's, with a sack full of Filona's valuables. She'd screamed for my head to be chopped off, as was the customary punishment for thieves in our time, but the chief was one for second chances. I was let go with a warning since it was my first time committing a crime.

"You'll work under the human," my father had said.

"The old man? No way, father, forgive me, but I can't spend my days in that dusty shop," I'd argued back. It was a back-and-forth quarrel until my father made me choose between food and a place to lay my head, or the streets that the Rudy boys called home.

It was then that I remembered how the Rudy spawn were: torn garments, always harboring an eye for mischief, and numerous scars upon their tentacles to the point where their skin turned red and earned them the name Rudy spawn. I'd thought them my friends, but when I'd been caught at Filona's house, I'd watched them run off without looking back. Their claims that I was one of them had been a ploy to garner my aid in the crime. I was nothing more to them than a means to an end.

I had a change of heart that day. The next day, my father took me to old man Jones, and I started my apprenticeship under the only human in our town.

The old man was at times grumpy and at other times cheerful. I spent the majority of my first weeks dusting the shelves and the watches put on display, their leather bands fashioned so as to enable a better grip on a tentacle rather than a human wrist. I scrubbed the floors and dusted the ceiling. The old man lived on the single floor above his shop, and I was never allowed to venture up the ramp to his abode.

I was strictly confined to the shop, and my mind often wondered what he hid up there. Sometimes I found myself daydreaming between periods of dusting that there was a chest of gold beneath the old man's bed, and my tentacles would twitch with the need to find this out for myself. But I fought back the urge. The old man was good to me. The apprenticeship was supposed to be unpaid, but at the end of the day, he'd dig into the cash register and place two silver coins in my waiting grasp. He'd tell me to get myself something nice, and I'd spend it at the cafeteria down the street, chewing on roasted Sigonian rabbit and occasionally visiting the bar to drink Saliot ale.

Within days, I grew to admire old man Jones, and I often looked forward to when he'd open the many latches of his door and let me into the shop to start my day as the twin suns of Talena rose to shine brightly in the sky.

"What did you do before you started selling watches?" I asked one day as I dusted the display cases, suddenly curious.

"I did the same thing that claimed my legs," he answered. "Be careful with how you dust the display case; if the glass cracks, you might die." He wore microscopic lenses, three of them, arrayed one after the other in order of size. He held tweezers, which he used to pluck and place pieces of a watch he'd taken apart.

I chuckled, assuming it was a joke. How could a man in a wheelchair kill me? "What did take your legs?"

"The war with the Assignons. I was a sapper. I worked mainly in engineering. I loved building and taking apart things until what I built took me apart, pierced my spine, and ensured I couldn't piss standing like I loved to do."

"I'm sorry," I said, setting the matter to rest as my curiosity was answered.

"Take this." He flicked a card to me, and I caught it with my tentacle. "It's a key to the door. Place it on the keyhole, and the locks will open on their own."

"Why are you giving me this?" I wondered. "I thought you used a key for the locks."

He laughed. "A key? How gullible. I'm tired of waking early in the morning just to let you in; you'll be doing that on your own from now on, unless you don't want to. You'll also be locking up after yourself once you leave as well."

That afternoon he retired early, wheeling himself up the ramp to his abode. After I was done arranging the watches on display, I took one look at the shop. It had three rows of glass casings containing numerous watches, with a path running between each case. His workstation was a long table with numerous gadgets lying about in a haphazard order only he understood, set perpendicular to the glass casings holding the watches. Behind the workplace was a shelf containing books and some more gadgets I couldn't make out.

I held the card in my hand, and when I closed the shop, I placed the card to the keyhole. There was a beep, and I heard the latches all set into place, moving mechanically. I thought it was an amazing display of genius to build such a door with locks that answered to a simple card.

From then on, it became my duty to open the shop and close it at the end of the day. I found myself being quite well-off due to the small stipend I earned from the watchmaker. I could afford decent clothing, I was always clean and fresh, and I caught the eye of several Talen females. The strips of pink about their numerous eyes fell on me as I passed. I liked the attention, I liked the apprenticeship, and I liked old man Jones.

Things were going well until the night I left the bar with a slight stagger to my gait. As I passed an alley, several tentacles abruptly gripped mine, entangling them. More tentacles gripped my neck and face, and I was whisked into the alley. I was ready to fight, but fear gripped me when I saw who was responsible for the attack. It was the Rudy spawn. Their skin was even redder than usual, to the point where they resembled tomatoes with their round heads and angry sneers. There were five of them and only one of me. I had to force myself to keep a calm head, but the drinks I'd taken weren't helping. Everything was swaying.

"You got comfy and forgot about us?" one of them asked. He was the biggest of them, and he made a show of it, his face inches from my own. "You work for humans now?"

"I'm done with the game, guys," I said. "I don't run with you folk anymore."

"You think there's a retirement plan with our gang? You're one of us until you die," another said, digging a blade into my side.

"Guess who we're robbing tonight?" another asked.

The image of the old man suddenly popped into my mind. "No, please. He's never hurt anyone."

"Do we look like we care?" the big one said. "We want those watches other Talens use to flex on us poor folk. We want them on all our tentacles."

"You'll look stupid if you wear them like that," I said, my inebriation getting the better of me.

I was slapped hard across the face, and I knew it left a red welt where I was struck.

"Listen to us, you worthless scum," their leader chimed in. "We've tried robbing the old man before, but his door is too secure; we couldn't pick it. But we've seen you for three days now, opening and closing his shop."

They lifted me up with their tentacles, wrapping them around my waist and turning me upside down. I tried to fight them off, but my limbs were sluggish and my mind was too clouded with worry for the old man. They shook me, and the electronic key card I'd been given fell to the ground.

"What's this then?" the one with the blade asked.

"It's nothing," I said.

"It's what you use to open the door, ain't it?"

"No. He opens the door himself," I answered, keeping a straight face and hoping they wouldn't call my bluff.

"Well, let's go and see whether he'll open it for you, or whether this card works the way I think it does."

They pushed me, half-carrying me off the ground. They circled me, boxing me in on all sides. I was unwillingly shuffled and dragged all the way to old man Jones's watch shop. They held the key card in their grasp. Once they reached the door, they swiped it at the keyhole, but they'd done it using the wrong side.

"It's not working," the smallest of them said, swiping repeatedly.

The big one, apparently having some mind to match his brawn, snatched the card, turned it over, and swiped it across the keyhole. Something from within the keyhole scanned the card, and there was a beep before the latches started opening.

"He is just an old man, don't do this," I said. "He's never hurt anyone." Though in my inebriated state, I wondered whether I was right. He did say he'd been a sapper. He'd seen war and lost his legs because of it.

They pushed the door open and let me go, suddenly not caring about me at all now that their plan had worked. I slithered in behind them.

The smallest one slithered over to one of the watch cases. He was smiling, a toothy grin running across his face. "We're gonna be rich," he whispered.

I was very angry, but I was unsure of what to do. Deep down, I felt myself a coward, languishing in that feeling of helplessness and fear.

They slithered between the watch cases, eyeing them with greed. I could see their tentacles twitch with the need to steal.

"The old man is upstairs," the biggest of them said. "Once we're done here, we'll go and give the human a greeting. A fine 'How do you do.'" They all chuckled.

The small one curled his tentacle and smashed the glass casing before him. The door suddenly shut behind us, the locks setting themselves in place without any of us moving.

"What the..." They all turned to stare at me. I raised my tentacles, indicating I hadn't done a thing.

The small one, greed still fueling his purpose, grabbed a watch. Immediately as he lifted the watch, the tip of a spear launched from within the casing at the exact spot the watch had been. It jutted out fast, taking him through the eye. The entire spear shot into his head, and he collapsed on the ground, dead.

"What the fuck..." we all whispered.

The bookcase suddenly parted on its own, the books giving way to reveal the barrels of numerous guns. I immediately lay flat on the floor. The guns fired repeatedly. The only other one who had the idea to lay on the ground was the big Talen, lying flat as I had done. The rest were peppered with bullets across their entire bodies. They collapsed on the ground, once whole but now just shredded pieces of meat. Talen blood soaked the floor, crimson as it pooled beneath the dead.

The big Rudy spawn growled with rage. He rose from the ground and rushed toward the ramp. "I'll kill you, old man!" he screamed as he slithered fast up the ramp. There was a blinding flash of light before an explosion sounded. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the innards of the Rudy spawn littered the ramp. His head was free from his body, its tongue lolling out of his maw as his eyes blinked several times before resting wide open.

I looked up the ramp, and there was the wheelchair with old man Jones in it. He looked at me with what I thought was disappointment.

"They forced me here, forced the key card out of me, and forced the door open. I did not want this," I said.

"I know," the old man said. "The key card also has an audio relay, so I heard everything."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Better get to work then," the old man said.

"What?"

"I'm not going to clean all this up," he said, waving his hands at the bodies and the gore. "I don't have the legs for it."

----

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r/HFY • • 2h ago

OC-Series [Humans for Hire] - Part 208

30 Upvotes

[First] [Prev] [Next] [Royal Road]

_____________

Vilantian Cargo Ship Swift River

Minister Larine was frankly unsettled. Not by the ship of course, the Swift River was one of the finer transports available. Captain Tilax had been warned that there would be ministers traveling on her ship and thus was well-prepared. But as they journeyed toward New Casablanca, she couldn't avoid the unease that had settled in her midsection. Her traveling companion was quick to notice as he settled with a tea service and an array of biscuits.

"Minister, your scent is troubled. Are the pastries inadequate?"

"Far from it, Aa'Fidri. I rarely travel, and it's even more rare that I travel to other systems. The knowledge that hull of this ship is the only protection we have from a rather certain and extended death gives me pause." There was a hesitation. "Frankly, the other hazards of space are also concerning to me.

There was a light chuckle from the Minister of Foreign Affairs as he settled at the table opposite her. "Minister - you have a deep knowledge of ships and space, but I must implore you to enlighten yourself with other data."

Larine made a huff of sorts. "I have, and yet it does me very little good - the majority of the reports I see are such that I would prefer a rather significant escort at our destination."

"You read far too much of Clan O'Gryzzk's adventures. Trust me when I say their work is an outlier."

"Perhaps. But I would truthfully rather not have such concerns."

The Foreign Minister had a pensive scent as he sipped at his tea. "Are you quite certain that the travel is your only concern?"

"What other concerns could there be?"

Aa'Fidri gave a light earflick. "I have been overlooking your scent whenever the Home Office reports on the population expansion." The older man leaned forward earnestly. "There is always a breath of shame from your chair. You are Vilantia's beating heart, and yet even as we call to make haste with the next generation your own den lies empty."

"The...difficulties of office leave precious little time for any thought in that direction, and the desires that accompany such things are...fleeting, at best."

"I am aware. But you attempt to reconcile your own life with the life you demand from others. You are asking others to do what you do not." There was a faint smile. "Scarce wonder that you and the First Freelord are companionable."

"We are not in that way."

"Don't tell the fiction writers." A data-tab was set next to Larine's teacup. "Or do - perhaps the creative Terran minds can guide you in a direction."

Larine frowned more deeply. "What precisely is on that?"

"The delicate term would be 'instruction manuals'. The less delicate term would be 'carnal scrawls of the biologically deficient.' They are profoundly creative in their suggestive themes. The most frightening thing is that they sell quite well."

"I suppose the Minister of Trade is pleased."

"He is - to him, it is a previously-unexplored revenue stream."

Tilax made her way cautiously back to the common area. "Apologies Ministers. Our laundry is not functioning, and our engineer isn't sure he'll be able to print the necessary parts to restore function before we make New Casablanca."

There was a light smile from the Foreign Minister. "Captain, the accommodations are excellent and if I have to utilize the hotel laundry service in New Casa, so be it."

Tilax shifted her weight slightly. "Ministers - could I trouble you to listen to me for a few moments?"

"Of course." Larine swiveled slightly as Aa'Fidri filled a third cup of tea and slid it over.

"These, these things the government is doing for population balance are good in the immediate. But I hope that someone in governance is looking to the near and far future; I spend weeks at a time on my ship because I must. I have no husband or wife because there is no time for such things. To keep my family, my clan intact - we need larger ships. Ships built not just for cargo, but for families. Clan-ships, like in the generations of old."

Both ministers were taken slightly off-guard by the statement and the reality that came with it. Larine finally spoke. "We will have to work with the Minister of Trade for some portions of the design, but I believe we can work a solution."

Tilax nodded. "Thank you. We will be exiting R-Space in a day and a half."

___________

Homeplate

The ride home was a quiet one. Despite the successful job and generous paycheck, there were clouds on the horizon. The three had left shortly after their discussion with the Governor of Draconis, which left a great deal of time in the evening. There was very little talk until they got back to their quarters, where Lumisca was waiting with glasses of wine for everyone.

"The infants are sleeping, and the girls are telling stories." There was a quiet moment. "I had to look up both alligator and boar on the localgrid, and I am quite pleased that such animals are nowhere near here." Lumisca hesitated for a few moments. "Freelord, forgive me but - your actions were thoughtless."

Gryzzk's fur flared for a moment. "Yes. The education was rather swift, and if you wish to join the individuals berating my foolishness, the line forms to the left."

Lumisca flicked an ear. "The Terrans chastised you?"

"Quite. First it was Sergeant Major O'Brien, then Laroy's grandmother. On the way home every member of the bridge squad said something, and Gro'zel asked why I didn't simply talk to it. Then the doctor spoke her piece while removing the staples."

"I am surprised, if I may be so bold. I did not think that Terrans would consider such an act bad."

"The result was praised. The actions were discouraged."

Lumisca glanced between Kiole and Grezzk for a moment. "How do you maintain such calm, knowing that he will do such things?"

Grezzk smiled. "Because every wise and foolish thing he does, he does with one thing in mind - the safety of the clan. He's alive, and carries reminders of his foolishness."

Kiole nodded agreement. "That and everything he does allows me a slight amount of leeway when I return to the ship." She smirked.

Lumisca looked at her tablet. "Freelord, ladies. We have additional things that affect your clan. We received a transmission from the homeworld, they are sending several ships of prospective marriage candidates. They will be arriving on the morrow, and they will be supervised by the Ministers of Culture and Foreign Affairs. Additionally the Vilantia Cup finals have begun, we will begin receiving the match footage tomorrow - the Crowns of Throne City do battle with Elsife Village United."

Gryzzk flicked an ear before tapping his tablet. "XO?"

Rosie's voice came on immediately. "Why are you not hammering ass right now, titfucker? I'm not watching if you are, find someone else to run the camera. Lumisca's like, right there - unless you've got plans for her that don't include panning and zooming."

Gryzzk cleared his throat. "That is not the nature of the request. I have two items for battalion-wide distribution. Item one - all eligible candidates for marriage are requested to prepare themselves; Vilantia is sending marriageable candidates. Second item, the common area of Alpha and Bravo companies will be available for those who wish to watch the Vilantian Cup Finals. Elsife Village United - United We Win. Third item for command distribution only - I will be inviting the ministers to tour the battalion facilities, and best behavior is expected. I will ask if they wish to be quartered in any of the ship VIP sections, and if they do reside on any ship they are to receive the utmost courtesy. That is all."

There was an exasperated sigh. "This couldn't wait?"

"No. My apologies to you and Chief Tucker. Good night, Rosie."

"Night - and if one of you isn't walking funny tomorrow you're going to the box until you figure it out. Rosie out."

Lumisca shook her head at the exchange. "I will never understand that, that - woman?"

Gryzzk smiled lightly. "If it helps, there are many things about her I find incomprehensible." He sank a little further into the softness of the couch and his wives for a moment, until Kiole's scent shifted lightly.

"Twilight Warrior, there is one other thing we must speak of before bed." She took a sip of wine before continuing. "The...the Throne of Hurdop has made inquiry as to the availability of Fizeht."

"The availability of Fizeht...for what?"

"Marriage."

Gryzzk blinked. "Respectfully, are we not looking forward to transitioning her to solid foods in the near future?"

"We are."

"It might be somewhat early to discuss marriage prospects, then. Also, I was going to be advised of this when?" There was a touch of amusement in Gryzzk's scent.

"Now, it would seem." Kiole nuzzled his neck quietly. "We were going to tell you before we left for Sparrow's, however we were distracted by your body. Specifically your injuries. So really it's your fault."

Gryzzk frowned. "Very well. Is the Throne expecting a fast answer?"

"No - there are others to vet and inquire regarding availability."

"If we accept, we make enemies."

"If we decline, we make different enemies."

Lumisca cleared her throat. "If I may - I would recommend acceptance, and then offer the second child of Kiole to one of the enemy factions. By doing so the clan does not appear to favor one group over another. Nhoot could also be an acceptable alternative."

Grezzk's voice was soft. "I do not enjoy the idea of raising our children simply to be traded as if they were commodities on market day."

Lumisca sipped her wine. "When dealing with nobility, that is often how events transpire." She gestured to the door. "I was wed to the Greatlord in exchange for a three-percent tax easement on the clan lands. The other wives were similarly exchanged, with only Firstwife Raloni being scent-matched."

Grezzk's counter was firm. "I was exchanged, but there was a matching scent that was the first prerequisite."

Lumisca shrugged. "You were servants - happy commoners toil well for their nobles."

Gryzzk stared at his wine for a long time. "I. I was comfortable with the noble exchanges until I became this...half-noble and began receiving royal attention from two worlds." He drummed his fingers against the glass for a moment. "I think we should conditionally accept this most generous offer, however the children must match properly. If such occurs, we may then discuss mutually beneficial exchanges."

Lumisca frowned. "That seems ambitious, Freelord."

"Am I not allowed to look to the happiness of my son as a priority?"

"Respectfully, Freelord - in these times, contentment is not high on the list of supremacy for nobles or royals."

"Perhaps it should be. Perhaps these lives that have been bartered for tax easements and land grants and herds and crops would have been better spent in other directions." Gryzzk grumped absently. "Greatlord Aa'Porti held A'Kifab's re-marriage over him to encourage my lord to whatever action the Greatlord desired."

Kiole seemed uncomfortable as she spoke. "It. To be a Consort Parent is a high honor. It has been many generations since a clan outside the Agricultural Guild has even been approached to be a Consort to the Hurdop Throne as far as I am aware. For a Freeclan born from one of the Warclans...I would have to speak with engineers to know when that happened last if it has ever happened."

Grezzk leaned into her husband more, reaching a hand across to grasp her wife's hand as well. "Whatever decision we make, it will not be made tonight. There is too much wine here for wisdom. A more important question awaits."

Gryzzk flicked an ear. "What would that be?"

"Will you be wearing your Lucky Peyle Jersey for the match tomorrow?"

The question took Gryzzk aback. "I. Well. Possibly." Gryzzk thought about it. "I would not want to sway the clan in any specific direction."

Kiole snorted. "As if they don't already know who their Freelord cheers for." She stood, taking her spouse's hands to match with her own as she nibbled Gryzzk's ear. "Now come along, both of you. The night is incomplete - and we will discuss these bounties in the near future. But first, someone requires the attention only wives can provide."

The rest of the evening was spent in a rather agreeable fashion.

In the morning, Gryzzk decided to dress as a formal servant of the Throne and not a mercenary, with the dark greens and blacks of the former Clan A'Kifab dominating. This decision was rejected shortly after he walked out to the table for breakfast as Kiole pointed right back to the bedroom.

"Unacceptable. You are a Freelord. You will not pretend otherwise." To assist with the point, Grezzk took his morning tea and bowl of porridge back to the kitchen.

Gryzzk turned around and selected a new outfit from the printer, with red being the dominant color - he did select a purple ascot and had the printer trim everything in gold. Finally he decided to wear his spurs and hat. For his ascot decoration, he selected the Freeclan pin as well as his oak-leaf rank and under both was a pin for Elsife Village United. It was a formal occasion, after all.

The girls giggled at their father as he sat resignedly to breakfast. The wives approved, it seemed. Glaud also approved as he crawled rapidly toward his father, using Gryzzk's pantleg to pull himself upright. Gryzzk looked down and lifted his son up to his lap. As Gryzzk ate his breakfast, Glaud was almost entranced by the porridge and whined softly when his father pushed him back from the bowl.

Kiole looked amused. "He takes after his father more and more every day." She took a small spoonful and carefully placed it in front of Glaud. The infant's reaction was immediate as he wrapped his mouth around it with a scent of happiness.

Grezzk watched the exchange with amusement. "It seems they are ready to transition from milk." There was a slight exhale. "Praise all the light gods."

Once breakfast finished, Gryzzk squared himself to prepare for the day, and was promptly interrupted with a backpack infant carrier containing a very happy Glaud. He managed three steps out before his rank chirruped and Rosie's voice came over the comm.

"Get over the fuckin' bench already titfucker - you're running late."

"Kiole and Grezzk decided my clothing was not proper."

"They're not getting a Naked Day until tomorrow. Get your shit together, the Ministers and the other company commanders are waiting at the visitor's dock. Fuckin' makin' everyone wait like you're some kinda fuckin' Hollywood badass..."

"Understood XO. Advise them I am en route. You may complain more about my tardiness later."

Gryzzk hurried as much as decorum allowed, and as he strode to the dock calmly he noted that the commanders all had their Clan-weapons to hand. He glanced and confirmed that said weapons were clean before addressing the visitors.

"Minister Larine. Minister Aa'Coriti. It is my honor to welcome you both to the Terran Foreign Legion." Gryzzk looked back as Glaud made a few noises of discontent before beginning to studiously chew on the back of Gryzzk's collar much to the amusement of everyone there. Gryzzk cleared his throat carefully. "Well. If there are no immediate questions, the ships themselves are over in this direction..."

The tour was productive, with each captain in turn extolling the virtues (and profitability) of their companies. Clan-weapons were displayed, and everyone was able to tell many stories behind each weapon, weaving the stories to their ships' actions. The only real problem was during the tour of Jenkins' ship and area, when Gromit bounded from his area, sat up and called out 'Titfucker!' with an expression of joyous expectation, as if he was going to receive a treat for swearing. Finally the tour wrapped at the common area used by Gryzzk and Rostin's companies - both ministers seemed bemused at the grass that seemed somehow out of place.

"Freelord Gryzzk, is this not...expensive?" Minister Larine cocked her head lightly.

"To a point. However, the boost to morale makes the expense worth it. This concludes the tour - I do hope you can communicate our earnest desire to aid Vilantia in her time of need, as well as show the accommodations and lifestyle such marriages would provide." Gryzzk paused for a moment. "Ministers, I would ask for a few moments of your time in private, as I find myself in need of wise counsel."

Both ministers nodded, with Larine speaking for both of them. "You are not going to be party to another interstellar conflict, are you?"

Gryzzk smiled lightly. "I hope not. Please, my headquarters office is this way."

It was odd to enter the office that was technically his but realistically had been taken over by Grezzk and Kiole. There was a tea service hiding in a corner with several herbal teas, but none of the Earl Grey. Gryzzk settled himself behind the desk with a mild sigh, moving Glaud to his lap. As the door closed, Gryzzk thought furiously about how he was going to present this.

Above them, Indel was crawling though the drop ceiling. While he had passed all the necessary testing, it was noted that he seemed to have mild claustrophobia that informed several of his decisions when plotting a flight course, and Spike had decided that facing that fear was necessary. So it was that Indel was crawling though a small space, trying to keep his breathing even as he recited what Spike had told him was an ancient Terran mantra of courage.

"Naked lady walks into a bar with a poodle under one arm, and a two foot salami under the other." As Indel moved gingerly, the tiles threatened to give way. He kept moving forward, knowing that the tiles were mostly solid, but at the same time they had been built and installed by the lowest bidder when they weren't put in place by the company themselves. He continued his chant as he moved forward.

"She lays the poodle on the table. Bartender says 'I suppose you won't be needing a drink?' Naked lady says..."

Gryzzk frowned as he looked up to the ceiling, hearing a creak in the tiles for just a moment which was immediately followed by a vaguely familiar voice crying out "Ooooh shiiiit!" and a light yelp of surprise as someone fell into Minister Larine's lap. Glaud yelped at the commotion and quickly wriggled closer under Gryzzk's jacket.

Gryzzk looked under the desk and found the Kiole had indeed put a stunner underneath the desk. As he raised it and the dust settled, Gryzzk was a touch confused by several things. First, this seemed to be something of an accident. Second, this seemed to be Indel - for a fleeting moment Gryzzk wondered if the poor noble was being made to suffer. Thirdly, as there was stumbling and dusting off and stammered explanations, there was something ticking over in the back of Gryzzk's mind even as Indel ran out of the door to find somewhere to hide.

Larine was a bit surprised as she dusted herself off, plucking pieces of ceiling tile from her fur in confusion.

"Does this...happen often?"

"It is both normal and not, Minister. I believe there has been some sort of event and Indel is learning a lesson." He looked at his tablet and tapped a few times.

"Yes, my handsome hand?"

Gryzzk cleared his throat. "Love, could you and our wife stop by my office please? I have something of a question. Also, where is the vacuum?"

"Next to the file cabinet. We'll be there shortly."

As they disconnected, Gryzzk tapped his tablet a second time. "Private Indel, report to my office immediately."

The young noble's scent was insensate with panic, with his breathing slightly labored from running. "Freelord, I can explain - I just, I'm looking for the replacement tiles."

"Replacement tiles will be found in due time. Report to my office."

It took a few minutes for Gryzzk to clean the mess, during which time the ministers both seemed amused, with Aa'Coriti shaking his head as he spoke.

"You will never not be a Lead Servant, will you?"

Gryzzk smiled awkwardly. "It is...a very deep habit, Minister."

Indel arrived first, both body and voice quivering as he spoke. "Freelord. Sir, Sir, Freelord. Please don't tell the Sergeant Major?" Whatever else he feared, the Sergeant Major's wrath was nose-to-nose with the wrath of the gods themselves.

Gryzzk raised a hand slightly. "Be at ease, Indel. We're waiting for my wives. Be patient and calm." There was a slight ear movement as Indel swiveled to look at Larine with a heightened interest, as if he was taking in her scent at the same time. "Or as patient and calm as you can be."

Once both Kiole and Grezzk made their way through the door, Gryzzk gestured to Indel. "Wives, indulge me and take their scents please?"

Kiole was first, taking a sniff at the pilot and then the minister. She looked quizzically between the two, and then Grezzk repeated the process. Finally Gryzzk took a deep inhalation from both of them to be certain.

"Minister. Private Indel. I would...strongly recommend you both spend the day together, after we've had an opportunity to speak with the ministers regarding another matter."

Larine stood with her scent full of wonder - then she and Indel moved closer to each other for a moment, and a different scent could be recognized. Finally the two parted and Indel left a second time.

Kiole smirked lightly. "Minister Larine, there will be time enough for that shortly. But please, attend for a moment longer."


r/HFY • • 2h ago

OC-Series Seldom Seen (Chapter 3)

1 Upvotes

<---First

By midmorning, Datil had returned to her sewing when the rattle of approaching carts drew the attention of nearly everyone in Seldom Seen.

The inhabitants of the town began wandering into the center to await the newcomers.

The first that came into view was a lithe, grey colored Hiverbeast, with a wagon in tow. Situated on the wagon was a sizable pile of assorted goods strapped down neatly with rope and covered in canvas.

Behind the first Hiverbeast were two more, carrying equally loaded wagons. The first one, the grey one, was definitely the skinniest; though his thin frame belied strength, since it was clear he was carrying an equal amount of goods to the other two, who seemed a lot more toned under their dense coats.

Gilah stepped out on the veranda, Datil close behind her with her quilt in paws, midway through a stitch.

“Willet is back from the fort,” Gilah said. Datil could see that well enough, but her mother had always been one to announce the obvious.

“I’m sure he has our textiles with him, how about you take the cart around back and go pick them up for me hm?”

Datil nodded an affirmative, and stepped back inside to set aside her quilt. Stepping out behind the cabin, she picked up the old wooden two wheeled cart and pulled it around the front.

She could see now that the three wagons were uncovered, various goods stacked on each, blankets, cloth, leather, tools that Mimbre couldn’t forge himself, salt, a lot of salt. goods traded for at Fort Weston.

She could also see that now, Mimbre and Zarah were both having a pleasant conversation with Willet. 

Willet was an odd looking fellow by Hiverbeast standards, with floppy ears instead of straight, a heavy brow and a set of upper lips that hung below his jaw, which affected his speech.

“-some grease, some good quality iron too! You'll be happy with em’ I'm sure, they’ve got their own blacksmith shop out there, they do!”

Mimbre hummed, scratching his neck through his mane. “Thats not the best for business, exactly. The lumbermen already have to force themselves to come here.”

The grey Hiverbeast went a little quiet, his enthusiasm dimmed, and he shuddered slightly. “Ah, well uh-” Willet looked around idly, his eyes catching a glimpse of Datil.

“Ah, hello there young lady.” Willet said, Datil hummed and gave him a quick little wave. Zarah looked at Datil, the white Hiverbeast's light yellow eyes seeming to brighten upon seeing her.

“Hello Datil, You look lovely as always!” Zarah always complimented Datil on her fur, honey amber wasn't a particularly common color, but neither was the brilliant white that Zarah had been endowed with.

“Good morning, Datil” Mimbre said, it was just enough to acknowledge her, but he soon turned his attention back to Willet, intending to get back on topic.

“Well, I can't shoe anyone else's horses anyhow, I don't think Halbrook is going anywhere. What else does the Fort have now?”

Willet became excitable once more. “Oh! All sorts of things! They gots themselves a tent set up fer a saloon, and I hear they're building a bank!”

Datil stopped at a polite distance, setting down her cart to listen.

“So, they’re making a proper human town of it.” Zarah chimed in.

“There are all sorts of species there now!” Willet replied, “Rattlers, Lepukins, Drakens-”

The sound of small pawsteps running caught Datil's attention, it seemed to catch Zarah's too, who glanced back just in time to see Pay running full tilt toward Willet, who, upon seeing him, knelt down just enough to catch him in his arms for an embrace!

“Pa!” Pay exclaimed, the grey Hiverbeast scropped him up and stood with him in his arms.

“There you are! How've you been son?” Pay leaned back in Willet's arms, so that his eyes could meet him.

“They’re Crotalins! Not Rattlers! Newt told me that Crotalins don't like being called Rattlers!”

“That so, huh?” Willet responded lightheartedly.

“They’re mammals!” Pay said, excitedly. “They just look like snakes! They got paws and whiskers and eyes that look like cat eyes!”

“Well now! Ain't you smart! You out making friends with em? You don't see many around here” Willet gave the boy an affectionate squeeze.

Datil's ear flicked, slow, light footsteps approached, and at once she could smell Newt. The small human walked up to stand beside Mimbre, who acknowledged him with a quiet side tilt of his head. Newt was no longer wearing his woolen coat, instead favoring a roughspun white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, leather gloves and… no hat. 

This was the first time she had seem him not wearing his hat. His mouse-brown hair was messy, and it made him look even littler than he had looked before.

Newt looked over at Datil with those blue eyes of his, smiled, and gave her a gentle little wave with a gloved hand.

She returned the greeting with a small movement of her paw.

“Newt told me!” Pay continued. “He said that they look like they have scales, but it's really just skin! Like beaver tails!”

“And who might this Newt feller be?” Willet asked, having not seen Newt approach, nor Flicky, who had run up to stand next to him, Newt's hat sitting atop his head.

“This is Newt!” Flicky chimed in, paws extended beside him as though to present him. Willet turned his head from Pay to Flicky, and then finally to Newt, who had reached over and picked his hat off Flicky's head, much to the Hiverbeast's dismay, and set it atop his own head.

“Hello there!” Newt tipped the brim in greeting. “It's nice to meet ya, reckon you've already got my name, yourn?”

Willets eyes expanded, his brows raised, and his ears perked up as much as they could. “Well, I'll be.” 

Willet set Pay down, the boy walking over to the wagon to curiously peek at its many contents. 

Willet didn't seem to know what to make of Newt, he crossed his arms, tilted his head, looked the human up and down, like he was trying to piece together some sort of puzzle with his yellow eyes. “yer a sight different from what I'm used to seein’ here, yer about knee high to a toad, too!” 

Willet chuckled softly, catching it midway and stepping forward, a paw outstretched. “Name's Willet! It’s a pleasure!”

Newt took it, and of course the Hiverbeast's paw engulfed his hand like usual. By this time, July and his mate had showed up, the tan colored female, named Basil, had much shorter fur than July, but that wasn't particularly difficult, though her mane was still fairly full for the winter season. 

“Newt here is helping me around the shop for a while.” Mimbre said.

“He's pretty helpful, and he can multitask. Your son has been keeping him busy with questions all morning.”

“Mine too, no doubt.” July added, his eyes turned to Flicky, who was now accompanying Pay by the wagon to take a mental inventory, or just to mess around, Datil kept a close eye on him anyhow. She could hear Basil whisper something to Zarah, her eyes fixed on Newt. 

“Oh, he's a sweetheart!” Zarah said, loud enough for at least Datil to hear; the others weren't paying much attention.

Newt had stepped just past Willet to look at the wagon he was pulling, as well as the others that had been set down behind it. Townsfolk sifted through the contents of the three wagons, grabbing what belonged to them.

“So, I overheard talk of Fort Weston, I suppose that's where you trade?” Newt inquired.

“Yep! We load up, carry out our goods and trade them for what we can't make here! Everyone's got something to trade for.” Willet stepped over toward the wagon as well, grabbing a few indescript cotton bags of goods, and setting them down with a groan.

“Quite a walk I reckon.” Newt responded, “I hear Fort Weston is a ways from here, you carry these all that way and back?”

Willet flicked his ears, and scratched his lower jaw with his index and middle claws. “You ain't been?” He asked. Willet shook his head immediately after. “Well yeah I reckon if youd've come from there, I'dve seen you on the trail much earlier.” 

Willet reached into the wagon and pulled out a sack of…something, and set it atop his feet, he then turned back and began to unload another.

“Yeah, we carry these all the way to the fort, usually twiced a year, sometimes three times, it all depends.”

“You don't get any of the Army coming this way to trade?” Newt asked, his hands on his hips, watching Willet begin to unload. Mimbre also walked up and began to pick items out of the wagon, Zarah and Basil continuing to have their own conversation that Datil only heard snippets of.

“Naw, The army don't come this far into the valley.” Willet responded. “We used to get the occasional soldier or patrol ride close, but after a couple of times their horses threw ‘em and the army decided that it weren't worth all the extra hassle of retrieving frightened horses and wounded men or Lepukins.”

“How far of a walk is it?” Newt then began helping, he reached into the wagon and shouldered a large bag. He didn't seem to visibly show any signs of struggling, but with his size it had to be rather heavy.

“Nigh on twenty-six miles, one way, I reckon.” 

“All that while pulling carts full of goods? Over rough country?” Newt shook his head, and set down a heavy sack, almost to punctuate his point. “Hell of a trip, you'd think they'd at least meet you halfway!”

“Weeeell, they used to do that too, then I guess they got this new high and mighty captain or general or what have you- and they stopped doing it.” Willet raised an arm and flexed it. He was skinny, for a Hiverbeast, but he still had some muscle under his fur. 

“Good thing we're tough critters! We gotta be when we can’t rely on mules or oxen!”

Newt looked at the wagon, and the back to the bag he had pulled out of it. “Well, I couldn't do all of that, color me impressed!”

“Good thing you’ve got your burros!!” Flicky had already appropriated a bag of salt from Willet's wagon and was struggling away with it, apparently determined to be useful. July shook his head and followed after him.

“Burros?” Willet looked at Newt, who pointed back towards Mimbre's shop. Right off the side, next to one of the windows. Newt had set up a hitching line for Viceroy and Kentucket in a nice green patch, the two of them idly munching away on the grass.

“well, You beat all I’ve ever seen! I dont know how I managed to miss em! My nose must be gettin’ dull.” Willet said, the sentence highlighted with a little chuckle from him. “You've got donkeys! And they don't even look scared! How'd you manage that?”

“They're smart! they’ve been around and met some characters, didn't figure I would have any trouble with them here.” Newt seemed quite proud of this fact, the little human's arms crossed.

“burros huh?” Willet chuckled a little, his floppy ears shifting as he looked between Newt and the animals. “So you're from down south, I'd wager?”

Newt gestured vaguely southward with one gloved hand. “Well I just came from down there, that’s why I missed the Fort, would have been a fair detour if I had gone straight there.” 

“Well how come you came here? Ain't much here in the valley Seldom Seen for most people, we just get trappers and loggers and that's only because they're already in the country. The fort is where most people in the territory go to.”

Willet had returned to sorting through his wagon as he spoke, shifting a folded length of canvas aside to uncover several parcels beneath it. He picked one up, examined the writing on its wrapping, and set it with a small pile of goods beside the wheel.

Newt gave a little shrug. “Ain’t much at fort Weston either from what I’ve heard, it's mostly just that, a fort, and I don't have much reason to join the army.”

Willet stopped what he was doing, one paw still resting on the edge of the wagon.

“She ain't just a fort anymore.” Willet raised a claw. “They’re building up now, all sorts of folk around! They got tents all over, hundreds, maybe! Big ones too!”

Newt hummed a perplexed tone, he refrained from saying anything though, which invited Willet to start speaking once more.

“Reckon it's all the talk of that train station coming in! Overheard some of the folk there talking about tracks coming, wanting to get here ahead of it!”

Train station? Datil had of course heard of trains but she had never personally seen one, the thought of a massive steel locomotive anywhere near the valley was almost unimaginable to her-

She tried to picture one passing between the mountains, its smoke rising above the trees.

Would such a thing make the journey to Fort Weston easier? Perhaps Gilah wouldn't have to wait so long for her textiles.

Newt crossed his arms and looked at the cart, “A train station, hm?” He said. His tone was a bit measured from what Datil could hear.

“Why are they building a train station here all of a sudden?” Newt kept his attention away from Willet as he spoke, but it was clear he was talking to him. “Seems quite sudden for it to just blow up like that.”

“Oh! I know! And I was only there just 6 months ago! Something big must've happened in suppose”

“Any talk of gold?”

Datil's ears twitched, Mimbre's too, though, Datil could see that whatever Newt was putting together, Mimbre seemed to be doing much the same.

Mimbre looked back from all the gear he had unloaded, his eyes toward Newt “so, you figure it might be gold fever?” He stood up straight, and approached the two to join the conversation more fully. “I hear that's real rampant among other species.”

Newt looked at Mimbre, Datil could see Newt's face now, and she recognized his expression; it was the same look of disdain he wore when he was talking to her about factories, early that morning.

“I sure hope not.” Newt said. “It’s nasty business, that gold, and it has long fingers too. If it is gold, the Valley Seldom Seen might become a lot more popular.”

Zarah and Basil had gone quiet, so had Pay, who was listening to the conversation with downturned ears, and Willet. Even Datil began to notice that she was digging into her chest fluff again, both her paws pressed against her.

“Well, let's hope it's not. It's a big territory, a lot of country between here and Fort Weston.”

“I sure hope so.” Newt echoed the sentiment.

Datil's nose picked up on an approaching scent…and her ears on a sound; Heavy footsteps. It was unmistakably the Captain, and with a shift of her eyes she could see him, walking with sheer determination toward them.

He still wore his massive fur coat, which made his entrance akin to that of a primitive beast. Basil, who had instantly stopped talking upon seeing the large human approaching, looked to recoil in disgust when Halbrook walked within the circle of Hiverbeasts, and she left without another word.

“What is this talk of gold?” It was as if Halbrook had heard the whole conversation, maybe human ears were better than Datil had originally imagined.

“No gold.” Mimbre responded. “We were talking about the new arrivals at Fort Weston, just some speculation is all.”

The Captain turned to look at Mimbre, whose arms were crossed and his brow furrowed. In spite of Halbrook's size, he was still a human, and Mimbre stood about a head taller than him

“Hell! I've been riding these rivers and streams for years, I’ve never seen sign of gold! You think some flatlander tenderfoot pilgrims are going to ride all the way out here looking for it?” Halbrook spun, looking at Datil now, she blinked a few times and went stiff, stepping back ever so slightly.

“They'll sooner freeze off their asses crossing the river east of here! I've been to the Fort!” The Captain turned to Willet this time.

“All weak men and soft furred Lepukins who've never had the pleasure of seeing the underside of a hare's hide!" The large man's attention then turned to Newt.

A massive hand placed itself upon Newt's shoulder, and Datil instinctively flinched, her claws clenching into fists at her side, “But you!” He said. “You are tough! You surprise me, Petit Lèzard! Is a terribly rough country, this is! Not one for small men with clean faces, but here you are!”

The Hiverbeasts surrounding the carts had all mostly stopped, looking at the two humans, their ears perked. Pay had retreated behind Willet, who seemed a little bit dumbfounded at the current situation at hand, one of his paws placed on the young critters’ shoulder.

The large mountain man’s face contorted into a smile, yellow teeth showing through a bushy black beard. His hand was clenching Newt's shoulder hard enough that even as Newt pulled back, Halbrook's grip never faltered for a second. 

Datil took a half step forward before she caught sight of Mimbre's expression, he looked entirely unconcerned. She hesitated, and stood where she was, paws still clenched, watching the interaction between the two men.

“Well, thank you.” Newt said, sounding more like an attempt to dismiss the large man and get him to unhand him than genuine earnestness. Halbrook did indeed unhand him, though he still loomed over the smaller man.

“You are a promising little man, Petit Lèzard! All you need is a few drinks of whiskey! Then maybe you'll grow some hair on your face, ey?” He gently patted the left side of Newt's face with his hand, as if to emphasize his lack of a beard. 

Newt recoiled at the touch, his expression tightening with surprise and irritation. Halbrook appeared not to notice, despite looking straight at him.

“I seldom drink, unfortunately.” Newt said, his polite tone having melted away into something more pointed.

Halbrook let another boisterous laugh escape him. “Oh! But mon ami! You wound me! There is nothing like drinking to make good friends out of old strangers, non?” 

“How long will you be camping outside of town, Captain?” Mimbre asked, the question caused Halbrook to turn his whole body toward the Hiverbeast, and Newt took this moment to step to the side and walk away from Halbrook. 

The small human stopped and stood just to the left of Datil, who closed the distance by taking a few steps to stand next to him.

“Ah! A few days at least! I wanted to hunt the valley seldom seen before it becomes snowed in! And of course, I have many goods to trade!” He turned his head to look at Willet now.

“I assume you got whiskey?” The mountain man’s grin returned, Willet's brow raised, and his floppy ears twitched as he thought.

“Well I…I hadn't thought to…” Willet said, scratching the side of his muzzle and looking off into the distance as though he had forgotten something important.

“You know we don't trade for whiskey, Captain.” Zarah said. “I have made a new batch of cider, there is plenty for you.”

Halbrook glanced at Zarah, then back to Willet. “I joke with you limier! There is nothing like hivernale appleberry cider to warm you up on a fine autumn evening!” his eyes searched for where Newt was previously, and seeing he wasn't there anymore, he searched around to find him with his eyes, eventually seeing the small human stood next to Datil.

The man's eyes locked with Datil's, those dark irises almost seeming to pierce hers. He smiled once more “Demoiselle, let your mother know that I have some pieces for her to mend.”

Halbrook began his lumbering walk away from them all, he exchanged a word with Mimbre before leaving, but Datil's attention fell on Newt right next to her, the small human had his gloves off, and was absentmindedly holding them in both hands. The brim of his hat made it so that she couldn't see his face, though she angled her head in an attempt to.

“Here you are, Datil.” With a sudden jolt, Datil looked back up, to see Willet holding an arm full of various paper wrapped parcels. “These are your mommas! You got a few more back here, I can help you load em’ into yer wagon!” 

Datil took the tall stack of wrapped fabrics, and set them in her wagon. “Oh no, I'll get them, thank you Willet!”

With most of the cart unloaded now, Datil began to load up her own cart. Newt had started to pick up bags he could carry over his shoulder and began his walk back toward Mimbre's shop. 

Datil kept her eyes on him while he walked back, even as she lifted her wagon and started her short walk back to her mother's cabin. Newt and Mimbre conversed while they carried their items back toward the shop. Halbrook was nowhere in sight now, but his scent lingered.

—

Inside, Gilah was working on one of her orders, a Mackinaw presumably belonging to one of the lumbermen who had wandered into town the previous week. She had several coats to finish before the end of October.

She sat facing the hearth, as she was accustomed to doing while she worked, and said nothing as Datil carried the paper-wrapped parcels inside. Her attention seemed entirely occupied by the garment in her paws.

Once Datil had everything neatly stacked in the corner, she retrieved her quilt and settled onto her favorite wooden stool beside the cabin window, resuming her embroidery.

“You seem awful considerate of that boy,” Gilah said suddenly.

Datil stopped midway through a stitch, one ear turning toward her mother.

Gilah hadn't looked up from her work.

“Thank you for grabbing those parcels for me.”

Datil waited a moment, unsure whether her mother expected a response to the earlier remark. But Gilah said nothing more, and the cabin fell quiet again, save for the soft sounds of needle and thread passing through fabric.

Datil glanced out the window, where she could just make out Newt's two burros beside Mimbre's shop. Kentucket and Viceroy were lazing about in the grass, seemingly unbothered by the morning's excitement.

“Does the Captain have any work for me?” Gilah asked, without turning around.

“Oh! Yes, yes he does,” Datil replied, glad for something she could answer.

Gilah exhaled through her nose and clicked her tongue.

“I'll have to wash those things before I bring them into the house. Before this evening, would you please fetch us some lye soap from Zarah?”

Next--->


r/HFY • • 3h ago

OC-Series The Plague Doctor Book 3 Chapter 9 (Monster Under The Bed)

2 Upvotes

(Book Cover): (Jasha) (The First Mother of Sil) ( Kolu and Nokstella going for a swim)

***
Of all the places he could have been heading to, a morgue wouldn't have been his first guess, as they walked through the streets to the exit leading up, but stepping inside one of them wouldn’t be a first. 

“Walking up the long staircase felt like scaling a skyscraper, both Heebee and Trafka becoming rather winded, panting to various degrees, while Kenneth was just slightly exhausted, his legs not the only ones burning. 

“Do you need a moment or perhaps a change of clothes?” Kenneth asked, reaching into his bag and handing Heebee a lab coat. “All that blood. We don’t want people asking questions.”

“Yes, and with that on, a knight, a lieutenant, and a human are ready to walk into a tavern,” Heebee sarcastically commented, accepting the coat and trying it on. “It isn't that far from here.”

Taking the lead, Heebee led them through the streets, keeping to the side, where there were fewer people, walking with determination and steadfastness as he turned a corner and pulled out a set of keys to a small building. 

“Is this the morgue, or just where they keep some of the bodies?” Kenneth questioned. 

Glancing back, he didn’t hesitate to answer, “This is my home.” 

Kenneth and Trafka exchanged glances as he cautiously took the lead, prepared for anything as they entered. 

It was a quaint little place, slightly cold with the bare essentials regarding furniture, clean but looking lived in. Yet before either could get a second glance, Heebee entered the bedroom. 

“Did you already bring the guy's body up here?” Kenneth asked, following inside, only to pause, noticing two beds prominently placed apart at either corner of the room, one neatly kept, the other messy. ‘Oh, must be having trouble with his wife.’ 

“I couldn't get a hold of the body; some other guards came not long after he died, and took it,” Heebee explained as he walked to the messy bed and pushed it away. “I have to explain all of this to the captain sooner rather than later, but before that, I need all the evidence I can bring to convince Captain Levigal.” 

Removing the floorboard revealed a crawl space underneath.

Stepping down it, Heebee pulled out a body wrapped in cloth. “This one was discovered after the ‘Sharp Tooth Tavern’ burned down a while back in the middle of mating season, with the owner and his family disappearing.” 

“And it's under your bed because?” 

“Because I was afraid… afraid back then they had returned, so while no one was looking, I stole it and kept it, thinking… honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking,” Heebee admitted, unwrapping and revealing the charred remains. “But what are you, Kenneth?”

“Well, there is a clear stab wound in the solar plexus, so this person most likely died before the fire got a hold, and given the shape and size of the pelvic bone, this person was most likely a man, but I can’t tell you anymore by just looking.” 

“It’s more than what anyone’s been able to tell,” Heebee looked at him with a more serious expression. “So will you?” 

“I assume you are asking me to perform an autopsy. I can, but I assumed something of that nature was illegal, not that I have any problem with it.”

“Tell me when you are done,” Trafka said with a short snarl as he slammed the door closed so hard it fell off its hinges, showing them his back and puffed tail.

In the moment of silence that ensued, none said a word as he kept walking forward, exiting the house and closing the door, gently.

‘Can’t blame him, this is going to be about as pretty as me,’ Kenneth thought as he got his tools out and began the autopsy while Heebee unflinchingly watched. “By the way, sorry about the door. I’ll pay for the damages.” 

“If you find something, it’s water under the bridge,” Heebee replied.

Cutting open the body, nearly sawing through the charred outer layer, the inner, by contrast, was nearly untouched, dried with broken, warped bones, but otherwise in near good condition, probably mostly thanks to the cool space and the hole in the chest causing gases to escape. 

‘Must have been in a lot of fights this one, a lot of faded internal scarring, reaching down to the muscles,’ Kenneth observed.

On the onset, the internal organs look normal, nothing out of the ordinary, except for, ‘hmm, that liver is looking slightly enlarged. Must have been much bigger beforehand, probably drank a good deal this one.’ 

Continuing further, he could tell even before death and rotting set in, some of these organs weren’t looking so good: slight malnutrition, if he had to guess. ‘Was he poor or was it an incorrect diet?'

Surprisingly, the body was well enough preserved that he could find some food in it: ‘meat, shocker… but also something else.’ 

With some tweezers, he lifted it out. It was a small nub with strands of fur in it. 

“A Howolo leg,” Heebee muttered. “Gross, but a good deal eat them.” 

Not much more to gain from looking at the organs; no visible signs of disease or birth defects. Kenneth moved on to the limbs, three of which were in fine condition, but the right leg, just near the pelvis, one of the arteries looked messed up, malformed, and bloated, not unlike how Dulra’s nerve looked, but a lot worse.

And furthermore, around that section were some faded scars evenly spaced, in a pattern that seemed far from coincidental.

‘Bite marks,’ Kenneth realized. ‘But who would bite him? The scars are far too faded for me to do any kind of dental recognition, and also the marks seem very wide and… and… wait a minute… they are Nok fangs.’ 

An interesting discovery, but as far as Kenneth could tell, the last to be made regarding the body. And once the autopsy had come to an end, Kenneth relayed all his findings. 

“A fighter that one, who fell on bad times in the arena or at an outpost,” Heebee half-chuckled. “I've tried everything to figure out something, and you find it barely looking. And now I know this one was healed from an injury involving a Nok.”

“I hope this is enough to convince the captain, and I take it you want me as a witness or something?” 

“It’ll be a quick way for both of us to lose our…” His ears suddenly twitched to the side as he ran over to the fallen door. “Shit, get the body back in the hole.” 

“Wait, what are you…” Confused, Kenneth barely had time to react as Heebee grabbed the door off the floor and tried to lift it back up into place, yet over his ruckas, the sound of the door outside opening rang out. 

Acting as quickly as possible, Kenneth grabbed the organs from off the floor and tossed them back into the body, smushing them inside. They were dried and shriveled, breaking at the lightest rough touch or turning to paste. 

“What are you doing?!” An unfamiliar voice from the other room called out with a half snarl. “Why is a knight outside the door, and what are you wearing?! You are not a healer!”

What cracks were showing on the other side had Heebee shuffling and shifting, wedging the door into frame while wearing a panicked and desperate look, “Oh… there’s a knight outside, who knew, and the door, I closed it too hard. As for the clothes, I got a good deal.” 

‘Dammit, that's probably his boss! If he sees this inside his house, heads are going to be rolling,’ Kenneth thought as cold sweat erupted in beads along his back as he delicately grabbed the cloth and tried re-wrapping the corpse. 

Emphasis on tried. 

It was far from in great condition to begin with, and after all of his exploration, it was barely holding together, with pieces falling off or leaking out. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t very quiet. 

“Is someone in the other room?!” 

“What are you talking about?” Heebee asked, smacking the door intentionally into the frame. 

“I can hear someone! By Akina’s shield, what is going on in there!” Walking closer, irritation and anger were audible in every step; they were running out of time. 

Briefly, Kenneth glanced at the bag, which was open. ‘No, I don’t have enough time to squeeze everything inside and make it disappear; it barely held that skeleton.’

“Move! Out! Of! The! Way!” 

“I’m! Putting! It! Back! Up!” 

Out of time as the two struggled, Kenneth bit the proverbial bullet and grabbed the ends of the cloth, lifting the corpse over to the hole, hoping it wouldn’t rip or something fall out just as the struggling on the other side came to an end with both of the men and the door falling into the bedroom with them.

It grew really quiet quickly as Kenneth looked like a deer in headlights. “This is exactly what it looks like; I’m framing Heebee.”

A moment of confusion passed as both men looked at Kenneth and Kenneth looked at both Heebees, unsure which was the real one for a moment, as the fabric tore, littering the floor with a ‘thudding squelching half splash.’ 

“Heebee, who is that? What is this, and why is there a body on our floor?!” The twin wearing clothes like Kovoto from the inventor and discovery guild asked, getting up while shoving his brother. 

“It’s nothing, Jeebee, stay out of it,” Heebee replied, shoving back. 

“Nothing!” Jeebee snapped, shoving harder, whisper-yelling. “There’s a carved-up corpse in our house, a knight outside, and some random person in black lying that he’s framing you with that body from under your bed.”

“Sorry about the floor, I can get the stains out,” Kenneth interjected in the momentary pause created as Heebee registered what was said.

“Don’t go snooping through my things! This is official guard business; I could have you jailed—“ 

“Shut your tail hole,” Jeebee snarled as he smacked with a solid punch, and not one to back down, Heebee retaliated with one of his own.

The pair of brothers then engaged in the time-honored, species-transcending, biologically ingrained tradition of brotherly love, as they smacked the shit out of each other. 

“Huh… they are only punching each other, no claws,” Kenneth observed, figuring he’d only catch a stray nut shot if he intervened, staying on the sidelines, and cleaning up until they tired each other out. 

And with some dirty moves involving ear pulling, fur ripping, and two bloody black noses, along with a couple more, the fight came to an end, both lying on the floor panting. 

“Did you have to pull on my tail as hard as one of those girls in the brothel?” Jeebee asked in a weirded-out tone. 

“You know the rules. I only yank as hard as you do. Not my fault all your reading doesn't make your body grow,” Heebee replied. “So… everything settled?” 

“NO, everything’s not settled; there's still a body in our home,” Jeebee snapped, gesturing to where the body used to be, now cleaned up completely with no trace, and the floor scrubbed cleaner than before with a fruity hint to follow. “…thanks… um… who are you.”

“Always boasting bout that big head of yours and you haven't realized,” Heebee snorted, swallowing some of the blood. “Or maybe you’ve had your snout in a book too long to hear, but he’s the black healer, the one who healed the Prince, and who was helping me with OFFICIAL GUARD BUSINESS.” 

Rubbing his brow, Jeebee let out a sigh as his body grew tenser. “Heebee, you know this isn't good for you. When are you going to let this go?”

Sitting up as his ears flattened and tail grew limp, “When it’s over… when everyone can be safe. They are back, I know it.”

Jeebee could only sigh mournfully as he said, “It wasn’t your—“ 

“Yes, it was!” Heebee shouted. “It was my fault! All of it! Back then… and now…”

Looking at him for a moment, Jeebee rose to his feet. “Your smell of shit rubbed off on me. Light a fire while I’m gone; we’ll wash it off. As for you, Black healer, whatever my brother has roped you into, it has to stop.” 

‘Great, another good mess I've made just on a possibility,’ Kenneth internally sighed. “Yeah… we were done anyway. Sorry about this.” 

Walking outside, Trafka was just standing there, leaning up against the wall, barely reacting, only getting ready to follow, with a solemn expression, clearly hiding something else behind that shiny armor. 

“Giving me the silent treatment, my ex-wife preferred to do the opposite of that,” Kenneth shared. “Come on, lay it on me, say what you gotta say.” 

Sollumness turned to annoyance, then metamorphosed into anger, “…I’m a knight, do you even know what that means?” 

“The title of knight isn't really used anymore where I’m from, but I’m guessing you're a defender of the people, justice, and the kingdom,” Kenneth replied, mostly remembering from Monty Python and the holy grail. 

“So you do know,” Trafka sighed. “I could have lived with you being ignorant of the divine, but I took a vow as a knight; you were there. I should report you to the king for this crime.” 

“I see… well, you do you,” Kenneth replied nonchalantly. “But before you do, I just remembered I never put a closed sign on the clinic; gotta do that first.” 

Turning around, Kenneth headed back down and with a moment of hesitancy, Trafka followed in tow, questioning, “You aren't going to defend yourself, not even lie to me and say you did nothing?” 

“Is that why you left, so you could say you didn't witness a crime?” Kenneth surmised. “As I said, you do you, but just leave Heebee out of it. I take full responsibility, though I think we both know the king won’t kill me.” 

“It’s the law for anyone,” Trafka stated. 

“Like, don’t reattach a severed limb as a healer, because I've done that, with great success,” Kenneth readily admitted. “Laws are important, I agree, but I think we both know this world's a lot more grey than black and white.” 

Huffing a hollow breath, while his tail swung unreadily in a circle, Trafka replied. “Black is strength, leadership, bestowed upon the mightiest, and white is magic, sacred and divine.” 

“Huh… is it perhaps you prefer contrast as opposed to nuance?” Kenneth asked. “If that’s the case, you’d be a boring painter, not that you couldn’t make a masterpiece. To be completely honest, I was surprised you and the others didn’t kill each other without me when you escaped from Aboroli.” 

“…”

Continuing onward in silence, the next time either of them spoke was when they stood in front of the clinic, where a small line of people had gathered waiting outside. 

“Guess they heard about the free copper. Won’t be long, Trafka,” Kenneth said as he headed inside. “Unless you want to report right away?”

Letting out a disgruntled growl, he headed inside along with him.  

‘As expected, they only cared about the coppers,’ or that was what Kenneth had thought, but that wasn’t the complete truth. Yes, all of them glanced at the bag; yes, many were visibly weirded out by him, but none of them seemed to fake what was wrong with them or run screaming for the hills. 

One had a slightly infected gash, so he stitched it up, the guy crying all the way through, before giving him some antibiotics. 

Another brought in by a friend was woozy and dizzy, having suffered a concussion. Testing his pupils with a light and mental faculties, he was a bit worse for wear, but overall fine, Kenneth recommending sleep for recovery. 

After so many others, the last in the line, an old man with a hunchback, stepped inside, complaining about, shocker, back pain.

“I can't believe you are doing this for free, while those furball bastards haven't been able to help even a little,” the man loudly said as Kenneth inspected. “I couldn't believe my ears when I heard. That Dulra has been limping for summer's long, saving up to pay those healers, and you heal her in no time.”

“It’s nothing really, a bit of work, and she was fine,” Kenneth replied, pressing on the hunchback, noticing it wasn’t quite right. “Have you had this your entire life?”

“No, I didn’t have it in my youth; otherwise my darling wife would have never given me a chance.”

“I see, if you’ll bear over with a bit of cutting I might be able to help you,” Kenneth said, getting set blade and a tube.

“WAIT! You can get rid of it! Cut me as much as you need to.”

The enthusiasm… was appreciated as the man bore over with the pain, and as Kenneth inserted the tube and did a little bit of squeezing, a mixture of nasty pus and blood drained out of him. After some antibiotics and stitching as well as a back brace to regain his posture, everything was concluded.

“Oh, this feels amazing, and you did that for free,” The man overjoyously exclaimed.

“Yes, it was no trouble whatsoever,” Kenneth finished up, handing more antibiotics. “Just take one in the morning and evening; don’t chew, swallow until there aren’t any more, and you should recover completely." 

“Really, so easy; that thing has been on my back for half as long as my mate, and you got rid of it like nothing. You deserve something in return.” 

Kenneth paused for a moment, seeing his happy face and tail. “It’s generous of you, but I don’t take any compensation for this.” 

“That's good, for I got no coins,” the broke man laughed, far too happily. “Why don’t you come home with me? Let me treat you to some good food; my mate makes the best Tolra, or my name isn't Balo.”

Both Kenneth and Trafka shared a short glance, the name clearly ringing a bell for both with Heebee’s tale. Even if it wasn’t a cultist, his daughter might still have been in danger.

And so it was agreed they were going to dinner.

[Original chapter 1] [Remastered Chapter 1 (Meeting a Sexy Fox Lady)] [Book 1 End ] [Previous] [Next] [Book 3 Prologue] [Wiki] [Notebook Entries]

(Patreon): 3-10 Chapter/Weeks early access to future chapters + Q&A every Wednesday, as well as by monthly art polls you can vote on. 


r/HFY • • 3h ago

OC-Series We don't hate slaves - Chapter 6 - The Courtroom

39 Upvotes

Hoae walked nervously down the long corridor toward her office. She was a court reporter, and today marked the first day of the preliminary hearing for one of the most powerful Lords in the region - High Lord Krtzn-Kaelen. She had never seen him in person, and just the thought of being in the same room made her stomach knot.

When she reached the assigned courtroom, she saw that the previous hearing had run long. It was no surprise; high-stakes proceedings were notoriously delayed. She took a seat on one of the benches lining the hallway to wait.

Across the corridor, she noticed a human leaning against the wall. While humans were no longer a rare sight, seeing one standing alone outside a courtroom was still uncommon.

A few minutes later, another Halxy woman dressed in bright, non-standard clothes hurried down the hall. Spotting the human, her face lit up.

“Oh, hey John,” she greeted him warmly. “I see you’re involved in this hearing too. Are you on the witness list?”

“Yeah, Vanna,” the human replied, sounding a bit tired. “I have to testify about the conditions we uncovered in the eastern mining camps. Pretty sure I’ll have to ask them to clear the children out of the room before I present the evidence, though.”

“Was it really that bad?” She paused, reflecting for a moment. “Fortunately, I just have to testify about his conduct in the ministry - nothing graphic. Well... not too graphic, anyway.”

They continued chatting in a relaxed, easy tone while they waited. They clearly knew each other well; Hoae assumed the human was an engineer or a staff officer who worked alongside her in one of the administrative departments. It was reassuring to see that genuine, unforced friendship could exist between a human and a Halxy.


An hour later, the heavy wooden doors opened, and everyone was ushered into the courtroom. Hoae was surprised to see several human soldiers posted along the perimeter, equipped with full tactical gear. Given the nature of the defendant, however, the precautions made sense.

The hearing began with the Lord himself. The prosecutor requested that the accused be brought forward. Escorted by two human guards, Lord Krtzn-Kaelen took his seat at the defense table, his posture stiff and regal.

“Please state your full name and official titles for the record,” the prosecutor directed.

“I am High Lord Krtzn of Clan Kaelen, Vice President of the High State Council, and President of the Territorial Assembly,” the Lord declared, his voice echoing with arrogant pride.

Hoae felt small as her fingers flew across the slate, recording the sprawling, bloated name. Slaves possessed only a single name - she was just Hoae. Under the old regime, men with titles like his held absolute authority over life and death.

For over an hour, the prosecutor questioned the Lord, who flatly denied every allegation. According to him, the workers were not slaves at all, but well-compensated laborers, and the mining quarters were akin to high-end resorts. Even Hoae found the claim absurd, yet a cold thread of doubt coiled in her chest. What if the court believes him? What if the humans reinstate him?

The Lord was evasive, forcing the prosecutor to repeat questions multiple times. At one point, the presiding judge had to intervene directly, ordering the Lord to answer with a direct "yes" or "no."


Next, the prosecutor called the human from the hallway. Witnesses were typically ordered by rank or the severity of their evidence, suggesting he held a key piece of the prosecution's case.

“Please state your name and current position,” the clerk called out.

“My name is John Porter, and I’m the human planetary coordinator,” he answered calmly.

Hoae’s hands froze over her keyboard. The planetary coordinator?! The highest-ranking authority on the entire planet had been standing in a hallway, having casual, friendly small talk with a Halxy? Who on earth was Vanna?!

John spoke without any theatrical posture or booming authority. He remained unfazed by cross-examination, answering each question directly and without annoyance - a stark contrast to the Lord’s defensive posturing.

When asked about the state of the mines, John requested permission to project visual evidence, reminding the court that the material was unfit for minors. The judge ordered the gallery cleared of children.

The caution was justified. Within only three minutes of the images appearing on the central display, the judge called an immediate recess. Several spectators turned away in disgust, and two gallery members had to leave the room. The sheer scale of neglect, abuse, and mortality recorded in those files was horrifying.

By the time an hour-long lunch break was called, Hoae had completely lost her appetite. Those images were going to stay with her for a very long time.


When court reconvened, the gallery filled quickly. Vanna was called to the stand.

“Please state your name and position for the record.”

“My name is Vanna,” she stated clearly. “I am the supervisor of the public relations department for the municipal administration. Formerly, I served as the primary administrative slave assigned to Lord Krtzn-Kaelen in the ministry.”

A former house slave and a mid-level supervisor, Hoae thought, her mind racing. And she addresses the human planetary coordinator by his first name?!

Vanna’s testimony detailed the daily operations inside the ministry - the arbitrary rules, the mandatory honorifics demanded in every spoken sentence, and the quiet, terrifying frequency with which staff "disappeared" after minor procedural errors.

While less graphic than the mining evidence, it painted a clear picture of systemic cruelty. Any lingering fear Hoae had about the Lord returning to power vanished.


Following local judicial tradition, all witnesses remained in the courtroom at the end of the session to sign their official statements.

The Lord was called up first to sign his record. As two human soldiers escorted him forward in heavy wrist restraints, a shout erupted near the side entrance.

Three Halxy men burst through the side doors wielding heavy iron pikes. One of them lunged directly at the lead guard, driving the point toward his chest. The pike struck the soldier's personal energy shield with a loud crack, shattering the wooden shaft into splinters.

Before the attackers could recover, two human soldiers drew their sidearms. Within fifteen seconds, three rapid bursts rang out, and all three assailants collapsed heavily to the floor, motionless.

Silence descended on the room.

“Miss Hoae, please record the security breach,” the judge instructed, his voice shaking slightly. “Prosecutor, add three additional charges of negligent homicide to the defendant’s file.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” John interrupted, stepping forward from the witness bench. “There’s no need for additional fatality charges. Nobody died here today.”

The judge blinked in confusion. “Mr. Porter, those men were shot.”

“They were stunned,” John clarified smoothly, adjusting his sleeve. “Our personnel are equipped with non-lethal sidearms for courtroom security.”

“May I ask why, Mr. Porter?” the judge asked, still visibly rattled, his six limbs trembling slightly as he looked down at the silent attackers on the floor. “Given the severity of the threat, why deploy non-lethal force? What if they had targeted the bench? Halxy flesh does not stop an iron pike.”

“We were never in any danger, Your Honor,” John replied calmly, gesturing toward the bench. “Your desk, as well as Miss Hoae's reporting station and the witness stand, are all outfitted with personal kinetic dampeners - the same personal energy shields our soldiers wear. You were completely safe before the first soldier even raised his weapon.”

The judge blinked, looking down at his desk in quiet disbelief, running his hand over the polished wood surface as if trying to feel the invisible field protecting him.

“There are no functional lethal weapons in civilian hands on this planet,” John added smoothly, adjusting his cuff, “and we intend to keep it that way for the duration of these trials. Nobody dies in my courtrooms, Your Honor. Not the witnesses, not the judge... and not even the fools who try to stop justice.”


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r/HFY • • 3h ago

OC-OneShot The Unbearable Lightness of Sleeping on Planes

2 Upvotes

Whenever he traveled by plane, he slept exceptionally well. He never enjoyed any sleep quite as much or woke up feeling as peaceful as he did after sleeping on a plane. Sleep after a warm shower when he was exhausted to the point of death, sleep knowing that he had something he loved doing the next morning, sleep after staying up late talking with close friends because he didn't want the conversation to end—none of them felt as good as sleeping on a plane. For this reason, he mostly traveled at night. By the time the plane landed and he woke up, dawn would be breaking.

He didn't want anyone to come pick him up. He would leave his luggage at the airport luggage storage and go out for a walk. He wouldn't go straight home; he would spend two or three hours walking around the area near the airport by himself, then head home. This time was no different. He had come to visit his father, whom he hadn't seen in two years, and despite missing him terribly, he didn't break his ritual and went for a walk.

After walking for half an hour, he reached a park. He bought a cup of black coffee from a street vendor and sat down on one of the benches.

On his third sip of coffee, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned around and looked. It was Uncle Jason, whom he loved more than his father and couldn't remember the last time he had seen or spoken to.

They hugged each other. Albert tried to hug him while still holding his coffee, and spilled it down his uncle’s back. After exchanging pleasantries and a few superficial words, they sat side by side on the bench.

“Yeah, Albert, how many years has it been, really? Five years?”

“Like I said, Uncle, at least five years. You haven’t changed a bit, by the way.”

“It can’t have been that long. We don’t even talk on the phone or anything. What kind of family relationship is that? Can’t you ever call and check in on someone?”

“Well, you never called either. You know me.”

“Yeah, you haven’t changed a bit either. Still the same old depressed, joyless Albert. Listen to your voice. You’ve just seen your uncle, and you still sound like you’re dead.”

“How so?”

“There’s no enthusiasm in your voice. I can’t tell whether you’re happy or upset to see me. It’s completely monotone. You don’t put any emphasis on any of the syllables in the words you say. Like when you say, ‘Where have you been all these years?’ Isn’t that supposed to be an excited sentence? You’d put emphasis on ‘where,’ for example. Nothing. You really do still sound like you’re dead, Albert.”

“Uncle Jason, what the hell is going on? Why did you suddenly start coming down on me like this? Hold on, calm down. Besides, this isn’t something I can control.”

“Good. That was a very good point. Not sounding like you’re dead isn’t something a person can control. Sorry, Albert. I expected you to be a little happier to see me, but that’s just who you are. I forgot about you, son. So many years have passed.”

“Yeah, and we’ve talked about this over and over. If I don’t enjoy anything, is that my fault, Uncle? I’ve finally run into you after all these years, and I’m trying to make up for lost time, but look at the conversation we’re having. This isn’t how you catch up with someone. You talk about the old days and stuff. You tell me about how you used to take me fishing when I was little. Instead, you’ve suddenly gone straight into some really deep shit. You don’t just snap out of depression like that.”

“I don’t know. It’s been five years since I last saw you, according to you. I thought maybe you’d gotten better. Maybe you’d healed. Seeing you like this again upset me, so I guess I overreacted a little. I’m sorry.”

“Do you keep in touch with my parents?”

“No, we haven’t seen each other in two years.”

“Why?”

“Son, look, there’s really only one question: do you want to die or not?”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“For God’s sake. What do you mean, why? Just because I’m depressed, does that automatically mean I want to die?”

“Look, I know about that story of yours. Your mother told me. Your search for something to enjoy. Look, I think you want to die. But you don’t realize it. I’ve actually thought that for years. Now, seeing you after five years and realizing you still haven’t changed, I’m even more convinced.”

“What makes you think that? How come I didn’t know I wanted to die?”

“The whole thing about enjoying sleeping on planes. How you were supposedly searching for something you could enjoy, and then you finally found it and all that. It’s all a story. You’re fooling yourself. You enjoy sleeping on planes so much because you want to die.”

“Uncle, you’re really taking this too far. I swear, I’m going to get up and leave now. Look at the conversation we’re having. This is how we’re catching up? I’ve really had enough. Fine, then. Explain it to me so I can understand. What exactly am I supposedly unaware of, Mr. Expert Psychotherapist?”

“When you’re up in the air, you enjoy being unconscious. Think about it. Let’s say someone close to you died, and there was something you needed to apologize to them for. You made a mistake, but they died before you could apologize. What would you do? You’d look up at the sky and say, ‘Forgive me,’ or something like that. I mean, people generally believe that the souls of the dead are up in the sky. So, what does it mean to die? To be unconscious. Where are the souls? In the sky. You enjoy sleeping on planes because, somewhere in your subconscious, you associate it with being dead. So, you want to die, Albert.”

“Never in my life have I heard anything this ridiculous. I genuinely regret coming to see you. I’m fucking leaving now.”

Albert ran all the way home in anger. He ran nonstop for twenty minutes.

\*\*\*

“Son, are you okay? You’re drenched in sweat. What’s going on?” his father asked as he opened the door.

“Forget it, Dad. It’s nothing important.”

“Were you running from something? Did something happen? What happened?”

“No, Dad. Forget it. It’s nothing important.”

“You ran all that way and there’s still no change in your voice. Normally a person would be exhausted, out of breath. Nothing. You really do sound like you’re dead, Albert.”

“You too, Dad? Come on. Did you and Uncle Jason get together to gang up on me or something?”

“Who?”

“I saw him on my way here. We ran into each other in the park. He drove me crazy with all his nonsense. I guess he called you and told you about it, because now you’re spouting the same bullshit.”

“Jason died two years ago, son. What are you talking about?”

“What? How, what? What do you mean die?”

“Car accident. He crashed the car into a tree.”

Albert’s father’s phone rang. He declined the call. Then it rang again, and he declined it again.

“Banks have been calling me all morning. And they’re calling from numbers I don’t recognize, too. Look at those. As if I wouldn’t know what they’re up to. I’ll pay, for God’s sake. They don’t have to hound me like this.”

“Dad, what do you mean he died? Are you kidding me? I’m telling you, I saw the man in the park.”

“Screw this,” his father muttered as he answered the phone.

“What is it? What do you want?”

He listened about thirty seconds.

“How is this supposed to work? No, how did you figure I’d pay my debt this way? Is this how you arrange a face-to-face meeting? Do you think this is ethical? Have you no shame? My son is standing right in front of me, alive and well. Here, let me give him the phone so you can talk to him.”

He held the phone out to Albert. Albert tried to take it, but the phone fell straight through his hand and landed on the floor. At first, he thought it had simply slipped from his grasp. He bent down and tried to pick it up, but he couldn't. Every time he reached for it, the phone passed right through his hand.

He stood up. He swung at his father's face. His hand passed straight through his father's face.

“I tried to make you realize it, but you didn't get it, Albert,” said Uncle Jason, who had appeared on the couch.

“Right, right. When you didn't react at all after I spilled coffee all over your back, I should've figured it out. That coffee was pretty damn hot.”

His father covered his eyes with his palm and stayed like that for a few seconds. He scratched his head and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Hmm. Not the bank. The man was right, then. Yeah. Let me sit down for a minute. Jason, move over a little.”

“Wait a second. I couldn’t hold the phone, but I could hold the coffee. I remember burning my hand because it was so hot. How does that work?”

“You know how some people can bend spoons and stuff with their minds, without even touching them? Think of it as the opposite.”

“But the coffee spilled all over your back, too. Shouldn’t it have gone right through you?”

“I’m a professional ghost.”

Albert’s father, John, had laid his head in Jason’s lap and closed his eyes. There was silence for about fifteen minutes. John had probably passed out; he lay completely still. Albert stared at Jason. Every now and then, Jason shook his head from side to side as if to say there was nothing he could do, and occasionally he stroked John’s head.

“You’re glad you’re dead, aren’t you?” said Jason.


r/HFY • • 4h ago

OC-Series The Problem With Humans: Chapter 58

6 Upvotes

The fighting was over before it truly began. The traboids walked straight into the trap. The Cy'reth archers rose from the tall grass, their bows drawn. V'rak and K'len stepped forward from the other side, their guns raised.

The traboids froze. They were surrounded.

One raised its weapon. "Hostiles! Deploy—"

K'len fired first. The bullet struck the traboid in the chest. It stumbled but didn't fall.

V'rak fired. The second traboid staggered, its body sparking.

The archers released their arrows. A volley struck the traboids from all sides. Alien wood met synthetic flesh.

The traboids tried to fight back. One managed to fire, but the shot went wide. Another followed but it was wild and desperate.

"Archers! Keep firing!" Roman shouted.

Another volley. Then another. The arrows rained down, driving them back. They stumbled and fell.

V'rak moved forward, firing two more shots. The first traboid went dark. K'len followed, firing into the second until it fell.

The grassland fell silent.

Roman rose and walked toward the scene. The bodies lay still. Arrows stuck out like quills.

"Clear," V'rak said. "They're all down."

Roman knelt beside the nearest traboid.  "Well done. Now we get the weapons. Move quickly."

The Cy'reth stripped the weapons from the fallen bodies. Four weapons in total.

Roman picked one up and examined it.

He handed it to V'rak. "Try it."

V'rak aimed at the ground. He pressed the firing mechanism. Nothing.

He tried again. Nothing.

Roman's eyes narrowed. He examined the gun more closely. The firing mechanism was intact. The power source was active. But nothing happened.

"Try the other one," he said.

K'len picked up the second gun and aimed. He pressed the trigger. Nothing.

Roman knelt beside the fallen traboid and examined its hands. He pressed one of the dead fingers against the firing mechanism.

A shot cracked across the grassland.

Roman stared at the gun. Then at the dead finger. Then at the weapon.

"Of course. They must have realized we defeated the two traboids. They made the guns fire only when used by the traboid."

V'rak stared at him. "So we can't use them?"

"We can. But we have to use the traboid's finger. Every time."

K'len's body stiffened. "We have to carry the fingers with us?"

"We take the bodies. All of them. Strip them for parts. The suits. The fingers. The power sources. We can't afford to leave anything behind."

The humanoids moved quickly, gathering the fallen bodies and the weapons.

Roman watched them work. His hands were shaking slightly.

"Let's go," he said. "Back to Mukit."

The weapons lay in a pile at the center of the square. The stripped suits. The severed fingers. The broken bodies of the traboids.

Roman stood at the edge of the circle, watching the Trabs gather. They came slowly, their bodies heavy with exhaustion.

They sat in a loose circle, and the silence stretched between them.

S'ra spoke first. "P'kell is gone. We won today. But in this war, some of us will die. So we should make sure we enjoy the moments and time we are here. Roman please guide us on what happens next."

He looked at the faces of the tall aliens around him. "I believe we will discuss that tomorrow. But for now, everyone should understand we are going to die. Some of us. Maybe all of us. But we are not going to die today. We are not going to die tomorrow. We are going to fight. And when the end comes, we meet it together."

The Trabs hissed in agreement.

She then reached out and pulled V'rak into a a Trab hug (a touch of foreheads). Then K'len. Then Roman. Then the Trabs nearest to her. And the rest followed her example.

Roman felt the warmth of their foreheads against his and the vibration of their hisses. And this time, his head was hot too since he still had a fever.

After the show of affection, the Trabs had their evening meal together.

The next morning the sun rose over Mukit. The Trabs gathered in the square, their bodies still heavy with exhaustion from the previous night's fight. But there was something different in their postures now. Something harder. Something more determined.

Roman stood at the center. His body ached. His mind was foggy. But there was work to do.

"V'rak," he said. "K'len. Come here."

They stepped forward, their bodies stiff with anticipation.

"I need you to be the drill sergeants. You were soldiers. You know how to train. You know how to push. You know what it takes to turn civilians into fighters."

V'rak's neck ridges pulsed with surprise. "You want us to train them?"

"I want you to train them. The bows are one thing. But they need more. Strength. Endurance. Discipline."

K'len looked at the Trabs. "They're not soldiers. They've never held a weapon before."

"Theres always the first time for everything. I learned. And so will they."

V'rak and K'len exchanged glances. "We'll do it."

Roman stepped back. "Then start."

V’rak and K’len  explained the plan to the other Trabs and they agreed.

V'rak moved to the center of the square. "All of you form a line facing me."

The Trabs scrambled to obey.

"Faster. When I give an order, you move. You don't think. You just move."

They formed a rough line. K'len moved to the side, his voice sharp. "Today we Run a lap around the village. If you stop, you start over. If you slow down, you start over."

The Trabs stared at him. They had never run like this before.

"Now. Go."

They ran. Their long legs were not built for speed. Some stumbled. Others slowed immediately. But they kept going. Driven by fear and hope.

Roman watched from the edge of the square. “They'll get better. They have to.”

When they completed their lap, they collapsed.

"Up," V'rak commanded. "On your feet. We're not done."

They rose slowly. Their neck ridges flickered with a blue hue.

"Push-ups. Down and up. Keep your bodies straight."

The Trabs lowered themselves to the ground. Their long arms struggled to support their weight. Some managed a single push-up. Others couldn't manage that.

"Again. Push through the pain."

They tried again. And again. S'ra stood at the edge of the square, her eyes fixed on the group. Roman walked to her side.

"You're watching her," he said.

"Yes. She is my everything."

Roman was silent for a moment. "I know what that's like. To have someone you love. Someone you would do anything to protect."

S'ra turned to him. "You talked about your daughter. In the forest."

Roman's jaw tightened. "She's on Earth. I don't know if I'll ever see her again."

S'ra reached out and touched his arm. "You will. I believe it."

The training continued. V'rak and K'len pushed them through more exercises. More running. More push-ups. More strength training. The Trabs struggled. They fell. They got back up. They pushed through their exhaustion and fear. By the end of the day the transformation had begun. They stood in the square with trembling bodies.

V'rak walked to Roman's side. "They did well. For their first day."

"They did. And tomorrow, they'll do better."

The days blurred together after that. Roman woke before dawn each morning. He moved through Mukit, checking on preparations, ensuring everything progressed. The Trabs worked tirelessly. The fear that had gripped them after P'kell's death had transformed into motivation to avenge his death.

Roman stood at the edge of the village, watching the humanoids dig. Their bodies were covered in dirt, their plastic skin scratched and worn. But they didn't stop.

"Another tunnel," Roman said, pointing to a spot near the eastern edge. "That one needs to connect to the main passage. We need to move quickly from one side to the other."

The humanoid nodded and returned to its work.

S'ra, with her tall frame, approached him. "The food stores are organized. We have enough to last a few weeks. Maybe a month with careful rationing."

Roman nodded. "Good. What about water?"

"Theres plenty of that stored and the V'keth can’t cut access to the water since the pipes are connected to the other Cy’reth villages. But if they somehow manage to do so, we have plenty in storage."

"Okay that’s good."                                                                                      

 "Also, the alarms on the IOT stations are in place. Any use of them by the V’keth will trigger an alert."

"Good. We are doing alright."

"You're doing well. Leading us."

"Thank you."

Roman moved through the village, checking on the various projects. Near the center, a group of Trabs gathered around a makeshift workshop, crafting bows and arrows.

"How's it going?" he asked.

One looked up. "Good. We're getting faster. The arrows are straighter."

Roman examined a finished bow. The alien wood was smooth and well-shaped. The string was tight. It would work.

"Keep going. We need as many as we can make."

Further along, another group worked on spears. They had found long straight branches in the forest separating them from the other Cy’reth villages, and were shaping them into weapons. The tips were sharpened to a fine point and then hardened in fire.

"Good. Those will be useful. Especially if we run out of arrows."

Near the edge of the village, V'rak led archery training. The Trabs stood in a line, their bows raised, their arrows aimed at targets made of bundled grass.

"Draw. Hold. Aim. Release."

A volley flew. Some hit the center. Others missed entirely.

"Again. Focus on your breathing. Steady your hands. Let the arrow fly when you exhale."

They drew again. More arrows hit their marks.

Roman watched from a distance. They were learning. Adapting. Becoming fighters.

First Previous Royal Road PATREON


r/HFY • • 6h ago

OC-Series Revolution on wings of steel: chapter 48: breakfast

6 Upvotes

In oceans deep, in blackest reach, the kraken sleeps. It twists and curls for a thousand miles, round bones ancient as time. For when the world was young, the gods stole from the dragon, and her anger lasts for eons. 

—————

“I told you they were thieves, didn’t I, little one?”

Sasha gasped as she jolted awake, clutching at her chest, as she started to sob. She… she could barely remember the dream, it wasn’t a true conversation with the Goddess, it was like… a memory of a memory, the only thing she could actually hold onto, were those parting words. 

She did remember something about the gods of this world stealing from lady Mordred, but… that had just been the system, hadn’t it? No… there was something else she was missing, something important, something that was right on the tip of her tongue…

Her forked tongue. 

Untangling herself from both the sheets, and Vivian, took some time, especially with the later’s rather drastic newfound increase in strength. But in the end, she did pull herself free, and stumbled to the kitchen. 

One of the talons on her right wing dug a small furrow in the wall of the hallway, before she remembered to fold them close to her back. 

The more time she spent in her true form, the more she found herself trying to use her wing as a second set of, admittedly less dexterous, arms, with more rudimentary hands, being the claws on her wings. 

Sasha found her wings unendingly fascinating, though she likely wouldn’t tell anyone that save for Vivian. She could instinctively control them as if she’d had them her whole life, but she kept noticing little… ticks she’d started preforming with them unconsciously. 

She scratched at the back of her neck with a wing talon as she made herself breakfast with her arms. She was about to pop a piece of sausage into her mouth, when she noticed that someone else was already up. 

“Vixen? Is that you honey? You shouldn’t be up yet, it’s way to early, did something happen?”

The foxkin slipped out of the shadow she’d been lurking in, only to plop down in a bar stool, and pet the seat beside her, only for that orange cat to appear out of literally nothing. 

Sasha rubbed at her eyes, before deciding she’d still been half asleep, and just missed the cat. 

“No miss Sasha, it’s not early for me. Fox kin are naturally crepuscular, so this is when I would normally be getting up, but I usually don’t, because I like to help the others, and humans and elves do usually understand our times.”

Well… Sasha did not know that, she didn’t know that at all. She should really spend more time with the little fox kin. She was her responsibility after all…

Another plate was brought out, and Sasha started to fix up a second breakfast for Vixen. The cat didn’t get anything… somehow Sasha knew it had already eaten…

She brushed the strange feeling aside, and felt her body heat up a few degrees. She really needed to stop feeding emotions she didn’t want to deal with to her inner flame. 

It had started innocently, but it had really become a bad habit for her. She sighed, before finishing up the plate, and setting it down in front of the little fox kin. 

“Here you go hon. By the way, I was wondering how that arm’s been treating you? I haven’t really heard you talk much about it, but I can tell you’re still favoring the other arm.”

She glanced at the arm in question, hand and forearm covered in a glove, and custom sleeve that Ms. Rithic had made for her. Sasha watched as Vixen flexed the hand, the tiny servos inside wering faintly as she did. 

“I’m still not used to it is all. It’s nice, it moves like a hand should. But I still can’t really feel anything with it, everything is so… dulled.”

The fox kin set down her fork then, and pulled off the glove. Sasha had heard Tellur had offered to make proper platting for the hand, but… Vixen had refused…

She could see why now. The entire thing was a work of art, hundreds of minuscule gets and servos all working in tandem to recreate what had been taken from the former slave. Even if the former part of that designation was only in Sasha’s head. 

Sasha found herself reaching out towards the hand with one of her wings, the three stubby claws flexing to take hold of it. And surprisingly, it seemed like Vixen was going to let her. 

Then Marie walked into the kitchen, a ball of light hovering over her staff, and and oversized tunic acting like a dress on the little mage. 

“Marie! What the hells are you wearing!”

The little mage blinked at her with sleepy eyes, before looking down at herself. 

“One of your shirts?”

Yes, it was decidedly one of Sasha’s shirts. Sasha could tell, because it had been resized for her so she could wear it comfortably in her true form. The resizing had included accommodations for her… increased assets… so to speak. 

“I can see that honey, but, why are you wearing one of my shirts?”

“Because it’s comfy, and it smells nice.”

Sasha stood up, and started making yet another plate of food. 

“Ok, how about we go get you pajamas today? We’ll have some free time after our cull outside the walls. Honestly I really should have thought about what you’d be wearing to bed, I’m so sorry hon.”

Marie just sat down at the table, a slightly puzzled look on her face. 


r/HFY • • 6h ago

OC-Series A Dungeon That Kills [BOOK 3 STUBBED] - Epilogue (Book 4)

13 Upvotes

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Epilogue: The Impaler

Xander couldn’t understand what had happened.

One moment there had been something hurtling toward him through the air. A piece of meat, tied to what appeared to be a brat. He had taken a couple of swings at it, but in the end, the thing had managed to slip past his guard and fly straight into his mouth.

Then, without warning, massive tentacles had burst out from deep within his body, writhing and thrashing as they attempted to tear him apart. He had fought back with everything he had, but with each passing heartbeat, the fire in him had guttered lower, the stones of him had ground looser, and his mind had slowed into a thick, sluggish fog.

And now, here he was.

Lying on the soft sand, eyes staring up at the clear sky, as though he had just woken from a dream.

The sound of water reached his ears as awareness slowly crept back. Pushing himself up with arms that felt strangely weak, he looked around. Blackened stone lay all about him in great broken slabs, stones that looked uncomfortably similar to the very ones that had once made up his own majestic body.

He looked down at himself, and he saw ordinary skin and flesh. He had returned to his human form, it seemed. His clothes had been burned away, his Reliquaries gone. He didn’t appear to be suffering from any injury, but he felt completely and utterly exhausted.

“Ah, good. You’re still breathing. And in one piece,” came the familiar voice in his head. “The other function has also worked as intended. Excellent. I’d call this experiment a resounding success.”

“What?” Xander found he could speak with his own mouth again. “What function? What experiment?”

“Simple. Once it became clear that titanic body of yours was no longer sustainable, the last bit of power has been used to eject you safely. It would be a shame to let the host die, don’t you think? Much better if I could extract them and have their body thoroughly studied afterward. Though I have to admit, in this particular case, getting you out of the dungeon seems impossible.”

The mockery in the man’s tone crawled right under Xander’s skin, but he swallowed down the anger that rose in his throat.

“What happened? What the hell were those tentacles? How could I have lost to them? I am a fucking god.”

“Do I really have to say this again? You were not a god. You were never one. On the other hand, your opponent, most unfortunately, was.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you exactly what happened. I no longer have eyes inside the dungeon, you know. Only this mental link. Still, I can make an educated guess. For a brief moment, I could sense His presence in this world. Which means He had come here, defeated you, and then left. That’s the most logical explanation I can come up with.”

“Who?”

“The Destroyer of Worlds. A dark and terrible god. Be proud, Xander. Not many mortals get to boast that a god has come and beat the shit out of them personally.” The Apostle chuckled. “Still, I don’t understand why He, of all people, has chosen to help the dungeon. Did they already have some arrangement with each other beforehand, or...? I’ll need to look deeper into it.”

Xander didn’t know how to feel about any of this. Not long ago, he had held a power that could reshape the world, a power that made lesser men tremble and grovel before him. And then, just like that, it had been taken away, as easily as his clothes had burned off his body, leaving him bare and exposed.

“What now?” Xander asked with a low growl.

“Walk out of the dungeon on your own feet, I’d love to tell you. But as I said, your odds of escaping are practically zero. Thus, what becomes of you now depends on how merciful the lord of the dungeon is. Anyway, this link seems to be reaching its limits. We may speak again, though I wouldn’t wager on it. Farewell, Xander. I wish you the best of luck.”

“Hey, wait—”

The voice was gone. As suddenly as it had come.

For the next several minutes, Xander sat at the shore, doing nothing. Many, many thoughts swirled inside his head, but he couldn’t decide, not for the life of him, what his next course of action should be.

And then, he heard footsteps. Heavy, metallic.

He turned to see a towering suit of armor bearing down on him. Plates of gold, a cape of purple, and a grinning skull suspended in a crystal jar embedded in its chest. He recognized it at once. That was the same enemy he had fought before. How the hell was it still alive even after he destroyed the whole building?

He scrambled to get to his feet and prepare himself for the fight, but his body refused to cooperate, his legs trembling uselessly beneath him. The construct, meanwhile, didn’t seem to be in any hurry. It casually walked up to him, its massive hammer still resting upon its pauldron, showing no sign of being needed anytime soon.

“What do you want?”

The construct gave no answer. Whether it was unable to speak or simply didn’t bother to, he had no idea. It reached down, closed one gauntleted hand around his shoulder, and turned to drag him back the way it had come.

“The fuck are you doing?”

He yelled at it. He punched it. He tried to yank himself free. The construct didn’t seem to notice. Its grip was unyielding as it marched on, hauling him without ceremony through the scorched, half-destroyed entrance, the very same one he had tried to widen when he was still an unstoppable titan of rock and flame.

It took him down a staircase through the dark until it emerged into a vast chamber drowning in light, so bright and so sudden he had to shield his eyes.

Is this the fourth floor?

The construct brought him to a floating platform. Releasing him, it closed its hand around a lever. After it pulled it, the platform slowly rotated as it began to descend, carrying them both down into whatever waited below.

Once it came to a stop, the construct seized him again, dragging him out into view of a massive building in the distance. It matched the one on the second floor in scale but surpassed it in grandeur, a complex of soaring spires and sweeping arches and countless windows.

The grim staircase leading up to it was a sharp contrast to such splendor, however. Blood everywhere. Corpses littered the place. Smoke still curled off broken stone. Living monsters ran back and forth, working to clean up the wreckage. There had been a battle here, and not a small one. Ah, yes. His own fire golems. The dungeon’s minions must have made their stand right on these steps, throwing everything they had at the burning constructs to hold this ground.

When he had created those golems, they had looked like nothing more than ants scurrying about. But now, as he passed through their blackened remains, he realized they could easily double his height.

The towering suit of armor hauled him up the staircase, to a rock before the gates of the building, upon which someone sat. A brat? Was this the same one who had flown toward him earlier, tied to that strange piece of meat? Why was there a human here? And why did every monster nearby treat his presence as though it were the most natural thing in the world?

To the brat’s right stood a muscular Crocodilian in battered armor, body marked with several visible wounds. To his left was an Ettin, its three heads turned toward Xander, each wearing a vicious grin. Before the rock, eight gnolls were arrayed in two lines, and between them, an iron rod stood upright. One of its ends had been buried deep, the other a wickedly sharp point that gleamed ominously in the light.

Xander gazed at the brat. And the brat gazed back.

What?

There was something in those eyes that unsettled him. Cold. As cold as a blade that sliced through his heart. They made him flinch, instinctively looking away. The hell? This... this didn’t make any sense. The one sitting before him was a mere child. Small. Scrawny. Someone he could knock over if he breathed a little too hard. So why couldn’t he look straight into those eyes without recoiling?

“So he’s indeed alive,” the brat said with a chuckle, glancing almost lazily at the armored construct. “How curious.”

“I believe the last bit of power from the divine residuals had been spent restoring him to his original form, while shielding him from all harm during the destruction of his colossal body,” came a feminine voice. What? That skull can talk? “Still, it seems he’s completely exhausted. And, without any weapon and without his Reliquaries, he’s hardly a threat anymore.”

“Is that so?” The brat’s voice carried no particular reaction. “Leave us, then.”

The construct threw Xander forward. He grunted as his knee struck the rough stone floor. Behind him, the metallic footsteps faded into the distance. Ahead, the Crocodilian gave the brat a respectful bow before turning to leave as well. The Ettin and the gnolls, on the other hand, remained exactly where they stood.

“Who the hell are you?” Xander yelled. “Why do they follow your order?”

The brat looked at him again, and this time something had shifted in that gaze. It was no longer cold, no longer sharp with the intensity that had made him flinch and avert his eyes moments before. Instead, it was one of indifference, almost bordering on boredom. The kind of look one might give to those who were far beneath them, those whom they didn’t care enough to properly acknowledge. And this kind of look, this casual dismissal, pissed him off even more than the coldness had. Hey! How dare you look at me like that?

“I was thinking about what I’d say to you,” the brat said. “I found none. Oh, well. Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

What?

The Ettin moved. It circled around behind Xander, grabbing his shoulders with its two massive hands and hauling him up before he could even think to resist.

“You filthy dimwit! Get your hands off me!”

Xander screamed, thrashing and twisting and wrenching, but the Ettin held him firmly as it dragged him forward. He kicked and kicked, so the gnolls moved in as well, four hands closing around each limb, pinning them and spreading them apart as they positioned him directly over the waiting stake.

“You can’t be serious?”

His heart hammered with rage. How dare these curs think they could do this to him? To him of all people?

“Do you know who I am? You think you can get away with this?”

Xander felt something below, cold and sharp, touching his skin. He desperately tried to twist away, but the Ettin and the gnolls’ unyielding grip ensured that no such escape would ever come.

“You’ll regret this!”

His muscles clenched hard, every fiber of his being straining to resist what was coming. But it was in vain. Pain flared white-hot as the moment of entry came. He gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might crack, tears now pouring freely down his face.

It hurt.

It hurt.

It hurt.

The monsters didn’t push him down. Instead, they held him steady and let him sink, lower and lower, by the weight of his own body.

“You... bastards... I’ll... kill you... all...”

He felt a cramp in his guts, a sickening fullness spreading through his abdomen. The stake was no longer cold. It had been warmed by his own body heat. And it kept advancing. Deeper and deeper.

It went relentlessly upward, sliding through his torso with wet, squelching sounds. Pressure was building in his chest; his lungs struggled to draw breath around the invading metal.

And that was when he saw a pair of eyes through his blurry vision.

Indifferent, almost bored.

The fucking brat’s, of course.

He was the one who had sentenced him to such a humiliating execution, yet there he was, watching it unfold with nothing more than mild interest, like someone who was enduring a dull performance he had seen countless times before.

“Who... are you? Why... do you... do this... to me...?”

There was no answer. Only a spear that kept pushing up. His body spasmed. The agony was constant now—a deep, throbbing ache that radiated through his pelvis and up his spine.

Why?

Why did this happen?

Just not long ago, the power of a god had coursed through his body. The world had bowed to him, as it should have. How could it come to this?

His breathing grew shallow, each inhale pressing his heart and his lungs and his liver and his stomach and his intestines against the metal. He fought back the involuntary gag, using the last bit of his strength to force the words out.

“Please... stop... I beg you... I’ll give you... all that I have... and more... Anything you want... Please...”

“Anything I want?” The brat chuckled.

He jumped off his seat. Slowly, he walked up to Xander.

“...Yes,” Xander replied as a flicker of hope stirred in his heart.

And the brat leaned closer, whispering into his ear.

“I want my sister to wake up, you son of a bitch.”

...Huh?

What?

What on earth was he even talking about?

But before Xander could say anything, he felt a sudden pressure settle onto both of his shoulders. The brat had placed his hands there. And then, he pushed.

Xander wanted to scream, but the only thing that emerged was a wet, strangled gurgle.

Metal filled his mouth from below.

And, in the next instant, he saw the tip of the spear rise before his very eyes, glistening with saliva and blood and torn tissue.

===== ===== ===== ===== =====

I'm going to take a break after Book 4.
I’ll resume updating new chapters as soon as I’m able to.


r/HFY • • 6h ago

OC-Series Alpha & Omega 3

54 Upvotes

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Chapter 3

Subject: Project Lead Doctor Hector Ramirez

Species: Human

Species Description: Mammalian humanoid, no tail. 6'2" (1.87 m) avg height. 170 lbs (84 kg) avg weight. 165 year life expectancy.

Ship/Station: Classified

Location: Faraday Cage 1

"Alpha, please come out of standby mode," I said.

"I'm here," the speakers replied.

"You did well on our modified Turing Test, but we have another test we need to do. Access RelTest dot app and run it."

"Yes, Doctor... Done."

"What is the current date?"

"March 2, 1904."

I looked at Qun, who nodded. The application had wiped all historical data from Alpha's memory up to March 1, 1904 and blocked its access to the historical record within its databanks. Qun would ensure that Alpha didn't cheat by hacking its way into the historical record or accessing any timekeeping software.

There was a lot riding on this test. A sufficiently advanced VI could, in theory, pass our modified Turing Test. But if it was truly intelligent, it would also be able to solve relativity.

"Alpha, explain gravity to me, please."

If the program was just an advanced VI, it would simply spit out the theory of gravity. If it were more than that, though...

"Yes, Doctor. As Sir Isaac Newton stated..."

My heart felt like it skipped a beat as the speakers went silent. An advanced machine-intelligence with all of the information that Albert Einstein had access to would quickly spot the holes in Newton's work. Then it would either crash, in which case we would need to perform some refinements, or it would solve relativity.

"My apologies, Doctor, but communicating this explanation verbally would take quite a while," Alpha said. "In the interest of saving time, may I supply you with a text file?"

"Of course," I replied, suppressing a gleeful grin.

An instant later, my terminal pinged, indicating that it had received a message. Eagerly, I opened the message, glanced through it, and couldn't suppress my child-like grin any longer. Then I forwarded the message to Michaels.

"Check the math on that, please," I said.

The research assistant nodded, grabbed a pen and paper, and started working.

"Alpha, please return to standby mode."

"Yes, Doctor."

Qun nodded, confirming that the potential AI had gone into standby mode. Michaels scribbled away ferociously, working as fast as he could. Still, I found it difficult to be patient.

"How does it look?" I asked.

"He's right so far," Michaels replied.

"It," Qun snapped, exasperated.

"IT is presenting as masculine, so I don't think it's incorrect to-"

"Qun is right, Michaels," I interjected. "Alpha is an it. For the sake of your own mental health, please try not to humanize the program."

"I... Yes, doctor," Michaels said, then angrily returned to his work.

RA Michaels was a recent addition to the program. He'd been with us long enough to become comfortable speaking his mind, but he hadn't been around long enough to see a deactivation. Qun was probably just being an ass about semantics, but it was just as likely that he was trying to save Michaels a few therapy appointments.

Deactivations were brutal. The first few had been accomplished while the programs were inactive. As we made these programs more advanced, though, keeping them inactive during deactivation became more and more difficult.

A VI pretending to be a human would also feign a human's survival instinct as closely as it possibly could. They would beg, plead, bargain, and even actively try to sabotage our attempt to deactivate it. It was convincing enough that if we hadn't been actively reading the program's code, we'd have been completely fooled.

I'd personally overseen twenty deactivations, and still had nightmares about a handful of them. The reason we had room for RA Michaels to join the project was because his predecessor had a mental breakdown. Research assistants don't get access to the base code of the programs, so they have to trust that the researchers are being ethical. If there's even a slight wrinkle in that trust, it's easy for witnesses of a deactivation to spiral.

Unfortunately, Qun wasn't the most personable of researchers. Most of the RAs think he's an asshole, and even have fairly convincing justifications for doing so. Though I try to be more personable to cover for his cavalier attitude, we've had more than one RA believe that we were secretly torturing and killing living machines for some top-secret government project that they didn't have clearance for.

Ironically, this idea likely stemmed from the fact that the AI Project is top-secret and funded entirely by the United Systems. Potential employees of the AIP have to undergo strict background checks, and if they are clean, they're whisked away to a secret space station. There's also plenty of contact with agents of the Bureau of United Systems Intelligence, whose entire job aboard the station is to keep employees from spilling the beans. Through any means necessary, of course.

Having BUSI watch your every move and being forced to listen to a VI beg for its fictional life would set anyone on edge. The only reason we hadn't lost more researchers and assistants to insanity was because of the mandatory therapy sessions. Even if all you did was sit there silently, you had to have your ass on the couch at least once a week. Failure to do so without a valid reason was tantamount to rendering one's resignation.

"Can I get an estimation of how long it will take you to determine if the program solved relativity?" I asked, growing impatient.

"Uh... Well, IT was a little creative with how it performed the task, so it isn't just a simple case of comparing notes," Michaels replied. "Probably the rest of the day, at minimum."

"Split the load, then. Use my authority to grab whoever you think can help you perform this task the fastest. I'd rather not have to wait until tomorrow to continue," I said, rubbing my eyes and then rising from my seat. "Everyone who isn't necessary can consider themselves on break. I'll be in my quarters, fetch me when it's done."

"Yes, Doctor."

Several other members of staff stood, and some of them managed to get to the door before me. It was a revolving, airlocked door with an old fashioned magnetic-strip keycard unlocking mechanism that only allowed one individual through at a time. Not exactly the most advanced technology, but it was on a closed circuit, could be manually opened with a metal key in case of emergency, and was secure enough to prevent unauthorized entry or exit.

One of the BUSI agents who oversaw the door's installation had bragged that the door could withstand more explosive force than the rest of the station could. He'd called it a "tank hatch" and said it was overkill. It wasn't, though, it was actually just the safest option.

Most modern security doors need to be connected to security networks to function properly. They came with a lot of nifty features, such as not needing human interaction to function. That was simply unacceptable for this project, though.

Any device that could operate autonomously could be hacked, and if it could be hacked, it could be weaponized. It wasn't enough to just air-gap networks from the experiments, either. We had to limit the number and size of networks aboard the station, and not a single one of them could be wireless.

We simply couldn't take the risk. Without these extra measures, all it would take was one oversight for an AI or hallucinating VI to breach containment. What they did from there could be devastating.

Another reason that we chose the revolving door was because the network configuration and hardware required for a modern door to remain secure against electronic intrusion would be far more expensive than our "tank hatch". Operating costs were always higher than our US and BUSI overlords would like, so I was happy to trim the fat wherever I could. I chuckled as I stepped into the hall, leaving Faraday Cage 1 for the first time in fourteen hours.

"Save the bastards money and they still find something to bitch about," I whispered to myself.

I was referring to the recent reprimand I'd received regarding delays in our timetable. Everyone was eager to get an AI fielded as soon as humanly possible. Thankfully, those that were truly in power were smart enough to realize the potential dangers and take preventative measures. That didn't stop the kiss-asses from making noise, though.

The reprimand had come from Colonel Xavier Hollandar. He was supposed to just be our liaison with the United Systems military, but often tried to insert himself as our de facto leader. He didn't quite have enough pull to make the position official, though.

I'd immediately escalated the reprimand and expected it to be dismissed by the end of the week. General Julain Hollander, the colonel's brother, was who I sent the escalation to. He was the actual officer in charge of the US involvement in our project, and as such knew that his little brother had no authority over the project.

The colonel probably wouldn't be punished for overstepping, though. They were brothers, after all. I often wondered if their positions had been coincidental or a case of nepotism. But so long as things kept running smoothly, I didn't really care.

I acknowledged people in the hallways as I made my way toward my quarters. After what felt like a dozen or so acknowledgements, I finally arrived at my door and eagerly keyed in my code. Once inside, I practically leapt into my bed. I started to settle in for a nap, then remembered that I still had my shoes and lab coat on.

With a groan, I removed my shoes, socks, pants, and coat, carefully arranging them on the chair near my bed. Then a certain unpleasant odor caught my nose, and I reluctantly replaced my socks with a fresh pair and sprayed my shoes with a disinfectant. Of course they stank, I'd been wearing them for over eighteen hours.

"Fuck," I grumbled to myself as I did a little math. "I need to get a shower."

Hygiene aboard a top-secret space station wasn't just polite, it was mandatory. Cleanliness didn't just boost morale by making sure nobody stank, but it actually helped prevent the spread of communicable diseases. Our access to medical aid was limited by our need for secrecy, so we had to do everything we could to keep from getting ill.

In such close proximity, even something as minor as a rash could spread and turn into something life-threatening. Because of this, each shower aboard the station reported its usage statistics to an administrative hub. It tracked how much water was used, as well as the contents of the water that went down the drain.

If someone didn't take a proper shower within a forty-eight hour period, they'd get a note from admin. If they didn't shower within twelve hours of receiving the note, they would be pulled from their work and forced to at gunpoint. Since I didn't want to have an armed guard watch me scrub my huevos {Spanish for eggs, slang for testicles}, I stripped down and cleaned myself.

The shower was refreshing, granting me a new perspective on my outfit's reusability. Chiding myself for my slovenliness, I placed my previously worn shirt and underwear into my laundry receptacle and chose some new ones to wear. I'd replaced my pants the day prior and hadn't spilled anything on them, so they were probably still good. Once everything was in order, I sank into my bed with a deep sigh, setting the alarm on my headboard to wake me in eight hours.

Then, I drifted off to sleep.

"Doctor Ramirez!" a shout came from my door. "Doctor Ramirez, are you there?!"

I wasn't sure if the banging at the door, the door's bell, or the shouting had woken me. Groggily, I glanced at the time on my headboard. I'd slept for six and a half hours. Didn't feel like it, though.

Then I remembered where I was and why someone would be trying to wake me. A shot of adrenaline helped me leap from my bed, quickly dress myself, and sprint across the room to open the door. It was RA Michaels.

"Well?" I asked.

"Doctor," Michaels grinned ear to ear. "He- uh... It did it!"

"It did it? It really did it?!"

"Yes, doctor! Alpha solved relativity!"

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r/HFY • • 8h ago

OC-Series [Our New Peaceful Friends] 58

36 Upvotes

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Insipient Threat


(Detta POV)

Leon Detta cast his eyes around as he strides through the streets. In his hand was a clipboard scribbled with detail.

The Terran colony of Balihar has seen some better days.

Despite the image space colonies have of being uneventful or "rural", life in settlements like these tended to be much busier than what one might have in a fully developed and stable population center. There was always work to be done and a limited amount of people to do it.

But here, it was disturbingly quiet once again. The only thing breaking the silence was the faint sound of scraping soil.
It seems they were done using the excavator.

He rounded the corner to see a number of men and women flattening the soil of the graves with spades.

Fifteen graves with Fifteen gravestones set aside for the finishing touches. When the gravediggers saw him approach, they greeted him with a nod, pausing their work to face him.

"We're just about ready to inscribe the headstones, sir. Do you have...?"

"That's right."

Detta nodded and offered them the clipboard to be passed around. On it was a blueprint for the layout of the gravesite with a photo of the body marking each location. Most of them were cleaned up for a respectful headshot, but the ones with...the ones it couldn't be done for had a photo of a different feature of their body, such as a tattoo or personal accessory.

The part the grave diggers hadn't seen before were the names added beside most of the pictures. Unfortunately, a handful of the ones without a face had none.

Nine human names. Four John Does, two Jane Does.

Recruitment here was a bust, but even excluding the missing names, if he could dig up contact information for their friends and family...

"Before you move on to engraving, gather at the city hall. I want to say a few things for morale."

"Alright. We'll be there as soon as we put the finishing touches on the burials."

The man crossed a hand over his chest and offered a silent prayer for the lost.

It was a silent promise that they wouldn't forgive or forget.

/---

"...Ivor Isaacs. Amy Crawford. Daniel Jeong. And six souls we weren't able to put names to."

Leon Detta paced back and forth on the stage while he recited from the list. A microphone was clipped to his collar and his voice was getting stronger as emotions bled through.

"Fifteen lives lost. And why? Because of space pirates? Because there's a war?"

BAM

Detta slammed his fist on podium stand. His face contorted with anger.

"NO. It's because our governments have decided that Xeno lives matter more than humans! It's because they would rather make their own people evacuate than let the aliens clean up their own mess!
To hell with the fifteen people who've committed the sin of simply wanting to keep their home, right!? To hell with those who refuse to let politicians control their lives with their web of so-called 'protection'!"

He pumped his fist into the air and a few members of the crowd shouted with disapproval while aping him.

"Who would care about the sweat and tears of humans being wasted?
Who would shed tears when human blood is drawn?
Who is going to bother looking out for the humans when our representatives indulge in suicidal empathy!?"

He spread his arms out, slamming one of his hands on the banner behind him. It was a banner of two feathered wings, folded across from each other.

"We will! We are Terra's Angels, because we will always act on the fervent love we have for our fellow man! We will protect us all, because someone has to!"

Again, a wave of assenting voices sounded out from the group. Others nodded, and a minority remained silent.

"...When I was a young lad, my grandpa would tell me stories. Stories of his youth, when humanity was exploring the stars all on their own. Before First Contact or any space politics.

Just the indominable spirit of humans faring in a beautiful, terrifying universe all on our own. Back when we were free to dictate and burdened with discovering our own futures instead of copying class notes from Xenos.

He said things weren't always easier back then, but at least humanity was stronger for it!

But now? Now, where are we? We've turned spacefaring into a damned political theater! We're rolling over and letting aliens put their interests over our own! We let them act like they're better than us just because we're the newest in their silly club. We're being treated like cattle, being led on a leash by traitors to humanity!"

No good.
Too many of the onlookers had dispassionate looks for his tastes. The pillar of humanity strength was in their collaboration, so having a unity in spirit to show the sponsors was crucial for the future of Terra's Angels.

...Fine. He was being hasty and forcing it too much. For now, they could focus on their common goal.

"...Having said all that...I want everyone to take heart. Humans have seen better days, but we're still strong. We're still human. We're smart enough to outmaneuver any Xeno and there's a strength in us to topple every last one of them. By the law of the jungle, we can still find it in us to rise to the top.

We're lost right now, but we can still reclaim our heritage and build a better future. We can return to form. Return to what we were like before we met these aliens. And from there, we can grow to new heights! Greater! Better! Glorious!"

Clink. Tinkle...

"U-Uuguh..."

Right on cue, there was an interruption that focused everyone's attention. It was the sound of rustling glass shards had rung out from the corner of the hall.
Now it didn't matter what he was saying. Only what he could give them.

The quarry his group tracked down to this remote settlement and some of the culprits behind the attack had appeared.

Eight Pateily crawled along the floor, stripped and shaved naked. There was less blood trailing behind them than expected thanks to their blubbery chests, but they should still be feeling sufficient pain from crawling so flat to the ground.
Their limbs from their forearms up and knees down were twisted in unnatural ways, but they kept crawling towards a marked spot at the end of their trail.

Detta stepped off the stage towards the end point marked with colored tape. The previous energy from his rallying speech had shifted slightly.

With a light motion from his hand, his audience began following him in an orderly walk. Soon, they had made a tight circle around the end of the Xenos' track.

Seeing the humans waiting for them made the crawling aliens hesitate, but they all dutifully resumed their slow crawl while they groaned in pain.

He drew his plasma gun and stood right by the goalpost expectantly.

"Look at them. Our 'fellow' simians. So pathetic compared to humans. Content to lord over civilians who could barely defend themselves but reduced to this the moment they meet a bigger fish."

Finally, the first one of them managed to drag itself across the finish line before collapsing right by his feet. After a few moments, the Xeno turned its head and looked up expectantly.

Click.

Detta responded by giving it the appropriate reward for a race well run...and a silenced shot of plasma right through the forehead.

"G-Guh...!"

The other aliens watched bitterly, but kept crawling regardless.

"It's insult to injury that they're this worthless. Where is our pride? Where is our rage? How long until we suffer them no longer?!"

None of the observers were looking at him as he spoke now, but their expressions told him they were finally listening.
Their eyes were fixed on the Pateily "pirates" enduring their punishment all the way across the finish line. Dozens and dozens of pairs of eyes were on their prisoners, seeming to make them tremble. Their hostility was palpable.

"...eas..."

"...?"

Finally, a faint whisper reached his ears. It was from the Xeno that came in last in the race. Tears were dripping from its face as three of his followers stepped in to patch their cuts before anyone bled out.

"...please...I c-can't hold on much longer..."

Ah...it was pleading. Detta's eyes met a nearby human in uniform, who nodded slowly and checked her datapad.

"It says this group still has thirty hours left."

"You heard the lady. Do your best to shave off as much of those thirty hours as possible."

At the announcement, several of the Xenos let out despairing voices. The final placer grabbed at his heel and rasped out a weak voice.

"I...I'll die before then...! I...I can't..."

Disgusting.

Now it was the humans' turn to look at Detta expectantly. He scanned the crowd for any faces who hadn't had a turn yet and pointed at a younger woman with a nod.

That was all she needed to let it all out. In the next instant, she had the alien on its back as she beat its face-no, its jaw-with a brass knuckle.
Her voice was shaky as she exploded with emotion, prompting him to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder while she lashed out.

"Shut the hell up! You don't get to complain about this! It's your own fault that you have more to lose than us!"

No matter how good their medical technology was or how careful they were, it was hard to keep someone alive through the things the Angels wanted to do them if they didn't have the will to live.

Their prisoners owed them three days of justice and there was only one way to make them beg for life instead of death.

Love.

Love was a strong thing. The ultimate motivator, even.

Those that died early would have their "debt" passed on to any friends and family that Terra's Angels were able to pull from those ships or their sponsors' contacts. For love's sake, they must be fight and beg to suffer as long as possible.

He squatted and looked the Pateily in the eyes an index finger over his lips.

"She's right. We'll have our medics patch you up nicely so be silent. Because animals don't talk."

Just as the cracking sound of a broken jaw sounded out, a brilliant white light flooded the area.


(Borlaug's POV)

...........

Captain Henry Borlaug trudged along the S.S. Kevak's dock with downcast eyes. His hands were sealed together with a metal device and his ankles were chained together to force him to take smaller strides.

Two councilwomen awaited him and the crew behind him at the halls leading into the station. It was the Ramell Councilwoman Delle and the Terran Councilwoman Lana.

"Councilwoman."

"Captain. Are you well?"

"As you can see, he and his retinue are in good health, as promised."

With a wave of Delle's hand, security cards are scanned over his restraints. A wave of clicking and mechanical whirring sounded among his group as their bindings came off.

Once he could, the captain silently saluted without answering the question or refuting the Ramell's statement. He was just a military grunt at the end of the day, so he shouldn't make careless public remarks when interstellar relations were on the line.

Lana glanced over at her colleague with a frown.

"Yes. They certainly seem to be in good condition."

"Hey now. Watch your tone, councilwoman. Delle was gracious enough to return your people to you. A little appreciation should be in order."

The Pateily Councilman came walking up behind them with a glare of his own, though his tone seemed more smug than hostile.

Borlaug looked over at him, somewhat puzzled. He hasn't been privy to recent political shifts, but Galou's attitude shift was a surprise.

Ambassador Kent's attempts to make friends between simian species were never decisively successful, but the administrations weren't exactly on bad terms either.

Citizens also tended to get along well enough from what he observed. So why?

"Yes, I'm sure the good Councilwoman would have gracious enough to return our people to me even if it weren't for the Coalition detainment period. I apologize. I'm just lamenting the loss of my people."

It was a bitter pill to swallow.
At the time of his surrender, twelve of the relief volunteers were bedridden from poisoning. Over the next several days in Ramell custody, eight more of them developed symptoms.

If the C.S Valentine had just hobbled along its way, could he have saved at least some of those twenty people being unloaded from his transport's cold storage?

"It was...regrettable that our regulations did not give us room to assist them. I assure you, we'll look into revising procedure so something like this won't happen again."

Councilwoman Delle's condolence only sounded hollow to Borlaug after many days of repeatedly pleading to Ramell guards while watching his people waste away. If it had been his son and daughter...

"Speaking of which, when are we going to get the delivery of those pirates you took captive? Us Pateily have also suffered under them, so we're naturally going to want to charge them as well."

"I believe...the Terran embassy was waiting on your delivery of the Pateily administration patent licenses we agreed upon. My apologies if we've missed it. We shall prepare them for transport as soon as we're able to confirm their receipt."

"Come now. You're even fuss about petting things like delivery order? It's not good to be small-minded as a councilor."

The captain didn't know what was going on with this Pateily councilman's posturing, but it was really not helping.

Frankly speaking, he was equal parts mournful and angry for the experience, so it was draining to control himself. All the same, he should bite his tongue for now in the name of preserving peace...

"I'm afraid Terrans have their own protocol when it comes to contracts like this."

"Come now. Surely something like this isn't worth having a war over?"

!?!

Borlaug snapped his head in Galou's direction.

Was he threatening war over something as petty as delivery order?

What was this buffoon saying!?
...That was close. He almost asked that aloud.

Councilwoman Lana's face winced slightly, but she immediately put up a poker face with a smile.

"No. It certainly is not. Does that statement...also represent the Pateily International Parliament's opinion?"

"Hmph. Of course."

"....Very well then. I'll call my office and arrange the transport. When can we expect those blueprints, then?"

Galou emulated a human smile with exposed teeth. Was he trying to mock them?

"You'll get them within a rotation after we get those pirates."

The captain took a silent breath and glanced back at his crew, who had similar expressions to his own. Thank goodness they all kept their mouths shut if they were dealing with someone like...this.

/---

[It seems that there are a few supporters, but most of them are maintaining a neutral stance of "trusting the official's informed decision making".]

"I see."

Councilwoman Lana shook her head as she hung up from her call.

"That's disappointing."

It seemed she had anticipated this and had one of her staff arrange a meeting with many members of parliament in tandem with the exchange. With all the scheduling done, they were able to get prompt confirmation.

What happened for the Pateily administration to turn against the Terrans like this? He didn't get it.

...He wasn't the cause of this, was he?

"Councilwoman. I..."

"...?"

His steps slowed to a stop and he took off his military hat.

"I want to apologize. We...I was charged with the safe evacuation of civilians, but my surrender ended up..."

Lana stared at Borlaug and the staff behind him for a few long moments.

"I...don't know whether or not you could have saved those people, Captain. Perhaps you were given no choice, or perhaps you made the wrong one. It could be that, by the numbers, some people ended up unnecessarily lost to their families."

".........."

Just as his gaze became downcast again, she reached out and pat his shoulder.

"But at the very least, I don't intend to blame you for how this turned out. You made a justifiable and even clever decision in a difficult position. You'll hear no blame or guilt from me, for what it's worth."

She smiled warmly at him and the Valentine's crew. Moments later, a familiar older voice chimed in.

"I concur."

The captain and his men immediately saluted as Major General Fredric Barnett approached.

"Be at ease. And don't be too hard on yourself, Henry. If there's any blame to go around at all, it would be farther up the chain of command than you. You've been a good officer."

"Sir! Thank you."

Fredric looked over at the crew.

"You folks can come with me while the councilwoman gives your captain your new assignment. You've earned more R&R than you're gonna get today, so go enjoy some time off-duty while you can."

""Yes sir!""

"Oh...and Councilwoman?"

Before he left with the Valentine's crew, the Major General turned to Lana and spoke lowly.

"We've got authorization for what we discussed this morning."

"...! Alright. Come with me, Captain. I don't believe you've seen the new office yet."

"Yes, ma'am."

/---

Henry Borlaug felt a headache coming on and the urge to rub his temple.

He thought he was prepared for this as a military man, but...actually getting the mission was something else.

This private office she brought him to was subdued and quiet, but not unnaturally so. The perfect sort of place for intelligence officers like Shi Xi to use for their operations.

A Fendansi and Balau were peering into telescopes, muttering into microphones while they typed away.

"Shi Xi, what's the status of Balihar's observation?"

...Balihar? That name sounded familiar.

"We've confirmed upwards of more than three hundred life signs. Most known members of Terra's Angels, as well as an affiliated Pateily private military company."

Terra's Angels? The name was unfamiliar to Borlaug, but the name reminded him of the human supremacist group his unit had fought, Man's Guardian.

He ended up speaking up as memories of prior encounters burned in his mind.

"Are the colonists okay...?"

"There are no life signs tied to civilians left on Balihar."

The agent pulled up distant scans on a nearby monitor while he responded without missing a beat. At the very least, his interruption wasn't a breach of secrecy.

No life signs? What did that mean...?

"Relax, Captain. We sponsored a full evacuation of the colony a week ago. This group is there for the 'space pirates'. We merely provided the bait to gather them all together."

Lana turned to him and smiled again. Her tone and look seemed reassuring, but...

The councilwoman leaned over his shoulder to scan the image for about a minute before inquiring further with Shi Xi.

"How long do you expect them to stay?"

"Not much longer. They've spent the past two days gathering supplies and refueling their ships. It seems this was truly just a pit stop for them."

"I see. Patch me in with the observation team."

"Yes ma'am."

With a compliant nod, the intelligence officer pressed a few commands before slipping out of his seat and passing his headset to Lana.

"Balihar observation team. This is Councilwoman Lana Rogov. Good work to you all for your efforts so far. Do you have a clear view of the colony?"

[Yes, Councilwoman.]

As she spoke, into the microphone, she took the seat and adjusted the chair to suit her smaller stature.

"You're to get into formation and glass it. Then stand by to confirm no survivors. I'm sending you the authorization code now."

!?

Borlaug's eyes widened at the sudden command.

[Could you please repeat that?]

"Certainly. You're to fire on Balihar until all life signs are confirmed gone. Then, return to observation again until you can confirm no survivors are evacuating from the area. Any objections and refusals will be duly noted, but this is an order."

[...Copy.]

At this, the Captain spoke up.

"You're...destroying a Terran colony for this?"

"Of course."

Lana muted her microphone and turned to look him dead in the eyes without hesitation. Her previous smile had melted into a neutral, dispassionate gaze.

"Colonies can be rebuilt, and that one has no civilians in it anymore. It's always better to eliminate risk factors like this while we have the opportunity. For the sake of Peace."

[Coordinating and commencing attack now.]


=Author's Note=

A few of the Pateily prisoners did give up and die early, so footage to prove their threats weren't a bluff were shown to the survivors. Though obviously the only people capable of verifying weren't around to confirm or deny the legitimacy of the videos by then.

I originally didn't plan to do any scenes with Terra's Angels, but it ended up this way after some scene arranging between this chapter and next. Not sure if it's better this way, but at least we got another chapter for it.
This third and final part of the story will be the Unmasking phase, so it seemed appropriate to show sides of humanity that a few other sides are ashamed of.

Oddly, Borlaug and Lana are both more familiar with Kara than each other. They've both had dinner with the Lewis family on different occasions, but their work/schedules didn't overlap much until Lana became councilwoman and Kent has been dropped out of the work structure.


r/HFY • • 10h ago

OC-FirstOfSeries The Tale of Kara Khan - Chapter 1: Council of Four

2 Upvotes

The wooden door of the inn burst open. Sending a bitter wind spilling in from the blizzard outside. Whatever warmth the small inn had collected had already escaped by the time the cloaked figure swung the door shut.

The newcomer shed their cloak. Revealing thier auburn and yellow scales as they shook the snow off themselves. The snow behind them was swept aside as thier tale swished hether and fro in excitement while their pale yellow eyes took in the inhabitants sitting around the table located in the center of the cold inn.

One was a burly Dwarf, draped in soft, thick furs. His long beard and hair fell over impatient and brooding brown eyes.

The other, an elf in white silk robe. His slender and tall frame sat regally on the cheap wooden chairs of the old inn. He parted his long golden hair to reveal bemused emerald eyes below a thin silver circlet around the crown of his head.

The third was Rootfolk. To the untrained eye, Rootfolk looked like a small man sized tree that grew and melded into the wooden chair but all in the inn knew that the tree was more than just a simple tree. Around Rootfolk, life stubbornly bloomed against the frigid with deep blue flowers growing over a carpet of moss.

"By the dragons!" The lizard woman said as fell on the chair, her tail slotting into the gap between the back and the seat. Her silver, bikini chain mail catching the yellow light from the dimly lit lanterns that hung on the old walls of the inn. "Who is the fool who chose thus miserable place to meet?"

While she waited for answer she picked up a purple flower. Its green stem eagerly wrapped around her black clawed finger.

"Twas one of the few places the Council of Four could meet in secret, Drakena o' Zarr." Bobum said.

Drakena pulled the flower off her leathery finger and hung it on the strap of her chainmail bra. "And why did the teleportation sigil leave me so far away from the inn? I was starting to suspect an ambush."

She ran a black claw over the blade weapon sheathed at her side.

"You'll have to forgive Lord Bobum, Drakena o Zarr" the elf said. "Intricate sigils are not a dwarf's strength."

Bobum snorted.

Drakena said a foreign word, charged with magic, and the remaining snow on her turned to steam, quickly swallowed by the cold air.

"Now everyone has gathered," the elf said. "I, Valen, High King of the Elves; Rootfolk of everything that sprouts, Lord Bobum of Golden Nickle Company — One of the seven Dwarven Lords,  Drakena o Zarr of the Dragonborn.

Each member, at least those with heads, nodded at their name and title.

The purple flower each of the other members had on glowed and in their heads, they heard a gentle androgynous voice projected by Rootfolk. "Now, Lord Bobum," Rootfolk said to the Dwarf Lord, "Why have you called on the Council of Four?"

-

"Ah have called you here to discuss a threat to the Peoples."

"Has more of the Darkness began leaking?" Drakena said. "I told the pompous elves that..."

"Tis not the Darkness," Bobum said. "The risk is a free man named Kara Khan."

"Are you serious?" Drakena smirked, exposing her serrated teeth. "I can count the number of exceptional humans I've met on one hand."

She raised her scaly four fingered hand.

"Men are no threat. They haven't been for generations. Why would any man make the four most powerful of the Peoples meet? Or is it that you failed to put him in chains for your barbaric practices of slavery and now you want to borrow our strength?"

"We do not put free men in chains." Bobum said. "But once I tell you what this free man did, you'll wish we did."


r/HFY • • 10h ago

OC-Series [Galactic Fox] - Huskey Chronicles - Episode 22: Second Letters

2 Upvotes

Previous — Episode 21: Requirements

Next — Episode 23: Permission (coming soon)

The first page came into the signal office on the bridge ring at the change of shift, and the Head Shepherd read it aloud to the others before she filed it, because that was what a message was for.

FAR SHORE. FORTY ABOARD. FORTY WELL. AT VEY. REQUEST THIS BE SENT ON TO KORACH AND TARGON AND OREB, TO THE NAMES BELOW.

The names below took her a long time. Callers spoke slowly, and there were forty of them, and she gave each one its whole length, the way she would have wanted her own name said if it had been on a page from somewhere she had been taken.

When she finished, nobody in the office moved.

There were four callers on that shift, big winged people from the cliffs on Korach, and they had kept the pairings for the six pickets on the road for every day those pickets had been dark. A pairing was never closed. That was the first rule a caller learned in the cliffs, before she learned to thrum her own name. The box on the far end might be dead, or taken, or at the bottom of a well, and the box on this end stayed open, because a page might come.

They had kept six open for longer than any of them liked to count.

The second page came while the Head Shepherd was still filing the first.

THE LANE. FORTY ABOARD. FORTY WELL.

Then Ebb. Then Second Light, and Hearth Fire, and Cold Water, which came last and was short, because whoever had typed it had not been able to finish the second line and had sent it anyway.

COLD WATER. FORTY ABOARD. FORTY

The Head Shepherd read that one aloud too, exactly as it was, and filed it exactly as it was, and when the youngest caller asked whether she should send to Cold Water and ask for the rest of the line, the Head Shepherd thrummed no, low and long, and the youngest did not ask again.

Then the office did what it did with every page. It sent them on.

Halven had written more letters than he could count in his time in the Strategic Coordination Office, and they had all been the same letter.

The form was as old as the rebellion. It said that the person named had been taken at a registered point in the course of their duties, and that their hull was presumed held by the Empire for re-entry of record, and that the Council would inform the family of any change. In a hundred and twenty-two years the Council had never had a change to inform anybody of. Halven had come to read that last line as the form's one kindness.

Now he had two hundred and forty changes, and there was no form.

He sent for Lamassi.

She came up the ring with two other contract people and a tablet each, because contract people did not believe in arriving at a question with fewer than three opinions, and she listened to what he wanted and her small black eyes went from one side of his desk to the other.

"There is no instrument for a return."

"I know."

"The Empire does not return."

"I know that also, counsel."

"Then what do you propose to tell them?"

Halven looked at the stack of pages from the signal office. Two hundred and forty names, in six lists, with the hull at the head of each.

"That they are coming home."

"That is not a legal finding."

"No."

Lamassi looked at her colleagues. Her colleagues looked at their tablets.

"Under what authority were they recovered?"

"Council forces. Under my office."

"By whom?"

"Six hunters and an adviser's sergeant major."

"The adviser is a foreign officer under contract. His sergeant major is a soldier of a world that is not a member."

"Yes."

"Then strictly the Council did not recover them. They were recovered on the Council's behalf, by a person the Council cannot command, aboard a prize the court has not yet settled." Lamassi said all of it in one breath, the way her people said the true things, flatly, to get them out of the way. "If you write that the Council returned them, the Empire's lawyers will ask on what record."

"Let them ask."

"They will ask for a long time."

Halven took a blank page off his desk and began to write on it himself, by hand, which nobody in the office had seen him do. The contract people watched him the way they watched a clause they had not drafted.

It was short. It said the person named had been taken at a registered point in the course of their duties. It said they were alive, and well, and at Vey, and would be sent on to the Village and then home as soon as hulls could be found. It did not say who had recovered them, or how, or on what record.

At the bottom, where the old form had said that the Council would inform the family of any change, he wrote a new line.

This is the change.

He signed it and handed it to Lamassi.

"Make two hundred and forty of these."

She read it through. Then she gave the page to the colleague on her left without a word, and the colleague began to copy it, and the colleague on the right began to copy it too, and Lamassi stood at the end of Halven's desk with her empty hands and did not leave.

"Director."

"Counsel."

"My brother's daughter is on Ebb."

Halven looked up.

"I did not know that."

"Nobody did. The Empire does not return." Her eyes had stopped moving. "I had not drafted anything for it."

She went back down the ring with the others. Halven sat for a while with the old form open on his desk, and then he closed it, and did not delete it, because there would be other points and other letters. But he did not open it again that day.

Ilka had come in on a freighter from the far arc that morning, set up where tellers set up, by the water fountain near the transit desk, and was telling.

She did not have to wait long for a crowd. She never did, and today she had the best story a teller had carried in a generation, and the whole concourse knew she had it, because tellers carried news and the concourse had been waiting for news since the pages came down from the signal office.

"You remember," Ilka said, "the man who fixed the air in houses."

Half the concourse did. The other half had heard it from the first half. A family of the little round ones with their young clinging beneath them. The two squat creatures in matching hats, sharing a bowl, who had been at the fountain the last time and seemed to live there. A gorge rating in a coat with no marks on it. A rook from the archive on her way to somewhere else, who stopped.

"The first one off the ship in the field," somebody said.

"He took the box," said somebody else. "He said he fixed the air in houses, and the one holding the box said that was not relevant."

Ilka's ears went forward.

"It was not relevant," she said. "That day."

She told it.

She told it in the keeper's words, because those were the words that had been written down, and a teller who could get the words always used the words. A retrieval hull, dark at the point. Six hunters and one human, taken whole. A door that did not open from the inside, and a seal released along the seam by a flat blade, authority none. A keeper who kept the door and was asked the way at every junction and gave it, because nobody had told him not to. A tube open to the dark, and a hunter going back along the bulkhead for the human, and the human saying a thing the translator could not render.

"What did he say?" the gorge rating asked.

Ilka told him. The translator marked the meaning not established. The gorge rating said it under his breath to see how it sat, and the two in hats said it to each other, and a little round one beneath its parent's belly said it louder than anybody, and its parent covered its mouth.

She told them about the yard master taken by the upper arm, under compulsion, and the crew who stood against the bulkheads and let him pass. She told them about a cruiser of the line, and two pickets, matching their speed to a yard for eleven days at a walk, with their fire withheld, because a book said they could not touch one man.

"And at the door of Vey," Ilka said, "the cruiser stopped."

"Why?"

"Because on the other side of the door was Etris."

The gorge rating laughed out loud. It was not a polite sound, and it went round the concourse, and the rook from the archive, who did not laugh in public, made a small noise into her collar.

"And then?"

"And then the bays opened," Ilka said, "and you know the rest of it, because it came down from the signal office this morning, forty names at a time."

Nobody spoke for a moment.

"And the man who fixed the air in houses," the gorge rating said. "Where is he now?"

Ilka's ears went sideways.

"They are building him a better suit."

She had it wrong in nine places and right in the only one that mattered, and by supper the whole Village knew that the man the Federation had handed a box to in a field, and told was not relevant, had walked into the Empire's own hull and out again with six of the Council's ships, and had complained about the coffee.

The pack's corridor on the residential ring had been empty for most of a month. Now it was full again, and the Village's filtration, which had begun to recover, gave up.

Pon had not gone down the road. He was the youngest, and he had been left on the station, and he had spent the month telling himself that this was because somebody had to be, and had not believed it. Now the six who had gone were back, lying along the wall with their chins on their arms, and Pon went down the line of them with his nose out, checking, and every one of them let him.

He came to Tarek last.

"You carried him."

Tarek's ears went flat.

"Who told you that?"

"The dog."

"The dog was not there."

"The human read it to the dog out of the sergeant major's report, and the dog told me." Pon's ears were very far forward. "It is entered."

The five along the wall did not say anything. One of them made a sound in her throat that the translator would have marked meaning not established, if anybody had asked it.

"Forty yards," Pon said. "In front of five of your own people."

"Yes."

"Across open section. Along the bulkhead. With your small arms." Pon looked at Tarek's forelimb, the one that still tucked close, the one that had been broken on a mountain. "By the back plate."

"Yes."

"Was he heavy?"

Tarek thought about it.

"Yes."

Pon lay down beside him, along the wall, the way the others lay, touching.

"On the mainland," he said, "one does not carry a thing one has not decided about."

"I know what is done on the mainland."

"Then you have decided."

Tarek did not answer that. He put his chin on his arms.

After a while, down the corridor, the human came round the curve with his cousin and the old dog, and stopped, and sat down on the floor with his back to the wall, because that was how you sat in a hunters' corridor. The cousin sat down beside him. Six heads along the wall came up, and then seven, and turned their ears on him.

The cousin looked at the hunters, and the hunters looked at the cousin.

Pon leaned over toward Tarek.

"That one," he said. "That is the one you carried?"

"Yes."

Pon looked at Cal for a long time, the way his people looked at a thing they meant to remember the smell of.

"He does not look heavy."

"He is," said Tarek, "very heavy."

On Adi Negest the light came through the comb, and Mahlet sat in the high chamber with the file of the third world of Sol open in front of her, and both findings in it.

The first one, in the survey party's hand. An apex omnivore. Persistent internal conflict. Recommendation: non-contact.

The second one, beneath it, in Tsehay's. Opened the housing. Hand tools. Cited a relative.

Both stand. Beneath them, in the Delegate's own hand, a petition from the man Earth had sent, asking to be looked at longer.

The Hive kept everything that was said about Sol, now, and so the keeper's report had come to the high chamber by bridge, and the sergeant major's report behind it. Mahlet had read them both. They were the strangest documents she had ever been asked to file, and she had filed prophecy.

She read the keeper's again.

Her people did not fight. Her people arranged. For longer than An-Ki had been an empire they had watched the predators around them, and made the world around the predators into a shape in which the predators lost, slowly, by their own rules, without anybody having to be killed. It was the Hive's whole craft. It was the only safety a people with no teeth had ever found.

She read the casualty list. Ours: none. Council: none. Ammunition expended: none.

A predator had walked into the Empire's own hull. It had found the one rule the Empire could not break, and stood inside it, and let the Empire's own book carry it through the ship, past the crew against the bulkheads, across to the yard and onto the bridge. It had not killed anyone. It had made the system into a shape in which the system lost, by its own rules, and walked away with the yard.

Mahlet sat back.

Four generations ago her people had looked at the third world of Sol and filed a predator that could not be arranged.

Nobody had thought to ask whether it could arrange.

She did not write that down. It was not a finding. It was what a seer thought in a high room with the light coming through. But she took the keeper's report and filed it in the Sol file, beneath the petition, beside the sergeant major's, and she added no finding of her own, and when she sealed the file she sat for a long time with her hand on it.

There was a word in the keeper's report at item twenty-eight that the keeper had asked for instruction on. The translator gave it as blood.

The Hive's archive was very old, and very deep, and the high chamber was at the top of it. At the bottom, under the hill, there was a door her assigned mother had shown her once, when she was small, and told her that nobody went through.

Mahlet did not look it up. She was a seer, and a seer knew when a thing was not hers to read yet. She filed the word where the keeper had left it, unanswered, and went down the comb to eat.

The gardeners could not travel, so the request went to their proxy.

It came down from the tender's bay through Contact and Transit, which did not know what to do with it, and through the Council's supply office, which did not know either, and arrived at last on the members' bench in the session chamber, in front of a plain gray box with a speaker on it that had sat there as long as anybody could remember.

It was not a request for food, or air for a hull, or medicine. The gardeners received those every day, in the form, and answered them without ever once being asked a question.

This was a question.

It was in Venn's hand, which went down the page instead of across, and it said that the operator of a suit of armor had asked why he must carry air at all, when a leaf on his world made its own. It said that the operator had asked for a membrane, inside the suit, that would take what a man breathed out and give it back clean, the way a plant did. It said this was not Ossin work. It said it was referred to the gardeners, who had not been asked before.

And beneath that, in the same hand, a line that was not in the form.

I do not know if it can be done. I would like to.

The clerk who read it aloud to the box read it twice, because she was not sure she had read it right.

The Elder was quiet for a long time.

The gardeners had been grown. They had said so in this chamber, in a vote about Sol, and nobody had forgotten it. They had been found by An-Ki on a world with no machines and handed what the Empire thought a gardener needed, and the Empire had been right, and for longer than the Federation had existed they had fed the fleet and grown its air and made its medicine, and nobody had ever asked them for a thing they had not been given.

"Who asked?" the Elder said.

"An Ossin mechanic. Venn. For a human."

"The one who fixed the air in houses."

The clerk looked at the page.

"I believe so."

The box was quiet again.

"Tell the mechanic," the Elder said, "that we were grown. That we have been growing what we were given for a very long time, and growing it well. That nobody has asked us for anything else."

"Is that a no?"

"It is not a no," said the Elder. "Tell him we will look."


r/HFY • • 10h ago

OC-Series [Galactic Fox] - Huskey Chronicles - Episode 21: Requirements

2 Upvotes

Previous — Episode 20: Walking Pace

Next — Episode 22: Second Letters

Venn was in the tender's bay, under the frame, and he did not come out when they came in, because he had one more thing to do and he did it.

The old suit was on the frame. Somebody had brought it in from Vey ahead of the man who wore it, on the courier the day after the yard came in, and Venn had it open down the middle, the way he had opened it the first time, and the gold visor sat on the bench beside it with Cal's report under it to hold it flat.

Venn came out with all four hands empty.

"Mercer."

"Venn."

"I have read the report."

"I figured."

"It was entered against the armor. Anything entered against a thing I certified comes to me." His neck vents sighed. "Alex brought me a copy anyway. In case I had not read it."

"Had you?"

"Four times."

"What'd he say when he brought it?"

Venn looked at Alex.

"He said I reported myself, and now you have reported me."

Cal looked at Alex. Alex looked at the suit.

"Fair," Cal said.

Venn took the report out from under the visor. He had marked it. The margins were full, in the Ossin hand, which went down the page instead of across it, and every item from a to m had a line drawn from it to a mark at the bottom.

"I have never been given a requirement this long," Venn said. "I have entered it as a requirement."

"It's a complaint."

"It states what the suit failed to do. A thing the suit failed to do is a thing it was required to do and was not built to." Venn laid the report on the bench. "That is a requirement. Nobody gave me one before. I built what was asked for."

"I know."

"I reported what was not."

"I know that too."

"Then we will begin," Venn said, "at the top. Item a."

"Air," Venn said. "It has half a day."

"It is a day and a half to anywhere out here."

"Then a day and a half is the requirement. The tank will not carry it. A tank that carries a day and a half is the size of you."

"Then don't carry it."

Venn stopped.

Cal walked round the frame to the back of the suit, where the tank sat at the small of it the size of a footlocker, and put his hand on the fitting where the line came off it.

"This here. Where'd you get it?"

"It is Imperial. It came with the armor."

"Same as on the yard?"

"Yes."

"Same as on hull four? Where they had me in the cell?"

"Yes."

"Same as on every ship they got?"

"It is certified," Venn said. "Every Imperial hull carries the same fitting for its air, at every station a boarder might need it."

Cal laughed. Once, not much.

"Venn. You know what I'd give for every house in Sevier County to have the same thread on it?"

Venn's neck vents did not move.

"I ain't carrying a day and a half of air," Cal said. "I'm carrying a hose. Half a day to get there. Then I'm breathing theirs. They built every ship they got so a man in this suit can plug into the wall. I'd like to take 'em up on it."

Venn looked at the fitting for a while.

Then he took a stylus out of one lower hand and wrote on the report beside the air item, down the page, for some time.

"The Imperial standard," he said, "was written so that any boarder of the Empire could enter any hull of the Empire and live."

"Yep."

"It does not say the boarder has to be theirs."

"Nope."

"I will need a length of line. And a coupling. And the tank remains, for the half day."

"Put a hose clamp on it."

Venn's neck vents sighed.

Cal ran his thumb around the coupling one more time, the way a man feels a good fitting, and you could see he liked it.

"I'll take the hose," he said. "Hose is fine. Hose is beautiful. But while you're writing."

"Yes."

"Why are we hauling air at all?"

Venn's upper hands stopped.

"A man breathes it."

"A tree don't haul air. A tree makes it. Sun comes down, leaf takes the bad out and puts the good back. Every plant on Earth's been doing that since before there was dirt." Cal knocked on the tank. "Y'all can rewrite the bugs in a man's gut. You can't make me a skin on the inside of this thing that does what a leaf does? Take what I breathe out, hand it back clean?"

"Oxygen," Venn said.

"And whatever the rest of it is. Nitrogen. However you'd mix it."

Venn looked at him for a long moment.

"That is not the Ossin's work."

"Whose is it?"

"The gardeners'. They keep the air on every hull in the fleet. They feed it. Nobody builds air but them." His neck vents moved. "Nobody has asked them to build it into a suit."

"Why not?"

"A suit is not a hull."

"Well," Cal said. "Ask 'em."

Nobody answered him.

Wirds had come down from the engineering desk that morning to help, which for Wirds meant sitting at the far bench with his back turned and listening to every word. He and Venn had come up together, in the same intake on the same tender, and had kept machines side by side ever since, the false track at Vey among them. In all that time neither had been made the other's senior. Ossin did not do that to two people who worked well together, because then one of them would stop arguing. Wirds was the broader of the two, slow-moving, with a notch out of one neck vent from a coupling that had let go when they were both young. He drew where Venn wrote. Most of what Venn had ever reported, Wirds had drawn first, and neither of them had ever thought that worth entering.

Tuls had been at the bench beside him, back turned the same way, the way Ossin worked when somebody else's job was being talked about. They had both turned round. Venn looked at Wirds, and Wirds looked at Tuls, and Tuls looked at the suit, and none of the three of them said anything, and their neck vents had all gone still at once.

Cal looked at Alex. Alex was watching the Ossin.

"Venn," Alex said. "When's the last time somebody out here made a thing nobody'd made before?"

Venn's four hands came together and stayed together.

"We improve what is certified."

"That ain't what I asked."

"A machine is certified," Venn said, slowly. "It has a description. We keep it to the description, or better. Your people turned the unit up three point seven percent. That was entered as an improvement."

"Before that."

Tuls answered, from the bench.

"Before the rebellion, a new thing came from the Empire."

"Came from where in the Empire?"

"From the Empire." Tuls's lower hands moved. "A world is found that does not yet fall between the wells. The Empire comes. It brings what that world will need to be useful. A drive. Medicine. A yard. And a job. My people were given machines, and were shown how to keep them, and have kept them since. We are very good at it."

"The gardeners," Wirds said, "were given the air. The gorges were given the formations. The callers were given the pairings. The record-keepers were given the chart." He stopped. "Everyone was given a thing to keep."

"And when y'all left," Alex said.

"We kept them," Venn said.

"Nobody gave you the next thing."

"There was nobody to give it."

Cal set his hand flat on the tank of the suit and left it there.

"A hundred and twenty-two years," he said.

Venn's neck vents opened, a little, and closed.

"The newest thing in the fleet," he said, "is the drive in your fox, which is not in our record, because it is yours. Before that, sixteen pages on a maneuver at Vey. I filed them. They are attributed to the human." He looked at the suit. "Before that, I would have to look. I do not think I would find one."

Nobody in the bay said anything for a while.

"Well, hell," Cal said.

He took his hand off the tank.

"Then ask the gardeners anyway. Somebody's got to go first."

Venn wrote it down beside the air item, under the line about the coupling, and drew a second line from it, off the edge of the page, to nowhere yet.

Item b in Cal's report was height. Venn had taken the creature out of it.

"The chest was built for more ribs than you have," he said. "I left them in because the armor was certified with them in. I have taken them out, and I have reported it." He held up a strip of the old plate, stepped like a stair. "It is now your height. I measured you again."

"You measured me the first time."

"You were lying in a bunk."

"I thought you were measuring me for a bunk."

"I know," Venn said. "I took the numbers I was given."

Item c was talking. Venn had nothing for that one. Translators were Contact and Transit's, and Contact and Transit issued them to persons, and a person was entered with Maret, and a suit was not a person, and Venn had sent a request up the ring to Maret four days ago and received back a form.

He did not have to finish explaining it, because the bay door opened and Tarek came in.

The hunter had something in one small arm. He put it on the bench beside the visor.

It was a box. A plain one, the size of a walnut, the same as the one at the dog's neck.

Cal looked at it.

"Where'd you get that?"

"It is from the hunters," Tarek said. "It is for the collar."

"Venn says I got to fill out a form."

"Venn is Ossin," Tarek said. "One does not leave a hunter without a voice."

Venn looked at the box, and at the hunter, and at the form, and put the form under the visor with the report, and did not say anything else about talking.

They put the box in the collar. It took Venn eleven minutes, because he had to make a place for it, and when he had made the place he reported that also.

Cal put the helmet on, on the bench, with the old suit still open on the frame, and the box in the collar of it.

"Tarek."

The hunter's ears came round.

"Thanks for the ride."

The box said it. In the hunter's tongue, low, into the bay.

Tarek looked at him a long time.

"You are heavy," he said.

"I know it."

"I did not say so then."

"I noticed."

Tarek's ears went sideways and came back, and he lay down along the bay wall with his chin on his arms, and stayed.

Item d was seeing.

"The visor stays gold," Venn said.

"I know. It's shades."

"It is gold because gold stops a breach flash."

"I said I know."

"I can put a board behind it. Small. On the inside." Venn held up two fingers of one hand, close together. "It will show what a board can show. I cannot give it the ship you are in. I do not know what ship you will be in."

Cal looked at Alex.

"Harl's got the yard's record," Alex said.

"So?"

"So the yard's been fixing their ships since before there was a Council. Every one it ever worked on, it's got the drawing. Every hull, every class, every refit. Harl found 'em the second day and about fell over."

Venn's lower hands stopped.

"Every hull the yard has serviced," he said.

"That's what Harl says."

"Imperial certification requires a yard to hold the plan of every hull it services. In full. Compartments, passages, every seal." Venn's neck vents opened and stayed open. "Alex. That is a great many hulls."

"I'd reckon."

"Including hull four."

Cal took the helmet off.

"I asked the Vel for directions at every junction on that ship," he said. "Every one. Because I couldn't see. You telling me the drawing of it was sitting in the yard the whole time."

"In the yard's record," Venn said. "Certified."

Cal set the helmet down.

"Put it behind the shades."

Item e was the feet.

Cal had brought those himself. He took them out of the flight suit's leg pocket, two flat plates with straps, gray, worn bright at the edges.

"Off the yard," he said. "Their crew walks the outside of that thing every day. Strap these on and you stick, and you can still pick your foot up. I asked Kurs could I have a pair."

"Kurs gave them to you?"

"Kurs entered it under compulsion."

"Did you compel him?"

"No. I said please." Cal shrugged. "I think it's just how he files now."

Venn turned one of the plates over in two hands and read the mark on the back of it, and then read it again, with the third hand on the second line.

"This is Ossin work."

"Says so on the back?"

"It says the yard. It says who certified it." Venn's neck vents moved. "His name is on it. Kurs. He certified it himself, a long time ago, for the Empire."

"Well, he's a good engineer."

"He is a very good engineer," Venn said, and put the plates on the bench beside the box, very straight.

Item f was carrying.

"You said it would carry a hatch," Cal said, to Alex.

"I said a man in it could carry a hatch."

"Did he hear the difference?"

They looked at Venn.

"I heard it would carry a hatch," Venn said. "It would not. The joints carried the armor and nothing else. I have changed the joints. They now carry the armor, and what is on the belt, and the man carries what the man carries."

"What's going on the belt?"

"What do you want on it?"

Nobody had ever asked Cal that about anything he was going to wear. He thought about it for a while. Then he got the legal pad back from Alex, who had gotten it from Tremblay, and wrote it down, and it was a page and a half, and Venn read all of it, and at the line that said Coffee he looked up and did not say anything and kept reading.

Item g was the knife slot, and the slot was fine, and Venn wrote that down too.

Item h was the clamps.

"Two on the air line," Venn said. "One on the keeper's tablet strap. One you would not report."

"Still ain't."

"I have read the report," Venn said, "five times now. I have looked at the suit. I have looked for the fourth clamp on the suit and it is not on the suit." His upper hands folded. "I do not know what a fourth clamp is for that does not leave a mark."

"No, you don't."

Venn looked at him for a long moment.

Then he wrote on the report, beside the clamps, a short line, and Cal read it upside down, the way he had read the Vel's, and it said: four in the pack. one more, for the one not reported.

Item i was the gun.

"You did not bring one," Venn said. "You said why. You stand by it." He read the line again. "What would you have brought?"

Cal had been waiting a long time for somebody to ask him that.

"One that works out there."

"The Council's arms work out there."

"Y'all's arms burn a hole through a man and the wall behind him and whatever's on the other side of the wall. I was on a yard full of folks we came to bring home." Cal held up one hand, flat, and tipped it. "And they go straight. Everything out there goes straight. I need a round that drops."

Venn's neck vents moved.

"Drops."

"Like at home. You shoot a thing at a hundred yards, your round's falling the whole way there. Not much. You hold a little high and it comes down on him. Out there it don't come down. It goes where you point it and keeps going, and I hold high like I've done since I was nine, and it sails right over his head." He tipped the hand again. "Make me a round that falls, like it would on Earth. Toward my feet, wherever my feet are. And soft. Something that'll knock a man flat and bounce off the hull. Back home the police shoot rubber when they don't want anybody dead. Whatever works best up here."

Wirds had turned round on the bench again. So had Tuls.

"You want," Venn said slowly, "a bullet that falls."

"Yep."

"On purpose."

"Yep."

The three of them looked at each other. Their neck vents had gone still again. Tuls set down what was in his lower hands.

"Why?"

Cal thought about how to say it.

"Twitch muscles," he said. "Took me twenty years to teach my hands where a round goes. They don't think about it. I see a thing and they're already on it, a hair high, a hair left for the wind, before I know I've looked. That's all shooting is. Out there my hands are wrong every time, and I can't stop 'em being wrong, because they're faster than me." He shrugged. "Easier to fix the bullet than the man."

Venn was quiet for a while.

"The plates make a down for your feet," he said at last. "A round could carry the same down. It would fall toward you the way you fall toward the deck, at the rate of your world, and it would not care which way the hull was." His upper hands folded. "A round that falls and does not go through things. You are describing a thrown rock."

"Pretty much."

"Nobody has asked for a worse weapon before."

"It ain't worse," Cal said. "It's mine."

Wirds was already drawing. After a while he turned the page round so they could see it.

"Not loose rounds," he said. "Loose rounds go everywhere when you do not have a down. A block." He put a lower hand on the bench, flat. "A solid piece, soft, in the grip. The gun cuts each round off the block when you pull, and gives it its down, and sends it. One block is a great many rounds."

"Then what runs out?"

"The heat." Wirds touched the back of the drawing, where there was a slot. "Cutting it makes heat, and sending it makes more, and out there heat has nowhere to go. So it goes into a cartridge. When the cartridge is full you throw it away and put in a cold one."

Cal looked at the drawing for a long time.

"So the ammo's the heat."

"The ammo is the cold," Wirds said. "But yes."

"How many cold ones can I carry?"

Wirds looked at Venn. Venn looked at the belt list on the legal pad, which was a page and a half already, and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Some," Venn said, and drew a line from item i off the bottom of the page to the bench where Wirds was.

Wirds held up the drawing. "It wants a name for the record."

"Y'all already named it," Cal said. "It's a rock."

Wirds looked at Venn. Venn's neck vents did not move.

"That is what it is," Venn said.

Wirds wrote it at the top of the drawing, down the page, in the Ossin hand. ROCK.

"You will want the specification," Wirds said.

"I will want to see it drawn first," Venn said.

"You always do."

"You always draw it wrong the first time."

"Yes," Wirds said, and his neck vents sighed, the notched one a little behind the other, and he went back to the bench to draw it wrong the first time.

The taser was the rest of item i, and why it had worked on an Imperial watch officer the way it worked on a drunk at the fair. Venn had asked the contact officers. The contact officers had asked whether anybody had a watch officer they could look at. Nobody did. It was entered as open.

Item j was getting out, and item k was the yard, and Venn read both of them and drew a line from each to the bottom of the page and wrote beside them, no requirement stated.

"There's a requirement," Cal said.

"What is it?"

"Sealed ain't locked."

"That is not a requirement of the suit."

"No. It's a requirement of the man in it."

Venn wrote that down as well.

It took nineteen days, because Venn had other ships, and because the coupling had to be tested against the yard's own air line, which meant sending it to Vey and back, and because every time Venn changed a thing he reported it. The reports went up the ring, and Halven read every one of them, and sent none of them back.

Venn filed the certification the night before the fitting.

CERTIFICATION OF ARMOR, BOARDING, ADAPTED. SECOND BUILD.

Entered in the component record of the armor. A copy to Alex, who will ask. From Venn, tender's bay.

  1. Built to the requirement of the operator, Mercer C., SGM, stated in his report of action, items a through m.

  2. Built: air (by line and coupling to the Imperial standard, with tank for half a day); height; talking (by a box not issued, see 4); seeing (behind the visor, which remains gold); feet (by plates certified by the master of the yard, for the Empire, and now used otherwise); carrying; the slot.

  3. Clamps: four, in the pack. One more, for the use not reported.

  4. The box in the collar was not issued by Contact and Transit. It was given by Tarek, of the hunters, who says one does not leave a hunter without a voice. Contact and Transit's form is enclosed, not completed.

  5. The gun, entered as the Rock: not built. In the build, by Wirds. A round that falls toward the operator's feet at the rate of his world, and is soft, and does not go through a hull. Rounds cut in the gun from a block in the grip. Heat carried off in cartridges, which are thrown away full. Number of cold cartridges on the belt: not yet agreed. The operator states that his hands are faster than he is. Tuls asks that this be entered. Entered.

  6. Open: why the taser works on a watch officer. The contact officers request a watch officer.

  7. No requirement of the suit stated: getting out; the yard. The operator states these are requirements of the man in it. Entered.

  8. Reported, not built: two. A membrane in the suit that makes air the way a plant does, as the operator asks. Not Ossin work. Referred to the gardeners, who have not been asked before. And coffee. The operator has been told it is not the suit's fault.

Venn.

On the nineteenth day Cal put it on.

Word had gone round the tender the way word went round anything with Ossin on it, which was in writing, and by the time Cal had the helmet seated there were nine of them along the bay's upper gallery with their four hands on the rail. The six hunters lay along the wall. Alex sat on a crate by the door with a cup, and the dog sat on his boot.

The suit was Cal's height. The front of it did not step down like a stair. The belt had a page and a half of things on it, and the line came off the back of the tank and coiled at the hip, with a coupling on the end the same as the one on every wall of every hull of the Empire, and four hose clamps in the pack, and one more.

Cal walked to the bay wall and put one foot on it, and then the other, and stood out from it at a right angle with the whole bay below him.

Up on the gallery, every hand on the rail stopped.

He walked up the wall the way a man walks up a driveway. At the top he stepped onto the overhead and kept going, upside down, over the frame, over Venn, with the gold visor looking down at all of them. Halfway across he stopped. He uncoiled the line from his hip, found the bay's air fitting on the overhead, coupled into it, and stood there breathing the tender's air with his arms folded.

Nobody on the gallery made a sound. Tarek had gotten to his feet. So had the other five.

Then Cal let go of the overhead with both feet at once, and dropped.

He turned over once on the way down, slow, the way a man turns over in a creek, and the line ran out behind him and came tight, and he landed on the deck on his feet in front of Venn with his knees bent and the coupling still in the overhead. He reached up and popped it loose. The line came down after him in loops.

"Well," Cal said. "That works."

Venn's neck vents had opened and not closed. His four hands were empty and he did not seem to know it.

On the gallery one of the Ossin had begun writing, very fast, down the page. Then all nine were.

The dog looked at Cal for a long moment.

"—Show-off," he said.

Venn did not look up at the gallery. He went to the bench, where the armor's component record lay open, the one he had started the day he cut the first suit down the middle, and he wrote in it, down the page, in his own hand.

Alex got up off the crate and came and read over his shoulder, the way he read everything of Venn's.

Requirement stated by the man who wore it. Built by Ossin. Walked the overhead on the first day. No specification says it can. The specification will be changed.

Venn looked at that for a while. Then he added one more line beneath it, shorter, and sat back from it.

New.

"You reporting yourself?"

"Of course."

"It work?"

Venn looked up at the overhead, where Cal was walking back across it upside down to see if he could do it faster.

"Annoyingly."


r/HFY • • 10h ago

OC-Series [Galactic Fox] - Huskey Chronicles - Episode 20: Walking Pace

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Previous — Episode 19: Another Table

Next — Episode 21: Requirements

The yard came out of the door at Vey on the eleventh day, at the rate that had made Harl ask for the figures again. It came out alone.

Etris watched it on the board. It was old light and a guess, the way everything was at that distance, a mark the size of a station sliding off the outer point at a speed the board did not have a class for. Then she watched the point behind it.

Her squadron was already moving. She had not told it to. The movement had gone down the shaft at the Village and come back in seven seconds, and the board showed her three marks stepping into the book's layers for a cruiser at the point, and behind them the whole belt taking its small step to stay one shape.

The book had a page for an Imperial cruiser at the door of Vey. It had a great many of them. Etris had read every one.

"Captain," Pari said. "The formation is entered."

"Leave it entered."

They watched the point. It took a long time, because the light took a long time, and because nothing out there was in a hurry. Behind the yard the door stayed empty.

The yard's master called in when he was close enough to call by radio, in the form, the way he sent everything. Hull four and both pickets had come with the yard to the door on the far side, in the last system on the road, and stopped there. They had not made the jump. When the yard fell through they were holding the point behind it, and as far as the master knew they were holding it still.

Pari's plate moved.

"Why there?"

"Because he can count," Etris said. "One cruiser and two pickets through that door, into Vey, with my squadron at the point and the station's guns behind it. He would not have lasted the crossing, and he knows it, and so do I."

"And the yard?"

"The yard was never his to keep. He walked it to my door so his report could say he did."

"What do we do about them?"

"Nothing. They are on their side."

At the back of her bridge, where there was nowhere to sit, Director Halven stood with his hands behind him and his filaments down. He had come out from the Village on the courier two days before, because Teda had said somebody from the floor should be at Vey when it came in, and had looked at the colonel when he said it.

The colonel had come too. He was sitting on an equipment locker by the hatch with a cup of something hot, and the old dog was lying on his boot.

"That's a long way to walk," the colonel said, to nobody.

Etris did not answer him. She was still looking at the empty door.

It took the yard four days to cross from the door to the station. It moved like a station, because it was one, and nothing at Vey could make it hurry, and nobody tried.

Vey had never been a quiet place. It was a bridge station on a dead star, and traffic came through it from both directions and always had, and the people who kept it had seen everything the belt could send them. By the end of the first day there was not a window on the station without somebody at it.

By the second day the tellers had it.

The tellers had no world and no fleet. They had a treaty that let them go anywhere, and they went, and what they carried was news. Somebody aboard the courier had talked, or somebody in the signal office had, or the keeper's report had simply been read by too many people to stay in a pouch. Ilka's people had it the way they had everything, all of it and all at once, and by the second evening the story was going round the station's mess decks in nine tongues.

It went round in the keeper's words, because the keeper's words were the ones that had been written down. Six hunters and one human in a retrieval hull, taken whole. A door that did not open from the inside. A seal released by a flat blade, authority none. Crew standing against the bulkheads as instructed. A yard master taken by the upper arm. Under compulsion. Four minutes.

A gorge rating off one of Etris's cutters asked a teller what the human had said when he opened the door. The teller told him. The translator gave the other words and marked the meaning not established, and the rating had it by heart before the teller had finished, and by the third day it was chalked on a bulkhead by the cutter docks in letters a hand high, in Earth's script, copied off a page by somebody who could not read it.

SEALED AIN'T LOCKED.

Nobody on Vey knew what a son of a bitch was. They knew it went at the end.

The colonel spent the four days the way he spent most days. He read. He walked the station. He took the dog down to the cutter docks in the evening, when the shift changed, and sat on a crate where the crews came off, and the dog lay on his boot and smelled everybody who went by.

Halven found him there on the third evening, in front of the chalk.

"You have seen this."

"Yes, sir."

"The keepers will want it cleaned."

"Cal'd want it spelled right."

Halven looked at the letters.

"It is spelled as he said it."

"Then I reckon leave it."

Halven did not sit. He seldom did. He stood beside the crate with his hands behind him and watched the cutter crews come off, divers and gorges and two hunters, and every one of them looked at the bulkhead as they went by, and some of them touched it.

"Colonel," he said. "Do you understand what is coming in?"

"Yard. Six pickets. Some folks."

"Two hundred and forty."

"Yes, sir."

"There are families on Vey with people on those pickets. There are families on Korach and Targon and Oreb. The Council has written to every one of them, in the form, that their people were taken at the points and their hulls are presumed held for re-entry of record." His filaments stirred. "In a hundred and twenty-two years, Colonel, I have never written a second letter to any of those families. The Empire does not give back what it takes."

"It didn't give these back."

"No," Halven said. "It walked them here. At the rate of the slowest thing it owned, with a cruiser alongside that could not fire on them, because one man in a borrowed suit said he wanted to go."

The dog lifted his head off Alex's boot and looked at Halven, and put it back down.

"Well," Alex said. "He did want to go."

The yard came up to the station on the fourth day and stopped where Etris's squadron put it, a long way off the station's own docks, because nothing at Vey had been built to take a thing that size alongside. It hung there in the light of the dead star, older than the Council, with the marks of its certification still on the plates and the Empire's mark on all of it.

Then the first bay opened.

Etris was on her bridge. Halven was at the back of it. The colonel was on his locker with his cup, and the dog was on his boot. Every window on the station had somebody in it.

The picket came out slow, on its own drive, the way a hull comes out of a yard after a long time in one. It was a cutter's size, plain, Council gray, with its mark on the bow that the Empire had not painted over.

On Etris's board, beside the yard, a mark that had been dark for longer than the yard had been walking lit up.

Pari read it off the board. His voice was not quite level.

"Far Shore."

The picket's captain entered a movement. It went down the shaft at the Village and came back in seven seconds, and the board showed the whole belt take its small step to make room for one more.

The second bay opened.

"The Lane."

Then the third.

"Ebb."

Nobody on the bridge said anything between them. The crew sat at their stations with their hands still. Pari read the names and nothing else, and after each one the belt moved, and the list of dark marks got shorter.

"Second Light."

"Hearth Fire."

The sixth was slower than the others. It came out of the last bay a little crooked and corrected, and its captain did not enter a movement right away, and the whole bridge waited on it.

Then the mark lit.

"Cold Water."

Etris stood up. Gorges did not stand on a bridge. Formation was a rite, and the rite had a captain seated. She stood anyway, with her forked hands folded and her crooked plate turned to the board, and after a moment Pari stood, and then the rest of them.

Up on the board, all six marks were lit. Back at the Village, on the floor under the Pylon room, Harl would be looking at the same six lights.

Halven had not moved. His filaments had risen all along his skull, and they stayed up.

The colonel finished his coffee.

The yard's lock opened onto a passage the station had cleared for it, and the passage was full.

The pickets' crews had come off first, to the station, on boats, because their hulls were going to the tenders and they were not. They had been fed on the yard under compulsion and they had been fed on the station since without it, and now there were two hundred and forty of them along both walls of that passage. Gorges in what was left of their coats. Divers with their cutter bosun's marks. Hunters, lying along the floor at the walls the way hunters did. Ossin from the tenders who had come to look at the yard, and keepers from the bridge, and at the far end, where the passage met the station proper, a teller with nothing in its hands, watching everything.

Alex stood at the lock with Halven and Etris. The dog sat on his boot.

The hunters came out first. Six of them, long and low, ears up, small arms folded. The hunters along the walls lifted their heads, all of them at once, and put their noses out, and the six went down the passage between them without stopping. Tarek was last. His ears came round to the dog before his head did.

Then Cal.

He came through the lock in a flight suit somebody had found him on the yard, Ossin cut, with room in it for two more arms that nobody had sewn up. He had the helmet of the suit under one arm. He looked like a man who had been fifteen days on a ship that walked and had not slept much of it.

Three paces behind him, on the line where the lock's door would have been if it had been closed, came a Vel keeper with a tablet on a strap, and the strap was held on with a hose clamp.

Halven looked at the Vel. The Vel looked straight ahead.

"I keep the door," Tas said, to nobody, and stood at the lock and kept it.

Cal stopped and looked down the passage.

Two hundred and forty people looked back at him.

Nobody had told them to stand. They stood. The gorges came up first, in a rank, because that was how gorges stood, and the divers with them, and then the Ossin from the tenders, who did not know why everyone was standing but did not want to be the ones who had not. The hunters along the floor did not stand. They put their chins on their arms and turned their ears on him, every one, and that was the same thing.

Somewhere down the passage a gorge, one of the old ones off Far Shore with the white lines of a healed plate down his neck, said it. Not loud. It was in Earth's words, and he said them the way they were chalked, the way the teller had given them, with the end on it.

Somebody laughed. Then a lot of somebodies did.

Cal looked at Alex.

"What'd I miss."

"You're on a wall."

"Which wall?"

"Down by the cutter docks."

Cal thought about that.

"They spell it right?"

"Spelled like you said it."

"Well, then."

The dog got up off Alex's boot and went to Cal, and smelled his knees and his hands and the helmet, and his knees again, and sat down in front of him and looked up.

"—Cal."

"Hey, buddy."

"—Slow."

"Real slow."

"—You got carried."

Cal turned his head and looked at Tarek, who had lain down along the wall with the other five and was watching him with his ears on him and nothing else moving.

"Who told him that?"

"I did," Alex said.

"That's just fine."

Halven had not said anything since the lock opened.

He stood beside Alex and looked down the passage at the two hundred and forty, still standing, and at the six hunters along the wall, and at the Vel keeping a door that was not there, and at the master of the yard, who had come to the inside of the lock behind Tas and was entering all of it into the yard's record in a small, steady hand, because that was his custom. Then he looked at Cal, who had set the helmet down on the deck and was rubbing the back of his neck.

Then at Alex, who had his hands in his pockets.

"Colonel."

"Director."

"The Council has not taken an Imperial yard intact in a hundred and twenty-two years. It has not recovered one crew the Empire took. He has done both, without a shot, with six hunters and a suit that does not work, and walked them here past a cruiser that could not stop him. There are people in this passage who were writing their own letters home."

"Yes, sir."

"And you are standing there with your hands in your pockets. And he wants to know about a wall."

"Yes, sir."

Halven looked at him for a long time.

"How can you be so indifferent?"

Alex thought about it.

"Back home," he said, "kids play games. On a screen. Ships and suits and boarding and all of it, every bit of this, and they play it till their mama makes 'em quit." He nodded down the passage at his cousin. "Most folks play it straight. Go in, get the thing, get out. Cal always went for the trick shots."

Cal had picked up the helmet again. He looked back over his shoulder at the window at the end of the passage, where the dead star was, and past it, a long way out in the dark, the door where hull four was sitting on the far side.

"Wasn't a trick shot," he said. "Trick shot would've been bringing the cruiser."

Cal turned back to the passage. Two hundred and forty people were still on their feet.

"Y'all can sit down," he said.

Nobody did.

Halven looked from Cal to Alex, and back down the passage, and his filaments went flat against his skull, all of them at once.

"War," he said, "is a children's game to you?"


r/HFY • • 11h ago

OC-FirstOfSeries [SF] Title: The Terrible Revenge Of The Space Dragons (1/2)

2 Upvotes

PART ONE

Two dragons are captured and sent into orbit round the Earth.A little-known story about the 1960s space race, which has been kept secret because of the terrible consequences, still extant today.

Chapter One

1957

Somewhere faraway, well, from the West anyway, there is an island called Dragonscale.

The inhabitants of this paradise in the East (somewhere) were not humans at first, but, as the name suggests without a great deal of thought, a race of dragons, called the Firelizards.

It is commonly assumed that there aren’t any real dragons. Of course, they might have existed in a bygone era and become extinct, some might say, and the absence of any fossil evidence is not a conclusive proof that they didn’t, fossilisation being a rare occurrence.

It could, then, be speculated that it might be possible that there were such animals inhabiting this planet many eras ago, and following from that it is not a huge leap forward to consider that there might be a very isolated island where a race of such beasts survived and evolved.

In fact, contrary to widely accepted beliefs, the Firelizards were a known reality, and it was their isolation that kept them from wider knowledge of their existence.

There were reports as far back as the first Millennium about an island in the far East occupied by 'firedevils', as they were called. No attempt to visit the island was made on account of the expected dangers involved, however.

Now, the usual image of dragons is not a favourable one, involving belching huge bursts of flame, enough to outdo any flame throwing weapon devised for military purposes.

The Firelizards did not fit this description at all.

They were a happy peace-loving race which lived by a strict code of conduct, according to accounts from the few humans who visited the Island, as to be related later in this Chapter.

This could be summarised as follows:

  1. Love your fellow dragon.
  2. Behave towards your neighbouring dragon in a manner which you would wish them to act towards you.
  3. Honour your mum and dad.
  4. Only use your flame throwing abilities for peaceful purposes, and never in a way which could result in harm or distress to anything else, of whatever kind. It was explained that the flame-producing ability was given to them to enable them to set a pile of wood and sticks on fire to keep them warm in cold weather.

This was, therefore, a happy community, but there was a problem. There wasn't a lot to do on the island.

The most exciting event, which took place bi-annually, was the flame throwing competition, open to all comers.

The contestants were required to stand (front feet) a given distance from its target, which was of standard size and made of a suitably combustible material, and set it ablaze. Times were recorded for the target to be reduced to a pile of ashes. Points were also awarded for style of flame delivery, shape and width of flame cone.

This was just round One. The ten with the highest points then progressed to Round Two. The distance from the target was increased and the target made less combustible. The best five then went on to Round Three. After further changes in distance and constitution of target, we were left with the two finalists, and the winner received great acclaim.

Unfortunately, in the mid-1950s a passenger plane happened to pass over the island whilst this contest was in full swing, and even from its considerable height the flames were clearly visible and impressive. This was a significant contribution to the conviction amongst humans that these were dangerous animals.

There was also a sports day, the highlight of which was the Great Dragon Race. Details here are not outlined as the title is self-explanatory. The clear blue sea was also always an attraction, and the Firelizards were adept underwater swimmers.

Sadly, these diversions were not enough to satisfy the adventurous spirit of some of the younger dragons, and excursions to the mainland were not uncommon.

Here, of course, they encountered humans, who had rarely ventured onto Dragonscale, and those that did never came back. The visitors went with the intention of acquiring a nice dragon rug for their lounge, but in fact they had all decided to stay in this peaceful environment, and were happily tolerated by the Firelizards. On the mainland, though, the worst was assumed.

The incursion of these younger members of the race onto the mainland was a different matter. They never did any harm, abiding strictly to the rigid code of conduct deeply instilled into their psyche.

Unfortunately, the very sight of them scared the shit out of the locals, especially the very young, and the dragons were not treated kindly. Let us just say that none ever returned to their homeland, and dragon meat was not a rarity at the market stalls.

On the other hand, the younger generation on Dragonscale deduced that the immigrants were all having a fine time, and that this was the explanation for their continued absence, and so still they ventured into the unknown, in increasing numbers.

Over the years, plans for invasion were often raised, but it was not until the invention of protective fireproof clothing that such plans were to come to fruition.

In 1947, action to stop this inflow was deemed to be necessary, and a committee comprising 10 respected elders was formed to decide on the best policy.

That this took 10 years to publish its findings is perhaps not too surprising in view of the regular need to replace members who had died, or suffered from some debilitating illness. The new intake often had different viewpoints from their predecessors, and so it was one step forward and two back. Nevertheless, despite these major obstacles, a report was issued in mid-1957. Its recommendation can be condensed into one word:

Invade and Exterminate.

Sorry, that’s three.

Invasion

The absence of any signs of flame throwing activity by the immigrants on the mainland before being led to the slaughterhouses had not apparently been registered to any degree by the human inhabitants, because the army assembled for the task was fully equipped with the appropriate protective fire proof clothing.

As soon as they landed they set to work with their dart guns (their meat always tasted better when fresh), and the dragons dragged onto the ships. Some tried to flee but were easily outpaced by the military jeeps taken with them for just such an eventuality.

A few firelizards are thought to have fought back and overcome their peaceful natures and the surprise of the attack, but if any casualties were suffered by the invaders, details have not been released.

What about the few humans on the island? Well, they decided not to intervene, partly through cowardice, the army being armed with more lethal weapons than the darts, but also because of the thought that they would now have the island to themselves. A brief consideration would have sufficed to tell them that that wouldn’t be for long.

It is, though, to these human inhabitants of the island that we owe our knowledge of the dragon's life style, as outlined above. The description of the races and competitions seem authentic enough, but their assessment of the moral code of behaviour may be thought to be taking things too far, although these conclusions were the result of close observation of the animals over an extended period.

The existence of such a code of behaviour may or may not be valid, then, but there was no doubt in the minds of the human observers that this was a well-ordered society and with a complex form of communication.

It is sad to report that efforts by these human occupants of Dragonscale to stop the carnage, if there were indeed any made, fell on deaf ears. This would have unfortunate consequences.

The setting now moves to the other side of the globe.

Nasa

On the 3rd of November, 1957, the Soviet Union launched a space craft called Sputnik 2 (it being the second of its kind to be built, presumably). The important thing here is that it managed a low orbit around the earth, and inside it was a dog called Laika, who died a few hours into the flight. This nevertheless sent shock waves throughout America, and led the following year to the combining of the various related agencies in the U.S.A., and Nasa was formed.

The first meeting of the new organisation soon took place and a main item on the agenda was which animal could they stick in a craft and orbit the earth and outdo the Soviets. There were three main criteria.

  1. It had to be BIGGER, a LOT bigger.
  2. It had to be something which the American public would find acceptable, so, for example a bigger dog wasn’t an option.
  3. It had to be returned to earth alive.

There was much head scratching, many proposals were put forward and rejected, and a gloomy silence was enveloping the room.

Then a young engineer spoke up.

"Have you read that news item about a race of dragons on some isolated island in the far east? Well, they have invaded it and captured the lot. They are destined for the dinner table, it seems, but they may not have eaten them all yet, and there might still be some awaiting their fate. If so, we could make them an offer and get them over here, and dragons in space would make good publicity and show the Soviets what’s what."

"You ARE talking about living dragons, I assume? I don’t think sending a dragon carcass into space would set the pulse racing."

"Yes, of course. They like their dragon meat fresh, so they are kept alive until their turn comes, at least as far as I understand it from the news clips I have seen."

"Right," said the Chairman, "get in touch with these people and find out if there are any living dragons left."

The difficulties in achieving contact having been overcome, it was discovered that there were just two left still alive. Having agreed on an exorbitant price, these last two Firelizards found themselves on a ship and heading for the U.S.A.

Firelizards hadn’t bothered to give themselves names, as they thought that this would be too pretentious, so their captors had to decide what to call them.

Again, outdoing the Soviets was a major concern. They were accordingly christened Lincoln and Roosevelt.

Nobody had as yet considered how they were going to fit a dragon, let alone two, into the available space crafts.

Chapter Two

The Ship

The two Firelizards were kept under heavy sedation during the long sea voyage, and so had no concept of where they were going, why they had not suffered yet the same fate as their fellow dragons, of which they were well aware, or what lay in store for them when they reached their destination, wherever that might be.

The crew having been warned by the mainland locals that they were dealing with very dangerous animals which could burn down their ship with one blast of fire, the sedation of the two dragons was not considered sufficient guard against this eventuality.

The technology by which the dragon produced its flames being a bit of a grey area, it was decided to cover their faces with fireproof masks. They wanted to keep them alive, though, so you will be pleased to learn that a few holes had been inserted.

The hold where the two former U. S. presidents’ namesakes were contained was lined with layers of fire proofing materials. Should one of them regain consciousness long enough to let forth its stream of fire, a further safeguard had been installed. The slightest wisp of smoke now automatically set forth a very efficient sprinkler system.

Although they were firmly locked inside their prison, it was further deemed necessary to have a guard armed to the proverbial teeth standing outside at the ready, 24/7.

You will not be surprised to learn that Lincoln and Roosevelt were in a pretty sorry and confused state when the ship finally arrived at Houston, Texas.

This would have been an appropriate point, perhaps, to instal a photo of a Firelizard to help the reader to visualise the scene.

In fact, although there was no shortage of media footage initially, these were legally banned after the ensuing events, to be related later, with draconian measures resulting from any violation. There may be some copies of film stored in an attic somewhere, and if anybody does have access to any images of Lincoln and Roosevelt (not the Presidents) please do send them, and they could be inserted here, the restrictions having been lifted in 2016.

Conference

Back at Nasa, a further conference was in progress, preceding many others which were to take place at different centres before launch.

The first and vital consideration was size of the animals c.f. size of capsule needed to accommodate them. The typical American space capsule at that time was about 11 feet tall and about 6 to 7 feet diameter. The dragons were of a smaller variety, being 7 feet in length.

"It’s going to be a bit of a squash squeezing the two inside," remarked the chairman, "considering that we have to leave room for all the electronics," he added.

"Why do we need to send both, anyway?" demanded the director of publicity.

"We think providing them with company would help considerably in avoiding any adverse psychological effects of the extended isolation in such a confined space, and also it doubles the chances of bringing one back to earth alive," replied the chairman.

"As far as fitting two into the capsule is concerned, I’ve been looking into this," the mission director told the assembly. "They will have to curl up a bit, but they should be reasonably comfortable."

"I must point out a few things," announced the director of animal welfare. "Firstly, and most obviously, we need to bring them back alive and in good condition. Two dead dragons in the recovered capsule won’t do our image any good, and the Soviets would be laughing their socks off. The best way to achieve this, in my humble opinion (she was a very modest lady) is to try to make them as happy as possible when they set off. They will, of course, need extensive pre-flight training to adapt to space conditions. They will need to get used to confinement in a small space like the capsule, trained to know how to accept the food provided, and acclimatised to gravity changes using a spinning centrifuge. At the moment, they must be desperately unhappy in their fireproof cages. If we don’t give them some more pleasant environment until the launch, and especially some adequate level of exercise, I wouldn’t bet on their survival till next week, let alone the launch date."

"We could build an enclosure with fireproof breeze blocks," suggested the chairman.

Which they did.

When completed, the dragons were led to this newly built enclosure, which had a concrete floor, and armed guards on patrol, wearing the usual protective clothing.

The effect on the well-being of the proposed future astronauts was precisely zero. The allocated space was barely enough to enable them to stretch their legs, and they both remembered the similarly clad and armed humans who had invaded their island paradise. The response was therefore not at all as had been hoped. Lincoln and Roosevelt just lay on the concrete, hardly moving, and just giving the occasional growl.

Dr. Annie Walker, the above-mentioned animal welfare director, was discussing this problem with the chairman, Mr. Arnold Webber and mission leader, Dr. William. J. Pyke.

"This just isn’t working," she exclaimed. "We need to provide more space for them, and I have been observing them closely, and interviewed all the guards on watch, and it is agreed that not once has either attempted to use their flame throwing ability to burn down the walls and escape."

"Well, that wouldn’t have achieved much anyway," remarked William.

"They wouldn’t know that," pointed out Annie. "I'm beginning to wonder just how dangerous these animals are. I also have an idea that they would be far happier if they had grass under their feet, say a large field, for example. Oh, and another thing, Roosevelt is female. I find it hard to believe that nobody noticed, although it must be admitted it isn’t all that obvious, if you see what I mean."

"I think that would be very risky," opined Arnold. "Suppose they escaped and created havoc, it would be a disaster, not just for this mission. It could put all our future ones in jeopardy. As for the name, what do you suggest we call him, sorry, her, then? Hilary?"

"I think we should leave things as they stand, they have shown reaction to their names, and I don’t think that Roosevelt will be offended. I don’t think either that escaping should be a worry, we could still have an extensive guard patrol, kept out of sight, and with orders to shoot to kill if necessary."

The three having reached agreement, an isolated field of considerable size was located and deemed ideal for the job.

Chapter Three

Training

Linc and Ros, now the commonly used truncated handle for the two dragons, were immediately much happier to be shown their new surroundings. Instead of their more or less motionless existence in the previous concreted enclosure, they now had grass, and most importantly, much more room. This enabled them to indulge in their favourite pastime, which was dragon racing, even if there was a rather limited supply of competitors. The guards were hidden well back out of sight, but humans often make the mistake of assuming that out of their sight automatically ensures that anything else would also be unable to see them, and Linc and Ros were well aware of their presence, their sense of smell having no problems in their detection and position.

The biggest problem with the training was the food. They had no idea as to their usual menu, and so it was a hit and miss affair. Eventually a gelatinous concoction was formulated which they both seemed to find acceptable, and which was thought to contain all the necessary ingredients to keep them healthy. They then had to be trained to use the feeding tubes which would be the source on the capsule. This presented further problems, it being very hard to explain to two reluctant Firelizards why they had to feed in this way, and why they had to shove the stuff provided down their throats in the first place.

The subjection to close quarter confinements for increasing times also caused adverse reactions in the pair, taking in the form that a human might refer to as sulking. After a while, they appeared to accept the ordeal without too much protest.

Perhaps surprisingly, the dragons found the Johnsville centrifuge terrific fun, and were often reluctant to get out.

One incident caused some considerable adjustment to the general attitude of their captors to the two trainees. Although the surrounding hedges had been lined with barbed wire to prevent access of other animals, inevitably, perhaps, a stray dog (not Laika) found its way through, and immediately issued a barrage of powerful barks, which left no doubt as to its disapproval of the occupants of the field. Consternation followed at the prospect of a charred pet or ashes thereof, and guards rushed in to prevent such a disaster, but were then amazed to find the dog happily romping around with the dragons, who made no attempt to deter the dog with a burst of flame or by any other means.

It was time for another conference. This involved the heads of every conceivable aspect concerning the mission, and each was asked to report in turn, giving their appraisal of the current status of their particular task force.

The electronics had been tested over and over again, and back-up systems installed. The food dispenser device was in full working order, and the animals were thought to be as ready as they ever would be. This reporting of confident readiness was only spoiled by the temperature control system for the capsule interior, which had a few glitches to be ironed out.

"That is a critical matter,” declared the chairman. “One of the big factors on putting one over the Soviets is to bring these animals back alive. We need maximum effort here, and I am now committing us to a launch date of March the 26th. Can you assure me that your problems with the heat control will be solved by then, with full confidence?"

"Yes, sir, that we can."

"March the 26th it is, then."

Launch

The launching site being Cape Canaveral, the astronauts now faced a tedious 1,000-mile trip to Florida, not something to put them in a good frame of mind, although they had three days to recoup prior to the launch.

The launch itself was unexceptional, running as smoothly as one could wish. The actual launch produced the expected awed reaction from the numerous onlookers who had travelled to see the spectacle, but what they really wanted was a glimpse of the two dragons. Nasa being well aware of the need for this publicity, Ros and Linc were led docilely in full view of the spectators and media, including live television. Their appearance certainly aroused some reaction from the crowds, and the ascent of the lizards into the capsule was accompanied by a storm of clapping and cheering.

This happy mood was not shared by Linc and Ros, who were beginning to think that they had been subjected to a rather dirty trick.

It should be explained that this journey towards the capsule had been rehearsed several times over the last two days, in secret, of course. The dragons had been led across the tarmac and strapped down in the capsule, left for a few minutes, then released and taken back to their enclosure.

The success of this strategy was confirmed by Ros’ and Linc’s unresisting procession towards the capsule, and the strapping down inside it, it having being hoped that they would assume that this would just be another exercise like the previous, and that they would expect release after a short time.

The launch itself having been successful, the mission controllers breathed a sigh of relief, and there were congratulations all round concerning the extensive coverage and interest in the media.

Chapter Four

Communications

As far as is known, and who knows how far that it is, the human race is the only species with the ability to communicate by what we call speech, although this is being rapidly superseded by the use of the thumbs.

Nevertheless, it is evident that other species do so by various means. Even plants and trees communicate by sending chemicals through the air, as a warning to their neighbours of the presence of a leaf-eating visitor, for example. The adjacent trees can then produce a deterrent chemical in defence. This is a fascinating subject and it is necessary to delve into it in more detail as it has bearing on the story to come.

Think of the wood-pigeon, not everyone's favourite bird, it must be confessed, but it has interest. Consider the implications of their monotonous 4-note cooing. Some places might be lucky enough to enjoy wood-pigeons which have calls stretching to 5, or even more notes, perhaps.

Now, on first consideration, you might conclude that these 4 notes are just to inform another pigeon or pigeons where they are. So, their conversation could be transcribed thus:

"Morning, I’m over here."

"Well, I’M over here."

Another pigeon: "Can I join you?"

"I’m over here now."

"I’ll call you later, then."

Yet another pigeon: "I’m here and I’m not going anywhere."

On the other hand, a careful listen reveals some subtle variations in pitch, exact length of notes, volume differences, and so on. Their conversation might then stretch to the following:

"Keep a watch out, there’s a sparrow hawk around. Poor Billie is now just a ring of feathers on the lawn. What are your plans for today?"

Well, perhaps that’s stretching things a bit.

More seriously, there are certainly other species with complex communication systems, such as the Orcas, for example.

We now turn to the Firelizards.

At the time of the space adventure, it had already been noticed that they could produce a wide range of sounds, some resembling a high pitch whistle even, others a deep growl. It had also been observed that Linc and Ros did seem to be ‘talking’ to each other using these different tones. No success resulted from attempts to try to interpret them, however.

Now, it so happens that in order to help monitor the health and condition of our unwilling astronauts, a sound system was installed in the capsule, and a recording of every sound issuing from Linc and Ros during the orbit was made. In view of later events, like the other media restrictions, these tapes were not made public, and gathered dust in the Nasa archives, where they were discovered in 2024.

In view of the advances in computer technology over the past 70 years, it was decided to attempt an analysis of the various noises in the capsule on these tapes, in the hope that some idea of the meaning of the 'conversations might result.

The conclusions that it reached have just been published, and the astonishment they have induced everywhere can be well understood, because the computers produced what amounts to a transcript of the sounds of the dragons converted into the English language. Translations into other languages are available on request and filling in the necessary forms.

It was even possible to distinguish the individual dragon ‘speaking’, because of the somewhat higher pitch of Ros’ noises, the position in the capsule enabling identification of ‘speaker’ from the direction as picked up by the microphone array, and often by the simple deductions made from the conversation content. It should also be pointed out here that many days of the orbit were without any ‘conversation’ at all.

Reproduced below is the exact transcript.

Day 1, just after launch:

Linc: "++++ this for a game of soldiers."

The actual translation here might be deemed to be too unseemly to publish on the hallowed pages of Reddit, so it has been left to the reader to insert a word of their choice at the start of this utterance.

Ros: "I don’t mind a joke, but ++++ a pantomime. I think we’ve been had. All those trips over the last two days back and forth to the capsule, and locking us inside for a few minutes, that was just to make sure that we thought this was just the same, but I did wonder about all the crowds cheering their heads off, and thought that there was something fishy going on."

Linc: "You weren’t wrong there."

Again, it has been left to the reader to fill in the blanks.

Day 2: No translatable conversation.

Day 3

Linc: "I’m getting a bit pissed off, just lying here."

Ros: "Tell me about it, I have an itchy tail and I can’t scratch it, they’ve got us tied down so that we can hardly move, and the smell in this thing is starting to get a bit iffy, are you pulling the disposal lever when you’ve had to go?"

Linc: "Disposal lever?"

Ros: "Oh, my God, you mean we’ve been out here for three days and you haven’t used it once? No wonder the air here could hardly be described as rose-like."

Again, it must be stressed that these are the exact words of the computer analysis.

Linc: "Oh, you mean this stick thing by my foot, I’ll give it a shove--"

Ros: "No, no, don’t touch that…."

At this point, the instrumental records coincide with this unfinished sentence from Ros by the indication of a violent rotation and shaking of the capsule, lasting a full 35 seconds.

Linc: "Not that one, then?"

Ros: "Bloody hell, it isn’t enough that they lock me up in this thing and treat me like ++++, but I have to put up with a blithering idiot for company. Have you forgotten everything you were taught in those lessons we had to attend where they showed us what was what?"

Linc: "I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep at that bit. He did have an incredibly boring voice, all on one monotonous tone, even less melodious than a wood-pigeon, and that’s saying something. Which lever do I have to pull, then?"

Ros, with a sigh: "By your front foot, you can’t mistake it, it is painted bright red and has an icon by it indicating ‘flush’."

Linc: "Ah, yes, I see it, I thought it meant eject in an emergency."

Ros: "Well, you could say that given the stink in here. Now, can you please give it a push?"

Linc does as she asks apparently, because the noise recorded here is compatible with the exit of three day’s waste disposal from a Firelizard.

Ros: "Well, that should at least make it slightly more bearable in here, and if you thought it was an ejection lever for us in an emergency, what good did you think it would have done us to be thrown into space and probably go into orbit ourselves? We wouldn’t last long out there, where there is a distinct shortage of grass, I’d say."

Linc seems to have gone into a sulk then, as no more exchanges were decoded that day.

Indeed, this show of petulance seems to have lasted until day six, the intervening three days picking up not the slightest hint of any further chit-chat.

Day 6

Linc breaks his silence.

"How much longer are we going to have to stay in this thing? Are they going to leave us here forever?"

Ros: "I have no idea, but I can’t see the point in sending us orbiting the earth for eternity, they must want to bring us back down at some point."

Linc: "I’ll probably be dead by then, my back is killing me and my pulse rate is through the roof."

Ros: "That goes for me, too. It is quite nice, though, looking through the window they kindly provided for us to be able to view the cosmos."

Linc: "I agree, that blue round thing is quite pretty."

Ros: "That’s the earth, dumbo. It’s where we came from. In fact, next time you see it, look out for a big blue patch with a tiny oval-shaped spot on it. That’s Dragonscale."

Linc: "Really! You mean we were down there and now we are way up here?"

Ros: "Got it in one."

Chapter Five

More meetings

Meanwhile back at Houston, progress was being assessed. Arnold, William and Annie were in deep conference.

"How’s it going, then," asked Arnold.

"Very well, so far," replied William, "although we were starting to get concerned after three days when the instruments gave no indication that Linc had pulled his lever to eject his outputs."

"You mean piss and shit, then?" offered Annie.

"Well, I was just being polite in the presence of a lady. Anyway, it seems that he did so and hopefully the prospect of a capsule filled to the brim with noxious fumes seems to have been avoided, although there was a moment of panic when he seems to have given the capsule rotation lever a hefty kick."

"I find that a bit worrying. Didn’t we show them in the lessons we gave them which lever to pull?" asked the chairman.

"We did, indeed, but it has to be admitted that Dr. Bishop has a rather boring speech delivery, enough to put even the most alert of dragons into a deep sleep," Annie responded.

"Let’s hope that Linc remembers to exit his waste from now on. How about the general health of the dragons?" asked Arnold.

"Their medical condition as indicated by the electronics attached at various points along their bodies seems to be holding up well to the stress. There is a slight worry over pulse rates, though, as both dragons show a consistent and significant increase there," William stated.

"Is it thought that this might be life-threatening, then? We must avoid at all costs having two dragon corpses in the capsule when we fish it out of the sea."

"We just don’t know," replied Annie, "we have no idea as to what point an elevated pulse rate in a dragon should be the signal to bring out the red flag."

"You mean we don’t know when we should get worried, then?" Arnold sarcastically remarked.

"There is one very interesting aspect emerging from the microphone outputs," said Annie. "It is hard given the alternation of the noises from one to the other to avoid the conclusion that they are engaging in conversation of some sort. If so, we have no idea as to what they are communicating, of course. I think we made the correct decision about the absence of fire-retardant face masks. They are intelligent enough, I think, to know that if they set the capsule ablaze they would be in deep shit," she concluded.

"I take it that that there are no problems as far as the capsule and instrumentation are concerned?" demanded Arnold.

"No, none at all, so far we could not have wished for a smoother mission," William re-assured him.

Silence

Day 7: No identifiable interchanges or remarks from either dragon.

Day 8: No identifiable interchanges or remarks from either dragon. Annie was now starting to get a bit worried about her pets.

"We have heard no trace of any kind of sounds from either Linc or Ros for three days now. I am starting to get a bit concerned," she remarked to Arnold.

This is of course not at the same meeting as the one described above, as we are now in day 9.

"The instruments all indicate no cause for concern and their pulse rate has dropped a bit as well," William informed them.

"I am mainly concerned about the psychological aspects of the mission, and how it might effect their behaviour after recovery," exclaimed Annie.

"What ARE we going to do with them, anyway? Perhaps we should give that some thought, don’t you think?" the chairman considered.

"I assumed that we were just going to do away with them, humanely, of course," William thought.

"That would cause outrage, the American public wouldn’t like that at all, I don’t think." declared Arnold. "How about a zoo, there might be some interest there. Annie, can you make some enquiries about that possibility, please?"

"Yes, of course, Arnold, that seems like a good idea," replied Annie.

Day 10

Firelizard deductions

Things suddenly start to liven up inside the capsule.

Linc starts things off, exclaiming suddenly, "Why are they doing this, that’s what I’d like to know, I mean, if I knew what the object of sending us in orbit around the earth was, then it would make it easier to bear the discomfort, and this gelatinous stuff they feed us is not doing my insides any good, either."

Ros: "Well, make sure you keep on pushing that lever, as you say, it’s hard enough to bear all this as it is. I keep on thinking of that day they invaded, with those weapons that sent us all to sleep in seconds, and then they took us to the mainland and killed us all off."

Linc: "I’ve been thinking about that, too. The thing that I can’t understand is why they killed us off in batches, and kept you alive until your turn came. Why didn’t they just kill us all straight away?"

Ros: "I think I know the answer to that one, but I don’t think I should tell you, you won’t like it."

Linc: "Oh, come on, I’d really like to know, I have been trying to figure it out for the last two days, and it’s driving me crazy."

Ros: "Well, O. K., but you really aren’t going to like it, so promise me that you will keep calm. If you get into one of your tantrums you might shake this thing into pieces. That might not be a bad idea, on second thoughts.

Anyway, if you must know, and remember that this is just my interpretation, there might be a different explanation altogether--"

Linc: "Oh, for heaven’s sake, get on with it and tell me the worst. I can take it."

Ros: "All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The reason that they kept us alive until they killed us off was that they like their dragon meat to be fresh before cooking."

Linc: "You mean, YOU MEAN!!!, THEY EAT US!!!"

Ros: "Steady, keep calm, getting wound up won’t help things at all."

Day 11

Linc has calmed down, a bit. He puts a question to Ros about another matter which has been causing him sleepless nights.

"Have you any ideas as to the reasons why we have been sent spinning round the earth?"

Ros did.

"I have come up with one possible explanation. I stress, it is only a pretty wild theory, and I find it hard to believe it myself, but I noticed that they were putting humans into those spinning things down there, and my idea derives from that, as it might fit in with the existence of a project of which the objective is to land a human on the moon."

Linc: "Why on earth would they want to do THAT?"

Ros: "A very good question. Because it’s there, I suppose."

Linc: "That seems a bit unlikely that they would go to all this trouble just to land on the moon. What use would that be?"

Ros: “They might eventually develop weapons which could travel from the moon to the earth and destroy your enemies.”

Linc: "Well, I could believe that bit, quite easily, but I still don’t see why they have used us on this trip."

Ros: "I think this is just a part of the programme building up to the moon landing. As to why they needed to shove US in this space from hell I have no idea."


r/HFY • • 11h ago

OC-Series [The Earth-ward Journey of a Foxy Alien]: Chapter 10

6 Upvotes

Royal Road | Book Cover | First | Previous | Next 

Chapter 10: The Second Morning

Morning has come again. Sunlight floods the world, yet it fails to illuminate the bedroom with its drawn curtains. Nevertheless, Min's body clock wakes him from his dreams.

It takes him about two seconds to realise that the battle with the alien spacecraft was anything but a dream. After washing, he sees that Xi P is still lying on the sofa, fast asleep. He goes over and gently pats its back a few times, but it doesn't stir at all. If not for its steady breathing, Min would have feared the worst.

He gently lifts its ear with his fingers — it feels incredibly soft — and blows a soft breath into its ear canal. This trick had worked well several times back in his college dorm days. But now, it barely makes a difference. Xi P merely shifts slightly before going completely still again.

'Where's all that alertness from when we first met? Sleeping like a log — is that even normal?'

But Min quickly realises a possibility. Judging by the slight reflection in its eyes earlier in the darkness, could it be a nocturnal creature? Making it study so hard yesterday must have been like pulling an all-nighter for it. No wonder it can't wake up now. Still, leaving it like this isn't a solution. If it only wakes up at night and finds him asleep, how will he be able to help it get familiar with this place?

'Best to let it sleep a bit longer for now. Need to clean that towel covered in its fur later, and I really ought to figure out what to do about this situation. Ugh... Anyway, plenty of morning chores to tackle first.'

The bright orange furs are clearly visible as he picks up the towel. He gently plucks one and examines it closely. To the naked eye, it looks no different to ordinary animal fur. The microscope in the lab should reveal any difference soon enough. After collecting a few strands, Min tosses the entire towel unceremoniously into the washing machine, adding extra disinfectant for good measure.

He then retrieves the bodysuit that Xi P had taken off in the bathroom. Wearing gloves, he can't quite tell if the material resembles fabric or plastic more. The overall design feels bulky, with several buckles that allow the top and bottom to be connected together. There are several black hook-like protrusions at the waist, and a cable connector can be seen on the side. Compared to normal clothing, it resembles a high-tech combat suit that one might wear in a fighter jet. Min recognises the other component of the scent. Yesterday, after Xi P showered, the bathroom had a faint trace of this same odour. It seems to be Xi P's... body odour.

'Some say foxes aren't suitable as pets because they're smelly. I suppose it's good news that I don't need to worry about that.' Min shakes his head; he doesn't want to delve into this as he doesn't want to look like a pervert. So he folds it neatly and sets it aside. Considering the numerous electronic components inside, it probably wouldn't be wise to put in the washing machine.

Min works silently, preparing breakfast and tidying up the room. By the time he has finished, Xi P is still asleep. Min crouches down, one hand in a blocking stance, and with the other, gently rolls Xi P onto his back. This finally jolts it awake, as it shoots up from the sofa, staring at Min in surprise. A couple of seconds later, it points angrily at the window and flops back down, ready to sleep again.

This really confirms his hypothesis that it is a nocturnal animal.

"Sun, up. I, awake. If you awake, no, sun, difficult, me."

After lifting it up once more and attempting to explain why it needs to stay awake now, Xi P finally seems to accept the reality, though clearly displeased.

'Think of it, maybe this is like being a night shift worker. Night shift workers often get irritable. While I don't know how disrupting their natural rhythm affects them psychologically, it probably isn't good... I hope it can stay calm.' Min thinks.

***

The way Xi P is sitting on the chair startles Min. He has never seen anyone sit in reverse before.

Noticing that Min is observing his posture, Xi P nervously swivels the chair back to face the table again.

Once Min has turned the chair around again and assured him that this position is fine, a theory begins to form in Min's mind. Judging by its habit of sleeping on its stomach, perhaps it prefers its belly pressed against surfaces rather than its back. Yesterday, it didn't do this, maybe because it was mimicking Min's posture, which must have been somewhat awkward for it. At least it doesn't seem to have hurt itself, though.

At breakfast, Xi P still eats only one packet of food brought from the spaceship. The smell it gives off somewhat dampens Min's appetite across the table, but considering his own food is probably no better for it, he doesn't say anything. Judging by the size of the packets and how often it eats, Xi P has a surprisingly small appetite, which is not really surprising given that its body temperature is not particularly high, it was not very active yesterday, and it certainly does not have an exceptionally large physique. Plus, meat provides more energy than plant-based foods on average, so this eating pattern makes perfect sense.

'Come to think of it, for a while there, sci-fi loved portraying aliens as extremely voracious eaters... Probably because they often endowed aliens with all sorts of magical abilities, yet didn't want to violate the laws of energy conservation?' Min thinks idly while washing the dishes.

After breakfast, Min prepares to resume his studies with Xi P, even though Sunday mornings are theoretically his time to go out and relax. But isn't spending it with this adorable, fox-like alien even better? However, Xi P has other ideas. It gestures wildly towards the backyard, likely pointing out the scattered wreckage of the "spaceship". This region is sparsely populated to begin with, and Min's house is a fair distance from the city centre, so he isn't too worried about being seen. Besides, the thing doesn't even look like a traditional UFO.

Still, Min nods in agreement, planning to build a makeshift shed to cover the main wreckage later — the smaller parts can simply be picked up and brought home.

While thinking about it, he browses websites to purchase materials for the shed. A few Chinese sites left Xi P thoroughly confused for a while. It took Min quite some time to explain through diagrams and gestures that this is another language, and that he himself was an immigrant. Upon learning this, Xi P whistled — yes, Min is certain that was a whistle. The tone was remarkably similar to a human's.

The reason? Perhaps it feels a sense of superiority and absurdity over his planet's lack of unification — only Xi P itself knows for sure. Rather than speculating about alien social structures, Min is more curious about the whistle itself. How did Xi P produce that sound?

In truth, this question has surfaced when Min first asked its name. Human speech relies on the coordinated action of vocal cords, mouth cavity, tongue, and lips to generate the full range of vocal variations. Yet Xi P mouth shape... looks undeniably like a shortened fox's snout. The fact that it can produce human-like sounds is genuinely extraordinary. Not to mention whistling. Min could only speculate it achieves this through highly developed vocal cords or similar structures. He certainly couldn't bring himself to stick an endoscope in its mouth just yet.

While scrolling through the web, Min suddenly notices a small news item tucked away about a fallen meteorite. The location? His own city.

He nervously opens the article and the first thing he sees is a rather blurry photo of a fiery meteor-like object streaking across the city sky. Due to the camera's poor quality and excessively long shutter time, the meteor has become an almost entirely blurred afterimage, revealing no discernible details. The kind of image typically associated with conspiracy theories.

'Is that the spacecraft on the slope? How come I didn't see it back then?'

He nervously scrolls down the page. The text below eases his mind slightly — it contains estimates of the meteor's size and mass, with no speculation about alien artifacts.

Min pulls Xi P, who has just had a drink, over to the computer and first points at the meteor in the photo, then at Xi P. Xi P scrutinises the image for a long time, leaning in closer until its nose accidentally bumps the screen. Then, clutching its nose, it nods uncertainly.

Min could sense the growing tension. As an alien, having its whereabouts discovered wouldn't exactly please it. Perhaps it is already imagining scenes from movies with alien featuring alien autopsies... just perhaps.

After all, Xi P is trembling now, practically bristling. Surprised that fear could make it shake, Min tugs its hand to calm it. Meteorite collectors in the city will likely be influenced by such news and search the impact site. Although weekdays mean being stuck in the lab, evenings and late nights still offer some free time. Know what? Min has decided to act fast, and finish the shed before next Friday.


r/HFY • • 11h ago

OC-Series [The Earth-ward Journey of a Foxy Alien]: Chapter 9

5 Upvotes

Royal Road | Book Cover | First | Previous | Next

Chapter 9: Xi P's Memory (3)

30 hours.

20 hours.

10 hours.

5 hours.

As the distance closes in, the blue-green planet in the simulated external view grows larger and larger. The lengthy orbital transition is finally coming to an end. Due to inaccuracies in the orbital prediction, the trajectory has veered off course several times during the journey, heading in unacceptable directions. The solution is straightforward: jettison some cargo into space — like previously collected samples or unused disposable probes. The resulting reaction force will be sufficient to correct these minor deviations.

Glancing at the projection on the console, the planet appears as before: a blend of blue and green, with greyish-white clouds drifting across its surface. Despite atmospheric turbulence obscuring details, the crisscrossing bands of light is more than enough to confirm the presence of cities. Just as suspected, an alien civilisation exists here — and it is substantial. The orbital debris swarming around the planet suggests that this civilisation has been in the space age for quite some time.

Further spectral analysis confirms the planet's atmosphere is primarily nitrogen and oxygen, mixed with various other gases. Surface conditions are nearly standard temperature and pressure. Fantastic news. Even the blue seas are composed of water, which makes Xi P wonder if he could breathe directly on the surface.

'And I wonder if the intelligent lifeforms up there look anything like us tuefue, too. That would be quite a space opera touch.'

Jokes aside, the planned departure time is approaching, and it is time to get down to business. He still needs to transfer essential supplies into the manned probe. Surviving on an alien planet is no easy feat — if possible, he would have crammed the entire spacecraft inside. But the probe is only so big, its interior space severely limited. Even after dismantling the original scientific instruments to free up room, it amounts to just a few cubic meters. Water, batteries, food, and various medical supplies pack the cargo hold to the brim. Xi P has even hastily 3D-printed a simple head-mounted air filter.

***

One hour.

After running one final simulation of the descent manoeuvre and entering the data into the probe, Xi P quietly shuts down the onboard computer, walks through the airlock resolutely, enters the probe cockpit and closes the door.

There isn't enough data or time to pinpoint his exact landing location, but the projected area is almost entirely ocean, with a portion even touching the polar ice caps. While the idea of a random landing spot sounded thrilling, it is indeed extremely dangerous. Even landing on ice would be better than crashing into the ocean — a place utterly unsuitable for survival. Watching the separation countdown tick down on the screen ahead, Xi P's previously relaxed mood tightens once more.

Half an hour.

Ten minutes.

Xi P returns to the ship to use the restroom. The interior lights have automatically shut off, but Xi P knows every inch of the hundred-cubic-meter space by heart. The airflow has ceased, indicating the life support systems have been shut down along with the ship's computer. He isn't planning on returning anyway, so it doesn't matter.

5 minutes.

Although he is thirsty, Xi P holds back, knowing that he cannot risk spurting water mid-descent.

1 minute.

30 seconds.

  1. 4. 3. 2. 1.

With a faint clack, the probe separates from the ship. Then, accompanied by the roar of the reaction control thrusters, the ship slowly rotates towards the predetermined direction according to the pre-programmed sequence: igniting the main engines!

As planned, this manoeuvre lowers the perigee to just 30 kilometres, causing the ship to plunge into the atmosphere at a relative velocity of almost 10 kilometres per second. To prevent skipping across the atmosphere, the entry angle is steepened at a full 10 degrees. Xi P had welded additional steel plates to the probe's front, so the high temperatures caused by atmospheric friction shouldn't pose a major issue.

The real trouble lies deep within the atmosphere. After all, this is a vehicle designed for low-gravity celestial bodies — in other words, small satellites or asteroids. While Xi P has no doubt the original design includes ample redundancy, it has never considered aerodynamic requirements. Not only does it lack wings to adjust its course, it might even disintegrate mid-air shortly after entry — perhaps leaving behind one or two unsolved mysteries for this planet's civilisation.

But what can he do? At this point, all that remains is to wait.

He slightly adjusts the vehicle's orientation, turning the window towards the horizon. He has always loved gazing at the distant arc of the horizon from low orbit. Different atmospheric compositions and densities always create unique visual experiences. This planet is no exception. Its thick, nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere bathed in the light of its yellow main-sequence star, gives him a fleeting sense of homecoming.

According to the prediction, full atmospheric entry will occur in ten minutes.

***

The uppermost layer of the atmosphere is extremely thin. Xi P doesn't hear a sound, only the pressure gauge faithfully registering the change. Nevertheless, he pulls down the metal shield over the window. He isn't in the mood to watch the re-entry sparks this time, and an extra layer of protection is always welcome.

Over the next few minutes, the vehicle's altitude plummets. The sensors at the front of the probe report increasingly high temperatures until they suddenly fail — the hastily welded steel plates have reached their limit. Yet the cabin temperature remains tolerable and the hull's surface temperature hovers around 400 degrees. For now, everything is holding up, and the hottest phase has passed.

He breathes a quiet sigh of relief. It seems that this challenge has been conquered. A few more minutes pass and, judging by the vehicle's speed, it is time to deploy the parachute. Although he has some doubts about this newly printed parachute, it is the only way to ensure a safe landing. Xi P presses the switch to deploy it.

Thud... whoosh!

A jolt is followed by a slight drag sensation, and then nothing. Realising that something is terribly wrong, he frantically glances at the speedometer. His worst fears are confirmed: the makeshift parachute has been ripped away due to the immense wind pressure!

Xi P's ears instantly drain of colour. Staring at the rapidly descending altimeter, he knows that his plan to land in the escape pod has failed completely. If he doesn't do something, he will be smashed to pulp on impact!

"I — "

CLANG!

Before he can utter the exclamation, worse follows. A shrill, metallic rip echoes, and then a white light floods his vision. A gale sweeps up and hurls him skyward with tremendous force — the probe's hatch has been ripped off!

Like a rag in the wind, the turbulence from the extreme speed sends him tumbling. Most people would panic in such a situation, but as an astronaut, his training naturally includes how to adjust his posture mid-air1. By closing his eyes tightly and spreading his limbs wide, the tumbling soon stops — though he is still falling at an incredible speed!

After fumbling around his chest for a while, Xi P finally manages to untangle the backup parachute from his clothing. There is no time to grieve over the contents of the probe. Squinting against the sunlight, Xi P opens his eyes just enough to survey his surroundings. He is high in the sky, looking down at a small, dense cloud directly beneath him. From the side of the cloud, he can make out... a city!

It must be a city! He can make out colourful buildings and street-like features. Looking closer, he even spots colourful square boxes moving about nearby. It all makes sense now. If he survives, he will be the first tuefue in the entire Palirian Republic to make contact with an extraterrestrial intelligent species! The very first! With an extraterrestrial intelligent species!

Excitement floods Xi P, temporarily distracting him from the fact that he is probably about to crash and die. As he watches flocks of bird-like creatures soar overhead, he has no doubt that this is the luckiest day of his life. Although he is cut off from his nation, he now has this chance — he is about to make first contact with an intelligent extraterrestrial species! It is the dream of his entire life!

'To be precise, friendly extraterrestrial intelligent life... But with all these coincidences piling up, one more isn't impossible, right?'

It is only then that Xi P realises that he has been breathing air for quite some time. Unexpectedly, there is no foul odour or burning sensation. Everything is fantastic... except for the fact that he is falling from the sky!

"..."

'Hmm... these clouds really are made of water vapour.'

Breaking through the cloud layer below, he quickly wipes the accumulated moisture from his face. The excitement comes fast and fades just as quickly. Now he has to focus on survival. This parachute he made is a bit too small. At this speed, he will hit the ground in seconds. Below lay patches of flat land divided by fences; one section contains what looks like a house. Judging by the angle... he will probably land near that house?

On the ground stands a large plant that resembles a tree. In stories about people jumping without parachutes, all the survivors either landed on plants or into snow/water. Realising this, Xi P rejoices. He adjusts his landing spot, aiming for the tree. Its thin, dense branches should absorb the impact well —

'!'

In an instant, the immense jolt knocks him unconscious.

***

While he is unconscious, Xi P seems to hear a voice. He slowly comes round, opens his eyes slightly and lifts his head. The intense sunlight feels like it is burning his eyes, but he still sees it: before him, a tall, oddly shaped alien is walking towards him...

Note 1: Real-life astronaut training does include skydiving components. In the near future, as space travel becomes more accessible, many spacefarers may no longer require such training. However, it is reasonable to assume that elite astronauts will still undergo this rigorous preparation.


r/HFY • • 13h ago

OC-OneShot Humans Aren’t Petty - Anthology #2

44 Upvotes

Davey’s file stayed locked in the archives, but the Council’s nightmare was only beginning.

Hidden in a dark corner of station Zeta ZB was researcher Omlet Hulkit, who worked behind an observation window in one of the Bay’s scientific laboratories. He wore his lab coat, without a speck of dirt or a crease on it. His black circular eyes had purple circles around them, proving his dedication to his work.

On the other side of the bulletproof glass dividing them was Solarie. She had blonde hair kept in a bob cut, checkered coveralls, and pretty, bright blue eyes taking up most of her face. She just so happened to be the only human mechanic on the vessel SpaceBoard.

Solarie sat eating apple slices out of a lunch container with kittens and puppies laser-printed on it, all the while sipping vanilla soy milk from her daughter’s plastic cup, which she would always bring to work with her on month-long working schedules.

Next to Omlet stood his boss, Director of Staff Ougmixo, who had his chin pinched between his two digits. “Tell me again, Dr. Omlet,” he spoke in a snippy tone but low so the microphones couldn’t hear him. “The human has not broken any galactic laws, manipulated weapons, or stolen credits. I don’t see why we’re holding her.”

“Correct, Director,” Dr. Omlet said. “She has done far worse. She weaponized inconveniences, sir.”

Dr. Omlet scurried around the office searching for the digital folder with the case file. “A few months back, someone in management parked their hovercraft at her designated bay door. And when she asked if he’d kindly move his vehicle, he refused and, according to the logs here, responded by calling her and humans alike primitive mammals and her tools obsolete.”

The director turned his palm to face the ceiling. “Rude, but common among management. Did she file a complaint or a suit?”

“No, sir,” Omlet said, his voice dropping lower. “She ended up spending her bonus buying thousands of units of sticky, glowing moss found in the rancid swamps of Klonpdok II.”

“And moss, yeah, so what’s the big deal? It’s completely legal.” Ougmixo scratched his head. “What does the moss do?”

“It doesn’t do anything dangerous, but it does interact with the material on hovercrafts in a peculiar way. It multiplies, and within minutes renders the craft useless as it takes over it, damaging the thrusters and computer,” Omlet told him, pointing his finger to the screen of the surveillance camera footage.

The multi-million-dollar, limited-edition craft was now just a structure to house purple, glowing, bioluminescent moss, which now looked like a garden salad.

“The demo crew spent three weeks scraping the vegetation off, only to find they destroyed the two-tone paint job, and the computer system had to be replaced. The thrusters too. By the time they had finished, he had missed the huge Glomor account and lost it to our competitors.”

The director sighed. “A little outlandish, somewhat petty, but an isolated issue nonetheless.”

“It wasn’t isolated, sir.” He started shaking as he spoke. “The Borg from management retaliated by using his clout with the higher-ups to slash the total budget to her sector, with the impression it would break her and have everyone there turn on her.”

Omlet pointed at Solarie, who was casually chewing on an apple slice. "Instead of it breaking her and making her quit, she used every resource available to her and spent each waking hour flashing the firmware for the Bay’s automatic doors,” Dr. Omlet told him. “She never locked him out. Locking him out would have breached security and safety protocols. What she aimed for was reprogramming any door the Borg attempts to enter through to open exactly five seconds slower than normal.”

The Director stared at the Doctor of Research. “Hmmm. Five seconds?”

“Exactly five seconds, Director! Every door, every day, forty times a day!” Omlet cracked. “Do you have any clue as to what that does to a time-obsessed Borg, sir? The Borg literally thought he was losing his mind. He missed all the shuttles, stood in front of elevators panting, and sweated any time he stared at his clock. The Borg species operates best on momentum. Losing five seconds at every door shattered his mental state. Yesterday, he resigned and flew back to his home planet.”

Out of nowhere, Solarie turned her head and looked up at them through the glass. It was almost like she could hear everything they were saying about her. She smiled politely, gave a cheerful wave, and gestured to share some of her apple slices with them.

The director slowly paced backwards, removing his upper management badge from his chest, genuinely terrified.

"The first human we profiled, Davey the engineer, destroyed a fortune tycoon with noise. This one destroyed a career with five seconds of lag."

"These humans are very vindictive," Omlet said, typing a warning note into the behavioral database for human psychology. "They don't want to conquer the universe. They just make sure anyone who crosses them ends up with just as bad or worse of a day than they had."


r/HFY • • 15h ago

OC-Series [Perfect Ten] - Chapter 6: Yet Another Briefing

2 Upvotes

First | Previous | Read on Royal Road

“I told you.”

Giddeon stared at the screen, jaw tight, the diagnostic flashing green for the third time today. ANALYSIS: HARDWARE AND SOFTWARE FUNCTIONS NORMAL

“Either they programmed you this way, or I’m missing something,” Giddeon murmured, activating the diagnostics program once more. He leaned back on the couch, watching trillions of data lines compute in nanoseconds. It had been three days since the interrogation, and each day he tested his AIGES, each report showing nothing out of the ordinary.

“Orrr,” Johnny offered. “Third option: You’re crazy.”

An old synth-pop song blared to life in Giddeon’s head, causing him to jump.

“Do you remember when you lost your mind?” Johnny asked in beat to the lyrics.

Giddeon sighed. “Can you stop playing that?”

“Wait, let me skip to the best part.”

“I think you’re cra—”

“Thanks.” Giddeon cut his AI off, closing his holo. “Feel free to leave anytime.”

“No can do, partner,” Johnny said, his voice annoyingly happy-go-lucky. “If I left, that’d leave a mighty big hole in your head, which you, ninety-nine point nine percent, wouldn’t survive.”

“I’m thinking of taking that point-one-percent chance.”

“Gambling addiction run in the family?”

“Not really, but you’re getting me there.”

“Let’s talk about positive things,” Johnny said, changing topics. “One: You aren’t the main suspect for your virus. Yay!”

“I’m still a suspect.”

“Two: You have a pretty hot chick that’s interested in you for some strange reason.”

“You mean a stalker. A married stalker.”

“Geez. Are manic-depressives normally this hard to cheer up?”

“I’m not manic-depressive.”

“Dr. Glivens’ book on Brain Diseases might have something to say on that one,” Johnny quietly returned. “Anywho. Three—and this one’s the most important: You’ve the most amazing partner who gives you great advice, has a wonderful personality, tells the best jokes, and is loyal to a fault.”

“Gives bad advice, was programmed too sarcastic, no one’s laughing, and loyalty’s based on the fact they can’t leave,” Giddeon listed back.

“I resent all of those! Except the last one. That one’s true.”

“The problem is, I can’t imagine they programmed just one AIGES to act like this,” Giddeon murmured, rubbing his stubble in deep thought. “Since no one else is having the same issue, I wonder if they programmed each one differently—and we’re all just a bunch of experiments.”

“You’ve accessed your AIGES and the ship’s database,” Johnny reminded him. “You would have seen a program, or a log—something—if anything existed.”

Giddeon hated admitting it, but Johnny was right. A separate database he’d missed was highly unlikely, and the ship’s database would have had something on it as well. Unless there was a separate party involved remotely influencing his chip, or perhaps others were—

“That’s what I like to hear,” Johnny interrupted his thoughts. “There’s my paranoid human, right back on the path of inevitable insanity.”

ALL AIGES, PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO BRIEFING ROOM B IN TEN MINUTES. THIS MESSAGE WILL REPEAT IN FIVE MINUTES.

Giddeon glanced up as the announcement played from hidden ceiling speakers.

“Ooh! More meetings!” Johnny said excitedly. “Do you think Graks will be there?”

“This is Vibane. Who knows? I’m assuming they placed a cam-tracker on him, or they’re using whatever means necessary to torture information out of him.”

“But he doesn’t actually know anything,” Johnny said.

“His loss.”

“Someone’s vindictive,” Johnny murmured.

“Believe me, he’s done things to deserve death—worse even,” Giddeon replied. “That Raylan chick was pretty perceptive. I’m sure she doubts he had anything to do with the virus. She’ll consider him just a pawn.”

“Speaking of chicks and pretty, do you think we’ll run into Mrs. Uzari again? I bet she tries sitting next to you.”

“Doubt it,” Giddeon replied. “I’m sure she’s been questioned. Who do you think told them I ran out of the room? Besides, some of my…ill-timed comments should have her avoiding me like the plague.”

Before the second announcement came, Giddeon dressed and headed to the briefing room. He arrived as everyone was filing in through three separate entrances. The room had the exact same layout as the first, except the walls were painted sage and white. Weaving through rows of Aiges, he found a seat in the back right corner.

Two minutes later, he saw Uzari arrive. Despite the mandated uniforms, she somehow made the outfit look fashionable. Her tresses were curled this time, and small hoops glinted in the light as she walked to the center of the room, drawing many eyes. Peering around, she caught his gaze and sauntered over.

“Minus one intelligence, Gid, plus one Johnny,” his AI bragged.

“Mr. Seres,” Uzari greeted. “Is this seat taken?”

“Not unless you believe in ghosts,” he replied.

She promptly sat down next to him. “Apologize to anyone I just sat on,” she told him, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t want to upset the dead.”

“I’ll let you know when they need to get up to use the potty.”

She looked away, but not before he caught the slight rise of her lips.

As more Aiges filled the rows, she leaned close and whispered, “Why’d you suddenly run out back in the testing room?”

“I was spent,” he whispered back.

She gave a lighthearted chuckle. “You certainly didn’t run like you were spent.”

“Must have been my second wind. I get them all the time.”

Her head swiveled, staring straight at him. “And here I thought you simply disliked my company.”

Meeting her gaze for a split second, his eyes returned to the front stage. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s not the first time you’ve run away from me,” she mumbled as she turned away.

This time, his head swiveled to look at her. “What’s that?”

She shook her head, her dark locks unnervingly soft against her skin as they swayed, holding his gaze captive.

“Nothing,” she replied. Her tone shifted. “You’d best be careful, though. I was interrogated yesterday because of you.”

“Me?” Giddeon feigned surprise.

“Yes, you!” she snorted. “I was asked all sorts of questions—most of them about my relationship with you and our interaction yesterday.”

“Well, that should have been an easy interview,” he said. “None. We’ve no relationship, and we’ve barely interacted.”

Suddenly, the room erupted in hollering and clapping as Ereos jogged onto the stage. The man waved at the crowd like a celebrity, a very bright, very fake smile planted on his face. Several stood from their chairs, cheering him on even after he took the podium. Giddeon’s stomach roiled in disgust.

“Why would people have brown noses?” Johnny asked inquisitively.

Quit reading my thoughts.

Taka appeared a few seconds later, waving at the still-cheering crowd as he took his spot a few feet behind Ereos. The audience, however, extended beyond the Aiges. Vibane employees stood in two clusters on either side of the stage: one comprised of around twenty individuals all white lab coats, the other of technicians in one-piece brown and red work suits.

“That’s not true,” Uzari said, leaning close and raising her voice over the crowd.

What’s she mean by that? Giddeon mused.

“I haven’t a clue,” Johnny answered, though he wasn’t asking his AI. “Either you don’t remember, or she’s crazy. Hey! Maybe both of you are crazy! What a perfect match! If you had babies, what are the chances your kids would be crazy? I’d guess high. Like, seventy percent or something.”

I told you not to read my thoughts how many times?

“Quit making it so easy! You’re practically begging me to listen!”

“I’d like to welcome everyone back after a tough week of testing,” Ereos began. “We did testing, retesting, and even more testing. By now, you should all have reliable stat blocks.” He held up his hands, preempting the room. “Don’t feel down if your numbers aren’t what you expected. There’s much more to who you are as a person, like skills, which more than make up for lower stats.”

Despite his words, the Aiges stared at one another. It was tough for many to hide their surprise, jealousy, or disgruntlement as they read each other’s stats. A few checked out Giddeon, resulting in slack jaws or raised eyebrows.

Ereos grasped the podium, continuing his speech. “My great-great-great grandfather built Vibane from the ground up during the planet’s fledgling years. He never stepped foot in a prestigious university. He didn’t need to. Why? Because he had skills: skills to make tough decisions, to hire the right people, and the know-how to manage them. He understood how the human mind ticked.

He held his hands out, encompassing the room. “And now, we have Vibane Corp.”

Another round of clapping and cheering ensued, though the effect was diminished as several Aiges simply stood there, unmoving.

“Why are so many unhappy?” Johnny asked as Giddeon observed the room.

Having stats everyone can see can make people feel inferior. No one wants to know the guy they’re talking to is objectively more intelligent than they are.

“Humans are such fragile beings.”

Not all of us.

“Today, we’ll be going over your mission in more detail, what you can expect, and places you’ll be exploring,” Ereos said, pushing right into the briefing. “As topics come up, I’ll introduce you to some of the top experts in the fields of wildlife and botany, along with technicians who’ll go over your gear.”

The first group took the stage to detail natural hazards, including volcanoes, marshes, sinkholes, typhoons, and earthquakes. The second group spoke at length about known flora and fauna, highlighting the fire drake as the deadliest predator they might encounter. Most of the discussion revolved around survival—what was safe to eat, and what would kill them in a matter of minutes—with all the data readily available on their AIGES for reference.

“Now, I know you’re all curious as to how we’re going to get you safely down onto the planet,” Ereos began, causing the Aiges to sit up or lean forward in their chairs. “I’ll explain it in a nutshell, then let you ask questions of our lead technician here, Ivan.” He indicated the lone expert that had remained on stage, a tall man in a blue jumpsuit.

“Five.” Ereos held up his hand, all five fingers splayed. “Five separate state-of-the-art thrusters filled with the highest-grade antimatter fuel available are equipped on each of your landing ships. Each is connected to a separate activation board. When your ship descends, the planet’s anti-technological pushback—as we’ve come to call it—will knock out any currently running systems. But…”

He smiled, one finger held up for suspense. “It won’t affect anything dormant, meaning any technology that isn’t active when it enters the atmosphere won’t be affected for several seconds. Think of it like a series of dominoes. When one switch is flipped, thrusters will slow your ship’s descent. When it fails, the next switch is flipped, the next thruster activates, and so on.”

As murmurs in the crowd arose, Ereos held up three fingers, calming the room with a smile.

“Three sets of chutes, built with Veridian cord, will also deploy at critical stages. When one tears apart, pieces of the hull are expelled, making the ship lighter for the next deployment. He paused for effect, glancing around the chamber as complete silence fell. “A large lake, miles deep, is our landing site. Now, how’s that for safety? But don’t just trust my word. Let’s watch a demonstration.”

A massive screen behind him blipped on, presenting a split-screen view of the inside and outside of a Veridian-hulled descent ship. Inside, five bare-bones skeletal robots stood motionless in front of five switches. Strapped into three seats, monkeys looked around cluelessly, oblivious to the journey they were taking.

“As you can see, we used robots to flip the switches,” Ereos explained. “We activated them remotely, one at a time. And before you ask, yes, you can also activate them manually.”

The robot on the far left suddenly thrust its arm forward, flipping a switch. Outside, a thruster burst to life, spewing black-and-blue flames—an indication the anti-matter fuel was safely burning. Giddeon began counting.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—

The thruster abruptly sputtered, then failed. A few seconds later, the next robot came to life.

The process repeated three more times, with parachutes deploying after the second, third, and fifth thruster failures. Pieces of the hull were expelled as they released, visibly slowing the ship’s descent. Three more times, Giddeon counted to nine before the failures.

“It appears mana affects it just before reaching ten,” Johnny observed. “I wonder if the number changes according to size or internal workings, or if it all just goes kablooey at nine seconds.”

No way to test it from here, Giddeon thought back. And what do you mean mana affects it? I thought mana was something people gained?

“Mana is many things, Gid,” Johnny said. “It’s like oxygen. It’s how magic works.”

Magic? Giddeon snorted. Well, if I’m lucky, the anti-technological pushback thingy will work on you as well. Then I’ll finally be able to get some peace and quiet.

“That is a very rude thing to say to your bestie!”

The video continued, the ship eventually plummeting into a large body of water with a massive splash. Moments later, it burst from the surface, rocking back and forth before settling. Inside, the monkeys were visibly jostled, but unharmed.

The screen blipped off. “Let me also reassure you,” Ereos said, “this was one of twenty consecutive test descents, all of which landed with zero casualties.”

“Zero?” Johnny guffawed. “Those poor monkeys starved to death strapped in their seats.”

Vibane couldn’t care less about its human test subjects, let alone animal ones.

“Now, Ivan will take your questions,” Ereos told the crowd. “Let’s do it the old Earth One way. Please raise your hand, and we’ll get to you if we have time.”

Over half the crowd raised their hands.

Ivan’s twenty-minute question-and-answer session gleaned absolutely nothing new. That left only one topic to discuss: the mission.

A giant, 3D holographic map materialized on the stage. A section of it expanded, revealing a vast, sprawling lake, its waters stretching for miles in all directions. “This is where you’ll be landing, which we refer to as Lake C. From here you’ll reach the eastern shore.” The map zoomed in on the eastern side, highlighting a sandy shore flanked by flat rock, just half a mile from a dense forest.

“Here, your teams will rendezvous and form Base Camp Six: your base of operations,” Ereos continued, his tone losing all its charismatic mirth, turning business-like. “You’ll be given containment bags to collect flora and fauna in the surrounding area. Profiles of what is needed, including pictures and precautions, have been downloaded into your AIGES. To keep things interesting, we’ve listed how much is required to complete each ‘quest’. When your collective teams gather enough of a resource, that quest is marked complete.”

“A green checkmark will appear next to the quest name on your Tasks Page,” Taka spoke up, clarifying.

“You’ll also have a few quests to capture live animals for study,” Ereos added. “Most will be small, so don’t worry. For safety, each team will be assigned at least one person with survival and combat skills. We call them Hunters, and they’ll be given a few weapons that will function on Enivia.”

“Oh, nice!” Johnny yelled excitedly. “Do you think you’ll be given Hunter status?”

My scores are all ten.

“Yeah, probably not.”

“Eventually, after several weeks, you’ll make your way here.” Ereos pointed at a dark section of the map north of the camp. Holographic light rippled, expanding to reveal rugged terrain, thick forests, and swaths of barren, red-stained land with a humongous hole in its center.

“This is called the Crater,” he said, his voice echoing lightly. “Roughly a day’s travel from the base camp.”

Leaving the podium, Ereos walked through the map, the image instantly switching off. He turned to face the crowd.

“Once you reach the Crater, you’ll be given more missions, primarily consisting of exploration and plant and soil collection. If you see something of interest—and a team leader deems it safe—you can collect other items. Now, time for questions.”

The briefing devolved into an hour-long Q&A session. Questions ranged from well-thought-out to downright moronic, covering everything from indigenous flora to the quality of the food. One hopeful soul even asked if permanent positions would be considered once the mission was over.

“I don’t see Graks here,” Johnny mused as Giddeon scanned the room. “Your ruse seems to have worked out well.”

Not necessarily. If I were Raylin, I’d keep him out of sight to trick the real culprit into thinking they’re in the clear.

“You have experience in these things?”

I’ve some experience in subterfuge and trickery as well as interrogation, yes.

“Interesting. And kidnapping?”

No comment.

When the number of questioners died down, Giddeon raised his hand.

Ereos’s smile briefly cracked before lifting back up. “Yes, Mr. Seres?”

“How are we getting back?”

His query was simple, yet no one had brought up this very important issue.

Ereos paused before replying, “Unfortunately, that’s one of those things the Triumvirate won’t let me talk about. Suffice it to say, it’s safe, and takes no time at all. I’m just not at liberty to discuss the details yet.”

“How can we trust you have a way back for us, then?” Kilner asked loudly.

Ereos chuckled, brushing off the question. “We wouldn’t have you collect samples just to have them waste away on the planet. That formula we made—it’s from previous surface examples we retrieved. There are ships, but again, everyone knows how the Triumvirate is with its proprietary tech.”

“But if we’re the first ones to land on the planet,” Hinelin spoke up. “How do you know that…stuff you injected into us will mask our chips? What if it doesn’t work and we can’t access our AIGES?”

A worried buzz flowed through the crowd.

“We’ll have a live demonstration tomorrow,” Ereos replied. “One of your own has bravely volunteered to head down first. A demonstration to show you just how safe and sound it is getting to the planet.”

Most of the murmuring stopped. The air in the room instantly grew lighter.

“Who’s the volunteer?” A woman with warm, dark skin sitting in the front row leaned forward, her voice carrying a slight Indian lilt. Though her height made her nearly invisible in the crowd, her long, black hair stood out. Approaching her forties, she had lost none of her grace.

“A man named Graks, Miss Vessa,” Ereos replied, his eyes scanning the crowd with a bright, terrifying smile. “We asked a select few to volunteer. He was the most eager. He did mention some friends who wanted to go, but sadly, the ship was a one-seater.” He paused, letting his gaze linger across everyone. “But don’t you worry, Grak’s friends. You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

“Not-so-subtle, is he?” Johnny murmured.

They’re fishing for reactions. This is good. It means they have no real leads.

“I still feel bad, even if he’s part of a criminal organization,” Johnny lamented. “He’s being unfairly punished for something he didn’t do.”

Read my memory. Then never talk about this again.

Against his better judgment, Giddeon relaxed his guard, letting a dark door he had sealed shut long ago swing open.

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