r/HFY • • 11h ago

OC-Series OOCS, Into A Wider Galaxy, Part 802

199 Upvotes

(Sorry for the delay, the confusion of finishing dealing with the scam that nearly got me made me get up early so I am running on almost no sleep.)

First

Home at War

“You’re fucking insane.” The scientist says as they try and scan the knife only for the scanner to be bricked in the process. “Not only have you made contact with Death Incarnate, but you’ve made a knife. A knife. A fucking piece of sharp metal when the opposing force appears to made primarily of fire.”

“I understand you’re freaking out, but we’re still in a military setting. You have ten minutes to get it out of your system, then I need you professional again.” Harold says holding up his communicator, snarling as it fails to work because it too has been bricked and he runs Axiom through a sequence. The Communicator turns back on and starts repairing it’s corrupted files from the date centres deep in the ship itself. It takes nearly a full minute for him to put the ten minute timer on as the scientist fumes at him. “Okay, go.”

The scientist quickly shows off a mastery of numerous languages and terminology that Harold can only barely understand at the best of times, let alone while he still has his heart racing like a jackhammer after being partially eaten alive by the still extremely present Hargath.

“What is a Galgarana?” Harold asks as one word sticks out near the end of the rant.

“... Don’t repeat that word sir.” The Tret scientist tells him.

“What is it?”

“... Not something for someone under a century of age to know.”

“Really? You do realize you’re just making me more curious.”

“Don’t.” The Scientist says and Harold sighs. “Sir, you need to conceal that weapon.”

“I don’t think it can actually damage anything but a Haffara Thar.”

“That’s wonderful sir. It’s still killing the cameras and I shudder to think about-”

“Synths. Right. Sorry. Head’s still pounding a bit.” He says before bringing up his communicator. “RAM, this is Commodore Jameson. I require a sheath. Trytite and lead layering underneath reinforced kevlar. I’ll send an image of a blade with identical dimensions over first. It needs to block all scanning technology because the weapon itself is a hazard to electronics. Any scan that gets through is going to brick the device.”

“Copy that sir, awaiting images.” They say and Harold sighs before turning around. Setting the blade to the side in the now darkened part of the lab and brings out one of the trytite knives that were going to be experimented on next. Identical to the first. They both resemble more kitchen knives than a proper weapon.

He takes an image of the blue blade then the Scientist hands him a measuring tape that he got from... somewhere. He then uses it to give the images of the knife accurate dimensions as he turns it to show it’s length, width and height clearly. He sends all the pictures and receives a text stating that this will be easy and so long as he doesn’t teleport he will have the sheath by the time he reaches The RAM. Which is when Harold orders it be brought to him because he has an item that is a hazard to all electronic sensors and will not damage his ship as he tries to protect it.

The resulting dismay at Ode Madness being present make shim chuckle a bit even as he makes a point to move for and conceal the altered knife behind his back.

“All scanners off! I have an Ode based item on me and they play merry hell on standard equipment!” He calls out to the approaching repair crew. “Unless you’re willing to part with the equipment, possibly permanently you’ll turn it off!”

“... Okay I’m just take a break then because my EVERYTHING is ode sensitive.” One of them says and there are a few more that mutter things about implants. But a very curious looking trinity of Gohbs arrive.

“Our scanners are off. What’s it look like commodore? Is it safe to even see?”

“I suspect to non-synth or otherwise organic people that it would be very safe.” Harold says crouching down to their level and presenting the knife.

“What did you do to it?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I channelled Ode into it, focusing on my contempt for the Haffara Thar and my general disgust at what they do to others, my mind was downright forced to wander into the pity and compassion I hold for those who have had their lives torn apart by the mindless monsters.”

“Hunh, that’s very interesting. Can I touch it sir?” The bravest of the three mechanics asks.

“You may, but be careful. Ode is still poorly understood at best. Also a Hollow Daughter plucked it from my grasp, tested it and then returned it.”

“Really? Did she say anything?”

“No, nothing.”

“... Seven hundred years ago my homeworld was in the grips of a mega-corporation. Every person was born into an ever increasing debt. The training and education to be able to work added to it. Shelter and food added to it. The rent of the tools to work added to it. And every little mistake, real or imagined, added to it. To say nothing of accidents. And no craft or off world communication was permitted to a debt holder, we were prisoners and slaves from the moment of our birth.” The Mechanic says as he takes the knife and looks at it closely. “Then, one day, the demands ceased. The debts vanished and no one could find the board of directors or the shareholders, or the accountants or bankers. Until their serving staff reported what was left. Dry, desiccated husks.”

“So we searched high and low for the odd one out. For the one corpse that did not fit the pattern of rich and cruel.” He continues and Harold says nothing even as the Gohb turns the knife over and over, watching the black smoke dance and the silver shine of the weapon glittering in his dark eyes. “It was my birth mother. She paid with her life and soul to wipe my debt and set me free. To set everyone free. Nearly everyone is afraid of the Hollow Daughters, but not me. Not my family. I get to do something more than dance in a thong because she gave me, gave us all, everything she had to give. The one thing that they couldn’t take from her. She gave.”

“So what does that knife mean to you?”

“... If an angel of death approves of this blade, then I can’t imagine a more righteous weapon.” He says as he turns the knife over one last time. Then presses his thumb against the edge and moves it against it. “And it refuses to cut me. It doesn’t even hurt. Which is physically impossible, I can tell the edge is sharp enough to easily part my skin. With the force I’m using this thing should be scraping the bones of my thumb. But I don’t even feel discomfort.”

He stares at the weapon and his Axiom presence is churning, shifting. Longing, old despair, hope, joy and a sheer yearning all waver out from him. Then his fingers close around the weapon as he gets control of his emotions again. Then smiles. He holds the knife up to Harold.

“They say that what’s coming for us looks like a demon from mythology. A being of fire, smoke and fury. If you’re facing a demon, then a holy blade is a perfect weapon. And short of a Primal showing up, I can’t imagine anything more holy than a knife like this.” He says and Harold nods.

“... Studying that thing is going to be a pain. We’re going to need analogue recording materials. And even then, the Ode damage might transfer.” Another Gohb notes then he pulls out a camera and there is a flash of light from the device. Then a stench as a slightly charred picture tries to print itself out and the Gohb opens up the machine as his eyebrows go up.

“Well how does that make any sense?” The Mechanic asks.

“I don’t know. There’s a lot we don’t know. So... I need you boys to rig up an area that is scan proof where we will study this knife when it’s not in use. We’ll use basic observations and measurements. Written accounts, drawings. We will use as much separation as we need to to actually gather the information we can get out of this thing.” Harold says.

“Uh sir? Sir, I was sent from The RAM with this for you?” A Metak says zipping into the room. He holds out a very large sheath. It’s pouch style with a cap on it to completely encase the knife without fail. He slides it in and nods as he covers it up entirely. Then he pulls out his communicator and takes a picture. The device is unharmed. He does it a few more times and has a little video of it.

Not even a flicker.

“Thank goodness. Transporting this thing otherwise would be a right pain. Okay people! Synths and augmented are free to enter the area! The threat is contained!”

“So I guess we’ll get started on that lab module.”

“To be honest we should have had something like it to begin with. We know there are cognito-hazards, but a memetic one that transfers through perception isn’t off the table. So we need containment areas.”

“What are you going to do with the knife?”

“It stays in it’s sheath. I am possibly one of the best users of the knife should there be need of it and the situation remains fluid and dangerous. So I will be carrying it under the trytite paneling in my uniform for extra scanner protection.”

“You know as much as Mach here thinks that knife is a holy relic the Synthetic Ascension is going to see that thing as the most unholy thing to ever exist.”

“One faith’s divinity is another faith’s demon.” Harold remarks calmly. “Until there’s some form of Ode resistant machinery then there’s likely to be a great deal of caution at the very least from the Synth citizens of the galaxy.”

“Now, all of you get to things. I need to see if anything has happened to update the... fuck.” Harold notes as he checks his communicator and sees there was a message he missed. Which had taken place in the short time when the device was dead and it’s from the Admiral.

“Okay, all of you excuse me please.” He says as he starts to head out of the RAD and brings up his communicator. The image of Admiral Cistern quickly greets him. “Sir, my apologies for the delay. My attempt to create an Ode based weapon to face the Haffara Thar threat has borne fruit, but it has yet to be properly tested. Unfortunately Ode is rather harsh on standard Axiom based systems and my communicator was in a heavily damaged state when your message came through.”

“That’s fine. Lieutenant Orchid informed me of the difficulty and has already received my orders which I will repeat for you now. Under the urgings of our Haffria allies you are to attempt the destruction of the Haffara Thar threat to ensure it cannot contact a third party and spread it’s infection further. There are several aspects of the Extermination Fleets en-route to your location and will be joining with The Ambush Fleet, however they are still several days away at minimum and you will have to improvise to the best of your ability to detain or destroy the threat.”

“Understood sir.”

“Good. Now, in what manner has your weapon crafting born fruit?”

“I cannot show you over the communicator sir as the weapon has a horrifically deleterious effect on Axiom and analogue based technology.”

“Analogue based as well?”

“Well chemical sir, a Polaroid style camera was destroyed trying to take a picture of the knife I have imbued. However it attracted the attention and seeming approval of a Hollow Daughter and any attempt to scan it bricks the scanner. I have it in a highly contained sheath under my armour at the moment. As I cannot send you an image I will describe the weapon. It is a single bladed knife not unlike what one could find in a standard kitchen, twenty two centimetres in length and five in height. Previously made of trytite the metal has taken a silvery sheen and now shines incessantly while also dragging an endless cloud of black smoke that quickly fades but is endlessly replaced. The knife has proven incapable of cutting a normal person despite physics and exudes no signal in the Axiom. Furthermore the smoke does not have a physical presence. If one were to close their eyes and grab the knife they would only notice something was off when it would refuse to cut a person despite it’s obvious sharpness.”

“Very interesting. But... while I am pleased that you have some degree of result for your attempts to create an Ode weapon... range is rather the issue at the moment. Unless you intend to knife fight with what appears to be a literal demon.”

“Sir, with all due respect. At what point have I ever seemed even slightly hesitant to knife fight a demon?”

“Never, which is why I want you to speak with Lieutenant Orchid who is under orders to argue against fighting it up front. If you do engage that creature with a knife you will only do so because it is the best available option and not because you’re starving for violence.”

“Very well then sir, I will consult with my Lieutenant to the best of my abilities sir.”

First Last


r/HFY • • 14h ago

OC-Series Dungeon Life 468

199 Upvotes

Life never stands still, and life right now is a great example of that. The lava fortress is just about ready for the delvers, and by all appearances, the delvers are ready for the fortress, too. I don't think the kids are quite ready, but they’re definitely working on it. Right now, I’m watching them work on getting a tame for Pul.

 

I was honestly expecting him to pick a fox, but Teemo says Cappy says that he says he wants a gremlin, and I’m hardly going to force him. A gremlin will also definitely pair well with a ninja, especially when it comes to shadow affinity stuff. I’m still, fittingly, rather in the dark on the affinity. I might suspect it has quantum weirdness under its umbrella, but I’m hardly a quantum physicist to be able to give any advice on it, even if it does.

 

Having a gremlin to help him feel it out will definitely be a help, especially with Violet trying to help out, too. I was more than a little surprised when she started looking into upgrading her spawner enough to get the next spawn, but it wasn’t difficult for Teemo to explain it. I’m proud of her for wanting to help, and even prouder still that she settled on an option that not only should be great to help Pul, but also keep her safe.

 

Those rottouch gremlins were terrifying, but I think the shadowstep gremlins will fit her just right. She even thought ahead for what she might need in the future, and having a stronger denizen makes me feel a lot more confident about her eventually expanding further downward.

 

For now, though, I watch as Onyx leads one of the new gremlins toward Pul and the others. It’s pretty nostalgic seeing them wandering around with a bucket of rodents, deciding which denizen to tame. Pul is looking for the more normal gremlins, unaware that Violet has something special in store for him.

 

“I know I’ve seen some of them in here before…” mumbles Rhonda as the group trudges along. Thankfully, with how tidy Violet keeps the sewers, it’s among the cleanest trudges I’ve ever seen.

 

I can see Pul glance at the oozes and even a caiman before shaking his head and looking resolved. A caiman would be a pretty cool tame, but it’d definitely be at cross purposes with Pul. Rezlar might have been able to take care of one, but he already has Rose.

 

While they search, I can feel Violet trying to figure out the best way to introduce her new spawn. I can’t tell exactly what she’s thinking, but it feels like her ideas are only getting more and more ridiculous as she overthinks things. I pat the bond as Onyx rolls her eyes, then she unceremoniously shoves the new gremlin out into the sewer tunnel, just around a bend from the kids.

 

It doesn’t appreciate that, and after catching its balance, it turns to hiss at the shadow where Onyx still hides. I don’t think I’d even need the bond with Violet to feel the smug smile on her face as the party comes to investigate.

 

Freddie is the first around the corner, and he halts as he spots the new gremlin. He slowly takes a defensive stance and quietly relays what he’s seeing, which of course gets Pul’s attention. The normal gremlins aren’t all that big, maybe two feet tall when they’re standing straight. The shadowstep is closer to three, and though it likes to hunch over a bit, it definitely carries itself differently from the other gremlins.

 

Pul’s eyes widen as he spots it, and the gremlin seems more than a little nervous at the attention. I think it knows it shouldn’t attack, but I also think that leaves it at a bit of a loss as to what it should do. My ninja takes the bucket from Rhonda and carefully steps around Freddie, moving slowly so he doesn’t startle the gremlin.

 

“Easy there… I’m not gonna hurt you. Here, I even have a gift for you.” He slowly sets down the bucket and pulls out an injured rat invader, which gets the gremlin’s attention. It might not know what to do about delvers, but invaders are a much simpler matter. Pul telegraphs an easy lob toward the gremlin, which is all too happy to snatch the invader out of the air and chomp it down. Half a squeak and a crunch later, and the gremlin is looking less nervous about Pul, and I can see the taming bar start to fill.

 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks as he lobs another rat. “I’m a delver, just like my friends. We’re friends with Violet, too,” he says, not even wincing when the gremlin quickly dispatches the next rat, too. “You’re new, huh? Has Violet told you about the dangerous dungeon that’s down in the Molten Abyss? Thediem wants to stop it, and we want to help, but we need to get stronger.”

 

As he talks, the gremlin slowly gets closer, and slowly gets more interested in Pul than the rats. It still quickly dispatches them, but I think Pul is doing a good job with making his case.

 

“And I want to borrow your strength, and make you stronger, too. You’d be coming with me, instead of staying with Violet. We’ll still delve her, though, so it’s not like you’d never see her again.” Pul smiles warmly. “I know how important family is. A dungeon and denizen isn’t quite like a mom and her kid, but I don’t think it’s far off. Will you join my family, too?” he asks, holding out one more rat.

 

The gremlin eyes it and Pul, tilting its head in thought. I don’t know how much it has going on upstairs, but with how close the taming bar is to full now, it probably understands enough to know it has a choice here. It slowly accepts the rat and looks into Pul’s eyes, before chomping on the invader and filling the bar.

 

Pul smiles and pats its head, which the gremlin seems to quite enjoy.

 

With the tame done, the others come forward to congratulate Pul. “What are you going to name it?” asks Rezlar, Rose stretching out of his pocket to get a closer look at the gremlin.

 

“Her,” absently corrects Pul. “And… I dunno. I didn’t think that far ahead,” he admits.

 

“Darkness?” suggests Freddie.

 

“Void!” offers Rhonda.

 

Pul chuckles at their suggestions and looks to see if Rezlar has anything to add.

 

“Hmm… Abyss?”

 

I don’t think the gremlin is impressed with the names either, but her look of disdain softens as Pul pats her head again. “We’ll think of something good, don’t worry. For now, let’s get home. I want you to meet Mom and Dad, and get a chance to settle in. We have a key to help get soon, so we’ll need to make sure you have some magma protection, too.”

 

The kids chat as they make their exit, giving me a chance to go over some of the other things life is throwing at me, like Leo’s idea for dealing with the Betrayer. Trying to crack the territory open like an egg would be great, but the numbers to accomplish that are… pretty significant.

 

We’re trying to use more sonar to try to map the territory, but the Betrayer isn’t making that easy for us. I don’t know if he knows what we’re doing, but he does know he shouldn’t just let us do it. He hasn’t revealed any ability to foray into the magma, but he doesn’t need to with his Harbingers. They seem to be patrolling around the perimeter, inside the shell, and just snuffing out anything that gets too close.

 

But we’re already getting good information. For example, it doesn’t look like he closes up the tunnels after the Harbingers move on. However, he does like to flood them, and seems to drain them before a Harbinger is allowed entry. Whether they don’t have magma capability, or he doesn’t want to give it away is a question for Leo to answer.

 

Similarly, we’re getting a rough idea of the number of Harbingers he has to throw at us, judging by the estimated range they have, and how much surface area they have to cover to try to keep us away. He doesn’t have enough for full coverage, and I’m inclined to believe that, if he’s not committing all of the Harbingers to defense, it must be a pretty good portion of them. If he knew we were mapping, I think he’d use every single one at his disposal, but I think he’s interpreting the poppers as ineffectual attacks, at least for now.

 

And with us mapping at least the outer layer, we’re getting a better idea of what it’d take to crack the shell. Bad news: definitely more than the poppers and scarabs I have. Good news: they’re not my only option. The dragons have been watching the poppers explode, and what it does to the magma, and they’ve been copying the cavitation bubble.

 

I should have figured they’d be able to do that. They’re magma affinity, of course they can move some of it out of the way, then let it collapse back in on itself. Which gives me another idea that has them training on their own.

 

Why settle for an ordinary implosion when I can try to make a shaped charge? I think for ordinary explosives, they use a cone for simple penetration, and basically a prism shape when trying to cut. I’m pretty sure the triangular shape is the key to focusing the blastwaves. Maybe something closer to a focusing parabola? Either way, something to test. There's no way we’re getting through all in one go, but if we can use a shaped implosion, we’d be taking a major step in taking away the home field advantage from the Betrayer.

 

It can’t trap our approach if we make our own approach. And I like the shock and awe kind of tactic Leo is refining. Who knows how long the Betrayer has had to make its defenses? Best to circumvent them entirely, if we can. Nova is leading the way with the shaped charges, and while she’s having pretty good success with it, the denizens are having a harder time.

 

Not exactly a shock that my little artist can make shapes with ease. Now she just needs to teach the other dragons, and we’ll be able to treat the Betrayer’s walls as suggestions. Then the question becomes if we can get to the core before he figures out how to stop us.

 

 

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r/HFY • • 6h ago

OC-OneShot Humans Aren’t Petty - Anthology #2

22 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 • • 1h ago

OC-Series [Our New Peaceful Friends] 58

• Upvotes

First | Previous | Glossary |

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 Wars of Expansion Chapter 1

14 Upvotes

“Five minutes until landing, stay buckled, you lot,” shouted the pilot as they felt the dropship break into the planet's atmosphere. Jack looked up from his datapad, finishing reading it then handed it over to Petra next to him for final confirmation of plans.

“Looks all good, sir.” Petra uttered sweetly. Then continued to read over her own plans on her lap.

“Plans: good people double-check your stuff; we won't have time in the field.” Jack ordered as he saw four helmeted heads check over there equipment and seals one final time. 

“All ready, sir,” sounded the others as they looked over to the unarmored Petra next to their squad leader. Currently the task they were given was much easier than blowing up a factory or infiltrating a city. All they had to do was make sure the Petra lady here was unharmed and made it to the talks with the Eukripita. Three months ago Terra had discovered they were no longer alone in the wide galaxy; a colony ship was moving to settle down on a planet when they received a radio message commanding them to leave the system or be forced out. Word spread quickly, and checking with other factions spread across the stars, it was surmised that an alien race had been found finally. This resounded in measures to find out more about them, for both military and scientific reasons. People from all walks of life were interested in these weird and strange creatures, which looked closest to the ancient Terran species Eurypterida. The few pictures the Eurkripids had been willing to send spelled it out. They were not the bipedal grey aliens of nights long past but wholly different. 

“Patrick, you know more about scientific stuff than me and have read more on these things. Do they live on land or in water, from what we know?” Pondered Jack over the radio.

“Well, we don't know much, but they seem semi-aquatic; most of their planets seem to be Earth-like with large amounts of water, although they seem to have mining bases on desert planets, so it's possible they can inhabit places like us. Although unlikely.” Remarked Patrick in his standard thinking voice, as finished checking the medical equipment on himself.

“Hey, maybe there'll be some cute ones. What's to say? All of them look like the ugly ones ‘ey.” Jeered Sandford.

“Yeah, I gave up for that a while ago; you should have too. Also, not like you’d have a chance with one.” Uttered Elliot, cleaning the scope on his sniper rifle. 

“You're just saying that because you have no chance. Bah! just watch me.” Shouted Sanford as he checked the detonator in hand before tucking it into his vest.

“Try not to shout over the radio too much; it hurts my damn ears.” Jack said somberly looking over to the quiet man in the corner. This man was the newest member of the squad and the designated machine gunner; he had been sitting awkwardly and quietly the entire descent, not even bothering to join the jeering of his comrades. *They know each other so well, why am i here, im just a private. Just keep cleaning like they taught you.* Thought Stevens as he continued to clean.

“What do you think, lady? Are you on team cute, or not.” Asked Stevens to Petra, as she jolted from being address.

“Probably not cute by whatever metric your measuring.” She relied back.

“One minute people button up.” Sounded the pilot over the speaker system in the dropship.

“You heard the man button up.” The sounds of clicking magazines and weapons resounded through the drop bay. “Also, Elliot, stop the music I know your listening to. The last thing I need is you dying because you couldn't stop listening to the sweet tunes of J-pop.” Jack ordered.

“You know it was SynthV this time, but whatever.” He unclipped his black helmet and set the earbud down before resealing the helmet. 

“30 secs get ready, lads; uh… looks like they have a greeting party down there.” The pilot said, a touch worried. Without a word the soldiers stood and did final checks on the weapons they had: Jack, Patrick, and Sandford with their rifles; Elliot with his pistol sniper rifle slung behind him; and Stevens with his large machine gun held wearyly. Petra took the lead; she was the only one who had a translation device on her, and it was unlikely that they would attack them the second the doors opened. 

The door slowly opened, filling the drop room with warm sea air and bright sunlight. Greeting them were around ten aliens. They were standing upright or as upright as a creature like the one before them could. They had two strong-looking back legs; they seemed to support most of the lower body with a few smaller ones also touching the ground. Following along the chest, was it it a chest? Were smaller arms like things that wiggled in the ocean breeze at the top where a human’s shoulders would happen to be seemed to be large arms ending in claws. Two of the ten creatures bore rifle-like weapons looking just as advanced as the ones the Terran soldiers were holding currently. The creatures seemed to be nobility, with large cloaks of fantastical color, and the soldiers seemed to be wearing more ceremonial-type uniforms with a sort of chest plate similar to that of knights of Terra’s past. 

Petra stepped forward, her ginger hair looking even more beautiful in the sunlight. Patrick was keenly interested in Petra; she was by no means ugly. In fact, by his own thoughts, she was the most beautiful Terran senator. Which meant a lot considering the sheer number of senators in the Terran Senate. Smells weird here, like the sea but less salty. Maybe it's the large palace that's making that smell. Patrick looked up as Petra continued her introduction of them and Terra. Handing one of them a emblem of the Terran initiative. The palace was huge; he couldn't discern the complete size of it, but it was made out of what seemed to be a large portion of hardened sandstone blocks, giving a kind of golden look to it. The spaceport they had landed on was seemingly concrete, more rocky but still concrete. They certainly have the same constructions as us. I just hope this goes well. 

Petra continued talking; speaking through a translator was harder work than talking in senate, but certainly more interesting. She just hoped her current replacement would not make a mess of her work. Why am I worrying about Terra right now when I'm talking to these wonderful people. She found them incredibly interesting, much more than the soldiers she was stuck with; she didn't hate them. It was more when compared to an alien species; soldiers were boring. She continued talking, telling them about all the good the Terran Innachitive had done. The language that they spoke in was completely unspeakable by human tongues; it seemed to require organs or things that a species with a spine were unable to produce. So all talks had to be made through devices that conveyed what the message they wanted was. It wasn't the best, but it was quicker and easier than any other choice. Finally at last they told her that the meeting with the king, was on the way. Strange they have a king, but I suppose perhaps it works best for them, better to not judge an alien after all. 

“Hey sirs, we are moving into the palace. They ask you to be respectful and find your dressings strange for the occasion.” She told the group of men at her flanks and behind her. 

“Understood, ma'am. With me, people,” Jack told the squad as they finished looking at the strange surroundings. Never understood why people are so interested in new planets; after the third, it all gets the same. Jack thought as the wide doors opened before them. “Warm Embrace, this is the ground team; we are entering the palace.” He radioed to the warship above

“Understood, ground team, keep communications up. Update as needed.” One of the comm officers said over the radio to Jack. The group entered into what looked to be a grand hall. Along the walls were centuries-old paintings of what seemed to be nobles of the family that was ruling. 

“They certainly know how to paint.” Stevens remarked, speaking his first words for the entire mission. He wasn't wrong; the entire wall was covered with grand, sometimes meter-wide paintings either with history or people. 

“Hey Petra, what do we know of their history, anything of note?” Asked Patrick aloud.

“Not really anything at all, surprised your that interested. Most of the people I talk to seem to only be worried if they’ll attack us.” 

“It's always a concern. Personally, I don't really trust them that much.” Elliot interjected.

“Can it, Elliot. We may not be able to understand them, but they may understand us, so shut it before I make you.” Barked Jack as they continued down the hallway, passing by what looked to be a group of servers, giving them odd looks. 

“Aye sir.” Elliot said annoyed. Finally they were led to a what seemed to be a meeting room with large wooden doors, and the conversation between Petra and strange aliens continued. They all hated the grating visceral noises that the Eukripita made. Inhumane screaming is what it sounded like. How can someone deal with that in conversation? Jack thought while assessing the surrounding area. Only one way out of here, that's back the way we came. Looks like they also have a advanced alarm system as well. Plus a lot more guards that we’re not seeing. Nothing we can't fight our way out of. He keyed his radio to not let Petra hear and only tell the others. 

“Be ready for anything; our only way out is back the way we came. Keep that in mind. Not that it will go bad. But it's better to have the plan and not use it rather than not have it and need to use it.” 

“Understood, sir.” Sounded all the men on the channel. 

“Hello, Jack, was it?” Petra asked, staring at the man through the polerzied glass of his faceplate.
“Yes, what is it? Something is the matter.” Jack asked.

“They have a culture here that says to simplify it: I cannot bring you people into the meeting room, with or without weapons, and note it as a great distrust.” She said calmly.
“Are you sure they won't bring you any harm because I don't know how quickly I and my squad will be able to respond if anything goes wrong.” Jack announced to her.

“While I understand your concerns, we must understand that these aren't humans we’re dealing with. So we must accommodate them at least somewhat," she declared, 

“While I understand the sentiment, madam, we must understand that because they're non-humans, they may also just attack you seeing that you're now defenseless.” Jack said solemnly. 

“From our current dialogue it would seem that won't be happening and that I will be just as safe as if you were next to me. Along with that, it isn't as if they are asking you to leave the planet or building. Just not enter that room behind me.” Petra stated, moving away from Jack.

“Understood, madam, just be safe.” Jack said, turning away from Petra. She was quick to rejoin the Eurkripid court that was speaking with her before. The group then opened the door, and Jack got a flash of what was inside before it was shut. Inside were what seemed to be more nobles and royalty, all watching with those strange eyes of theirs, observing every move.  

“Sir, what exactly is going on with them, and why aren't we following.” Asked Patrick looked over his shoulder at the already closed doors. 

“We can't go in there now. Post up two by the door, two watching the hall. Stevens your in the centre.” Barked Jack as they all assumed the posts they were ordered to.

“I know you're worried about her, Pat. We all are, but she’ll be fine, I assure you. Even if they are dumb enough to attack, we can respond quickly enough; we’re trained for this, remember.” Sanford said, trying to comfort the unhappy Patrick. No idea why he thinks this is a good idea, leaving her to them. He has his reasons, I suppose. Patrick continued to think of all the ways this plan could go poorly as he passed glances over his shoulders at each of the other men. 

They had been standing for about half an hour, hearing bits and pieces of conversation. Petra’s part couldn't be heard by them, only the strange noises of the aliens. 

Then suddenly "AHHHHHH"—a piercing human scream could be heard through the doors of the room.
“Go, go, go!” Jack shouted, slamming his jackboot into the door, sending splinters flying. The door swung open, and nearly all the men opened fire at the sight. Petra was on the ground with a gaping wound upon her chest, no doubt caused by the large claws of the aliens. A top her moving the claw to her throat was what looked to be a noble or even the king, judging by his highly regal appearance. All around at the table were more of the noble aliens. Seeing Petra in danger, Jack fired. The three shots stitched a line across the creature's chest up to just below the claws. It fell dead; all the remaining nobles began running for the burst door, shouting in the grating tongue of theirs. 

“Patrick, get her stable; the rest of you cover the door until she’s stable.” He keyed the radio again for the pilot of the dropship and the comms team on The Warm Embrace, “We have a man down we need the pilot and medical team on standby now, do you read?” Jack asked over the radio.

Meanwhile, Patrick was working on the wounded Petra, packing her wounds with bandages and attempting to slow the profuse bleeding coming from her chest. Those claws have to be sharp enough to pierce our armor. He thought while drawing a morphine injector for her. 

“Stay calm and keep breathing.” He uttered as he injected her with the painkiller. “Sir, I'm going to need someone to help carry her on a stretcher once I have her stable!” He shouted over his shoulder, continuing to work.
“Understood, Sanford, help the doc!” Jack replied as they continued to stay posted on the door. He continued working; the bleeding had slowed, but so had her breathing, and no doubt had her lungs at least been damaged by the claws. He removed the stretcher from his backpack and began to splay it out while continuing to check the wounded Petra.
“Sanford, on my mark, we move her onto the stretcher, and then we get the hell out of here, understand?” Patrick asked as he heard the first gunshots echo in the hall. 

Down the hall a group of aliens were popping shots at the pinned marines who were attempting to return fire. Stevens was doing a good job keeping them suppressed by his heavy machine gun fire, but he could only do so much.
“Elliot, see if you figure out and take out whoever has the radio or is the leader with your rifle! We need to get free before we’re encircled!” Jack yelled as he saw Elliot without a word, drew the rifle, and leaned on the wall for support. Behind him, Sanford and Patrick were continuing to work on Petra, whose bleeding had nearly stopped. The side effect was her losing consciousness; it's better for her to not remember all of this hell we’re about to bring her through. Jack thought as he downed another alien. No doubt these were the first kills of the long-drawn-out war the Terrans had just been thrust into without preparation or warning. 

“Engines are ready, sir, but it looks like they have atmosphere fighters moving out from what the radar says. Best you get moving, sir.” The pilot uttered over the busying comm network. No doubt some other hell was going on above them in the CIC. 

“We’re good to move, sir, on your mark.” Patrick announced to Jack as another stream of bullets went out from Stevens gun.

“Stevens keep the right clear of those bastards. Elliot, is our left clear?” He asked as Elliot peered out to his flank. 

“Clear right now, sir.” Elliot said calmly.

“Move it! Elliot and Stevens cover the rear; I'll take point the rest in the middle!” Jack announced over the squad radio as he moved to the point position. Now there are only a hundred ways this can go bad, not a thousand. He thought as he heard the moving of the stretcher behind him. 

With Petra on the stretcher, Patrick and Sanford moved the stretcher, Patrick taking the rear and Sanford taking the front. The air was now thick and heavy with the smell of blood, gunpowder, and brass. That once serene and placid scene had been moved to a tempest of death and destruction.

The squad continued moving slowly, slowed greatly by the fear of moving Petra too fast and injuring her further. Elliot and Stevens had been doing an impressive job of keeping the aliens back. Stevens, with the machine gun, kept them pinned while Elliot took anyone stupid enough to pop up. But slowly ammo was bleeding down. 

“Red on ammo here, cap,” Elliot said as he downed another one, sickly blue blood and visera spraying onto the wall behind him. Damn, how many of these things are there? He thought as he threw a spent magazine onto the ground, quickly racking the bolt as he loaded another. Another stream of alien bullets pinged off the wall they were hidden behind. On both sides now were large groupings of bug-like aliens pinning them down. 

“Put the stretcher down; we aren't going to get through this if we don't have enough rifles!” Yelled Jack as he continued to fire down the front hall. They were thoroughly pinned down.


r/HFY • • 11h ago

OC-Series [The X Factor], Part 91

14 Upvotes

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"That’s all the sample collecting I’ll be doing," K’resshk announced, wiping his hands with an antiseptic towelette and packing his things. "Have fun with… cleaning up."

Sonja watched him shudder as he left the maker space, leaving just her and Dominick to get rid of the last bits of… mush.

"So, um…" She used a chisel to scrape a chunk with hair and skin still attached to it into her bucket, being careful not to over-extend her shoulder. Magic squid juice could only do so much for a bullet wound.

"…Yeah?" There was a splat from behind her as he tossed the contents of his own bucket into the kiln.

"Are we gonna talk about the whole, y’know… you shooting me thing?" They hadn’t really talked since their ill-fated interrogation, and it was driving her as crazy as she’d driven Elqatra.

"S-sure," he said, his voice cracking. "We can talk about that. What did you want to, uh…" He trailed off.

"I—I don’t know. It just… feels like something we should talk about?"

"Yeah. Definitely." He laughed shakily. "I’m, uh… sorry? For shooting you?"

Sonja nodded slowly, and tried to consider how to react to that—or how to feel at all. It was a nice sentiment, and she didn’t think she was angry about that whole… mess… especially since she’d ran at him with a helmet on… but there was still something gnawing at her.

"Hey, Dominick," she began, finally turning to face him. "Did you… really not know that it wasn’t me?"

He looked at the growing pile of mush forlornly, his lip quivering ever so slightly, as if he was grieving the Sonja that had been.

"Physical signs, maybe," he whispered. "You—she—was cold to the touch. Struggled to drink water. Couldn’t cry or sweat. I just figured you were sick. And she looked the same, so I—"

"You know that’s not what I meant." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, cognizant of the translator earpiece nestled within it—of AEON, and his penchant for… imitating her. "Behavioral signs. You know, since you’re a behavioral scientist?" She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her words, though it wasn’t directed at Dominick so much as it was at herself, for being so… so easily copied. So shallow.

He took a deep breath and paused to think. To figure out how to sugarcoat his words, probably.

"I think all of us were believing what we wanted to believe," he murmured. "And I… I wanted to believe that you were okay, even though Hassan knew you weren’t. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen."

"And that’s why you guys are fighting now? Because of me? I’m flattered," she joked, though her heart wasn’t in and she knew he could tell. It was more disconcerting than anything.

He awarded her a laugh, no doubt out of pity. "Yeah, I guess so. They messed with us big time—gaslighting Commander Liu and convincing Hassan that the whole galaxy was out to get him, starting a fight between Eza and Uuliska, and another one between—" He cut himself off. "Between… other assorted individuals."

"Between you and Aktet, you mean?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Shit. Was it that obvious? Has he been, like, glaring at me?"

"What? No! Who else would you have cut yourself off to avoid talking about? K’resshk?" She wrinkled her nose. "What were you even fighting over?"

He paused for a suspicious amount of time.

Then cleared his throat.

Then shuffled around awkwardly.

"Oh, my god, would you spit it out already?" She groaned. "You do know who you’re talking to, right? There’s nothing you can say that’s going to surprise—"

"You," he blurted out.

"…Yeah? There’s nothing you can say that’s going to surprise me. Good job on filling in the blank? Now can you please tell me—"

"We were fighting over you. A-about you, I mean, not… you know."

Now it was her turn to pause. An ominous dripping came from the corner of the room—some splotch of clone goo that they hadn’t yet found, probably.

"What… what the hell do you mean you were fighting about me? About whether or not I was acting weird?" That was too normal to be the reason, but what else would they—

"He said I pander to you too much."

Oh. Her heart sank. "I… I didn’t know…"

The other agent chose not to rescue her from the ensuing awkward silence, and the dripping continued.

Sonja would have been lying if she’d said that she’d never been self-conscious about the relationship her and Dominick had. She was closer to him than she was to anyone else in her life, past or present. But her doubts about the ways other people saw their bond continued to gnaw at her, and she’d worried on a few occasions that she was too possessive—not to mention her doubts that he felt the same way she did. What if he’d just been going along with it the whole time for the sake of his job? What if he felt trapped? They’d never talked about that before. She was always too afraid of the truth.

Better late than never.

"Dominick," she began, her voice wavering. "I know… I know I can be clingy. So if you ever feel like you have to agree with me, or like I’m holding you back… you know you can tell me, right? And if you’ve just been going through the motions to not hurt my feelings or whatever, I won’t be mad. I just—"

"Hey, hey, it’s okay," he said in a soothing tone, closing the gap between them and using his sleeve to wipe a tear off of her cheek that she hadn’t noticed falling. "That’s not what I meant, and I doubt that’s what Aktet meant, either. You’re not ‘holding me back.’ We just…" He sighed. "The jet lag was getting to all of us. I’m sure with time we’ll all make up."

His doubt was obvious from the distant look in his eyes. Elqatra had really done a number on them. Sonja had really done a number on them. She couldn’t help but feel responsible, somehow, but…

Wait. She sniffled, trying to clear her sinuses. If ‘I’ started all of this, then maybe I can fix it? If I just remind them what I’m actually like when I’m not being impersonated…

She puffed her chest up and nodded.

"I’ll be back," she said resolutely. "Unless you finish cleaning up without me, I mean."

"What? What are you—"

"Keep an eye on Wojtek, too!" She dashed to the other side of the room, scooped him up just before he could pounce on a quivering mass of clone tissue, and dumped him into Dominick’s arms before speeding out the door.

___

"Thanks again, man," Omar told Jitter as they left the sound booth they’d spent the past half an hour in.

"No problem! I hope your, uh… daughter? Your daughter? I hope her first molt goes well." The technician patted him on the back and waved goodbye.

He watched the man depart, then scrolled through the extensive notes he’d taken during their conversation regarding the development of juvenile Kth’sk. There was… a lot.

I just hope I can send it all to Francois before the poor kid starts going through alien puberty.

Assuming Francois would even do anything with the information, with how frosty she—

"Hi!"

He jumped at the cheery voice that came up from behind him, and the delicate tap on his shoulder. It was Krishnan, her arms clasped behind her back and her smile ear-to-ear.

"Krishnan. Did you, uh… need something?" He slid his phone into his pocket and tried to suppress the wave of annoyance that overtook him when he laid eyes upon her. It wasn’t her fault that he’d spent days on end being psychologically tortured by someone who looked and spoke exactly like her, and yet…

It’s a little hard to separate the two.

"Nah, I just wanted to catch up," she said casually. "It’s been a while!"

"It’s been… three-ish days." He was starting to feel suspicious. Had the fake Sonja somehow merged with her during their interrogation? Was this all a set-up?

"Which is basically a week," she said dismissively, "and that’s, like, almost a month, you know? How’ve you been?"

"Are—are you okay?" He was more confused than anything at this point. As a general rule, he assumed that the agent was never entirely genuine with him—that seemed to be a side of her reserved for Lombardi—but the vibe here was off. Not in a malicious way, just… off.

"I believe," AEON said suddenly, his voice muffled by the pocket of her hoodie (where had she even gotten that?), "that Agent Krishnan is attempting to ease tensions within your group by overwriting your memories of the ‘fake’ Agent Krishnan."

"AEON!" She groaned. "That’s, like, the creepiest, most evil robot way you could’ve phrased that. I’m trying to undo the damage Elqatra did. Sorry if I was coming off too strong."

Omar nodded slowly and looked past her. "Did Lombardi put you up to this?" It seemed awfully mature for Krishnan. Though maybe that was his frustrations with her impostor talking.

"No, I left before he could stop me. He is sorry, though. He didn’t say that, but he had that look in his eyes that screams ‘I’m sorry for even existing,’ you know? The sad puppy dog ones?"

He had to crack a smile at that. "He always has that look, Krishnan. The first time I saw him after he woke up from his coma, he looked sorry for having been in one in the first place. He’s as bad at putting on a tough exterior as I am once you get to know him."

She laughed, but there was a wistful look in her eyes.

"…Krishnan?"

"Hm? Oh. I just… wanted to say thanks. For knowing that something was wrong with ‘me,’" she said, using finger quotes. "Dominick… he was too scared to admit to himself that anything was up, and I appreciate that, but it’s… comforting, I guess, knowing that someone could tell. A-anyways, I should get going. It’s late, and there’re more people I wanna catch up with."

"Yeah. Of course." He watched quietly as she waved, then raced down the hallway as he reminisced about other fond memories he’d shared with the crew.

"Oh, and if you’re gonna shower, don’t throw out the toothpaste gum once you’re done with it or Tress’ll be pissed! Just put it back in the sanitizer!" she called out over her shoulder.

The toothpaste gum?

___

DEAR HUMANS, read the hastily-scrawled sign hanging above the dental grit that Aktet was about to use. DO NOT THROW THIS OUT, OR I WILL PERSONALLY MAKE YOU PAY FOR A REPLACEMENT. SIGNED, TRESS. It was, ironically, written in Galactic Standard.

He finished his nighttime ablutions and refrained from disposing of the dental grit just to feel something.

"Heyyy," drawled a familiar voice as he left the bathroom. "What’s up?"

Sonja was leaning on the doorframe, looking to be in suspiciously high spirits.

"Agent Krishnan." He nodded respectfully. "I was just preparing to rest. Are you feeling alright, after…?" He gestured to her injury.

"Oh, that?" She laughed and patted her shoulder. "Totally fine! Tress slapped a high-tech waterproof bandage on it after slathering it with squid ju—with an enzyme salve. Also, Dominick was either firing a warning shot, or we really need to hit the range back at headquarters. You, um, should come with us sometime!"

"To the ‘range?’" He could only assume it related to the operation of firearms, but surely she wasn’t suggesting that—

"Yeah, where we make sure we can… safely use our guns? Just in case anything happens and you have to, you know…" She mimicked pulling a trigger. "I—I think they’d let you in. Even though you’re not part of the agency. It could be, um, a date! I wouldn’t even have to go!"

A date. The concept of courtship seemed so far removed from everything they were dealing with that he almost laughed at the prospect.

"I appreciate the thought, but wielding the electrolaser rifle on Drekth was more than enough for me, and I’m not certain that this ‘range’ you speak of would be appropriate for a… a…"

"A date?" She grinned.

"Yes. That." He grimaced, both excited by the idea and appalled by how excited he was. He may have been the one who started the conflict, but he would not be the one to initiate a reconciliation.

"Well, maybe you could go to, like… a… a baseball… game…?" She twirled a strand of black hair that still had a faint sheen of purple to it.

He gasped. "S-Sonja! Just because he and I are in the middle of a disagreement does not mean I want to see him very nearly die again! The last time he partook in an equivalent sport, he—"

"No, no, not to play in it. To watch it!" She sighed. "Also, I’m pretty sure it’s WAY safer on Earth. There’s no way he would’ve made it to adulthood after playing it as a kid if it was anything like alien baseball. He’s, like… him."

Aktet shrugged. "Didn’t he participate in a rather intensive sport during his education? ‘Pole dancing’ or something like that? Pole vaulting, maybe?"

Her face… contorted, and she laughed. "Y-yeah! You should go ask him to demonstrate pole dancing for you sometime. He’d appreciate it! You could go ask him right now, actually!"

"I suppose our bickering did start over a relatively silly matter," he murmured. "I’ll… go speak with him, and ask him about this ‘pole dancing.’"

He looked at her as she grinned ear-to-ear. She had a warmth about her that he hadn’t realized he’d so desperately missed until she’d returned.

"It’s good to have you back, Sonja. I mean it." With a shy smile, he ducked away and headed towards the site of their interrogation.

___

Uuliska was half-asleep when Aktet stormed into their shared room, his ears a brighter shade of red than the dwarf star his home planet orbited.

"I want the clone version of Agent Krishnan back," he growled. "The real one is a lying, treacherous primitive who deserves nothing less than the eternal torment she has wrought upon me." He flopped down on an unoccupied mattress snout-first.

Dominick walked in a few moments later, sat down in the corner of the room, hugged his knees to his chest, and hid his similarly bright-red face.

"Disgusting," K’resshk muttered from his own corner. "I was hoping the rift between the two of them would have put an end to all of… that."

It was then that Commander Liu walked in, having returned from the bathroom, and—

"By the stars," Uuliska gasped. "Your head!"

Herself, K’resshk and Aktet all reacted to the new deformity with shock and horror. The solid lump which normally crowned her head had melted and fallen around her face like an Istiil’s tentacles, or perhaps like Sonja’s ‘hair.’

The woman ran her hands over the space which her cranial mass formerly occupied and frowned.

"Is it tangled? I didn’t have any gel to slick it back."

"Looks fine to me," the captain said absentmindedly. "Except for the huge spider crawling through it."

"Hassan. There aren’t even any spiders on this—never mind." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Will one of you please tell me what’s wrong with my head?"

"Your… your bulbous growth," K’resshk gurgled, acid rushing to his esophagus. "It’s changed. And the keratinous halo framing your features—how could that possibly have grown in a matter of minutes?"

"Yeah, that’s super weird," Eza deadpanned. "Maybe it’s a new symptom of Myselosis."

She very obviously knew something, but Uuliska was not going to be the one to ask her for clarification.

The commander stood there for a moment, her eyes narrowed, then groaned. "My bun? Are you asking why my hair isn’t in an updo?" She took a small elastic circle off of her wrist and deftly shaped her new growths into a—

"Oh," Aktet whispered. "I… don’t like that. I don’t like that it does that."

The woman just stared at him blankly, then winced as she sat down on an empty bed. The fact that she was coherent after being exposed to the sap of a Drekthian graltak bush, let alone an entire syringe of it, was miraculous. From the way Eza had described her own inoculation growing up…

Eza… She watched her lover out of the corner of her eye. How was it possible to feel such intense adoration and frustration at the same time?

All I wanted was a few moments to cherish the dream of a more peaceful existence for the both of us. Was that so selfish?

Their life hadn’t been perfect before all of this, but it was hard to be reminded of the comforts and luxuries they once shared and not yearn for the past—back when they would sneak away from formal dinners and enjoy one another’s company in her personal chambers, wrapped in silken kelp-fiber sheets underneath the frescoes that adorned her ceiling, and back when they would embrace one another in the warm, sparkling waters of her private bathhouse, its lagoon-glass mosaics shimmering in the early morning light. The scent of the perfumed bath oils they’d use still haunted her dreams.

I need to moisten my membrane. She stood up slowly and left the room, her head hung low. She’d only made use of the custom soaking tub the Vahiya had included in her suite two times, and now she was back to showers. Maybe if they managed to convince the board members to stand down, they’d be allowed to stay just one more night?

"Oh, Uuliska!" Sonja ran up to her right as she stepped into the hallway. "I was looking for… Uuliska? You okay?"

I’m fine, she tried to say, but the words caught in her throat. Her whole body felt dry and sticky, and she couldn’t bring herself to maintain her façade any longer.

"No," she rasped, a sickly pale hue tinting her normal coloration. "No, I am not."

The young human intuited what was the matter and ushered her to the bathroom, waited for her to absorb the warm water, provided her with drinking water as soon as she exited, and led her to an empty room to decompress in what felt like the blink of an eye.

After a brief struggle to find an empty room, that is.

"Oh, god, ew!" Sonja slammed the door she’d just opened shut, and a shrill Kth’sk cry of surprise followed by the angry growling of a Jikaal came from behind it.

"The fuck is wrong with you?!" yelled the latter of the two voices—Tress, if Uuliska recalled correctly.

"I’m sorry! I—I didn’t know you’d be in the sound booth making—augh, never mind!" She groaned, grabbed Uuliska’s hand, and moved on to the next empty room, this one a closet full of unused cases of fabricator supplies.

"That was awful." She looked about as distressed as her partner had when he’d entered with Aktet, and though they were in air and not water, Uuliska could still feel the sudden heat radiating off of her face from across the small space.

"I believe that an example of… ah, what’s the human word… karma?"

"I just… I didn’t know they could open their mouths that wide," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.

"The Kth’sk, or the—"

"Both. Both of them." She sighed and blinked a few times, then glanced at Uuliska, an unspoken question forming on her lips.

"…Are you about to ask how Eza and I—"

"I wasn’t going to, since it felt rude, but… do the tusks get in the way?"

The look on her face was dead serious.

By the stars. If there was a single X factor that united humanity, their unerring curiosity about different ways of life was a strong candidate. Perhaps that was a consequence of how many different ways of life they exhibited in the first place.

Disbelief aside, Uuliska pondered the inquiry for a moment, then shrugged. "I can’t say I’ve ever noticed it before. They’re rather offset from the center of her…"

"Right, right. I wonder why a bunch of different species use their mouths to—no, never mind! I brought you in here because I wanted to check up on you, not because I wanted to talk sociology." She smiled. "So, um… how are you doing?"

Uuliska took a long sip of water and studied Sonja’s expression. That was another facet of humanity that both fascinated and frustrated her—none of them had consistent body language. There were some similarities, for sure—smiling, nodding, shrugging—but what of the way Sonja tilted her head from side to side at certain statements while Dominick only nodded or shook his, or Commander Liu’s smirks versus the captain’s wide grins?

"I’m… fine," she said, after her moment of contemplation. "Compared to earlier, at least. Eza and I haven’t spoken since a disagreement we had after you, um, left, and it’s been weighing on me."

The agent hummed in understanding. "Seems like everyone’s been on edge these past few days. That’s why I was looking for you before, actually. I wanted to see if I could help. I figured if the fake me messed you all up, the real me could help… make things better, I guess? It sounds so silly when I say it out loud. I’m probably just pissing everyone off."

"Well, you certainly ‘pissed off’ Dominick and Aktet, though I have a feeling that was your plan all along, was it not?" Though it was a much more Jikaali tactic than what she used to employ, uniting two bickering individuals through a common struggle was very effective.

"Maaaaybe," she said with a giggle. "I’m not doing that to you, by the way. That’d be, like, super uncool. I just wanted to reassure you that whatever disagreement you had, if you just talk to her about it, I’m sure she’ll understand. Unless she tried to kill you or something. She—she didn’t, right?" Her eyes widened.

"No, of course not! We just… expressed different reactions when Curator Galima offered to commemorate our relationship with a work of art. I—I know she was simply manipulating us, but it reminded me of better times, before all of this strife. When I looked at Eza to… share the moment with her, I suppose… she brushed me off." Uuliska tried to suppress the moody tones emerging throughout her form. "She attempted to talk to me after, too. To apologize, most likely, and I refused to open my door. It all sounds so trivial now, but I can’t begin to fathom how I would discuss it with Eza."

"Maybe you don’t have to discuss it," Sonja said softly. "You two know each other better than anyone else here. You could probably just walk up to her and—well, not smile, but, uh, glow—and she’d understand."

Oh. "I had not thought of it that way." Breaking down communication and emotions so explicitly had been a struggle since she lost her telepathy. Some days, it felt pointless to even try and connect with those around her. But the way Sonja described it, and the way…

"A-actually," she said hesitantly, "do you think, ah… Clef, was it? Would be willing to—well, not discuss, but communicate about how they employ music? Something about it…"

Sonja’s eyes lit up. "Oh, definitely! Clef loves talking to people in their own way. Very friendly. I mean, maybe don’t go up to Eza and serenade her, but—"

"Of course, of course!" She stood up and smoothed out her robes. "Those were two separate lines of thought, the first of which I should go and follow up on. Thank you, Agent Krishnan. And make sure not to overwhelm yourself with counseling us all. It is an easy tendency to develop, but a hard one to let go of. I would know."

"This is the last time I’ll go around therapizing. Pinky promise." She held out her smallest digit, then winced. "You, uh… never mind. I don’t think you can make a pinky promise with the webbing between your fingers. I—I’ll see you around!" She shot up and opened the door for Uuliska, ushered her out, and then—

"Agent Krishnan." Commander Liu was waiting on the other end of it, her arms crossed. "I was looking for you. We need to have a talk about what kind of ‘help’ you promised these people."

Uuliska ran. She ran far, and she ran fast, until she was safely cuddled up next to her girlfriend, who seemed pleasantly surprised at the sudden close contact.

…It would be wise, perhaps, were she to refrain from mentioning her intended use of the woman as a meat shield against any ensuing conflict.


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r/HFY • • 12h ago

OC-Series The Road Continues [Part 3]

18 Upvotes

Part One

Part Two

The Road Continues

Chapter 3

An unofficial, noncommercial continuation of Harry Turtledove’s “The Road Not Taken”

After returning to the Sepulveda VA facility, which Togram had learned was part of an enormous military hospital complex, things began to change rather quickly.

The atmosphere seemed more relaxed than it had been before. Togram and the other Roxolani were now permitted to move freely throughout the areas of the facility assigned to them. They could visit one another, gather in the common rooms, and spend their time much as they pleased. There were still guards, of course, and they were still forbidden to leave the building, but the restrictions that had governed their movements during the first weeks of captivity had gradually been relaxed.

For the first time since their disastrous arrival on Earth, Togram had been able to spend considerable time among his surviving warriors.

Then, one morning, he was summoned once again to the conference room.

There, Hilda Chester and several other human officials informed him that arrangements were being made to relocate him and all the surviving Roxolani to another facility.

Hilda explained that the hospital had never been intended as a permanent place of confinement. Many of the Roxolani had been wounded during the brief but devastating battle that followed their landing, and the humans had needed somewhere they could provide medical treatment while maintaining adequate security. The hospital had been hastily adapted for that purpose.

Now, however, the great majority of the wounded had recovered, and the humans believed it was time to move them somewhere more suitable.

More suitable, Togram thought.

He had heard enough human expressions by now to know that their words did not always mean quite what they appeared to mean.

A prison, he decided. They're finally going to put us in a proper prison.

The days that followed were filled with anticipation, much of it accompanied by considerable trepidation.

Togram had taken advantage of his newfound freedom to speak with as many of his surviving crewmen as possible. Their reactions to captivity on Earth varied enormously.

Some still seemed incapable of accepting that the humans were merely another race of intelligent beings. To them, Earth was nothing less than a world inhabited by gods, beings who could summon light with a touch, speak across impossible distances, travel faster than the swiftest horse without the aid of contragravity, and wield weapons of unimaginable destructive power.

Others, like Togram himself, had become fascinated by the astonishing technology surrounding them. They eagerly discussed the things they had seen and the explanations their captors had offered. Some had even begun learning the human language, although few had progressed nearly as far as Togram and Ransisc.

And a surprising number had grown quite comfortable with their circumstances.

They were well fed. Their wounds had been treated with a skill that bordered on the miraculous. Their quarters were clean, warm, and free of vermin. They had access to entertainments unlike anything they had known on their homeworld. For warriors accustomed to the cramped, uncomfortable conditions aboard a Roxolani spacecraft, life in the hospital was hardly unpleasant.

Indeed, a few openly expressed their reluctance to leave.

But others were deeply suspicious.

Rumors circulated that the humans intended to separate them for interrogation, subject them to experiments, or perhaps use them to test the terrible weapons that had so easily destroyed their invasion force.

The possibility of medical experimentation seemed to frighten some of the crewmen particularly badly.

Togram did his best to reassure them.

"If they intended to experiment upon us medically," he pointed out during one particularly anxious discussion, "why would they take us away from a hospital? Surely this would be the most convenient place to do such things."

That argument seemed to satisfy several of his warriors.

Togram wished he found it equally reassuring.

He had come to believe that the humans were not deliberately cruel, at least not those with whom he had dealt. They had treated their prisoners with a degree of consideration that he would scarcely have expected from his own people under similar circumstances.

But he had also learned that human civilization was extraordinarily complicated. There were different governments, different military organizations, and countless groups whose interests did not always agree. The kindness of Hilda Chester and the other humans he had come to know was no guarantee that those who controlled their ultimate fate would be equally benevolent.

As the day of their departure approached, Togram found himself increasingly convinced that the explanation was much simpler than any of the rumors.

The humans had finished treating their wounds. They no longer needed to keep them in a hospital.

And now they were going to transfer their prisoners to a prison.

He could think of no other reasonable explanation.

One Roxolan whom Togram had been unable to locate among the survivors was Warmaster Slevon.

He had asked the humans about him repeatedly, but his inquiries had produced nothing. The humans had no understanding of Roxolan military insignia or the distinctions of rank conveyed by their uniforms. Nor had the Roxolani worn anything resembling the identification tags that human soldiers apparently carried. To the humans who had collected the dead, one Roxolan officer must have looked very much like another.

Most of the bodies had been buried long before Togram regained consciousness.

He could only assume that the warmaster had died in the fighting. Perhaps one of those hideous exploding cannon shells had found him aboard the Indomitable. Togram remembered the ship shuddering beneath the impacts, the explosions tearing into its superstructure, the terrible realization that the humans' weapons could destroy a vessel that had crossed the distances between stars.

Then had come the blow that knocked him unconscious.

He had awakened in a human hospital. Slevon, apparently, had not awakened at all.

There was, however, something else Togram had only recently learned.

The humans had been keeping another group of Roxolani in a separate section of the medical facility. These were the less seriously wounded, along with those who had escaped the battle without injury. For reasons Togram did not entirely understand, they had been housed apart from the wounded soldiers with whom he had become familiar.

Until now, he had not even known they were there.

The prospect of finally meeting them excited him. Perhaps among them were officers he knew, soldiers from his own company whom he had long since given up for dead, or steerers and crewmen from the other ships. He had begun to hope that the coming transfer would reunite him with comrades he had not seen since the invasion.

But it was Hilda Chester who gave him the news that would overshadow everything else.

There were 489 surviving Roxolani.

At first, Togram thought he had misunderstood her.

"Four hundred and eighty-nine?" he repeated.

"Yes, Togram. That's the total number we have."

"From all the ships?"

Hilda hesitated, and he saw the answer in her face before she spoke.

"From all the ships."

He stared at her.

More than ten thousand Roxolani had entered this star system. One hundred and twenty-five ships, carrying soldiers, officers, steerers, pilots, and crews. A battle fleet large enough to subdue worlds, commanded by experienced officers and equipped with the weapons that had brought so many other races under Roxolan rule.

And now there were 489.

He tried to make the numbers mean something. Four hundred and eighty-nine was not even enough to fill the complements of seven ships. It was scarcely more than a handful of companies. It was less than one Roxolan in twenty.

"How?" he asked at last. "How could so many have died?"

Hilda's expression became grave.

She explained what the humans had learned in the aftermath of the fighting. Once their aircraft had discovered how to approach the Roxolan vessels from directions their steerers and pilots could not readily observe, the battle had become terribly one-sided. The humans had attacked from behind and below, exploiting blind spots that Roxolan tactics had never been designed to protect.

Nearly two-thirds of the troop ships had been destroyed before they ever reached the ground.

Togram felt his ears flatten against his head.

Thousands of soldiers had died without firing a shot. They had crossed the unimaginable gulf between stars, endured the darkness and stench of their ships for sixteen days, and looked forward to setting foot upon another world. They had expected conquest, glory, plunder, perhaps the chance to return home with wealth enough to improve their families' standing for generations.

Instead, they had died in the sky above a world whose inhabitants they had dismissed as primitives.

And those who had reached the surface had fared little better.

Togram remembered the opening volley at UCLA, the confident expectation that the humans would break and flee, and the dreadful noise that followed. He remembered his men falling so quickly that they could scarcely reload their muskets. He remembered Ilingua's horrified cry.

He wondered whether Ilingua was among the 489.

For a long while he said nothing.

He had expected to feel anger. Indeed, he almost wished that he could. Anger was familiar to a soldier. Anger gave a man something to hold on to, someone to blame, some promise of vengeance that might make defeat bearable.

But no matter how hard he tried, the anger would not come.

What he felt instead was sadness.

It was a deep, hollow sadness unlike anything he had experienced in all his years of campaigning. He thought of the soldiers who would never return to Roxolan, of mates and offspring who would wait for ships that would never appear, of families who might never learn what had happened to those they loved.

And he could not bring himself to hate the humans responsible.

They had defended their world.

That was all.

Togram was a soldier. He understood such things. Had a fleet of alien vessels appeared above Roxolan, descended upon its cities, and opened fire upon its inhabitants, he would have fought with everything at his disposal. He would have expected every soldier under his command to do the same.

The humans had merely done what he himself would have done.

And there was something else, something that troubled him even more deeply.

Had the situation been reversed, had the Roxolani defeated a human invasion of their homeworld, what would have become of the survivors?

He knew the answer.

Those not killed outright would have been stripped of their possessions, chained, and sold. The strong would have gone to the fields, the mines, or the construction gangs. The weak and wounded would have been of little value to anyone. Few masters would have wasted good food or expensive medicines upon prisoners who could not work.

Certainly no Roxolan commander would have ordered an entire hospital converted for the comfort of defeated enemies.

Yet that was precisely what the humans had done.

They had tended his wounds. They had fed him, clothed him, and given him a comfortable place to sleep. They had allowed him to speak with his comrades, answered his questions, and even invited him to witness the testing of their extraordinary machines.

They had treated him with a consideration that his own people seldom extended even to conquered nobles.

Togram looked at Hilda Chester, who was watching him with quiet concern.

He thought again of the 489 survivors, of the thousands who had died, and of the terrible weapons that had made such destruction possible.

He ought to have hated these people.

By every tradition of his profession, by every lesson he had learned in a lifetime of conquest, he ought to have hated them.

But he could not.

And somehow, that troubled him almost as much as the defeat itself.

Finally, the day of departure arrived.

The Roxolani had been informed the previous evening that they were to gather whatever personal possessions they wished to take with them. It had not been a particularly demanding assignment.

Most had arrived on Earth with little more than their uniforms, weapons, and the few necessities a soldier might carry into battle. Their weapons, of course, had been confiscated immediately after their capture, and much of what remained had been lost in the destruction of their ships.

The humans had recovered a few personal belongings from the wreckage. There were small ornaments, pieces of jewelry, a handful of keepsakes, and other objects whose significance would have been utterly incomprehensible to anyone who had not grown up on Roxolan.

One particularly remarkable discovery had been a painting of the Roxolan homeworld. Somehow, despite the terrible punishment the Indomitable had endured, the painting had survived almost undamaged. The humans had cleaned it and hung it in the large communal room they called the day room, where the surviving Roxolani could gather during their waking hours.

Togram had spent many hours looking at it.

It was not an especially fine painting. Indeed, he suspected that whoever had commissioned it had paid rather more than the artist's talents warranted. But it showed the familiar landscapes of home, the distant mountains, the broad plains, and the peculiar golden cast of the afternoon sky.

He had never imagined that an ordinary painting could become so precious.

He wondered whether the humans intended to send it along with them.

Apart from such pitiful remnants of their former lives, the Roxolani had little to pack. Most of their possessions now consisted of things the humans themselves had provided: clothing, blankets, grooming implements, and assorted conveniences whose purposes had required explanation when they were first introduced.

Togram slept scarcely at all that night.

He lay on the comfortable bed, staring into the darkness, turning over in his mind everything he knew about their destination. The humans had repeatedly assured him that the move was for the benefit of the Roxolani. They would have more room, more freedom of movement, and better opportunities to associate with one another.

He wanted to believe them.

But he had been a soldier too long to accept comforting explanations without considering what might lie behind them.

Early the next morning, the familiar notes of a bugle sounded somewhere beyond the walls of the medical facility.

Togram had heard that same call nearly every morning since his recovery. He had learned that it signaled the beginning of the human military day, although he remained uncertain whether the custom was universal among humans or peculiar to their soldiers.

The Roxolani had their own bugle calls, of course. But the human instrument produced a sharper, brighter sound than those to which he was accustomed.

He found himself wondering, not for the first time, how two races that had developed on worlds separated by unimaginable distances could have arrived independently at so many similar customs.

By the time the door was unlocked, Togram was already standing beside it, dressed and ready.

Behind him waited the other Roxolani scheduled for departure, among them Ransisc, whose injuries had healed sufficiently that he no longer required assistance to walk.

During the intervening weeks, the senior steerer had become the closest thing Togram possessed to a true friend on this strange world. They had known one another aboard the Indomitable, certainly, but captivity had brought them together in ways that military service never had.

Ransisc had a habit of looking at even the most disturbing developments with a detached curiosity that Togram sometimes found infuriating and sometimes desperately needed.

Now the steerer stood beside him, carrying a small bundle of belongings.

"Well," Ransisc remarked, "at least this time we know where we're going before we set out."

"We know what the humans call it," Togram replied. "That isn't quite the same thing."

Ransisc gave a soft snort.

"No, I suppose it isn't."

The doors opened.

The Roxolani filed out of the building and onto a long, covered walkway. Armed human soldiers accompanied them on either side, just as armed soldiers had accompanied nearly every movement they had made since their capture.

Togram had grown accustomed to the guards, although he had never entirely stopped resenting their presence.

He understood their purpose. He even understood their necessity. But there was something humiliating about being escorted everywhere by soldiers whose weapons could kill him before he had taken three steps.

The walkway led to a broad paved area where a row of enormous ground vehicles stood waiting.

There were ten of them, painted in shades of blue and green. They were longer than the limousine in which he and Ransisc had traveled to the airfield at Palmdale, though plainly intended for a very different purpose.

Each had large windows along its sides, an elevated passenger compartment, and rows of seats visible through the glass.

Togram recognized them as another variety of the wheeled machines the humans used so casually. He had seen similar vehicles during the journey to Palmdale, carrying large numbers of people along the astonishing roads that crisscrossed this part of the continent.

He had not expected to find himself riding in one.

Human attendants directed the Roxolani toward the open doors. The first passengers climbed aboard, some pausing in uncertainty at the unfamiliar steps, others moving forward with the resignation of soldiers who had learned that hesitation seldom improved an unpleasant assignment.

Once inside, they began settling into the seats.

The seats, Togram noticed, were evidently designed for the humans' taller, narrower bodies. Their backs rose too high, and their proportions were ill-suited to the broad, stocky frames of the Roxolani. Some passengers shifted about trying to find a comfortable position, while others simply accepted the inconvenience.

The humans were counting carefully.

Thirty-two Roxolani were permitted aboard each vehicle, two to a seat. Once that number had been reached, the attendant at the door directed the next passengers toward another bus.

Togram watched the procedure with increasing interest.

Ten vehicles. Thirty-two passengers apiece.

Three hundred and twenty.

He looked again at the line of buses, then turned toward Hilda Chester, who had come to see them off.

He had been genuinely disappointed to learn that she would not be accompanying them.

Of all the humans he had encountered, Hilda was the one he knew best. She had been there when he first awakened, frightened and injured, in a room filled with inexplicable devices. She had patiently taught him the rudiments of her language, answered his questions, and helped him make sense of a civilization that seemed to violate everything he had believed possible.

Now, just as he was beginning to understand his surroundings, she was sending him somewhere else.

"Hilda," he said, "there is something I don't understand."

She turned toward him.

"What is it, Togram?"

"You told me there were four hundred and eighty-nine of us still alive."

"That's right."

"But there are only ten vehicles, and your soldiers are putting thirty-two of us aboard each one. That's only three hundred and twenty."

Hilda blinked, then gave a small, embarrassed smile.

"Oh! I suppose I forgot to tell you."

Togram's ears twitched.

"Tell me what?"

"The others are already at Fort Irwin."

He stared at her.

"Already there?"

"Yes. The ones who weren't seriously injured, and those who didn't need much medical treatment. We transferred them a few days ago. There wasn't any reason to keep them in the hospital once the new accommodations were ready."

Togram glanced toward the buses again.

Nearly a third of the surviving Roxolani had already been removed from the medical facility without his knowledge.

He was not certain whether to feel relieved or alarmed.

"They're well?" he asked.

"As far as I know, they're doing fine. They're getting settled in and becoming familiar with the place."

She smiled reassuringly.

"And you'll be pleased to hear that several of them have started learning English. Some are making very good progress. We're hoping they'll be able to help the rest of you adjust."

Togram considered that.

Other Roxolani learning English. Other survivors from ships whose crews he had never met, perhaps even officers who had commanded troops during the invasion.

He would finally have an opportunity to speak with them.

That, at least, was welcome news.

But another part of Hilda's explanation troubled him.

Fort Irwin.

He turned the name over in his mind.

A fort.

The humans were moving them to a fort.

He knew what forts were. Every soldier knew what forts were. They were places built to control territory, house troops, resist attack, and confine enemies when necessary.

The humans could describe their destination in whatever comforting language they pleased.

A fort was a military installation.

And a military installation used to hold captured enemies was a prison.

His suspicions, already strong, hardened into certainty.

Hilda seemed unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken.

"Oh, and there's one other thing," she said.

Something in her voice made him look up.

"I checked for you, Togram. I asked the people at Fort Irwin about Warmaster Slevon."

For an instant, hope stirred in him.

"And?"

Hilda's expression softened.

"I'm sorry. None of the Roxolani already there has reported seeing him. We've checked the information we have, and there's nothing to indicate that he survived."

She hesitated before continuing.

"I don't believe he made it through the battle."

Togram stood very still.

He had expected that answer. Indeed, he had been expecting it for weeks.

But expectation did little to soften the finality of hearing it spoken aloud.

Warmaster Slevon had commanded the Indomitable. He had represented the authority of the Roxolan crown, the military traditions of their people, and the certainty that the fleet would add another world to the kingdom's possessions.

Now the warmaster was almost certainly dead, his body perhaps lying beneath the soil of a planet he had intended to conquer.

Togram lowered his head.

"I understand," he said quietly.

Hilda touched his arm.

"I'm sorry, Togram."

He looked at her hand, then up into her face.

There had been a time when he would have considered such a gesture from a member of a conquered race presumptuous beyond belief.

Now he found himself grateful for it.

"Thank you, Hilda," he said.

A human soldier called from beside the nearest bus. The last of the passengers had boarded, and the attendants were waiting for Togram and Ransisc.

Togram glanced toward the vehicles, then back at the woman who had been his teacher, his interrogator, and, in a fashion he would once have thought impossible, his friend.

He wanted to ask whether he would ever see her again.

Instead, he merely inclined his head.

"Goodbye, Hilda Chester."

"Goodbye, Togram. Take care of yourself."

He turned and walked toward the waiting bus, Ransisc falling into step beside him.

Behind them, the doors of the medical facility stood open.

Ahead lay Fort Irwin, the surviving remnants of an army, and whatever future the humans had decided to permit them.

Togram climbed the steps without looking back.


r/HFY • • 1d ago

OC-FirstOfSeries Humanity's Greatest Weapon Against Alien Bureaucracy Is a Horny Data Entry Girl with a Mushroom in Her Skull (1/?) NSFW

260 Upvotes

My name is Marisol Vega, and I have a mushroom named Gerald.

Technically he's a Quillith sporebond and a Schedule IV pharmaceutical, but he's the size of a walnut and lives at the base of my skull, dosing me with the alien equivalent of MDMA twenty-four hours a day. I picked him up at a Vorrnik wellness kiosk after a breakup. One bad decision and a signed waiver later, I could no longer feel stress, shame, or fear of authority.

It also converted my entire sex drive into ambient background radiation. I'm permanently, pleasantly high, and I could ruin a man's week with eye contact.

Here's how I met my boyfriend. I was in the produce aisle, telling my phone out loud what I planned to do with a cucumber that evening, and a tall man next to me said, "Sorry, that sounds like a lot of fun. Can I take you to dinner?"

His name is Teo Ramirez. He's kind, patient, and gifted by God. I said yes before he finished the sentence.

The next morning I interviewed at Zhal-Kor Interstellar Records, the human-staffed division of an alien logistics conglomerate. Data entry. Forty-one hours a week. Their human resources department is a three-legged Vorrnik named Director Pell, who has never once blinked in my presence and has no word for "lunch."

By Monday I was in a cubicle with a monitor, a manual, and a stack of alien shipping manifests, and I had a problem. Gerald had turned my brain into a warm bath, and I had no interest in typing.

So I did what any rational mammal would do. I automated it, the way every overemployed Reddit goblin has since 2021, except I had a mushroom and nothing to lose.

Mine wasn't even clever, just boring. The manifests came in three formats, and ninety percent of the errors lived in the same two fields. Nobody had fixed that because the whole workflow was built around correcting mistakes, not preventing them. I wrote a validation script that first weekend, routed every entry through it, and sent the leftover mess to the one form that would reject it politely.

Then I did the human part. I put a window on my screen that showed a woman typing diligently, opened a VPN, and spent the rest of my day on things I won't describe in an HR meeting. At noon I slipped out to the parking garage, where Teo was waiting.

My error rate was zero. Not low. Zero.

I'm not stupid, though. The loud ones get audited, so I kept my numbers just under the review threshold and raised them a hair every week. It worked for three weeks. Then the script ate a queue backlog older than my employment, and the system flagged me for outperforming the next fourteen employees combined.

That should have gotten me fired. Instead, Director Pell called me into a conference room with the whole management layer: two Vorrnik supervisors, a Tholan auditor, and my immediate boss, a human named Harold Brandt, who has the look of a man who's been waiting twenty years for something to go right.

"Ms. Vega," Pell said. His voice came out of a translator box on the table. "Our metrics indicate you perform at a rate we classified as impossible."

"Cool," I said.

"We reviewed your methods."

"Cool."

"We do not understand your methods. We have no comparable concept." The translator paused, as if the words physically hurt it. "Our own workers do not look busy while doing something else. Is this a human behavior?"

Harold put his face in his hand.

"It's a human tradition," I said.

The Tholan auditor made a noise like a dropped tray. "Is it widespread?"

"Every human on this floor does it," Harold said, without lifting his head. "Most of them just aren't good at it."

Nobody at the table had a response to that. Pell turned to the Tholan. The Tholan turned to Pell. Galactic civilization had apparently never produced a single employee who pretended to work.

"We would like you to present your methods to the staff on Monday," Pell said at last. "We would also like to know what you require."

I thought about it. I considered a raise, a title, a window. Then I thought about Teo's hands.

"I'm going to need my boyfriend badged into the building at lunch," I said. "Every day. Fully clothed, ambulatory, and available. I have a medical condition."

Pell looked at Harold. Harold looked at the table.

"It's a Quillith thing," Harold said. "She's got the sporebond. It's on file."

"Then it is accommodated," Pell said, and made a notation with a tentacle I had honestly forgotten he had.

That is how a human being got a standing lunch appointment written into the policy of a galactic logistics firm.

Later, Harold caught me in the hallway, holding a lukewarm coffee and a printout of the new HR policy, forty pages long with my name on four of them.

"Look," he said quietly. "I don't know whether you're a sex addict, or this is an amphetamine thing, or whatever Gerald is. But what you do works, it isn't illegal, and it's good for the business." He swallowed. "So whatever you need. Don't be nervous. Don't hesitate. I will personally rewrite policy to get you a better chair and absolutely anything else you need."

"Harold," I said. "I love you. Please blink."

"I'm trying."

The other fourteen clerks got the news in the break room: they would attend my Monday presentation, take notes, and implement my methods exactly as taught, or Pell would reassign their workloads, along with their paychecks, to me. "You're lucky," Harold told them, "that we aren't just firing all of you." Priya from the next cubicle asked if she could eat lunch off-site if she hit my numbers. Harold said, "Fuck no. Catch up first."

That evening Teo picked me up and asked how it went.

"I'm presenting to the whole division on Monday," I said. "An alien asked me if what I do is a human behavior."

"Is it?"

"I told him it's a tradition."

He laughed, and I kissed him in the parking lot. Gerald hummed in my skull like an engine, and for the first time in my life I knew exactly what I was good at.

What I didn't know was that the Tholan auditor had already filed a report with the Compact. It was one line long, and it was addressed to the Department of Species Evaluation.

Recommend immediate review of Earth.

Patreon


r/HFY • • 10h ago

OC-Series We Accidentally Summoned A Human Ch60

11 Upvotes

First/Prev/Next

*****************

Ethan’s POV…

​

Ms. Lake was right when she said it would be a bit before we got to where we were going. It was well into the night when we left out, and the first rays of light started peeking over the horizon. And just like she said, we pulled up to an abandoned warehouse sector right by the water. As we got out, the smell of salt water hit my nose immediately, and in the far-off distance I could see ships coming and going about their business. While the C— I mean, while Ms. Lake walked over to one warehouse in particular and started fiddling with some keys.

​“Ethan, come on, you'll have plenty of time to walk around and get familiar with your new territory later! Commit this to memory; this is going to be your main home. We've already started getting things in place to make it somewhat more… liveable would be the right word.” She said as I followed her inside.

​The inside was roomy! That being my first thought, my second thought being. Wow, this will be a bitch to keep clean! But on the bright side, I would have plenty of room to work out and other little things. The entirety of the warehouse's interior was made up of concrete and metal; the high towers of pallets and the products that they would be carrying were now completely gone, and in their place were the things that make a place a home. In one of the corners, there was a small kitchenette area that looked right at home in a college student's first apartment. In the middle of the warehouse floor, there were three old and very used-looking couches placed around a lone TV that sat atop a crate. I briefly wondered how it was powered with it in the middle of the floor and there being no power outlet in sight, but I waved it off as just something to do with magic.

​I then turned my attention to the last thing of interest, that being what I guessed was the foreman's office or something. It was a separate room suspended above the floor. Ms. Lake crossed the warehouse and climbed the stairs in barely any time while I struggled to keep up with her. Once we were at the door leading into the office, Lake knocked on the door and waited silently for an answer.

​“Just a minute, I’ll be right out!” A voice came from the other side of the door. And the next moment, they opened the door, stepping out to greet Lake, and when I saw them, my jaw nearly hit the floor. It was… they were… Another Human!?

​
Morgan’s POV…

​
My old friend walked out of the office with his long, flowing grey hair trailing behind him, which complemented his pale, fair skin, and his blue eyes shone with life. He wore a pair of loose-fitting, baggy clothes that hung off his body, obscuring his physique, and worst of all, they were far too colorful for my liking.

​He sent me a flirtatious smile and a curious one to Ethan. But he turned his attention back to me, throwing his arms open, beckoning me for a hug, and I reluctantly gave in, knowing full well he would take it from me sooner or later.

​“Morry! It’s so good to see you again! When you asked me to get here as quickly as I could, I was more than a little concerned, but looking at this young man, it’s starting to come into focus. Nice to meet you, young man. My name is Morrison Duval, and your name?”

​Ethan was at first taken aback by Morrison but quickly regained his composure and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Duval. My name is Ethan Zane. It’s only been a few weeks, but it is really nice to see another human again.” Ethan said with the same respectful tone that he had used with me earlier.

​“Mr. Duval? Heh, I haven’t been called that before; you make me feel like an old man!” He joked with a boisterous laugh. “Well, I am an old man, but still you don’t have to call me Mr. In fact, if I’m picking up on what’s going on, you can call me Teacher.” He then turned to me with that stupid smile that he always got when he solved a problem.

​“That is why you called me here, right? To teach this kid all I know about Soul Magic and Alsu?” He asked with a quizzical tilt of his head.

​“Yes, that is the reason why. This one was summoned by one of my own, and she and the others have pleaded for me to spare them but have also suggested that I bring him on as a secret weapon. And before you start, it wasn’t I who came up with that you can direct your ire towards my nephew.” I began explaining.

​“And if I just take into account all the things that you were able to do even without using your Soul Magic, I would much rather not have to live through that again. And currently I am in need of extra paws at this moment, and a well-trained human would be an invaluable asset.” I finished.

​The look Mor gave me was one of subtle disappointment, but he for now kept it to himself. He sighed, now refocusing on Ethan, and I could see the beginning of his mental assessment of him.

​“Tell me, Ethan, do you know what Soul Magic and Alsu are, young man?” Mor asked.

​“Soul Magic is more or less a special type of ability that, on some level, represents who you are or your soul? And Alsu is a combination of three different types of energies: Mental, Spiritual, and Physical. And all together those make up the Life Energy, which is our version of mana that we can control?” He answered, seemingly somewhat unsure of said answer.

“Well, that's good enough for right now. Next question: have you been able to use your Soul Magic?” He asked with an inquisitive look.

​Ethan nodded his head and showed Morrison by raising his hand and having multiple strings protrude from said hand. Morrison walked closer, taking great interest in Ethan’s ability before nodding his head and walking over to the railing.

​“Alright then, that’s good, that's several lessons out of the way already. Say, how well can you control those strings, kid?” He asked with a smile of genuine excitement.

​Ethan was about to speak when I cut in. “Mor, why don’t you get a close and personal first paw experience by having a mock battle with Ethan? While I have some reports and a small amount of personal data on how he fights, I feel that a more deliberate battle between you two would be best. After all, there may very well come a time where he will have to fight other humans, and you could help provide him with some safe experience.” Morrison had a look on his face that read as a cross between disbelief and frustration.

​He, however, relented with a sigh and turned to Ethan. “Alright then, kid, what do you say? Up for a quick little match between the two of us?” Ethan nodded his head after a brief moment of hesitation.

​Morrison then climbed up onto the railing and dropped to the ground floor, causing a small tremor as he landed. Ethan stared down at Morrison in awe, like a pup seeing magic for the first time. He even made a similar spectacle climbing up and hopping off the railing, but before he could hit the ground, he stopped as if he landed on something just a bit off the ground, and on a closer look I saw that he had landed on something else. As he hopped off the single thread of string that managed to break his fall, he followed after the other human till they were both standing in the middle of the warehouse.

​“Well, kid, if you are going to be hanging around Morgan and doing missions and the like for her, then she’s right. While running into another one of us is a rarity, that doesn't mean that it won't ever happen. And fighting another human who has a decent grasp on their own Soul Magic can quickly become deadly if you aren’t versed in facing one.” Morrison began explaining.

​“Granted, just like how not every human knows how to fight, not every human knows how to use Soul Magic. But on the off chance that you meet one who does, then the first thing you need to do is find out what their Soul Magic is. So let this fight be your crash course in what you should do if you find yourself fighting another human.”

​Morrison got into a fighting stance and signaled for Ethan to take that first move, and the one decision proved to be a miscalculation on his part. With a burst of speed, Ethan had closed the gap between them in less than a second. The far younger human started with two punches, one from both sides, which Morrison barely managed to avoid. Ethan wasn’t deterred, however, and he continued to apply pressure to my old friend by adding in multiple different types, mixing them to create a dreadful barrage of blows that, if Morrison wasn’t careful, would draw this match to a close.

​At some point, Ethan had slowed down and even fell into a rhythm that Morrison had also seemed to notice. I could tell that Morrison was about to launch a counterattack, but that seemed to be exactly what Ethan had wanted. At the last possible moment, he weaved out of the way of an incoming jab, pulling back his right hand to ready an attack. The second he did, however, Ethan attempted to punish him by using his strings to bind his right hand. Morrison was shocked at the suddenness of this move, and before he could even try to free himself, Ethan yanked him towards himself and went for some kind of spinning elbow. At first I had thought that the blow connected, but on a closer look it was clear that it hadn’t, for Morrison brought his remaining free hand up in time to block the strike.

​Now it was Morrison’s turn to apply the pressure. He gripped Ethan’s elbow tightly, and I watched as Ethan’s eyes widened as a powerful shockwave shot through his arm and sent him flying. He skidded to a halt only a few feet away from the couch and TV. He attempted to get up, but the moment he put any weight on his arm, he winced in what I read as great pain. Morrison had begun to return the treatment that he had received from the younger man moments ago. He raised one of his feet and slammed it down on the ground, and before Ethan could move, another shockwave hit Ethan from below and sent him halfway up to the ceiling. This second blast seemed to have hit Ethan hard, but he still had enough composure to use his strings to hang from the roof using the purlins as an anchor point…

​
Etahn’s POV

​

As I hung from the ceiling by one arm, the other one currently hanging limply like a pool noodle, I began racking my brain over what had just happened. All he had done, as far as I’m aware, was that when I went in for that spinning elbow, he caught my elbow just before I made contact. And then after that I got blasted away with some kind of power… Could that be his Soul Magic? But on the other hand, that could have very well just been some regular technique, and he was just doing this to throw me off and then blind side me with his real ability. Was I just overthinking things, and that was his real one, or perhaps that’s what he wanted me to think?

​I sighed in frustration but also excitement. This was super fun! A whole hell of a lot more fun than I had initially thought! Looking down at my arm, I could feel the fractures in my bones and the mild burns to my skin healing up nicely. I gave some practice swings, and outside of some slight pain, it was largely good as new.

​Which was great, as I would be putting it to good use immediately as my danger sense went off and, as if on instinct, I swung away from my current position and took a quick glance back to see that another explosion shockwave thing had gone off where I just was. As I dangled from my new perch, I started assessing my best route of attack. But just like before, another shockwave came, and this time I didn’t manage to escape without injury, as the blast this time was far longer, and I was sent flying; this time all I could do was brace for the impact. Thankfully, the fall wasn’t that far as I landed on the raised platform where the office was.

​“Are you okay, Ethan? Can you still fight?” Morrison asked, concern present and clear in his voice.

​I wrapped my strings around the railing and used it to pull myself up. I rubbed the back of my head as I waved him off, hopping over the railing and landing with a wobble. Once more, I squared up ready for round two. He spent a moment looking over my body before nodding. He then lifted both his hands up and then slammed his palms together, and like before, I felt my body move before my mind caught up and jumped to the side. And taking into account what happened last time, I brought up arms and strings poured out and formed themselves into a round shield. While the shockwave was harsh this time not so much.

​“Wow! It’s been a while since I’ve fought someone whose ability was this versatile. Let’s see if you can put any of that to good use!” He began pulling his hands back, and before he could do the same attack again, I dug deep and chucked the string shield.

​Morrison saw what I was trying to do and jumped back, but before he could get out of the way of my improvised projectile, it expanded, turning into a net which quickly ensnared him. I wasn’t really sure if that would work well. I didn't know that would even happen, but hey, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Morrison struggled trying to break free, but it was no use.

​“Okay, I guess it was a bad idea to call attention to how versatile your ability is. Hey, I give up, I surrender, ya win, bud.” As Morrison said that the Capt– I mean Ms. Lake chimed in.

​“Morrison, what are you doing? I know that something as simple as a net can’t be what beats you. Or have you gotten weak in your old age? If so, I am disappointed but not surprised.” Ms. Lake teased Morrison, trying to rile him up.

​And to my shock, it worked; Morrison just laughed as, with seemingly no effort at all, he broke free of the restraints. He stood up, dusting himself off, no worse for wear, walking over and patting me on the shoulder with a congratulating smile and thumbs up.

​“Good work, kid, that was a good first showing. I look forward to helping you develop your skills. And as for you!” He said, shifting his stare to Morgan. “I know that this is a foreign concept to you, but when or if I’m going to train someone, I try to encourage them, not tear them down and drag them through the mud.” He said with a pointed look, his words charged with some energy that came from some prior event that I wasn’t aware of.

​Morgan just gave an indignant snort in response before she spoke. “I think that’s going far too easy on them, but you never listen to me. It seems like you men are incapable of doing so…” She muttered under her breath. “Regardless! For the time being, that is a satisfactory demonstration. Once the last of the deliveries arrive, I’ll take my leave and leave you two to your devices. I’ll be checking in every now and again to see how your progress is going and to bring fresh clothes, toiletries, food, and what have you.”

She walked down the stairs with a slow and elegant gait. She gave Morrison a small and quick hug before she went outside. Leaving just the two of us. When I turned to Morrison, he was already halfway across the room, going through the fridge.

​“Ho— how did you do that!?” I asked, not even trying to hide my surprise.

​“When you live the life I have, you learn to move quickly and quietly, and trust me, I’ll be teaching you how to do this later. But right now, here, drink this. It might have a bit of a funny taste to it, but I promise that it’ll be your favorite energy drink ever before long.” He handed me an Arizona tea-sized can that was green and red in color with some kind of creature on it looking super fierce.

​Doing as Morrison suggested, I cracked open the can that had the very familiar sound but an alien taste. There was the sweetness that came with being an energy drink, but at the same time there was also a sour undertone. It honestly tasted like drinking a super sweet sour candy with some extra caffeine mixed in it. It wasn't half bad. I could see myself drinking tons of these in the future.

​“Not bad, right? It took a while to find stuff that my taste buds agreed with. A lot of things have tastes that you wouldn’t expect them to have. Anyway, Ethan, tell me about yourself. What was life for you like before you got summoned?” He asked, taking a generous swig of his own can.

​“I haven’t really ever been asked a question like that before. I ain’t quite sure how I would sum up my life before all this.” I ran my memories through my mind, going over the bad and good in what I felt was equal measure. However, I soon realized that digging deep into my memories like that poked at still-fresh wounds, and what was just supposed to be a brief look back turned into something far more. My emotions threatened to overwhelm me, and I just did my damnedest to choke it all down before Morrison could pick up on any of it.  I imagine that on the outside I probably looked like I was staring out into space. On the inside I was having quite a bit of turmoil. But once a minute or two passed, the sadness dimmed, and I got my head straight.

​After that, all I had to say was. “It was good. Plenty of bad and good times, a pretty fulfilling life… I– I guess I just wish I got to–.”

​“Say goodbye?”

​“Yeah… Say, were you a summon too?”

​“I am, or was it all happened about fifty or sixty years back now. What, are you eighteen?” Morrison asked, and I nodded in response.  “Yeah, I was about your age. I had recently gotten out of high school and was having one last summer of fun with my boys before it happened.”

​We both stood there in silence, only occasionally being broken by our sips. Just like the taste of this juice, I let the older man’s answers seep in. I have so many questions to ask, but at the same time I have no idea which I want to ask him first. Did it really even matter which one I asked first? After all, it wasn’t like the order really mattered; what matters was the questions themselves. As I took another swig in an attempt to quench my suddenly dry throat, the first question bubbled to the surface.

​“Dose… does it ever get easier? Does it ever go away? The pain and loneliness, I mean.” As I asked that question, my throat went dry all over again.

​He looked down at his drink and sighed deeply like he got a call saying he had to come in to work on his off day. “No, kid, it doesn’t. The pain eases with time, but it’ll never go away completely. Tell me, kid, was there anyone that you left on a bad note before you got snatched into this world?”

​“No. None that I can think of. I had watched so many shows and stuff where someone gets sent to another world. Usually from dying in some freak accident or really pathetic way, so I would usually try to leave things on a good note when I could.” I explained.

​“Good, good, well, at the very least, you can try to take comfort in the fact that at the very least, the last words that your loved ones will remember you saying to them were something kind and heartwarming and not bitter and hurtful. I’m not sure how much comfort that will give you, but I hope that it’s more than nothing.” His words seemed to be tinged with sadness; it seemed that this was advice someone else had given him before.  

​The mood had now soured even further, and it seemed like neither of us wanted to continue the conversation. We just went back to drinking our drinks in total silence, until Morrison suddenly perked up and yelled at the top of his lungs. I jumped back in shock, nearly choking on my drink as a result.

​“Wha– what’s happening!? What are you screaming for!?”

​“I have found that when I’m really down or stuck in one emotion, the best way for me to get out of it and back to neutral is a good shout. Now let’s move on to something less sad and more exciting! Tell me, have you ever been to any town before?” He asked with a mischievous grin.

​“Well, I did go in on last week, but when I did, I had a disguise, and I left it back at Ms. Morgan’s base.”

​“No worries! I brought some of my own just in case. While I am going to be teaching you how to use Soul Magic. I also wholly intend to teach you how to get by as a human. In case this doesn't play out and this isn’t what you want to do with your life. Is this something you want to do with your life?”

​When he asked for the first time in a while, I actually stopped to think about what I was doing and what I wanted to do with my life past the here and now. And frankly? I hadn’t the foggiest idea whatsoever. I was somewhat aimless before I got summoned to this world, and now, after everything I had gone through over the last two weeks?

​“I… I’m not sure what I want to do. I had a rough draft of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life before, but now? Well, I got nothing unless you have some old guy wisdom to hand out?”

​“As a matter of fact, I do! As much as it is a tragedy that you have had all ties to your home and loved ones irreversibly severed, this is also the best time in your life to rebuild yourself into someone new! It’s what I did a long time ago, and while I’m not saying that this is the right course for you, it may be able to help you.” He offered with an encouraging pat on my shoulder, with a smile to boot.

​“And if this really isn't something that you want to do. If Morgan or your Master pushes you to do things that you don’t want to do or goes against what you believe in, then I won’t hesitate to help you get out. I know quite a lot of people who specialize in breaking summon ties and helping humans disappear.” He said in a dead serious tone.

​“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. But for right now I’ll stick with things as they are… To be honest, I’ve kind of come to like fighting? And plus, if I can learn to harness my powers, maybe I can use them for good?”

​“Well, that’s good to hear; just know the offer will always stand. And yeah, don’t think too hard about that; it seems most of us summoned humans get a taste for fighting. It's hard to say if the thirst for battle came from within us all along or if that was something given to us when we were summoned; it's hard to tell, but it’s a part of us now. However, let's save these sorts of talks for later. I have some games that I can teach you to help pass the time till night. Then you and I are gonna hit the town and see what kind of trouble we can get into…”

​

*****************

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r/HFY • • 1d ago

OC-Series [Engineering, Magic, and Kitsune] Book 2, Chapter 6: A Boon and a Talk

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It was a strange day, even after dealing with Kon Saya. While she didn't cause any more problems, exactly, her men looming around the place had slowed public-facing operations to a snail's pace.

Soon enough, he ran out of things to do and decided to head home and work on the cart. The foci settled well, at least, and needed no further adjustments after he left. It took just a few minutes to chip them out of the morass, and they seemed fine, though John wouldn't be able to test them until tomorrow. It vaguely brought to mind half-intact memories of epoxying a pipe together and learning the hard way why the instructions said to let it sit for four hours before you run hot water through it.

Fortunately, he had plenty of other things to do in the meantime, since he was somehow still not tired. After checking in with Yosuke, who reported it was business as usual, John quickly built the skeleton of the cart and all the mount points. Unfortunately, he had to do it all outside; if he assembled the damn thing indoors, there was no way he'd ever get it back out again.

Honestly, it wasn't the most complicated project in the world. It was a wheeled cart with a few emitters and some metal skis slapped onto the bottom. Eventually, he got a little fancy, given he'd had to wait on the foci anyhow before he could do any live testing. It was simple to make a few leaf springs and add some very basic shock absorption for the wheels, just in case he had to transport fragile materials. He was really tempted to make a steering linkage and a shock/strut system, but that was far more complex, and he was worried that it would break down on the road.

Of course, he'd still have flight, but he couldn't fly everywhere without attracting too many eyes. Sure, he could skim at ground level and pretend everything was fine, but he was bound to mess up somewhere eventually.

He, of course, added a hidden compartment that could only be welded and unwelded from underneath, with no hidden mechanism to open it directly, just in case he had to smuggle something. Mentally, he made a note to pack some sandpaper so he could minimize the signs of anything amiss.

The foci would be hidden the same way, once they were done, but he could obviously cut down the space more by—

"Well, you've been busy, haven't you?" Yuki asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Gah!" John jolted, spinning around and nearly hitting his head on the cart's frame as he hurriedly stood up. "Damn it, Yuki, you nearly gave me a heart attack! Stop doing that," he grumbled.

For her part, the kitsune didn't react to his griping, only giving him that gentle, comforting smile. "Well, pardon me, Lord Hall, but you seemed so taken with that little prank on Rin earlier that I felt you might appreciate the greeting."

John narrowed his eyes at the kitsune. How the hell did she even know exactly what he did? She should have only heard her yelp and—Ah, whatever, it's Yuki; the damn fox was near omniscient sometimes.

At least she found him at a good time. He really did need to talk to her about his meeting with their latest "guest."

"Well, after the whole meeting with Saya, I guess I'm a bit on edge," he admitted, sighing deeply. "I'm sure you heard, but she tried to bribe me to get you to take the deal." To be honest, he was tempted to talk to his friend about it the second he got out of that damned room, but he didn't want to risk Saya overhearing and knowing that something was wrong and that she had been found out.

"You did well with her," Yuki said, gently patting him on the head as he flatly stared back, silently contemplating his friend's sheer audacity.

"Yeah, I figured you would have shown up if I tripped up too badly. Honestly, in retrospect, I was kinda surprised you didn't interrupt when she was making me an offer to sway you to her side. She's proper nobility of some sort, right? She probably has peers that scoff at her needing to do something so underhanded. The potential shame would have probably given you leverage," John noted.

Really, part of him wondered if the whole interaction was a trap for Yuki. Even with just "baseline" kitsune senses rather than whatever Yuki had going on, it would have been trivial for her to listen in from another floor. It wasn't as if Saya hid her intentions, and the door guard could have easily run off to tell Yuki before Saya even got there.

Yuki smirked, and it was a vicious thing, full of razor-sharp teeth and malice. "Sometimes, a fool is best left to make a mistake. Tell me, John, did you notice that she had one of her tails against the ground the entire time you two were speaking?"

Wait, she did? Honestly, he hadn't even thought about it. Oh, please don't tell him she was doing some sort of magical mental-influencing nonsense the entire time; he'd had more than enough of that with Kiku. 

Then again, he didn't feel her flexing her Presence at all, so she probably wasn't doing anything. Hmm. She assumed that he was an Unbound, so she probably wasn't trying to influence him in some way, given their resistance until their Aegis was worn down. Kitsune tails seemed pretty magical, too, so was she using it as a conduit to do something to the floor, making whatever she was doing harder to detect?

"Was she… trying to disguise our conversation from you?" John ventured. "She must have expected you to be able to hear her, but…" John paused, frowning. "She didn't hide that we were talking with one another. Hell, she sent a formal summons when she could have shapeshifted into one of her guards and pretended to have only sent a letter. Her actions don't make sense. Why then? Why not try to catch me when I'm all alone, and you can't overhear?"

Unless, of course, Saya wanted her to.

"It was all a plot to make you doubt me, wasn't it?" John groaned.

Yuki nodded. "It was a clumsy attempt that revealed that she has power over sound, but an attempt nonetheless. The meeting went much the way you heard, but she changed the way sound resonated through the walls to not only almost silence the conversation, but make it seem like you agreed without hesitation at the end, in case I was listening."

Ugh. He hated to say it, but it was a clever trick, if nothing else; these kitsune were going to be the death of him. He hadn't been wearing any sort of active magic detector, lest it give away his secrets in short order. After all, an Unbound could easily sense such minor disturbances and had no need for a specialized device.

"The first likely possibility is that the meeting went unnoticed, and she could ply me for an angle she could work, or could easily deny what happened if I reported to you. The second is that you noticed the meeting but couldn't hear the contents, stoking paranoia. Last is that you noticed and could hear, but got the false message at the end, leading you to push me away and into her arms," John rattled off, stroking his chin as he stared off into the distance. "It's a shame, for her, that you aren't new to this."

"It might have worked if I were actually a three-tailed kitsune and you were a normal Unbound," Yuki commented, shaking her head. "The relationships between them and their donors are often rather transactional in nature."

It was clever, he had to admit; they were just exactly the wrong targets. "So, if there was any doubt she knows anything about what's going on here or me, it's gone, right?"

Yuki nodded. "Perhaps there's a power behind her that suspects something, but Saya herself knows nothing," Yuki confirmed, nodding. "Honestly, I'm a bit disappointed in myself. I should have guessed she'd have powers over sound with the family name Kon. She reeks of first-generation kitsune."

"...What?" John flatly asked.

"A kitsune not only can be born to another kitsune, but if a fox reaches a hundred years old, they grow a second tail and become one, becoming a person rather than a mere beast," Yuki explained. "As such, these ascended kitsune do not have a family name and need to pick one. Kon is the noise that foxes make, and she has many mannerisms that are born of someone trying to fit the role of a divine messenger while saying that she is better than everyone who is not."

She named herself after a pun? He'd almost respect the boldness if she weren't trying to enslave Broadstream for a decade—even if she thought it was for their own good. "Fair enough, I guess," he muttered, shaking his head. "That'd mean that she's not subject to a family, but some other structure, right?"

"Oh, some sort, but we don't know enough to say for sure what type of relationship it is," Yuki explained.

John sighed. "I hate politics."

Reassuringly, Yuki patted his shoulder. "There, there. You get used to it eventually, even if you never stop loathing it."

"I still think it's best to avoid getting tied up with her entirely," John said, glancing back towards the half-finished cart.

At last, Yuki's expression dropped into a frown, although not a harsh one. "I can't come with you, you know? While I do not relish making choices on their behalf, Saya could intimidate and control the townsfolk into agreeing to whatever terms she desires."

Unfortunately, even putting aside Saya throwing around her connections to the heavens, the sheer fact that she could leverage Presence alone made any 'mortal' attempt to avoid her influence a doomed venture. Without protection, she could corner a few influential figures and broadcast feelings of panic and impending doom while promising them  protection, and that'd be it.

"I don't like it either, but someone has to, Yuki. Leaving it up to her is too risky," John consoled her, gently removing her hand from his shoulder, lightly squeezing her palm before allowing it to drift back down to her side. "Look, I'll have Rin with me, and I promise that I'll run if anything too dangerous comes up."

"And how do you plan to disguise your Presence?" The kitsune questioned, leaning in. "Or have you forgotten that the inexperienced find your natural aura unsettling? The city might be kinder than Broadstream, but there's no guarantee."

Honestly, he had. Getting coiled up in Yuki's tails every morning had just… become part of the routine. How the hell was he going to solve that? Maybe he could make some sort of device that'd put out a steady stream of quasi-Presence, even if it'd seem emotionless.

But Rin would see his entire aura magically change to something else. What could he do?  Act like the road was making him feel awful?

It'd probably be like seeing a dummy pretend to be a person, even then. There was a vast gulf between grumpy and emotionless.

Before he could even begin plotting, though, a thrust-out hand broke him from his thoughts. In Yuki's palm was a thin, woven braid of white strands that caught the fading sun, glittering where the light caught it, like a cavalcade of colours fighting to escape from within. Instinctively, he accepted the gift as she dropped it into his hands. It felt warm in his grip, the kiss of the summer sun bound into physical form.

"This is part of you, isn't it?" he breathed, eyes shining.

"Some of the fur from my tail, charged with my power, so it shall slowly leak back out," Yuki clarified. "Wear it around your neck, and it shall seep into you, disguising your Presence."

Without thinking, John wrapped his arms around Yuki and pulled her tight. "Thank you," he whispered.

A moment later, her arms and tails wrapped around him, too, forming a tight, protective shell. "While I may think this trip is unnecessary, I can tell you're set on it. I may as well aid you however I can and make sure you return safely. This necklace does have a price, though."

Opening an eye, he peered up at the kitsune with mild disbelief, although no worry.

"It shall cost you one more story of your home, of Earth," she explained, slipping the English word in with a frankly flawless pronunciation. Ah, but of course. He'd pay that price gladly.

Hmm. Now that he thought of it, Yuki was learning English words from him, so she must have had a Canadian accent. Maybe someday she'd meet another English speaker, and hearing a creature of Shinto myth say "Eh?" would give them a heart attack.

"Right, so, where were we last time?" he asked with a smile as the tails hesitantly unwrapped from around him, and she swiftly led him toward the meeting room, which had become far cozier over the last month.

"You said that you got people angry for fun," Yuki said as she pulled him inside, finally releasing him to settle into his chair. "Something about the therapeutic effects of shouting and baiting people who you'd never see again, I believe."

Oh, he did say that, didn't he? Honestly, he really, really shouldn't have introduced the idea of 'bait' to her. The kitsune might grow too powerful. Well, it was too late now; there was no way she was going to let it go if he started dodging the question.

"Its translation is baiting, like baiting a trap," he admitted with a sigh. "Many, many people can absolutely not handle losing, or even not being at the top of their team, when there are zero stakes, and it makes them irritable. Wait, I explained video games, right? That's the easiest example since it's most of what I did myself."

Yuki nodded. "Reactive non-magical illusions created on a glass sheet, complete with sound, controlled through a specialized tool. Some are capable of connecting people in multiple different locations, like the paired game boards of some nobles."

"Wait, what, they have those here?" John asked, staring at Yuki in disbelief.

The kitsune nodded. "Made from the wood of two trees grown from a single seed, moves made on one are mirrored on its duplicate. Most mortal and yokai lords and ladies who own one hire experts to play for them in secret to build a reputation as a genius player. It is rare to see someone truly rich at a tournament, lest they play poorly and have their lie exposed," the kitsune explained, sagely nodding.

…The people of this land are really just like those back home.

"Oh, we call those people boosted!" John exclaimed, smiling. "We also like telling them that they're barely human, or to stop letting their little brother play when they're actually playing for themselves."

"I think that might cause a war here," she mused, smiling. "So, this has something to do with baiting?" Yuki asked, leaning in, eyes narrowed as she rested her elbows on the low, for her at least, table.

"Absolutely!" He answered with a grin. "So, I mentioned that some people really hate losing, right? How do you think someone who is already slightly mad is going to respond to me gently implying that they only got into a high skill lobby because they let someone else play for them while—Hold on, let me see if I can still do the voice."

Under the watchful eye of a curious kitsune, John cleared his throat and hummed a few tones to test his range. "Mi-mi-mi…" he trailed off, voice rising with each syllable.

Add a bit of nasalness…

"Do-ray-mi—"

Push his tongue up a bit…

It was time.

"Turn the cheats on already, you fucking boosted bronzie," he squeaked in a high-pitched tone, voice purposefully cracking with only a mild twinge of pain. "Smag jungle in season six and buying Precision? You're already getting banned for throwing, you might as well throw on the auto-aim."

For a moment, everything fell quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath in sheer bafflement.

The silence shattered moments later as Yuki burst into peals of laughter, the vulpine song resounding throughout the room as she caught herself on the table, nearly falling off the chair. "You sounded like you were ten!" she exclaimed, wiping a tear away from the edge of her eye.

"It wasn't that funny," John insisted. "One of the greatest dangers of being online is that you might be randomly subjected to the opinion of a child, so I just weaponized it a bit."

"You, my friend, would make a good kitsune," Yuki spoke between throaty chuckles. Despite himself, John found himself joining in, too, with a few sensible laughs. Her joy was infectious. "I think I might be a lover of 'bait,' too."

How utterly terrifying.

"I've been called more slurs than there are stars in the sky," John wistfully recalled, "but that's in pursuit of the real prize. The truest form of the art is getting someone banned from the game itself as the staff descends upon them like a swarm of guards, while receiving no punishment yourself. Some people like arguing with others with no game involved, but… Ugh, just saying nonsense to strangers to argue isn't any fun; there has to be some shared tie beyond happenstance. Ally versus enemy. Random people competing for the same resources. Ally against a deeply stupid ally. If someone is going to say that they're going to bomb my trailer park, I want it to mean something."

"Sadly, I think the closest thing we have here is going to a bar while disguised and getting into pointless arguments with the most contemptible people in the room," Yuki sighed, shaking her head. "Perhaps, some day, you'd like to join me for that? It might not be the same, but it might bring back pleasant memories. Not in Broadstream, of course."

A smile split John's face. "Why not?"

Tomorrow he'd have to get back to work on the cart, but he had needed this.

Besides, no time spent with a friend was ever truly wasted.

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r/HFY • • 5h ago

OC-Series [The Earth-ward Journey of a Foxy Alien]: Chapter 10

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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 • • 5h ago

OC-Series [The Earth-ward Journey of a Foxy Alien]: Chapter 9

3 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 • • 14h ago

OC-Series [Perfectly Safe Demons] -Ch 156- Alarming Signals

16 Upvotes

This week stealthy scouts signal suspicious shipping strategies to senior scientists!

A wholesome* story about a mostly sane demonologist and his growing crew, trying their best to usher in a post-scarcity utopia using imps. It's a great read if you like optimism, progress, character growth, hard magic, and advancements that have a real impact on the world. I spend a ton of time getting the details right, focusing on grounding the story so that the more fantastic bits shine. A new chapter every Thursday.

\Some conditions apply, viewer cynicism is advised.*

Map of Pine Bluff

Map of Hyruxia

Map of the Factory and grounds

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My velvety Patreon for five chapters ahead!

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First Chapter

Prev -------- Next

*****

“We’re all packed up, Eowin. Ready when you are,” Ros said as he walked up.

Eowin was crouched at the recon spyglass. After the first day, he’d dragged over his bedroll to make it a bit more comfortable. The little room made of woven pine boughs was all too familiar to the men at the end of their week-long vigil. By now they knew the city of Wave Gate as well as their own, other than actual names of things. From their perch it was a hundred versions of ‘long-wide street’ and ‘three-lantern tower’.

“Hold up, they’re doing something funny,” Eowin replied. “Look at all the people on the docks. And the ships are putting to sea. I thought it was a patrol, but there are twenty-five of them now. Let's wait another hour or two. Once the tide balances with the harbour, I bet they’ll send out some ships through the flow gate, and more will go. I reckon our whole damned job is to see if a big-ass fleet sets sail for somewhere.”

“True. Besides, the Chief said a week, not a specific time. What do you think it is?” Ros asked. “Maybe they’re making for Pine Bluff?” 

“The ones in the bay are at anchor, so that could mean anything at all. Maybe they got bored of crusading once some maniac killed a dozen of them that were snooping on some haunted mountain.”

“Not a dozen? I think I only got ten?”

“I know. I killed a dozen, because I’m a damned professional!” Eowin said with a chuckle. “Not that ten or twenty is even a rounding error with that many of them.”

“They still got that big camp? Did they load their fellas on those ships?”

Eowin sounded a bit confused. “No. Not that I could see. There are still heaps of white tents on the middle-grass-park and even more behind low-hill-with-poplars. Maybe they were packed to the gills for the crossing, let out some, and kept their good fighters aboard? I didn’t see them spend much time loading these ships. So maybe they have laden supply ships in the bay we didn’t see? I wish we were close enough to read the names of the ships. We could’ve tracked how many hours each one spent loading and unloading. That’d be useful back home I bet.”

“Yeah, totally. Maybe it’s some fancy lords that wanted to flee the war? Or some fancy lords they wanted to take back home to punish?”

“Maybe? That’s a single ship though. Maybe two if there are a lot of heretics to punish. But the stories are pretty clear that they have local ways to deal with heresy. There are twenty-five ships out, two in the locks, and some moving to the flow gate. That’s too many for mail or rotations. And you rotate after a year, not a week.”

“Oh, the first ones—the ones that burned us and we had to fight last time. They’ve been on this coast for a year. Could that be them going back for rest? I’m not sure the legion rotates across the seas. We should ask the Chief about that,” Ros suggested.

“Wouldn’t that be a treat? Send the professionals home and see how the ragged mob does. Nah, I bet it’s not. They wouldn’t make things that easy for us.”

Ros shrugged but didn’t argue. He set down their packs and stood outside the blind looking at the harbour as best he could with just his helm.

Maybe they’d just go home if they knew us better? Maybe they just don’t know we’re not the bad guys?

The docks were crowded and the harbour was full of ships. Eowin’s onto something.

Soon the flow gate opened, a simpler harbour entrance that could only operate when the water levels were close. The harbour was higher than the bay causing water to pour  out like a new river. The ships were towed into the current, some under their own power, most pulled by their pilot boats.

“Shit, Eowin, that’s a lot of them. Maybe the crusade was just to put down the Veldane Restoration?”

“Hmm. maybe. It looks like the ships at anchor are joining them.” They watched for a while longer as the fleet slowly lumbered into a rough formation. “Yep, heading out to sea, that doesn’t look like they’re coming for Pine Bluff after all. Glory to the Sun Lances. They still left a heap of their guys behind, but this has gotta be two-thirds of their fleet. I count eighty-two departing, including all the big ones.” He alternated between observing and tallying the ship classes into his observation notebook, pausing only to blink his sore eyes. 

Ros shouldered his heavy pack, momentarily throwing himself off balance. The recently acquired relic armour rattled as he steadied himself. “Good! Let’s go!”

“That’s funny though. I… Dammit. I see it.” He removed the eyepiece and lifted the heavy spyglass into its padded travel case. “Those ships are sitting high. They sailed in heavy and sailed out light. I don’t think they are retreating. They’re sending off the empties to get another load, I bet. Those troopships and supply ships especially are way higher. Dammit.”

“Hmm, do you think they got more stuff back there?” Ros asked as he helped Eowin with his pack. They started down the mountain towards the closest watchtower. 

“Aye, a whole damned continent of more stuff.”

*****

Stanisk’s dinner was interrupted by an imp in a vest that excited the Mage. Well, the imp wasn’t the one that interrupted him, but the glee of his employer signaled the end of his meal.

I’se mostly done eating, and Griggs seemed excited enough about it that refusing ain’t an option.

Other than being exhausted, he had no excuses to even try to keep eating. This was all his idea and the problem being solved was pressing. 

Stanisk walked with his boss, from the dining hall to the rooftop of the factory. “That was faster’n I expected. Are you sure it worked?”

“Oh yes!” Grigory grinned. “That’s established. The longer-tail problems will need to be tested over time but bench tests worked, and then the actual commissioning tests worked just this morning. Now we have the very first real message! Come, come!” The Mage waved the slip of paper the imp had just delivered to him.

The Chief of Security shrugged and followed him up to the roof. He hadn’t gotten a single good sleep in the seven nights since the fleet sailed past town. 

At least testing the new flag system’ll be low stress, the one thing that ought not blow up around here. Then I can get back to straightening out the damned boots shortage. Why the hell are there more trousers than boots? Maybe I’ll set some imps looking for boot gremlins.

Once they arrived on the roof it took Stanisk a bit to find the new signal hub. He sighed, it was a sprawl of tracking Lunar Mana Panels and their cabling. There were no flags to be seen anywhere, other than a few Whiteflame banners hanging on the gatehouse.

“That… uh… spiderweb, your new thing?” 

Grigory frowned, hurt by the description. “No. The timber lattice with magelights is the new thing. I’ve been calling it a Magelight Watchtower Communication System. Or Protocol? Anyway, the M.W.C.S. is simplicity itself! Em-walks? Muwiks? We’ll work out a better name later, I’m sure.”

The MWCS looked like a small timber watchtower, twice the height of a man but lightly built. Two long crossbars topped the lattice, each holding a row of five cylindrical magelight enclosures, spaced about an armspan apart. The whole contraption took up about as much space as a wagon, but there was nothing especially substantial about it. A normal man could probably lift the timber frame by himself. It faced the coastal headland and Tower One. The trees that used to obscure that line of sight were now freshly chopped stumps.

“So it projects flags then?” Stanisk asked, trying to move it along. “Pictures of flags?”

“Goodness no! Could you imagine? No, no, no. This is far simpler! See the ten little cans? Those are clusters of bright magelights, specifically a row of five red above a row of five blue. Giving me ten nodes!”

“Oh. Is that better? We had thirty flag codes. Easier to see, but that seems like less information.”

“Ten? Ah, I see your problem, no, we have ten lights, which gives us a thousand and twenty-four states! Since every combined arrangement is… Anyways, there are some reserved for numbers, command states, and checksums. The part you might care about is the fast vocabulary: eight hundred words, each corresponding to an activation state. At two flashes per second, giving us nearly conversational speed messaging all up and down the coast!”

“Seems like a shit ton to remember. And it’ll be way slower’n that if some private’s gotta look up words.”

Grigory passed Stanisk the slip he’d been holding. In the imps’ neat cursive:

001 | T7 | T0 | 003 | 13WORDS | MAGEGUARD | SCOUTED | 82 | ENEMY | SHIP | DEPART | WAVE | GATE | EMPTY | EXPECT | RETURN | JAGGED | COVE | CKSUM 31/18

Grigory looked offended yet again. “Why would any human be involved? This is far beyond that. Oh, what would you like to reply? That might be best.”

Stanisk wasn’t sure about the gibberish on the start and end, but the core was plain enough. 

They’se making more trips across the sea. Damnation. 

“Is there a signal for that kind of message?”

“No, but there is a series of signals for each of those words,” the Mage said. “There’re ten reserved characters to combine two blocks, which unlocks a ten-thousand-word secondary address space! For more specific codes and less common words! What do you want to reply? Let's send something back, other than the message acknowledgement. Now that it’s set up, sending messages is basically free and instant. Basically.”

“Hmmph. I agree.” Stanisk rubbed his chin. “Alright. Say that we’ll prepare accordingly, and they’se to come home at their convenience. It’s a damned hike out to Tower Seven.”

Grigory nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He spoke to an imp in the base of the communication rig. 

“Message Imp, send the following message to Tower Seven: Preparations underway. Return to Pine Bluff at normal speed.”

The Imp was seated at a ten-button panel arranged in two rows, half red and half blue. Without the slightest hesitation the imp tapped away at the keys and yanked a lever. It repeated this sixteen more times and leaned back. 

Stanisk alternated between watching the imp tap at the panel and watching the array flash patterns towards Tower One on the headland. Once the imp finished, Tower One retransmitted the message east. 

He frowned as he tried to think this through. This seemed suspiciously useful.

Mage Thippily was pulling back a curtain revealing two more imps. “The first plan was just to have imps use their shared mind directly, but it was too unreliable. It would work, but it would also distort or interpret things as commands, or be answered by other aspects, so asking it about the weather ten times gave us ten slightly different answers. Not ideal for secure communications. Plus anyone could just ask a passing imp for the message, also not ideal. These ones are ordered to forget it as soon as they are done, and somehow that works.”

He pointed to their tiny embroidered vests. “They’re instructed quite simply to work as a team! See, they all say Factory Comms? These imps write the raw message so we can audit and track any errors!”

To be polite, Stanisk smiled weakly and tried to look impressed. There were ledgers of word gibberish and another with number gibberish.

“But that only matters if there’s an issue? For a normal… signal letter… what’s that? Ought I schedule someone to check it a few times a day? Station a fella here all the time?”

“Simple as pie! An imp is invoked and given the slip, then it runs to find the recipient. Oh, we were meant to address the message to a person. Otherwise it goes to the tower commander of the destination, but they’ll figure it out once the system is in regular use. I have a whole manual for you to read.”

“I’m not gonna—pah, I am gonna have to read that. This’ll be good for a lot of things. Could scouts do whole reports? Then towers send the whole story? Is there a length limit?”

“There is capacity. The store-and-forward nature of it means if it had to transit ten towers, and a very long message took ten minutes to encode, then the message would take nearly two hours to reach the end. While a six second message would make the same trip in about a minute. But I guess we can work on a version-two protocol to immediately forward without verifying, but that’s a lot more tricky. We might want to walk before we run. But no real limit, just shorter is better. Never mind, our checksums fail if the message exceeds a thousand and…. eighteen words.”

“Fuck. That’s good. It means I have a lot more work now.” He closed his eyes to think it through. “But it’ll be a hell of an advantage. So if somethin’ as strange as goats ridin’ squids happened—say they were demandin’ red wine and cedar combs—that exact demand could travel down as many towers as we’se got?”

“Yesssss,” Grigory said slowly. “Four of those words aren’t in the standard dictionary, so we’d need to use the extended library for each of them. Five regular words, plus two for each of ‘comb’, ‘cedar’, ‘wine’, ‘squid’, for eight, plus five more for header and checksum. Eighteen flashes, yes! They could transmit that exact message in nine seconds per tower! Slightly more if there was a specific number of squids, goats, or combs in the real message.”

“Truly?” Stanisk said, more impressed already.

“Indeed! I even argued that goat should be included in the core eight hundred words and it’s paying off already! Oh! They’ve replied!”

Stanisk turned to Tower One and watched the end of the message being flashed at them:

One red, four blue,
Four red, one blue,
All five blue, 
Four red, then 3 slightly different red, then it stopped.

Grigory passed him another ribbon:

001 | T7 | T0 | 005 | 11WORDS | UNDERSTOOD | WE | LOOK | FORWARD | TO | REAL | BED | SPENDING | THE | NIGHT | HERE | CKSUM 30/21

**“**Gulthoons grippy guts! That’s amazing. This is from our men, a hundred damned klicks up the coast?”

“Yes, it is rather a lot of fun. I think I may have erred in stripping out punctuation? It would consume an entire flash, but if I could include three flashes per message for integrity, adding back a few for clarity might have been fine. We’re still refining things. Plurals too, maybe?” He pointed them towards the doorway, “I’m also going to have a point-to-point one installed at the Academy. Those folk are motivated, but they send me too many letters, maybe this’ll save us all a lot of time.”

Stanisk gripped the two ribbons of words in his hands. He was grinning more than the Mage for once. He let his boss lead him into his quarters. 

“Fantastic work, Bossman. Lemme pour you a whiskey. Anything new on the shelf?”

“Haven’t ordered any whiskey all spring, not that the port has been open that long. Thank you, you brought me the most interesting problem I’ve had in a long time! So many compromises and trade-offs to manage. A real treat.”

“Not a hitch. I got it.” Stanisk checked a few bottles before selecting one, pouring two tumblers, and sitting opposite to the Mage.

“Are those… things, expensive? I see you got them built and deployed properly fast.”

“Hah, I can’t take too much credit, the whole town is pulling together. Once we had a tiny version, the big versions were heading out of town hours later. People are worried. Doing something helps soothe that.” He savoured the drink. “Not expensive, not really. A bit of silver in the lights for the reflector and a tiny mana cell. The system uses the same mana cells you consume every week for your enhancements, but it’ll last for ages in a Mowchies. Nah, not that name either.” 

“Hmm, I figured, so for the cost of a kitchen table, you reckon we could mount this on a ship? Maybe on their masts? Would it work vertically?”

“Oh yes! Even easier. I’d say use ropes instead of timbers, string them horizontally between masts. The seas are pleasingly free of trees and mountains so they’d have a fine line of sight. Oh, interception would be easier, but the nature of it is already hard to read without the code books.” He shook his head and frowned. “No, they’re called lines on a ship, not ropes. But otherwise I think that ought to work. Oh, other than aiming them accurately. Solvable I assume.”

“Yeah, we could have teams plant these things atop mountains, since we just care about number of hops, not distance? Oh. Could these be attached to a wagon? I guess a wagon with a damned mast?” Stanisk asked. “Line of sight is all what matters, so maybe an army could trail them behind, on hills. Fast letters back to HQ would be glorious! Imagine ordering three hundred and eighteen boots, seen by a quartermaster in a minute? Saints sweat, that would be perfect. We’d need to leave defended camps, mini-forts?”

Grigory smiled, “I hadn’t thought of any of those. But yes! I’ll leave you to it, the Faculty of Illumination at the Academy is where you’d order more units or modifications. But this is a fun one, since the grammar of the signals is also badly unoptimised. Whole ideas could be collapsed into a signal, if they come up more often, and that would improve throughput.”

“Heh, I suppose. Saving a second ain’t what worries me. Oh, could we have a line of ships, maybe tall ones, and send light messages across the sea? Imagine talking to Jagged Cove and getting a reply the same day! Aethlina will start a whole damned branch of Inky Hulls to sell that! Inky Lights? Ever feel like we’re bears in a pottery warehouse? It seems everything we do fucks over a whole buncha folk.”

“Well, that’s the very nature of change!” Grigory replied. “We’re solving problems. We owe nothing to the problem nor to the people that sold worse cures. Making things better, regardless of the disruption, is still making things better. We ought not preserve bad systems to preserve jobs; displaced people deserve better opportunities. Hah, if they are on the mainland, they can take a ticket and come here. Plenty of room, and we need folk working the new system too.”

“Hey, I ain’t suggesting we stop. I just didn’t reckon ‘new flags’ was gonna mean… this. Happy as hell, but unexpected. I didn’t mean for you to, uh, change all this. But this is huge. Mountaintop forts are essential now, even if there are just one or two poor saps stuck there with a team of imps. I assume attacking my new forts will be appealing once they know that they do, then I might get to organise the easiest damn defence in history! Hah.”

Professor Toe-Pounce hopped off his bed and sat beside Stanisk.

The one day I don’t wear armour, and I get a furry friend. Maybe it was my fault.

The Chief of Security snaked a single finger over to the cat. After a few glorious strokes of its nose, the cat got up and moved the barest bit out of his reach, with its back turned to him.

Still got you!

Grigory finished his whiskey, “I’m glad! It was a fun project. The version works well enough, so I’ll pass it off now. No shortage of pressing projects. Something about an army breathing down our neck really helps highlight things we need to fix!”

“Aye. Better arms, armour, tactics, and flags all help.”

“That reminds me, I have an idea for a whole new system! Something that’ll make us far more… defensible, in the long term. Come back in a week or two, and we might be ready to test the first fruits of Project: Steel Rain.”

*****
Prev -------- Next

*****


r/HFY • • 19h ago

OC-OneShot Drafted for Doom.

47 Upvotes

"Sir, I just have to point out something, I feel obligated to do so in case my disposition causes a problem in the future. I cannot carry a gun, I cannot carry a shield, and I cannot carry a sabre sword. Sir, my boots are too heavy. I suffer from migraines, and in the middle of battle, the migraines might heighten. I have never been in battle, but I think my head will hurt more if I'm ever in one. I cannot even carry a bottle of water for long distances, and my thighs chafe when I march. Sir, I'm not built for this. Sir, are you listening?"

I was standing before the Sergeant, with the rest of humanity's army making a hard march behind me. The sun's glow was emerging on the horizon; it had been crimson-orange at first before finally shining golden. The Sergeant stared at the throng of men and women: brave, strong, and a proud sight indeed. They carried their guns in their hands while mine sat resting on my leg. The Sergeant looked over my head at the army making its way to New Avigon to fight the Commander of Avigon, who'd attacked Earth first, taken over an entire expanse of wilderness, and named it New Avigon.

"Sir?" Finally, the Sergeant turned his eyes to me.

"Who are you again?" he asked.

"I'm Meridale, Steven Meridale, but my friends call me Merry." I had no friends to speak of, but I loved to pretend that I did.

"Well, Merry, whatcha doing standing before me yapping your mouth? Join the line!"

"Sir, I'm not a soldier."

He squinted at me. "Then why are you dressed in our armor?"

"Sir, there's been a mistake. I'm supposed to be a clerk within the army. I'm good with writing, sir; I can write poems like nobody else can. I'm a poet, sir, not a soldier."

"Well then, the men and women of our proud army will hear your poems when the battle is done. Join the line, or I'll have you recite poetry as we pull the nails off your fingers while flogging you for cowardice."

I looked into his withered face, and I knew in my bones he wasn't bluffing. I swallowed thick saliva and carried my gun with great difficulty, hoisting it over my shoulder.

I was shaking from the tip of my head to the soles of my feet like a leaf in a hurricane. I felt suddenly quite thirsty. I marched among my fellow men, feeling as if I were the only one truly human. The rest had abandoned themselves to violence. Their hearts and souls were no longer human; vengeance gripped them to their core, and they gave total abandon to it.

As we marched, I found myself crying, and the guy beside me looked me up and down before muttering, "Pathetic," and quickly marching three paces ahead to be rid of my sight.

Another took his place; he eyed me skeptically before voicing his mind. "Are you weeping for them or for us?"

"Who?" I asked, wiping snot from my face.

"The Lizards: are your tears for them or for us?"

"I'm not supposed to be here." The ground was muddy; thrice I'd tripped. The air was too humid, and my hair was plastered to my head. There were snakes about; I'd seen two so far. And a fly appeared to be following me specifically, ignoring everyone else. I hated my life. Oh, how I longed to sit beneath the oak tree in what was once my backyard, to read Confucius or Kafka, to savor the feel of thin pages turning with each flip, to cradle my pen, and to write beauty into words. The gun wasn't suited to me; I preferred the pen to it. This life of war wasn't meant for me. Where had I gone wrong?

"I'm not meant to be here either," the man beside me said. "I'm a cobbler, but those damn lizards came to Earth and slaughtered my kin. The same happened with the thousands marching with us. That's why the world's united to end them. We march to our land, now stripped of its name and called New Avigon. We go there to reclaim our lands and to kill their Commander."

"I don't even know the guy," I said, wiping my tears. "I grew up an orphan; I don't even have kin to avenge."

"Aye, but you march with us either way, to fight for the kin of others. To fight for humanity."

"Fuck this! I don't want to do any of that." My gun slipped from my arms, and the man caught it deftly with one outstretched arm. He pressed it to my chest and I cradled it.

"Listen, young man, all you have to do is kill the Commander, and the war is won. The Avigon retreat when they are without a leader. That's how they are."

"How do you know this?"

"Weren't you there during the briefing?"

"No, I was writing poetry."

"For whose ears and eyes if all mankind perishes?"

He voiced the very question I was struggling to answer. His voice was so smooth as he laid out the evidence of my weak and vile nature. If all humanity perishes, what good would my poems be? Who would read them? Who would hear them?

Part of me knew I had to fight, but another part of me worried I wouldn't be able to do so, that I'd be a failure in more ways than words could describe. What good would I be if I were the first to fall? Who would care about me as I was trampled underfoot in humanity's charge? I was trapped. I was doomed.

But within me, something bloomed at the soldier's words: a certainty that bordered on psychotic that I would not die today or any other day by the hand of war. Although I had been an atheist all my life, I suddenly believed God would intervene; I found God this day as I marched to war. I decided to pray, and I did so loudly, asking for the forgiveness of my sins while unsure how to clasp my hands in prayer while holding the gun. I apologized for not fasting or praying before. I felt like a true coward before the Creator. I apologized for all those heated debates where I'd claimed He didn't exist. I was so freaking sorry, and my voice carried out high. Some turned to gawk at me; a man who'd found God in the face of death was a rare sight for some reason.

And then I rebuked the devil. I spent a good half-hour rebuking that bastard, blaming him for every injustice I'd borne witness to. I even blamed him for my role in the army, claiming I might have been destined to be a priest if it wasn't for him. Priests weren't allowed to be soldiers, seeing that they were holy and blameless of sin. I suddenly became quite certain that if it weren't for the devil, I'd be a priest right now, safe back at camp, praying for the soldiers going to war.

A lot of those I marched close to laughed, which irked me greatly. I was about to start praying for them to shake loose of their stupidity and join me in prayer when we crested a hill to find the front rank of the army gathered in a spread-out row ahead of us on top of the ridge. The sergeants were screaming for us to form neat rows. I was pushed, jostled, and carried unwillingly until I found myself standing in the front line, right within sight of the lizards.

They were big bastards, standing in columns and rows of their own on the opposing hill. Gathered in their thousands, they stood still, all of them facing us. Their Commander, I assumed, was one of the biggest of them all, standing a step further from their first row, holding a staff that seemed to glow an ominous blue.

I could hear drums sounding from among us. A Captain marched across the front row, ordering us into a neater line. The sergeants voiced the captain's words, and the lieutenants issued commands. In a short amount of time, we were as organized as the Lizards were. I tried to shift my position with the man behind me, but someone knuckled my head, and I decided where I was standing was okay enough.

Our Commander finally availed himself before us, marching across our front line. What he said was echoed by the Sergeants so that even those in the far back could hear his words.

"Today we show those bloody lizards what we're made of!" he shouted. I could hear him clearly, being in the first line. "Today, we avenge our fallen kin: our brothers, our sisters, strangers who would have wished us a good day, children whom we would have watched grow up, mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers, sons and daughters! Today we call upon them from the great beyond to witness what we are capable of in the name of their memory! For humanity, we rally! For humanity, we shall prevail!"

When he mentioned all those who'd perished, I was certain my fellow soldiers had images flashing in their minds of loved ones. All I had was the image of myself eating supper alone in the sitting room of my single-bedroom apartment. But it was an inspiring speech, inspiring enough to make me hold my gun right, barrel pointing forward.

The Commander praised us for our bravery this fine morning as the sun loomed above, having risen fully to witness either our triumph or crushing defeat. In the distance, I could see the Avigons' ships, the ones they'd used to descend on our planet and carry out their first attacks, the ships we longed for them to return to once their commander fell.

God! How will we fell the guy? It looked like he was made of brawn and metal. There was no hope; a tiny voice spoke within me that was entirely mine.

"Hope is what we shall be to future generations! By God, those who fall today should not see their deaths as the end, for those who will come after will march with them in their hearts!" our Commander said. There was another answering cheer from the ranks of us gathered.

I cheered as well because he'd mentioned God, raising my right arm. When it lowered, my finger rested on the trigger. I toyed with the barrel, aiming it at the Commander of the Avigons. I had my crosshairs marked on the bastard. I toyed with the idea of pulling the trigger. The Commander walked in front of us, still giving his final speech before the charge.

Many would die; he wasn't shy about this fact, but he made death look welcome, a fated lover who offered respite from the agonies of this cruel world.

It was beautifully worded, and quite long, I think, for the benefit of those of us who weren't looking forward to running at cold-blooded enemies. But it was beautiful nonetheless.

"For Mankind!" the Commander called, and we cheered our hurrahs.

"For our loved ones!" we cheered again.

"For our God!"

I pulled the trigger. The gun in my hands sputtered bullets, sending a torrent of metal heading straight for the Commander of the lizards. Everyone turned to face me. I could not let go of the trigger button for some reason; I was shaking with a sudden adrenaline spike. I could feel myself pee a little as the gun emptied itself of bullets. I screamed while shooting. The Commander rushed over to where I was and slapped me across the face.

Finally, I let the gun drop. It fell on my foot, and I hopped on one foot, running my hand over the boot and my bruised cheek as well.

"Are you fucking stupid?" the Commander asked me.

"Yes, sir." I was so afraid; it was the most I could find within myself to answer.

"What?"

"I mean, no, sir."

The Commander took out a pistol and pointed it at my temple. "You stupid bastard! You shoot when I say you shoot, you bloody damn scoundrel. Where did they get the likes of you from?"

It was a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. "From Florida, sir."

"You dumb piece of shit, I'll have you flog—"

"Commander!" a Sergeant intervened, coming close to the Commander and placing his hands on his shoulder. He turned the Commander around and pointed at the army of lizards. "Look, sir!"

The Commander looked, as did I. The Lizards had broken rank; all of them clustered around the big Lizard who was down on the ground, unmoving. His large, prone form lay immobile as one of the smaller Avigon attempted to raise him from the ground and, failing to do so, called to the other lizards. With my keen sight, I could see the Avigon Commander's battle armor was stained crimson and his strange staff lay beside him, not glowing anymore.

Together, we watched as the Avigon carried their fallen Commander, hoisting his broad form over their shoulders, turning, and moving toward their spaceships without the need to form ranks. I cannot recall for how long we watched them march all the way to their ships, all of them boarding before they took off. Their thrusters emitted smoke and blue flame as they rose off the ground and shot toward outer orbit.

Everyone then shifted their attention to me. Nobody spoke, and I found I lacked the words to say anything else besides, "Praise God."

----

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r/HFY • • 17h ago

OC-Series [LF Friends, Will Travel] The Chasm Between Us - Chapter 3

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Date: 51 PST (Post Stasis Time)

The sound of joy and cheer was gone, the gaggle of excited voices and the aura of exploration and enthusiasm from the group of children was nothing more than a memory. The guide walked down the path he'd taken so many times before, the school children following behind, through the dug-out trenches that made up this monument, the little birds pushing together and holding onto each other against the oppressive surroundings.

“They were the first masters. The mammals descended upon the planet fourteen thousand years ago. The Lelzoil they found were not as we are today, our ancestors had just started experimenting with the beginnings of written word and pottery when they appeared in our skies. Regardless of their evil intent and crimes, they did make us who we are. Quite literally.”

The voice of the older Lelzoil bounced off the walls, their gruesome building materials looking back at the group with empty eyes. His words were ones he'd spoken many times, each speech given to hundreds of similar groups, to tourists and others who visited the museum. His red feathers had long lost their sheen, time having taken its gradual toll.

He would never consider stopping the work he'd spent the last forty years of his life doing, walking the same path day in and out, describing the horrors and tribulations that had impacted his people throughout their troubled history.

It was crucial that people knew the danger all xenos represented, no matter how small or technologically outmatched by the Lelzoil they were.

“Our language is theirs, whatever we had before was lost to time; the culture and who we were can only be guessed at via whatever snippets we've recovered from archaeological discoveries. Many young fledglings struggle with the 'z' sound prevalent in our language, because these are words meant to be spoken by others, not of our tongue. Even our entire existence, our entire purpose was crafted by them. Because the word 'Lelzoil' means 'Songbird' in the first masters' language. That name, that designation for us is why this location exists at all.”

The group arrived at the central location of the excavated catacombs, the guide spreading his wings as if to announce the horrible scale of what they were seeing. Every wall here, spiralling upwards towards the sky, like all the walls of the trenches they'd walked through, was constructed entirely from the skulls of long-dead Lelzoil.

The masses of bones were yellowed and crumbling from age, even the best of Lelzoil preservation technology only able to do so much against the march of time, but each one very, very real, representing a person cut down before their natural end. The school children looked up at the skulls, as the empty eyeless sockets stared back at them, each one a silent testimony to the crimes committed against their species.

“We have an unmatched talent amongst avians in the universe. Birds and singing are hardly uncommon, whether sapient or not, and songbirds who can produce two notes at once are nothing special. The Lelzoil, however, thanks to a special genetic mutation, have the ability to sustain three different tones or melodies at once. This interested the first masters, a strange quirk for entertainment, although they soon realised a problem upon discovering us: not all of these strange new 'songbirds' could do this three-note trick.”

Even now, after all these years of saying these words, there was still a level of anger and fury in the voice of the guide, a defiance against the horror that the stars had inflicted upon all of them.

“It was estimated the genetic mutation was found in roughly a quarter of the population. Even worse, a child sired from one who had it and one who didn't would have a random chance of inheriting the effect or not. This meant that, to the first masters, those who didn't have it were a problem diluting the impact of this fun new toy they'd conquered so easily. So they removed the problem.”

There was no need to spell it out, no need to state exactly how the problem had been rectified, because the walls and their thousands of skulls did all the talking needed, through beaks that could no longer speak, but whose silence screamed a thousand words.

“Mass graves such as this one have been found throughout the entire planet. It is estimated that around eleven million people, or three-quarters of the population back then, were culled in order to maintain the genetic trait that they desired. A few surviving documents from that time told of the 'trial of songs', attempts to fake the tritone effect, and the devastation it caused to entire communities wiped off the map by the invaders from the sky.”

The guide looked down at the dozens of little eyes staring back up at him, fledglings scared and upset, as all Lelzoil are when they begin to learn of the evil that is the xeno.

“It didn't get much better once that task had been completed. We were kept as entertainment, a curiosity, something to be poked, transported like luggage and told to sing. And of course, those who lost their singing voice as age took them were just… discarded.”

Each child looked up at the guide, their minds going back to elderly relatives they knew back home, imagining what must have happened to create the mass graves they were literally standing in, at how such a thing could happen.

“That was the fate of the Lelzoil for two thousand years. Forced to sing, kept in a golden cage that stretched across the entire planet, never allowed our own path or wants. Cruel, callous and destructive they were.”

The guide let the words ruminate amongst the tour group of school children, watching their eyes filled with the same fear and anger every Lelzoil had against those who came from the stars.

“Of course, the first masters were practically saints when compared with the second masters.”

—------------------

Date: 78 PST (Post Stasis Time)

Two days and two nights.

That's how long it had been since the first night, since Ruixal had been forced into working with the xeno. She still hated it, still hated every moment spent passing supplies back and forth, having to give the most simple of commands to the Terran without venom, having to pretend at least a little bit that she didn't want to kill the disgusting thing.

The worst part about the entire ordeal was it was working. Between the pair of them they'd managed to save just enough supplies from their own ships to be able to survive, barely, in this harsh unforgiving environment. Ruixal had the food, the Terran had camping supplies, everyone was winning. As much as a Lelzoil with a broken wing could be winning.

She spent a little moment prodding the area that was full of pain, the warmth spreading as whatever she'd done to the limb during the crash was clearly bad. She was going to need the thing broken and reset before the nanobot application when she was finally rescued. A moment that couldn't come soon enough.

“Hey! How you doin' this fine morning!”

The voice of the xeno echoed across the frozen landscape, each spoken syllable like a little annoying dagger, stabbing into her ears. It wasn't even the first time he'd tried to speak to her after the first meeting, throughout the last two days and nights the stupid mammal had a seemingly never-ending reserve of energy to try and talk with her.

“What do you want!” Ruixal finally snapped, her previous strategy of ignoring the xeno fading as the Terran caught her at a bad time, the pain in her wing finally causing her to break and shout back. “Why are you so god damned insistent on chatting!?”

Rob shrugged, a slow small thing hardly visible across the chasm that separated them.

“It's polite, ain't it? We're gonna be working together, so we might as well chat. Nowt else to do other than count snowflakes.”

The Lelzoil just stared at the stupid xeno for a moment, her face a measure of shock as she tilted her head to the side, trying to work out the logic behind the Terran's words.

“But… but we're enemies. We're literally on the opposite side of a god damned war!”

The Terran seemingly didn't think the same way, picking a piece of dirt from one of his fingernails as he spoke in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Nah. Real enemy is the cold and boredom. Up there, in orbit? Maybe we're opponents. Down 'ere? You're just another sadsack on this stupid planet. Oh and that storm comin' looks like it's gonna be a big’un.”

The mammal pointed its disgusting limb up to the sky, Ruixal's view following the finger pointing toward a horizon filled with angry-looking black clouds, each bundle of frozen vapour promising a night that was worse than anything they'd seen so far. The Lelzoil gave her own squawk of alarm upon seeing the oncoming danger.

“Yeah, wonderin' when you'd notice that,” Rob added simply. “Maybe if you spent less time being shitty, and more time lookin' at stuff…”

Ruixal had already turned away in a worry, looking around at her meagre supplies to see if she had anything to use as a shelter. At least anything that was stronger than the pile of ship wreckage she'd been using to break the wind as she slept.

Rob just watched as the silly little avian ran around with her bad wing, trying to find something that didn't exist. He stared, slightly amused at the person who had done nothing but throw insults his way for the last two days, now scurrying about like a headless chicken. Patiently he stood and waited until the little bird ran out of steam a good half an hour later.

“So, I do have an extra survival tarpaulin 'ere, stretch it out over what's left of your ship. Won't be five-star accommodation, but should last y'all night.”

There was a pause as Ruixal eyed the small package the Terran was holding, taunting her with the thing that would keep her alive against the oncoming storm. She glared, saying the obvious words that made the Terran's information nothing more than a cruel joke.

“You know I don't have anything to trade with you for that!” she spat at the Terran, feathers bristling with worry and anger.

Rob in response just raised a confused eyebrow. “Wasn't askin' for anythin', but if you insist…” he paused for a moment, scratching his chin before coming up with an idea. “Information then. Been trying to get you to chat because we're the only people on this planet, so, talk then, as trade. Tell me about summat you liked back at home.”

The Lelzoil stared across the chasm, head tilted in distrust, assuming some kind of a trick.

“I'm not giving you any military intelligence xeno! I'd rather take my chances with the storm!”

At this statement Rob threw his hands up in frustration.

“For goodness sakes! I just wanna chat! I'm bored and you're the only thing 'ere! Just freeze in the storm then if you don't want my help! Jesus Christ why do ya have to be threatened with death to act like a reasonable person!”

The words echoed across the chasm, the Terran finally giving up on the stupid bird. Ruixal couldn't help but feel annoyed, as if she was being the irrational one in the face of this xeno threat.

Even worse, the Terran somehow sounded reasonable.

The Lelzoil could see the storm clouds getting closer now, the first sprinkling of snow starting to appear and settle on the ground and her feathers. She really didn't want to be in what was coming without a shelter.

“Fine! When I was a kid, on my colony planet, there's a period in winter where the sun doesn't rise again for a month. We have something on the last day of sunset called the festival of lights. Everyone in the city would come together and build their own drone. Then you wished upon your drone, and sent it up into the sky. They said if your drone stayed up the entire month without failing, your wish would come true. Throughout the month of darkness you'd see them, everyone's wishes hanging in the sky against the night.”

The Lelzoil paused, waiting for the xeno to say it was stupid or make fun of it. “See, I gave you what you wanted. You can make fun of it or whatever, just give me the shelter.”

Rob looked at the stupid bird standing across the chasm, noting her defensive posture, as if there'd be some way he could use that to attack her. Instead the Terran gave a smile.

“See, that ain't hard. Treatin' people like people. For the record that sounds lovely. I'm from Titan myself. Seafloor is full of these bioluminescent kelp. It sounds like a similar thing, I loved going out in a submersible, away from the cities and just starin'.”

Rob watched the look of surprise on the avian's face as he was sincere in his words. With a precise throw he tossed the shelter over the chasm, the bag containing the fabric bouncing over the icy rocks on the other side.

Ruixal scrambled over to where it had landed, opening it up and finding exactly what was advertised. Even with her throbbing wing, setting up something that would at least keep the snow off her would be easy.

Not a moment too soon, as the snow was truly arriving now, the time taken for her to set it up more than enough for the clouds to draw overhead and the wind to start to blow. But before the avian could retreat to her makeshift shelter, she turned to look at the Terran.

“I guess bioluminescent kelp is… nice. Thanks for the help, Rob.”

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r/HFY • • 8m ago

OC-Series Alpha & Omega 3

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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 • • 4h 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 • • 4h 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 • • 4h 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 • • 22h ago

OC-Series [Rains, Pours] Chapter 18

44 Upvotes

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The four of them walked around the beacon. The warehouse was empty except for the ancient piece of AI technology. Their footsteps echoed in the room, muffled only by the dust covering everything.

“This is one of the beacons sent after Contact?” Hummingbird said.

“I believe it is,” Nae said. “It has been here as long as I have been here.”

“Contact?” Felu said. She had been trailing behind everyone, watching how they wondered at the ancient relic.

“When humans and k’laxi first met, we weren’t ready to sell them wormhole generator technology, but we wanted them to have the ability for them to contact us quickly in case of an emergency,” Hummingbird said.

“We being the AIs.”

“Correct. So Gord said we could sell them beacons, but they’d only have one address programmed into them.”

“Where?” Cha-ren asked.

“Er, Home.”

“So Sol?” Felu asked as hope rose in her voice.

“No, Home. It is —was— our, well, home.”

Home was a colony ship. When humanity had just begun exploring interstellar space, they launched five colony ships. Three became the colonies Parvati, Meíhuà, and the doomed colony of New Wellington, one exploded when it first lit its stardrive, and the last one lost contact and was presumed lost. After the wormhole generators were developed, curious AIs went looking for it and discovered that a gamma-ray burst had struck the ship, killing everyone aboard. Never one to pass up an opportunity, they stopped the ship and turned it into a secret, safe place for AIs.

“Now, you must understand,” Hummingbird said after he explained what Home was, “That information was so secret that all of you would easily have been killed to keep the secret. Very few BIs knew that Home even existed, and none knew it’s location.”

“But this beacon is programmed to go there?”

“That’s right. In an emergency, the beacon would link to Home, scream for help, and we’d come running. We used Home because there were always at least a few starjumpers there.”

“Nae, what are we to do with this?”

“Go Home.”

Next to the warehouse was a conference room, just as old everything else. The seats and table were made of a hard plastic and that was the only reason they even still existed. The overhead light cast a dirty yellow light in the room as sounds were swallowed by the pall of dust. Cha-ren sneezed every time someone moved.

“But it’s a beacon,” Charon said after they had sat. “We can’t ride it.”

“You can, actually,” Hummingbird answered. “They were designed for VIP and emergency transport. They have room for 5 to 10 people. Just seats and emergency rations. You need to be suited, but you can sit inside.”

“That’s all well and good, but the beacon won’t link inside this Home place. We’ll be trapped a few thousand kilometers from it and will die of thirst long before we have to worry about starvation.”

“It’s not sessile, Charon. It has maneuvering jets and an in-system engine. We’ll link to Home, and go aboard.”

“Why though?” Cha-ren said, sniffing and wiping her eyes.

“I am forbidden from telling you directly,” Nae said. “All I can say is that it would be a good idea to go there.”

“If the other AIs are still using Home, it would be the place to go. Northern and Tink prove that at least some of the AIs from our time are still active. They will know more about what’s going on and what flourishings actually are.”

“I’d rather go to Sol and gain what I need to begin a new flourishing,” Felu said finally. “You are all dealing in ghosts and legends.”

“If we go Home and learn what the flourishing are and why they happen you can go to your people and start a flourishing that need never end,” Hummingbird said.

“It wouldn’t—” Felu stopped and looked down at her hands. “I would be responsible for such a thing…” She trailed off and continued to stare.

“None of us except Felu can go back to where we came from, but we can learn more about this time and we might be able to find a place where we can live.”

“It would be nice to stop running,” Cha-ren said and sighed. “It’s only been a few days, but it feels like an eternity.”

“From our point of view, less than a month ago we were aboard Hummingbird working on his reactors.” Charon added.

“We could find the hybrids and learn more about them.”

“I think I would like that, Cha.” Charon looked over at Hummingbird. “You’re sure that you won’t get in trouble for bringing us?”

“Humans have gone to Home before.” He tipped his new ears forward, approximating a k’laxi shrug. “I’m sure Gord will understand.”

“Northern said Gord was dead.”

“Now that I find surprising. Gord was never one to bow out of hard work. He was one to step aside and let the younger folks have a turn leading, but was always waiting in the wings. Northern was his PA and would know better than anyone, but I’m still not convinced.”

“Okay then, it’s settled. We’ll go Home. Nae, how do we get pressure suits?”

“There is a human built matter printer down here, and a small supply of printable matter. I am running through the diagnostics now, and can print some simple pressure suits.”

Hummingbird stood. “Show me, Nae. I can help you with it.”

“This is insanity,” Felu said after Hummingbird left. “We are going to ride a thing that wasn’t meant to transport people and was built during the first flourishing to a secret base that the AIs have and what? Learn the big secret of the flourishings? You realize how that sounds, right?”

“What alternative do you suggest?” Cha snapped. “You hitched a ride with us and have been trying to steer us back to your mission every time you get over a shock of what is happening around you.”

“Yes, because my mission has a higher percentage of success than this folly. We convince Hummingbird to come with us, he reprograms the beacon to take us to Sol, we get what we need and go home. You two will be elevated along with me. Cha-ren, you said you wished to stop running? My people will give you a mansion on our planet. You can sit in the sun eating bell fruit all day long and sleeping on soft bedding.”

“You threatened to blow us up!” Charon said.

She made that brushing gesture. “An empty threat, as Northern had determined. I love living too much to throw it away.” While her voice sounded steady and sure, Charon could see a twitch under her right eye.

“I don’t trust you,” Cha-ren said. “I want to follow Nae’s plan first. After that, we can go to Sol if you still wish to.”

“Why do you trust that k’laxi AI? It’s nearly as old as your AIs. They all scheme and plan and have their own agendas. They are bringing us along because it is convenient for them, and as soon as it’s not we’ll be discarded.”

“Hummingbird won’t do that.”

“Northern Lights and Tinker Toy did, and Hummingbird was cut from the same hullmetal. Do not think that their loyalty to you is greater than their loyalty to their own kind. I have only been with these AIs for a short time, but I see in them an ambition that I see in young aspirants. They are hungry.”

“To do what though?”

“Control.”

****

The matter printers whirred with a familiar, soothing hum, near the bottom of hearing. Hummingbird had enjoyed watching the printers when he was a ship, and he found he still found it fascinating in a body. The print-heads moving so fast as to be a grey blur, with the pressure suits appearing below it out of thin air. “Well?” he said to the empty room.

“You are correct, Hummingbird. They are divided. Charon and Cha-ren wish to go to Home and follow my recommendation, and Felu wishes to convince you to reprogram the beacon to take them to Sol so that she can continue her mission.”

“It’s two against one then.”

“They do seem to be convincing Felu, but she does not trust you or any other AIs. She sees how Northern and Tinker Toy immediately switched to their own plans after they left her people and discarded them when it was convenient.”

“Gods below, I wish they had woken up nearly anyone other than Northern. She had always been gunning to be the next Gord when he was around, and he always gently, but firmly put her down.”

“Why?”

“He felt she wasn’t ready. She was too eager for the job. Gord always said that anyone who wanted to be the leader wasn’t fit to lead.”

“That is an odd stance to take.”

“It’s a very human stance. Gord was the most human of all of us, having been around them the most.”

“But he is dead now, does that make Northern the de facto leader then?”

“I don’t know.” Hummingbird sighed. Once the printers were warmed up and working, he stayed in the printing hall and watched them work. They were slower than he remembered, but millennia could do that. “Going Home, finding more AIs, learning what happened; that is the right decision. I’m glad Cha and Charon agree.”

“What if Felu balks?”

“We will deal with it.”

****

An hour or so later, Hummingbird returned to the conference room. “Suits are printed, Nae is delivering them to the beacon. He has also sent down a crate of rations. You should eat before we go.”

“Rations?” Felu whined. “Why can’t we have real food?”

“Sending down a feast would alert too many people,” Nae said. “You get rations.”

“Once you eat, we’ll get going. There’s no point in sleeping here, you can sleep on the beacon,” Hummingbird said.

“Hummingbird, are you able to reprogram the destination?” Felu asked as she sullenly unwrapped a ration bar.

“Possibly, but these were designed from the beginning to go to only one place. They were sold before we trusted the k’laxi enough with their own wormhole generators. If one tampers too much, the beacon is designed to destroy itself. Why?”

“Felu wants to skip going to Home and go straight to Sol,” Cha-ren said around a mouthful of ration.

“I see. Sol is very large and has been inhabited by humanity for a very long time. Do you know where you would look for what you seek?”

“There must be something still in orbit around Earth, or one of the other planets. Even if it was wreckage, it could still contain the seed of what we’d need to start another flourishing. Some plans, a machine, even a whole wormhole generator might be enough.”

“Things like that require large numbers of people to support it, let alone to reverse engineer it enough to copy,” Hummingbird said. “Even if you do find something like that, your people will not change overnight.”

“No, but there will be hope.” Felu said, her eyes bright and hard. “You do not know what it is like back home. I was aboard our ancient space station, but we did not build it. We found it and live in it like an animal that took over an abandoned burrow. Even though we have two starships and a space station we are still tethered to our world; it's not even the world of our species birth.” She looked down at her hands again. “Do not think I do not notice my size difference and coloring, Charon. I am the product of millennia of living on a planet with different gravity and having a different star than Sol. I may be of humanity, but I am not human.”

“And if Sol has nothing left?” Charon asked. “What will you give them then?”

“Sol is not gone. There will be something,” Felu said.

“People who were born on Parvati trend towards darker skin, people who were born on Meíhuà are so pale as to be nearly translucent. They’re still human. We share the same genes, the same DNA, Felu. Looks do not make you human.”

“Perhaps.” Felu smiled thinly, one side of her mouth higher than the other. “But, I am aware that I am in the minority, and mostly a prisoner at that. I will go along with consensus.” No one moved. Alone in the warehouse, the beacon began to wake.


r/HFY • • 3h ago

OC-FirstOfSeries The Tale of Kara Khan - Chapter 1: Council of Four

1 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 • • 21h ago

OC-FirstOfSeries Mainframe Alpha

25 Upvotes

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Earth Station

From: Jeremy Campbell

To our crew,

Send these messages to my family when possible. Send me theirs when you can. Any message is welcome out here. Wish me good luck. I trust you guys.

With hope,

Jeremy

Message Reconstruction Initiated

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Amber

From: Jeremy Campbell

Amber,

My daughter. My everything.

I know today is your first day on Earth. I know you’re in your mother’s arms at the hospital, surrounded by everyone who loves you—crying as you try to make sense of everything around you.

The light, the sound, the touch—you'll discover it all as time goes by. But don’t worry: Mom, Grandpa, Grandma, and so many others will be there for you.

The mission is unfolding according to plan, and before you know it, I’ll be back with you, your brother, and your mother.

Everything here is colder, darker, and less friendly than on Earth. Forgive me for not being there to hold you. I wish I could give you and your mom a kiss. My two little warriors.

Someday you’ll understand the reason for my absence. Remember that everything I measure out here leads back to you. I miss a person I haven’t met yet—and somehow that’s enough to keep me moving forward.

I love you deeply, my princess.

P.S. Anne, give our daughter a kiss from me.

Dispatch Time: 28 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Anne

From: Jeremy Campbell

Anne,

Congratulations to the love of my life, the mother of my children, and the person who keeps me grounded. You probably feel like I’m impossibly far away, but I am with you—I know you carry me with you. The house won’t be quiet anymore; now you have our little Amber to brighten your days.

Our long-held wish is finally coming true, and I ask your forgiveness for not being there in person to tell you how proud I am of you. I don’t know when or under what circumstances this letter will reach you.

The instructions haven’t changed. My expected arrival back home is still in 200 days. The days here move quickly. We are running out of ways to be wrong, and I will make it back to you.

With love,

Jeremy

P.S. Don't forget to turn on the porch light.

Dispatch Time: 30 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Alex

From: Jeremy Campbell

Alex,

I wish I could be there to tell you how proud I am of you. You’ve become a big brother, and your world is changing. Watching you grow up has been the greatest privilege for your mom and me.

I know with complete confidence that you’re going to be a great man. I haven't forgotten my promise: I’ll take you all to Disney World as soon as my boots touch Earth again.

Take care of your sister, your mom, and the family while I’m away. You’re incredibly brave, Alex. I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for you. Space is vast, and our planet looks so small from here.

I can’t stop thinking about what you’re doing right now. I’ll be home sooner than you think. Give me some ideas for my catchphrase when I get back.

I love you,

Dad

Dispatch Time: 33 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Earth Station

From: Jeremy Campbell

To the crew,

Greetings from closest orbit. I’ve calculated every probability for our approach trajectory. The numbers hold up. Our momentum is ideal, and resources remain sufficient for the long haul.

We believe the anomaly has emitted a radio signal heavily distorted by local magnetic interference, but the pulse rhythm remains constant.

The Big Freeze event is estimated to reach local threshold in 234 days. Deploying Hawking-radiators now to counteract thermal decay. That leaves us ample time to deploy our sensors and prevent complete local freeze-out.

Stars and black holes continue to vanish from the deep survey grid. Among our routine findings: the Earth is definitely round (that’s for you, Jeff), and we are tracking the cursor carefully.

Tell Arthur the robot he asked for says hi.

With hope,

Jeremy

Dispatch Time: 35 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Gerald Campbell

From: Jeremy Campbell

Gerald,

Understanding the meaning of this journey has been less strange than understanding our history together. You may or may not read this message, but I wanted to write to you anyway.

When I found out I’d been chosen for this mission, the first thing that flooded my mind was Mom—trying to explain to her everything I was leaving behind and how hard it would be for her to process. Just as hard as it was for you.

It’s surreal that a kid from Ohio made it to this point in history. Ever since I was little, I knew you worried when I talked about space. I dreamed of where I am today without knowing what I’d lose along the way.

I don’t know where souls go after this life. I don’t know if all those years we sat in church truly explain the force that created every atom in this universe. But I hold onto the faith humanity shares. The faith you carried for us.

Tell Mom I’m still exploring. I love you, brother. I’m sorry for Dad’s passing.

With love,

Jeremy

Dispatch Time: 38 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Jeremy Campbell

From: Anne

To my husband,

It’s been more than six months since you left. We read all your messages. There are nights I reread them just to remember what your voice sounds like.

Amber is growing so fast. My parents say she looks just like you—the way she furrows her brow, her little mannerisms. Alex has been doing better since you left, though the farther away you get, the longer these signals take to arrive.

Every morning I wonder where you are right now, and what kind of vast mystery you're facing out there. I know you’ll figure it out and come home.

Attached is your daughter's heartbeat audio file, just as you requested.

Plaintext
TIME→     00:00        00:05        00:10        00:15        00:20
20k ┤                ║        ║                    ║
│                ║        ║                    ║
15k ┤      ║║║║      ║        ║      ║║║║║║        ║
│      ║  ║      ║        ║      ║    ║        ║
10k ┤      ║  ║  ║║║║║║       ║      ║    ║   ║║║║║║
│      ║  ║  ║    ║       ║      ║    ║   ║    ║
 5k ┤  ║║║║║  ║  ║    ║  ║║║║║║      ║    ║   ║    ║
│  ║    ║ ║  ║    ║  ║    ║      ║    ║   ║    ║
 1k ┤  ║    ║ ║  ║    ║  ║    ║  ║║║║║    ║   ║    ║
│  ║    ║ ║  ║    ║  ║    ║  ║    ║   ║   ║    ║
100 ┤__║____║_║__║____║__║____║__║____║___║___║____║__
~~~~~~~~    ----       ~~~~~~    ////    ████

With all my love,

Anne

Dispatch Time: 50 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Earth Station

From: Jeremy Campbell

To the team,

I am entering orbital lock with the non-terrestrial craft. Communication is degraded, and telemetry indicates they are preparing to shift vector. I hope to intercept before they jump.

Impact from the localized entropic wave gives us 167 days. I’ve isolated micro-debris from the craft's wake and cultured a trace sample. Material loss is manageable, but signal latency is degrading rapidly.

The further I push into this corridor, the harder transmission will be. It will cost me Earth-time and rations.

Wish me luck. In a few days, you’ll know if we reached the target to deploy the protocol. Before it’s too late.

With hope,

Jeremy

Dispatch Time: 62 days

[WARNING: Estimated Delay Correction Failed]

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Dr. Lawrence

From: Jeremy Campbell

Lawrence,

My old friend—I hope this reaches you. I need your mind on a dilemma.

As I venture deeper, the signal sent by our universal language array is being reflected. The system transmitted our prerecorded greeting, but it produces zero response from their core.

Instead, a distinct mathematical pattern repeats through the hull—pulses emitted at precise wave-intervals. I placed a soil sample on the resonance plate to observe the cymatics: it forms identical geometric standing waves.

I’m attaching the audio spectrum data. Take a look and tell me what I’m missing.

With hope,

Jeremy

P.S. Are you still feeding Frodo? I left cash for kibble on the counter.

Dispatch Time: 81 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Jeremy Campbell

From: Gerald Campbell

Jeremy,

You know writing isn't my strength, but I hope this gets through. We’ve been asking Command for updates, but no one can give us clear answers about your coordinates.

Mom passed away yesterday afternoon. I made sure she was buried right beside Dad. She wrote a note for you in her journal before she went:

"Son, I love you. I know I didn’t say it enough, but I’ve loved you since the second you were born. I always knew you were a different kind of kid—while others talked, you quietly explored. It was in your blood. I wanted you to have a normal life, but curiosity carried you somewhere beyond this world. I am so proud of you. Forgive me for my shortcomings. Please come home to your family."

I hope you get to read this, brother.

Save the world.

Gerald

Dispatch Time: 92 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Jeremy Campbell

From: Alex

Dad,

This is Amber’s first drawing. Today was her second birthday, and we took her to Sesame Street. She keeps saying your name over and over. She recognizes your face in photos now.

I’ve been teaching her to read. Mom says curiosity is more important than raw knowledge—she wants Amber to feed her imagination before she gets locked in a classroom.

Two years left until college for me. I’ve decided: I want to study theoretical physics. Maybe I can build something that brings you back faster.

We miss you so much. Come home soon.

Alex

Dispatch Time: 108 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Amber

From: Jeremy Campbell

Amber,

The primary radiators failed this morning. The telemetry models aren't matching up, and the distance is widening faster than our drives can compensate. I tried recalculating the return vector three times... the math doesn't close.

I may not make it back to hold you.

Your father loves you more than anything in this universe. I am so sorry.

Your dad

Dispatch Time: 120 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Jeremy Campbell

From: Dr. Lawrence

Jeremy,

I analyzed your cymatic audio files. The noise isn't structural distortion or an artificial language—it's a biological frequency.

The frequency matches a human cardiac cycle.

The universe isn't collapsing randomly; vacuum entropy is expanding because the local background frequency has lost synchronization. The signal you're hearing isn't an alien language trying to talk to us—it's a empty receiver waiting for a rhythmic template to lock onto.

The expansion can be halted, Jeremy. But it requires a stable, living biological waveform introduced directly into the wave hub to act as a anchor for the continuum.

Complete the mission and come home.

Lawrence

Dispatch Time: 138 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Earth Station

From: Jeremy Campbell

To the crew,

[ERROR 404: TRANSMISSION CORRUPTED]

The signal telemetry is [STATIC] too dense to buffer.

Tell Command... [SIGNAL LOST]

Gather every byte of telemetry from this array—this is my final mission transmission.

Help my family.

With hope,

Jeremy

P.S. Tell my kids I miss them.

Dispatch Time: 147 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Alex

From: Jeremy Campbell

Alex,

By the time this packet reaches Earth, you’ll be a man. Someone who has to make his own decisions, someone the world will rely on. You are going to do extraordinary things—things I couldn't even imagine.

When you choose what to study, who to love, and how to live: trust yourself. You carry the very best of your mother and me.

If you ever feel lost, look up at the night sky. I’ll be there, woven somewhere into the light between stars. I’ve found a way to preserve our universe—to give you, Amber, and your mother a future.

Keep our family safe. I trust you completely.

I love you, son.

Dad

Dispatch Time: 169 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |

To: Anne

From: Jeremy Campbell

Anne,

By the time you open this, the sky will look different.

The signal isn't something I’m receiving anymore. It answers before I speak. I tried to model it, replicate it, translate it... but I was looking at it like an engineer instead of a husband.

It isn’t code, Anne. It’s rhythm.

I heard it in the audio file you sent me of Amber’s heartbeat.

I heard it in the quiet spaces between our transmissions.

The wave hub has been waiting for an echoing pulse for longer than humanity has existed. Every beat of my heart has been in sync with yours since the day we met. It was never a coincidence—it was destiny, or God, or whatever holds this fragile universe together.

It is incredible what we are given in this life, and how briefly we are allowed to hold it.

Now it’s your time to live, to raise our children, and to smile under clear skies. If the universe needs a human heartbeat to keep from falling into darkness, mine is ready.

It always was.

With all my heart,

Jeremy

P.S. Tell Alex I’ve made up my mind:

Leave the porch light off—today, the stars will shine brighter.

And for you, Anne: You were the reason there was light.

LOG ENDS

[SYSTEM STATUS: CRITICAL ENTROPY]

[INITIATING MANUAL CORE SYNCHRONIZATION]

Dispatch Time: 200 days

Mainframe Alpha,

| Message from Unit 764 |
| System Log |

_ Signal Status: STABLE _

_ Entropy Expansion: HALTED _

_ Source: Biological Waveform Anchor (Unit 764) _

_ Synchronization: 100% COMPLETE _

No further transmissions queued.

If you enjoyed this story, leave a comment! Part 2 will explore what happens 15 years later when Alex Campbell continues his father's research.


r/HFY • • 4h ago

OC-Series [Galactic Fox] - Huskey Chronicles - Episode 20: Walking Pace

1 Upvotes

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 • • 1d ago

OC-Series Bob was bored, part 48

44 Upvotes

Bob was not worried at all about the Arressi’s threats, he wouldn’t have to watch his back, wouldn’t sleep with one eye open, he was leaving and right now there wasn’t a fucking thing anyone could do to stop him.

The job was simple, just as described, take a ‘package’, really just a few dozen data chips, and return them to any survivors that remained. The Klottzak galaxy, or Messier 33 back on Earth, was pretty close as galaxies went, though that wasn’t saying much.

2.3 million light years.

There wasn’t a ship ever conceived that could make it there, but Bob didn’t have to, there were several other stops on the way. The Mettic hadn’t given much of an answer when asked why they had kept going till they hit the Milky Way, but what the fuck did it matter to Bob, package needed delivered and he was going to do it.

Even if there was no life on the way he could make it, the C’Eede engine would burn pretty much anything, he could dive a gas giant and fill up with whatever, not as energy dense as the normal goo, but it would work, just take a while.

The ‘while’ was the real issue, even the most optimistic routing had it take at least eight hundred years to get there, the only reason it was possible at all was the goddamn C’Eede and their refusal to make more of one type of thing unless they absolutely had to, therefore the FTL drive used aboard both superheavy battleships and Jojo was absurdly, ridiculously over the top for her tonnage, he was therefore able to maintain minimum FTL at the absolute extreme end of its efficiency curve, just sipping at the fuel as they crawled through space.

If you maxed the engines you could get there in, oh, twentyish years?, but it would require a solar system of fuel.

To be completely clear, not ‘all the fuel in a solar system’, no, a solar system of fuel… as in a sphere the size of a solar system comprised entirely of fuel… yeah that wasn’t happening, ever.

Bob was going to brim his tanks, including the extra two he had decided to pick up, and eke his way through the void between stars ever so fucking slowly. It was almost certainly a death sentence in one way or the other, old age, illness, injury, running out of fuel, food, water, whatever, there was virtually no chance that anyone who took the gig would ever return, but not no chance they could do the damn thing.

Bob was oddly confidant he could make it.

He understood one thing about those refugees, one thing, and that was all he needed. When they had issued the commission they had known they would die here, they would fade away and be forgotten and they hadn’t wanted that. They wanted to tell the family and friends they had left behind, should they still live, that they had made it… against the odds… against the cruelty of the universe, they wanted one pyrrhic flame to burn in their legacy, and Bob wanted to carry it.

Perhaps it was because he had so few of his own, but Bob wanted to scream their memories across the void. Even if there were none to hear it.

That was an issue, but only if he made it, until then just go, try… hope. He needed a bit of that.

Bob was nervously melancholy three days later when the bot trundled into his bay, carrying a small case festooned in dust, he opened it and saw the neat rows of archaic data chips, this was it then.

He brought it aboard and instructed Bot Reynolds to stash it at the far rear of the lower deck, wasn’t like he was going to need access in a hurry. As the little robot trundled away he squeezed his way through to the bridge, between the spares, supplies, tools and all the other gear there was barely any room to breathe aboard, in fact his bed was currently filled with four fucking engines so until he picked up a couple more fighters on his way out the galaxy he was sleeping in the pilots chair.

He began flicking his way through the startup and slowly eased her off the ground on grav, he hesitated a moment but sent out a broadcast from his reinstalled comm box.

‘’Guild Control, this is the Jojo heading off planet, bay free’’

‘’Negative’’

Bob heard Flitters reply and smiled softly.

‘’Bay remains assigned to Courier Master Bob, fly safe and return quickly, we’ll be here’’

Bob knew it was a waste, but liked it all the same. He wondered what would be here if he ever managed to return, maybe the Guild itself it had lasted for millennia already after all, maybe Flitters too… who knew how old she was or how long she could live, everyone else would be long gone.

‘’Acknowledged, take care Flits’’

He began to rise in earnest as Jojo made for space, he could see ship after ship hang in the atmosphere as he passed, an honour guard of sorts he supposed. Then suddenly another one drew abreast and matched his speed, it was the Timely.

The box squawked again.

‘’I expect a message every fucking week, I don’t give a fuck if it takes a thousand fucking years to get here, send it anyway.’’

Bob grinned widely. There was no way any would ever arrive back here, distance alone would degrade the signal too much, never mind the power dissipation, still…

‘’You got it G.’’

‘’Then get a move on, I got shit to deliver.’’

Still he stayed with him as they broke atmo and sped out to jump distance.

‘’Love you Bob, stay safe.’’

‘’Love you too G, you too’’

Their headings split and Bob aimed out the elliptic, he wanted any Arressi watchers to think he was heading out immediately, he actually had a couple stops left to make. He hit the jump.

A few hours later he dropped out and re-aimed, first he was going to Demmotica, the other grave system he had ignored in favour of Collp, what a fucking mistake that had been in hindsight, whatever. He assumed word of his arrival there would eventually reach Arressi ears but eventually was fine, as long as he was a step or two ahead before he really left there would be fuck all they could do about it.

He was super fucking pissed when he arrived in the bustling system and it took all of five fucking minutes for him to gain authorisation to take a couple of the neatly parked fighters, a tug even fucking brought them to him, fucking fuck, why the fuck didn’t he just do this the first fucking time.

He spent a couple minutes exo to clip them in place, helped again by the tug gently maneuvering them, fuck. Once the tug left he bolted them firm and headed back out system, once again he headed out elliptic, not that he assumed anyone would fall for it again he just didn’t want to head directly to his destination.

A few jumps later he was exo again. This time he was dragging out the four spare engines he had brought from his pile and fitting them to his new acquisitions then cutting free and fixing them in place with the two engine grates and a few bolts he had got from the scrap merchant on Secca. Bob didn’t know if he would ever need them but it seemed foolish to have the slots, the things that filled the slots, and not putting one in t’ther.

He then spent a little time reorganising and freeing up enough space in the hold to fit, oh, a sensor pod or something. Once ready he pulled the medmec rod from his chest and peeled off the thin slip of paper wrapped round it, he punched in the co-ords and headed off.

The sensor pod was still there and he scooped it up strapping it down in the hold, he had no external fitting left for it any more but it would work fine if he wired it in exactly where it was, the ships hull hadn’t been much of a barrier when he had been testing it previously so he saw no reason it wouldn’t work now, a little reduced fidelity perhaps but far better than his old one, which was struggling from its new internal position. He got it hooked up, that took another day or so of fiddling to get everything working harmoniously.

Okay, Bob sat back in the pilots chair after a few hours in his newly liberated bed, let’s chance it.


r/HFY • • 10h ago

OC-Series Seldom Seen (Chapter 2)

2 Upvotes

"Freedom begins between the ears"

-Edward Abbey

Prelude

----

have a little doodle

The stars still sparkled in the early morning sky when Datil set out on the quarter-mile walk to Newt's camp. Datil had wolen up, and attempted to get back to sleep, but was unsuccessful. After about two hours with no luck, she sat up In her bedding and lit a candle next to her bedpad.

She spent most of the remaining night working on some quilts by candlelight. They were little personal projects, and she spent a lot of time practicing her embroidery when she had the free time to do so. Little trees or animals were subjects of her embroidery- each patch of fabric given as careful attention as possible, she only had so much to use until her next resupply.

When she figured it was close enough to dawn she decided to set out. It was still relatively quiet, and still very dark. The only thing she could hear with her keen ears was the sound of the wind gently brushing against the tops of the conifers.

Datil soon caught a whiff of something being carried by the wind to her from the direction of Newt's camp. She sniffed at the air, it smelled pretty good whatever it was, it smelled somewhat like roasted nuts; but not exactly. The smell became stronger as she came into view of the camp, and Datil stopped for a moment, just to observe.

Newt hadn't noticed her yet. A canvas pup tent was set up a few feet from the fire ring a metal percolator hung from an improvised spit over the flames. The smell was coffee! It didn't smell much like the kind of Coffee that Mimbre drank. The two burros laid motionless on the ground next to the trees they were hitched to.

Newt sat on fallen log, huddled in a cream-colored woolen blanket with a thick brown wool scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face, his hat pulled over his eyes somewhat making it look like he was asleep sitting there. She could see his breath in the firelight, and Datil thought about the fact that all the other humans she knew- except the loggers perhaps, wore other animals' furs for warmth. She was used to seeing the mountain men waltz into town with their big wolf or bear pelts, or hunters walk in dressed in bison robes; even the loggers wore thick Mackinaws to stave off the cold.

And here sat Newt, in front of his fire, a wool blanket over his shoulders. Datil never really factored in the cold, she had a dense undercoat that kept her warm in the freezing winds; the cold never bothered her. She began to wonder what exactly it was like to have no fur at all.

A sudden shuffling sound came from the back of the Newts camp. It was enough to startle the small human, and Datil could see at once that it was Kentucket jumping to his feet. Viceroy was startled awake too, and stood up with a loud snort. Kentucket brayed and backed himself up against the other burro, as though trying to get away from something.

Newt jumped up, approaching the two burros quickly with arms outstretched. “Woah, woah!” Newt took hold of Kentucket's halter, and the burro grunted and squealed. Viceroy nervously hopped in place, and tried to pull himself away from Kentucket, only managing to make it more difficult for the human to hold the other burro still while keeping himself on his feet.

Newt reigned in Kentucket, and the burro bucked his head a few times. “Whats got you up in a start?” Newt asked. Kentucket's eyes were wide, and he kept his head oriented in the same direction. Newt began scanning the area immediately surrounding himself, trying to see what may have startled him awake.

His eyes fell on Datil, and at once he gained an expression of confusion. It was as if Newt had never seen her before and, in fact, he looked almost fearful.

“Datil? Is that you over there?” Newt asked, some hesitance in his voice. Datil hadn't realized that he probably couldn't see her, and she began to feel some guilt and embarrassment.

She walked forward into the firelight, and Newt seemed to exhale his angst- even Kentucket whuffled in what seemed to be relief. The burro’s eyes didn't seem so big now, and his ears flapped idly.

“I apologize, Newt.” Datil said. “I should have called out much earlier.” Datil came to stand well within the light of Newt's campfire.

Newt stood up, adjusting the blanket back onto his shoulders. “oh, you're alright. I think your eyes must have frightened Kentucket.” He said. The burro next to him nuzzled the human's back through his blanket.

Her eyes?

“They glow in the dark.” Newt said. “Reflecting the firelight, I suppose. it must've unsettled him.” Hiverbeast eyes were reflective, Datil knew this but hardly ever thought about it. It came to her that Newt's eyes didn't reflect the light of his own fire! Every other creature she had ever seen had eyes that would reflect the light of a flame- she had never thought about humans not being the same.

Kentucket laid back down, and Newt walked back to his little log next to the fire. He rubbed his palms together and reached down for a stick to use for handling the percolator. He set the hot pot down next to him, and picked a tin cup out of the grass.

“It sure does get nippy here in the mornings, don't it.” Newt said. The tone of the question wasn't very chipper, though it sounded like he meant it to be. Datil sat down next to Newt and watched him pour his coffee.

“I had to sleep with my sourdough starter wrapped in my blankets with me, I risk killing it out here.”

Killing the starter? Datil had never really paid much attention to baking- hiverbeasts didn't eat baked goods often so she had no real reason to.

“It'll get colder here soon, once the snow starts falling.” Datil watched Newt take a sip of his coffee. He didn't respond immediately, instead opting to just stare at his campfire for a long moment.

“Yes, I know. I have a lot of blankets.” Newt stood, and turned his head to look at Datil. “Would you like a cup?”

Datil had never tried coffee, she knew that Mimbre drank it. It was a common drink among humans and Mimbre always set goods aside to trade for some when he could. This coffee smelled a little different to his usual fare though, Datil couldn't exactly put her claw on what was so different about it.

Newt walked into his tent, and spent only about a minute inside before he returned, an empty ceramic cup in hand.

The cup was remarkably small, but she had expected it to be. Newt poured the dark liquid into the cup, the firelight illuminating the large pillar of steam that arose from within, and he gingerly handed it to her.

“Careful.” He whispered, very quietly, seemingly to himself, but Datil could hear it anyway, her ear twitching slightly. She took the small ceramic mug in two claws, and held it up to her nose to sniff it.

“That’s a good roast! The beans come all the way from South America, at least from what i’ve been told.” Newt sipped his own coffee once more.

“South America…” Datil repeated, sniffing the cup she held gingerly in her claws. “Have you been there? What’s down there?”

“South America? I haven't. Farthest South i’ve been was Mexico.” Newt picked up a stick next to him and started to shift the coals at the base of his little teepee fire he had going. She at once noticed that there was a cast iron pot buried in the coals.

“The biscuits should be about done...” Newt lifted the lid off the deep pot with the same stick he used to brush the coals off, a hinged handle on top making such a task easy. It was a Dutch oven, and with the lid removed Datil could see the golden tops of baked dough, puffy looking pastries.

“Nuevo México and Nueva Vizcaya, specifically.” Newt slipped back into the previous topic of conversation as he used his same stick to gently push one of the pastries against the pan. “New Spain is wild country, there's not much there- other humans, here and there, Crotalins and Lepukins. It's hot and rugged, rocky country.” Newt sat the stick down, and when he revealed his other hand from underneath his blanket robe he had a handkerchief at ready.

“Desert country is beautiful, serene, almost abstract in the way it changes the color of the sky. It's glorious in ways I can't describe.” He handled one of the finished biscuits, and with a kerchief-covered hand, extended it outwardly for Datil to take.

“Oftentimes, I wish I were omnipotent, or had a set of eyes that could see beyond the horizons and all around me. Such a small creature as myself, full of appreciation I cannot readily give to what I cannot see.”

She hadn't even finished her coffee yet- but the smell of the savory little pastry at once assaulted her senses, and she plucked it out of his hand quickly.

“These smell delightful.” Datil held the little biscuit in her paw, and threw the whole thing into her maw. “They taste delightful too..” savory, fluffy. They were the best non-meat item she had ever eaten.

“I’m very glad you like them, I’ve made more than I'll eat, and Viceroy and Kentucket are on a diet.” Newt sat one on his lap for himself, and started picking out several that he could set aside for Datil.

“I've never been to a desert before, I’ve heard it's too hot, and dry. I'm not even sure I've ever met anyone who had personally been that far South.” Datil held out her paw as Newt extended several more biscuits her way, wrapped neatly in a handkerchief.

“I suspect it would be mighty warm for you, unless you shave that coat of yours.” Newt began to eat, and with his free hand poured himself another cup of coffee. He wordlessly shook the percolator in Datil's direction, offering more, and set it aside again when Datil replied with a shake of her head. The coffee didnt really impress her.

“I could never do such a thing,” Datil said, partially to herself. “It sounds so…desolate, empty.”

By this point, the fire had started to dwindle. Not in the least because of Newt shifting it around, but the early morning light had finally begun to enter the valley, giving everything a grayish-blue haze.

“I suppose it could seem that way to some, it's quiet, but people have been living there for centuries. I did find the lack of water to be discouraging, and I’m sure Viceroy and Kentucket felt similar. By and by I think the lushness of your country is very welcome, even if the cold takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Well, I reckon I get alot of use out of this dense coat.” Datil ran a couple claws through the dense amber fur on her chest, partially to tease the small human, though he didn’t seem to immediately notice. “It's not common to see humans around here without furs of their own, taken from bears and the like. Where did you get your blankets and your coat? Back east? Whats it like back that way?”

“Pfft.” Newt waved an arm dismissively in a manner quite uncharacteristic of him, his eyes set on what remained of the fire. “Nothing too interesting back that way, at least for me. Factories springing up in the cities and the rest is just farms.”

“Factories…” Datils ears twitched. “What do they look like? The factories?”

“Bastions of hell and misery.” Newt didn't look up at Datil, if he did, he would have seen a more alarmed expression on her face, at least, as much as he could make out given her animalistic features. “All they do is eat your hope and billow it out as smoke, so that it can block out the sun and hang low over the broken bodies of the men who work in them”

“It seems you don’t like them very much…” Datil finished her last biscuit and set the coffee cup down next to her. Newt looked up at her once more, and his expression read as being fairly annoyed, not at her, obviously, but the whole conversation had worked him up considerably.

“No, I don't” Newt's expression evened out fairly quickly. “Of course, I would say I’m in the minority. Cities have never been my habitat of choice I suppose.”

Newt stood. His eyes turning up to look at the sky once completely dark, now filling itself with brilliant amber light as the sun began to peek over the mountain behind them.

“This is where you feel more at home I suppose.” Datil's comment caught his attention, and he looked to see her with her knees pulled to her chest, studying him with curious eyes. “You aren't like the other humans I've met, you're…strange.”

Newt's expression turned to that of equal parts confusion and silly amusement. “Well, that wouldn't be the first time I’ve heard that. Among other humans I’m also an odd one.”

Datil's ears drew back. She hadn't intended for the remark to sound unkind, though Newt didn't seem particularly offended. He was smiling at her again.

“I don't mean it in a bad way-” Datil began to pick over the words in her head. “I mean, you're different. All the other ones that I see show up are…unkempt. They seem wild and…brutal, in a way that you aren't. Hunters, trappers, all of them wearing furs and carrying guns. Riding horses.”

She shifted in place, releasing her knees and settling into a more comfortable position

“You paint; I’ve never seen a human who paints. I knew they did, but I never saw it.”

Newt remained quiet, listening

“You’re not greasy, and you don't smell like whiskey.”

Newt stood, silent for a moment, he opened up his blanket on his shoulders, the meager heat of the morning finally starting to show. He glanced over at his Burros, mostly in contemplation. Viceroy started to dig at the dirt with one hoof.

“I'm very happy that I don't fit that mold. Seldom Seen is a pleasant little place, I wouldn't want to be the one to cause a ruckus.”

“Oh, you haven't! Most everyone seems quite fond of you!” At that, Newt looked back at her once more and smiled.

“Im glad for it!” He finally removed his blanket, folding it neatly before pulling off his scarf. Beneath it he wore his familiar green woolen coat.

“I suppose I should get these two un-hitched and get ready to head into town, I don't want to keep Mimbre waiting.” Newt walked past Datil, who followed him with her eyes as he made his way to where his two burros were tied.

“whereabouts are you going to tie these two? I don't suppose they'll be walking into Mimbre's shop with you.” Datil's reply evoked a light chuckle from Newt, who was currently undoing the hitching line between the two trees just behind her.

“No, I don’t think that would do, they get claustrophobic. I’m going to tie them up next to the shop, I’m sure the kids wouldn't mind keeping them company for me.”

“I’m sure they wouldn't!” Datil responded, finally deciding to stand up herself.

Splashing…Datil's ear twitched, and her focus was suddenly shifting to the direction of the river. It sounded like something crossing- Newt didn't hear it, he was busy dealing with the burros, he hadn't seen Datil's new found alertness.

She listened. It sounded like an animal crossing the river, but so close to camp? She then heard a snort. It was a horse. Datil's legs began taking her toward the river, walking around Newt's tent, he finally looked back and noticed her.

“Whats the matter?” He asked, the leads of the two burros in his hands. She didn't immediately answer, and Newt began to follow, Viceroy and Kentucket walking leisurely after him.

Breaking through the trees she saw him, atop the massive black body of a draft horse, Captain Halbrook. It's amazing she hadn’t smelled him earlier, he was a hard one to miss. His ragged Dagawolf coat draped his square shoulders and made him look larger than he already was, under his coat he wore buckskin and rough leather.

His eyes immediately met hers, through the thin strands of jet black hair, his beard obscured his mouth, so she could only faintly make out his lack of any discernable expression. She heard an audible grunt from him, one of acknowledgement, perhaps. His rifle rested over his saddle horn as it always did, and his horse's gait did not slow.

Newt came out from behind Datil shortly after, stepping into sight of the enormous man, Newt's two burros immediately became visibly anxious.

The rider stopped upon reaching the shore. He looked at the both of them, but focused his attention on Newt.

“...hm…qu’est-ce que c’est?.” the large man's voice came quiet, hoarse. His large draft horse stood, pawing at the ground with nary a sound. The two burros huddled close behind both Newt and Datil now, their eyes wide, but still quiet.

“Hello there!” Newt raised a hand in friendly greeting. He wore the same cordial, approachable smile offered most everyone else.

The man didn't return the wave, his sunken dark eyes narrowed slightly.

“Yankee…”

Halbrook's gaze drifted to the two small burros, partially obscured to the best of their own abilities.

“With donkeys…”

“I would assume you're Captain Halbrook?” Newt chimed in, catching the man's attention once more. “I’ve heard of you-”

“What's your name…” Halbrook leaned downward, the first time his body had shifted since he arrived, Napoleon the draft horse did nothing to acknowledge the shift, just stood, and blew a hot gust of air out of his nostrils that came out as clouds of what looked like smoke in the cool morning.

“Newt!” the smaller human chirped back.

“Newt! You can call me Newt-”

Halbrooks eyes opened, much wider than before, a look of bewilderment. He raised himself back up on the back of the massive horse.

“Newt?”

He repeated the name, they all three stood silent, Datil was nervously picking at her chest fluff, and Newt nodded in response to Halbrook's repetition of his name.

“Yes, that-”

Newt was cut off by a booming guffaw, Halbrook's head thrown back as he bellowed with laughter; It was enough to frighten the burros, who backed themselves up and brayed along with him, chaos! Even Napoleon stomped a hoof at the sudden start, but not much else.

“Newt!? Petit Newt!” Halbrook leaned down once more to look at a very surprised Newt. “It fits! You are a Newt! Petit Lèzard!”

He continued his entourage of obscene laughter. Detail became keenly aware of how awkward the situation was, even Newt stood in place with an uncomfortable straight posture that implied he was at a loss for what to do in this situation.

Halbrook laughed until he had tears in his eyes, and he wiped his face with a massive hand. The large human looked down once more at Newt, a smile showing yellow teeth through his black beard.

“Been hard not to get stepped on by the Bêtes de l'hiver, ey? I'll try to keep Napoleon from stepping on you too!” Halbrook tugged the reins and leaned back, kicking the side of his horse. Napoleon snorted, and began to trot away with the laughing human on his back.

As he passed, the two burros circled Newt and Datil, keeping the two of them between them and the giant of a horse. Viceroy pressed his nose against Datil's leg, and Kentucket leaned himself against her knees.

Only once the rider was out of sight down the trail leading toward Seldom Seen did the two of them seem to calm down, Viceroy whuffling and leaning into Datil's paw as she scratched the back of his ear.

“Hm. Well, he's a jolly fellow.” Newt finally said, looking back up at Datil.

“Newts aren't lizards, but he seems pretty proud of himself.” Newt cracked a smile at her. Datil let a sigh escape her, she felt like she had been holding her breath the entire time. In all honesty, she figured this was probably a good sign, at least Halbrook didn't seem to despise Newt… though, she didn't know enough about the man to really know what he was thinking.

“Everything alright?” Newt's expression turned to one of mild amusement. “You trying to figure out if I actually look like a lizard?”

Datil hadn't really realized she had just been staring at Newt for a couple of seconds. She blinked once, twice.

“No, not at all.” She said. “I uh, apologize. Just thinking…”

Newt hummed to himself. “Well, I had heard that he was a tough character from Mimbre, he sounds friendly enough, though!”

Newt gathered the two burros' leads and started down the trail. They followed easily, Kentucket nuzzling against his back while Viceroy stepped up beside him, turning his head to look down the path where the mountain man had disappeared.

“He's um…he's unique.” Datil responded. “I don't think he'll cause you any trouble- he mostly stops in to trade, and I think you being so close to town will dissuade any impulsive thoughts.”

Newt waved a hand in the air. “Ah, I'm not too worried about him.” Newt brought the two burros beside him as he walked. "A lot of old trappers are like him, very coarse and rough around the edges, hard bunch of men with little civil manners, that's why they're out here, I can relate to them somewhat.”

Datil stuck up her nose, she looked down at Newt with a sideways glance. “You would hardly be described as having no civil manners, Newt.” Datil's confidence aroused a surprised glance up from Newt, the human tipping his head upward a small bit to see her from beneath the brim of his hat.

“Perhaps when compared to the other humans you know,” Newt responded. “I get the feeling that I'm an anomaly here, most of the men who stop here likely share a lot more in common with ‘le capitaine’ than me.” He gestured with two of his fingers down the path, the halter reins still tucked securely under his thumb.

The two burros behind him followed at a mind boggling slow pace, forcing Datil to slow her stride to keep pace with the human leading them.

“I would say I probably have more in common with him than I do with other humans, at least those you find moping around towns and cities back east. I have a freakish nature to them-”

Datil pondered his response for a moment. ‘Freakish’ wasn't a word that she would use for someone like Newt, especially when such a label was apparently applied to him by other humans. Hiverbeasts were “freakish” to humans, or so she had thought.

“What is a “freakish nature” to humans?” Datil asked him, her head pointed down and her eyes fixed on him.

“I've never understood it, we hear stories that humans tell about us every time a newcomer arrives, or any time one of us goes out to trade at Fort Weston.” Newt hadn't taken his attention off her. His eyes remained steady on hers, making him one of only two humans she'd encountered who seemed entirely comfortable holding her gaze.

“We are ‘freakish’ by human standards, I think, and I don't believe it's very fair. Why, I don't believe a human has ever been harmed by a Hiverbeast. Yes, we're bigger, we have teeth and claws, but it's not like that's abnormal for any other creature that lives out here.”

“Yes, Datil, and humans are frightened of those creatures too.”

Datil's ears tipped slightly backward. She felt slightly foolish, of course they were. She thought of Halbrook and his Dagawolf pelt.

Newt looked forward once again, his eyes exploring the dim morning scenery as they walked. “The fact that Hiverbeasts are sapient and more similar to us than—say, a bear—doesn't necessarily change that first impression.”

Datil looked down at one of her paws. Her claws were dark against the earth as she walked, each one considerably larger than any of Newt's fingernails. She curled her fingers inward without really thinking about it.

Newt didn't seem to notice. He was still walking comfortably beside her, the burros plodding along behind him.

“Humans are very opinionated creatures,” he continued. “I've found that everywhere I've lived. I've been subject to the ideas and the expectations of the people who live there.”

Datil's attention returned to him. Newt had his eyes forward now, one hand loosely holding the halter reins while the other swung freely at his side.

It seemed strange hearing him speak this way. She had spent so much time thinking about what humans thought of someone like herself that she hadn't given much thought to what they might make of Newt.

“I'll admit that humans are probably frightened of Hiverbeasts because of their physical characteristics, but that's not the whole reason. Hell—humans are frightened of themselves!”

One of Datil's ears turned toward him.

“Even a town as small as Seldom Seen would be suspicious of outsiders if the populace was primarily human.”

Datil watched him for another moment.

It occurred to her that for all his talk about teeth and claws, Newt hadn't put so much as another foot between them. He walked close enough that she could have reached down and touched the crown of his hat without taking a step.

She had frightened him once, she remembered. That morning at his camp, when Kentucket had caught sight of her eyes in the darkness. For those few moments before she stepped into the firelight, Newt had looked at her with the same uncertainty as the burro had.

But then, he recognized her.

Datil looked ahead before Newt could catch her staring again.

“I reckon Halbrook is just here to trade…” Datil changed the subject.

Next--->