A dull hum of chatter echoed in the soft cool air of the hall. Broken sunlight fell scattered between beams and thick pieces of glass or sheets of transparent aluminum. Under a patchwork dome the island facility off the coast of Shanghai, Asian Administrative Region was a buzz of activity; as was its norm. Called to its regular congress, the representatives of Earth's administrative regions gathered below the checker-board tessellation of broken polygons and the milky stormy skies above.

From a close distance, the indistinguishable mesh of plates and beams provided no hint of a clear pattern. The shapes and lines blending so seamlessly into one another it looking nothing more than a glass ball lightly tapped to produce unequal cracks in its once perfect surface. But drawing out from the frosty sheets the pattern of the overarching design and the grand metaphor it represented.

Pangaea, the ancient continent of early Earth; resembling a single globe. And the seemingly broken pieces: a kaleidoscope of community. The jigsaw pieces that built the dome of the crystal egg a symbol to the world of man itself, reinforcing and building on the wordily union of Pangaea. And as the horizon drew closer, the plates and beams began to turn from their crystalline sheen to a soft matte black; the unknown, the unexplored, and what their union had its own place in.

Humanity was as much its own jigsaw piece in the universe, as the individual and the community where in itself.

“The Internal Commission of Congressional Affairs has scheduled for this month...” a dry voice read out, his deep hollow deceleration echoed in the massive hall, slowly silencing the voices below.

Underneath the Pangaean sky a platform in the shape of a lotus lay in a calm mirrored pool. Platforms rose from the six pedals of its design. At the size half that of a stadium, it was a vertigo-inducing sight as all the bodies shuffled to their seats or towards the center along glass catwalks. From the reflective pools large gold fish swam among the water, leaving smooth sapphire wakes when they skimmed across the surface of the water.

Dressed in suits and half-robes of blue or lavender the men and women of the world and interstellar community came to sit at their places.

“The first and primary source of business is that of raised concerns over faults in extraterrestrial mining operations.” the speaker continued as the silence fell upon the airy chamber.

Sitting high above the floor in their own half-acorn shell two men leaned closed to each other.

“Nagame,” said one. A broad man, advanced in ages. His dark complexion was that of rich, wet, red clay. Wide bright eyes kept half attention to the white-suited man on the dais in the center of the congressional hall, another half attention on his partner in crime to his right, “you probably don't want to be here anymore than I want to, do you?” he asked.

His friend, Tenzin Nagame was a much palor figure, but with a caramel skin kissed by the sun. A head of thin silvery hair crowned his head in a thin spindly mat. He sat slouched in his chair with a bored look in his eyes as he tapped his fingers together, “Not really, my friend.” he said, “But I'm afraid I'll have to.” he reported with a deft sigh. He straightened up and turned to his companion.

Both were older men, and long-term members of the congress. Both too shared the same committee membership and administrative region. Though Tenzin Nagame was also a member within the industrial safety committee: and though he had heard what was to be spoken below a hundred times in the past month he had to be here to maintain image.

At over seventy he had not gone much further beyond being held as a mid-level member of the massive Congress, although that might be held as a symbol of accomplishment given its population; and today all the seats weren't even full, with roughly over quarter participation it was a slow day in congress.

“A shame.” his partner laughed, leaning back into his seat.

Between the men a long glossy fiberglass table sat, covered in a silk sheet a plate of fresh fruits and a silvery pitcher of water waited to be consumed by either. “We both might use a good game of golf at the end of this.” the black-skinned man continued in a low moan, “I have friends on Mars, we could do a game a Olympus Mons. Be there and back before next session when this all ends, with time to eat and sleep. You can bring your sons.”

“Thank you for the offer, Rodger.” Tenzin smiled, “It might be a welcome respite for a dull day.”

“... On the operations of Alpha Centauri's terrestrial planets a malfunction in the service systems in food delivery poisoned 90% of the crew, stopping all operations as medical teams treated the food-borne illnesses. The loss of operations has however put the Pulcerin mining operations behind their private scheduling for this quarter and has lead to at least three deaths out of lack of what has been declared by our advisory committee a lack of oversight.” the speaker continued to drone on, his voice carried on the speakers built neatly into every surface.

“What happened to even get this on the floor?” Rodger asked, laughing dryly in a low voice.

“A lot of litigation and examination.” Tenzin assured, he looked over at Rodger. Giving him a long look he offered: “If this were shipping would you be as bored with all of this as I?”

“I think we're both bored, but not in the same realm of boredom.” he answered in a straight face.

Both men were trapped by obligations, and neither enjoyed it. “So if you're here: what matter brings you to Shanghai?” Tenzin asked.

“One more interesting than this, you'll hear about it when we're through with this.”

“I hope we'll be through with this, I don't want to hear the story again. And I don't want to hear the same recycled points as we unwittingly go over it: again.”

“I know the feeling.”

A complacent half-silence returned between them for a moment, filled only by the dry voice of the speaker below. But a soft tingling tickled Tenzin's ear, making him stir as his head was filled with notes. Scowling, he sat up and rose a hand to his head, “What is it?” he asked angrily.

“Are you in congress?” a voice asked in his ear.

“Of course I am.” Tenzin protested. He felt a mixed relief if this was an excuse to get out, but annoyance it had to come in the middle, “What is it?”

“Step out for a moment sir, this is heavy.” the call invited, there was a pitiful weight in its voice and Tenzin felt his stomach turn. This wasn't a normal call. Ready to be numbed, he rose from his seat and shuffled away.

Rodger turned to watch, asking what was going on as Tenzin departed from his stands.

In the outer catwalks he continued, looking out through tinted glass to the impossible spires of Shanghai across the water. Its outer islands and mainland a veritable mountain range of super-structures dominated by the space port.

“Problem?” he asked in a low voice. The speaker's voice continued to drift like a omnipotent spirit behind him as he leaned over the railing.

“Security called, I don't know how to put this lightly sir: but your wife was found murdered.

“And Angelo-024 is missing.”

Stricken and stunned, Tenzin hung against the railings. The weight felt like it had left him and his whole body went numb as cold water washed over him. Slipping down, he fell to his knees and hunt his head against the railing. He felt too empty to respond, and too shocked to cry. He tried to find something, but found nothing.

And he was terrified.

“Sir?” the voice asked in his ear.

“I-...” he started, hesitating, “I'll be on my way home. Who knows?”

“Local police are here, they're investigating.”

Tenzin nodded as he felt the color of the world around him melt. He had lost the rose of his life.

“I... I- I'll be there.”

“Copy that, see you here.” the call answered, and with a soft pop came to an end.

Crippled, Tenzin sat sprawled on the walkway. He leaned his head against the far side as he lay. He felt the numbness drum in his chest as his heart beat weakly. How now was he to move?

Vesa IV, Persephone station

Nedenn has embarked to a world near the territory of Humanity with only loose associations with the human state, unsurprisingly populated in multiple cousins of the Zedevic, especially those from the human line of descent. Near circular Nedenn's pale skin and mass of dark tendrils hold themselves together in anticipation for their task at hand. His ship with its wingnut-like design is towed into dock of the Persephone station through a tractor beam. The comm in the highly claustrophobic ship buzzes with human speech, stating "SHOW LICENSE FOR ENTRY."

Nedenn shows his trading license and is (with slight hesitation), towed further into the station.

The vastness of the docking port, filled with spacecraft from mostly around human space is revealed as Nedenn's personal ship is lowered to the dock. A several drones nearby scan the ship as multiple Zedevic pilots walk out of the craft. They also are scanned.

"Necessary?" Nedenn asks.

"Always." The drone replies.

"Frequent appearance, us." Nedenn tells the drone.

"Always." The drone states again, before it moseys on away.

Nedenn himself hovers, but his cohorts do not. His cohorts, Ada, Navam and Anta instead opt to walk in their metallic and rather curvy construct armors. It is hard to distinguish them in their constructs, but Ada’s distinctly spotty skin remains easily noticed. All of their constructs share a distinct copper teal finish, embellished in web-like markings dotted in radially symmetrical alien creatures of presumably Vedan origin. They have artificial hands attached for human interaction, with a clay-like touch to them. These constructs, it should be noted, are held together not by neural technology or any form of cybernetics, but by their minds.

“A taxing effort.” Ada claims as her small eyestalks peer around for food.

“Yes. Food.” Nedenn tells Ada, “We will.”

“Of the objective?” Navam asks, concerned.

“Head to The Kitchen of Nous. There he is.” Nedenn tells Navam.

“Who again?”

“You will know at The Kitchen of Nous.” Nedenn tells Navam again.

Nedenn flusters his tendrils about, wearing only a headband-like article of clothing as he hovers towards the main station, passing by a crowd of humans who seem somewhat disturbed by his appearance. Nedenn doesn’t seem to notice; instead Nedenn and his pilots head into the vast entertainment complex proper. Nedenn looks around the place, seeing all sorts of demonstrations of human culture abound. If there were no task at hand, he’d stick around longer. Hovering about the place, of which for all the activity of the people around from cyborgs juggling their own limbs to people selling what he swears looks like fried spunk bug does seem to be lacking. How so eludes Nedenn, however.

Nedenn hovers onward, unconcerned.

“He is here?” Ada asks.

“Yes.” Nedenn tells Ada.

Ada pauses for a bit, than continues walking forward.

“Get food?” Ada asks again.

Nedenn looks around the hall and sees a food place labeled “The Kitchen of Nous” of all things. The stylized image of Nous itself dominates the large logo. The symbol staring down upon them, a echo of times when Nous still dominated mankind... Oh look, the place Nelenn had to go to anyways. Peering inside, he sees people eating various sorts of noodles and soups served by drone waiters. Nedenn levitates inside, the high ceiling of the place managing to accomodate a creature as large as himself. The four Zedevics in their constructs have some difficulties, having to crouch over to fit into the place. The sight of large, crouching constructs catches the manager of the restaurant, a somewhat scrawny man in uniform, off guard.

"A Zedevic at my restaurant?" he asks.

"I have human currency, no worry" Nedenn tells him in his somewhat squiggly accent.

"We don't have Zedevic food here. Please leave." the manager tells Nedenn.

"Zedevic aren't picky."

"Get out." the Manager sternly tells Nedenn, "This is a human food place, okay?"

Nedenn however doesn't move, instead he tells the manager "We have more than food to be here."

"I don't care, please leave." The manager, clearly irritated tells Nedenn again.

Suddenly, a rather muscular man wearing very casual clothing, but with a deep voice tells the manager "They are fine. I called them here."

The manager, despite his earlier hostility backs away and tells nedenn "Sorry for earlier troubles."

"Forgiven."

The muscular man, with brownish skin and no hair shakes Nedenn's tendril and says "Good to see you, Nedenn. I apologize if the manager was a bit rude, despite his earlier statements there will be food."

“Food?” Ada suddenly pipes up, despite being silent earlier.

“yes, food, even for the likes of you.” the thick headed, man replies to Ada.

Nedenn asks the man “Name? Never given to us.”

“I have none, I haven't since I joined the... Well, i'll explain later. Just use whatever name you want me to have” he tells Nelenn.

“Name will be, forever Wigglebait!” Ada shouts, disrupting some of the people eating. They seem disgusted just to see a large floating flesh sphere being with the heap of noodle-like limbs. The densely muscled man (now named wigglebait), noticing the attention the Zedevics are causing tells Nedeen “I think we should go into the lounge, somewhere more private. You never knew when the machine empire is spying on you…”

“Agreed.” Nelenn states, as a drone waiter passes nearby.

(Wigglebait, of all things Ada?)

(Yes.)

(I name from now on.)

(Fine fine. But his name will always be wigglebait.)

(I regret being unspeaking, Nelenn. I was too busy conversing with Navam again.)

(Still superior to Ada)

Mitropolit Bar and Grill, Vitrograd city, Praetoria.

It was a bright, beautiful summer day. The sun beamed down on the Old City quarter, perched on white cliffs over Konstantin bay. Sir Robert Castlereagh, Baron Mornington, Knight Indomitus of the order of St. Diae, and Minister of Foreign Affairs for Her Imperial Majesty's Government actually found himself lightly sweating, a rare feat in Praetoria’s generally chilly climate. He debated adjusting the climate field around his table, but decided against it. He’d chosen a table on the rooftop patio specifically to enjoy the heat, no sense wasting it. Vitrograd spent most of its year wrapped in a heavy layer of snow and swept by blizzards, with only a brief relent for a short, intense summer. Even to the north, in the warmer equatorial regions, Praetoria still managed to produce snow and blizzards, as if in defiance of the sun’s heat.

Overhead, traffic was fairly light, as usual for the Old City. Further away from the cliffs in the finance district and downtown, the air would be absolutely teaming with traffic of all kinds weaving between towering arcology spires. In contrast, the skies above the Old City’s low stone buildings had only a handful of aircars, a police gunship or two, and far above the hazy outline of a Imperskiy Vichnesk atmospheric defence frigate slowly circling the Winter Palace. One of the aircars abruptly turned groundwards, making directly for Castlereagh’s position, slowing to a smooth stop, and disgorging its small passenger onto the patio before leaping to the sky again.

“Thank you for coming, Cato,” Castlereagh said graciously as he shook hands with his guest. It was typically considered polite to stand and greet one’s guest, but to stand when greeting a Rhodesian only exaggerated their comically small stature, so Castlereagh remained seated.
“Thank you for inviting me, Robert,” the diminutive Rhodesian replied as he took his specially made seat. The chair was specially designed to accommodate Rhodesians; any decent Core World restaurant made a point of having several on hand. It had a short back and a powered seat, so that Rhodesians could seat themselves and automatically be elevated closer to eye level with their table-mates.

Sir Cato Telemachus, Knight of the order of St. Diae, Marquis of Polesia, was one of the rare few Rhodesians who’d made the transfer from the bureaucracy to the political world and been successful. He was currently the Minister of the Interior, a position with far more power than the name suggested.Telemachus’ ministry was responsible for monitoring and maintaining the integrity of the realm, a thankless task with little reward. However, the Ministry of the Interior also controlled the Office of Colonial Affairs, which gave Cato Telemachus rather vaguely defined control over the administration of the colonies. Additionally, since the colonies were a responsibility of the crown, Telemachus’ position brought him into frequent contact with Her Imperial Majesty and her court. He and Castlereagh were close personal friends, but it was business that brought them together today at a very posh restaurant in downtown Vitrograd.

“Of course. Now, as they say, business before pleasure,” Castlereagh said, tapping a button on the tabletop. A privacy field sprung up around them, shutting out all sound from the city around them and preventing them from being overheard. The Mitropolit was just around the corner from Whitehall, the heart of the imperial government, and only a few blocks from the Winter Palace, the seat of the Crown and court. To better accommodate their elite clientele, the Mitropolit and other establishments like it installed high end privacy fields at most of their tables. Basic civilian models only blocked sound, useful for blocking out general background noise and permitting intimate conversation. The fields at the Mitropolit were much more sophisticated; blocking out sound, blurring the air to prevent lip reading, and generating full EM spectrum jamming to prevent any form of electronic eavesdropping.

“I’m drafting a report for cabinet on The Rim,” Castlereagh began. He paused for a moment, and Telemachus leaned forward in his chair ever so slightly.
“Ever since that first debacle,” Castlereagh continued, “there’s been a great deal of interest in them. Wealthy, disparate worlds ripe for the taking. Fiercely independent people, it's true, but we’ve dealt with that before. Obviously Robspeitz’s approach didn’t work that time. The Rim may be fractious, but not so much they’ll simply let us swallow their worlds one by one. I’m working on a different approach.”
“Very interesting, but I don’t quite see what you need me for.”
“I’m getting to that. The external stuff is more or less wrapped up. In brief, we’d aim to incite a war and smash their military to pieces, force them to the bargaining table, impose military restrictions, then slowly start grabbing worlds. Analysts estimate about 1, maybe 2 years for the war, total annexation after 10. My question to you, Cato, is can we bear it? Oh I’ve had people look into it, and I know the broad strokes; short decisive wars can be an excellent way of diverting pressure outward, protracted conflicts are trouble, etc. But is there anything specific, anything being...suppressed...that would have an impact on my recommendation?”

Telemachus tented his fingers thoughtfully. Castlereagh had been right to ask for his input. Of course the Ministry of the Interior put out memos and briefing notes on a regular basis, but his colleague knew that not everything made it into those reports, and Castlereagh wouldn’t want to be made a fool of in cabinet.
“Well, Robert, these things are prone to complications, but I’d say you’re more or less in the clear. The psychosocial projections we issued last week are rated at 90% accuracy, some of our best ever. Yes we’re still dealing with fallout from Valerian integration, so the realm isn’t at its most stable, but there’s nothing above a category 2 insurrection, either active or projected. Of course those are simple enough to deal with; a few black bags generally does the trick, and orbital strikes are always an option.”

Castlereagh suppressed a momentary shudder. Telemachus was so small and helpless looking, it was easy to forget just how dangerous he was. The recent integration of the Valerian Republic, complete with full constituency, had caused uproar on many colonies that felt the Valerians were ‘cutting in line’. Telemachus never so much as blinked when signing death warrants or authorizing military strike teams. He had an ability to think of people as only so many statistics, making him very good at his job.

The Rhodesian continued, thumbing the menu as he spoke. “Going forward, if you can deliver a short, decisive war, that would of course boost public morale. The Rimworlders may take some working on, but that stubborn independence of theirs could be dealt with. Push down hard on their homeworlds, start up some colony drives and spread them out among the verge worlds; the key would be to disperse the Rimworlders, but that’s my problem, not yours,” he said with a smile. “Of course, there’s always the possibility of unforeseeable developments, but if you live in fear of the unknown, you’ll never get anything done. Does that about cover it?”

“Yes, thank you Cato. I’ll be sure to mention you in my report. Now, lunch.” Castlereagh deactivated the privacy field, and the noise of the rest of the world came tumbling back in.
“Indeed. They just put bluefin growler on the menu last week; I hear it’s to die for.” Telemachus signalled a waiter over, and suddenly they were just two friends enjoying lunch.

An seemingly endless stretch of savanna laid out a carpet of gold and green below as the Personal VTOL sped along at a low altitude. Caught in the draft of its thrust loose leaves from the trees below whipped up into the air, creating a trail that followed the red and blue stripped craft as it meandered over the flat expansive fields. In the far distance the silhouette of the savanna's namesake rose against a backdrop of crystal blue and silvery wispy clouds that drifted in off the sea.

There was an idyllic sort of serenity to be seen while flying over the grasslands. One of a handful of places still somehow kept empty on the island of Java. A monastic sense of peace had restored itself here over the remains of the narrow, spindly weather stations that dotted the plains with artificial regularity.

These weather stations, the remnants of Nous' old omnipotent observation was part of a scattered global system built to measure and account for global ecological changes. There had been areas of the planet which underwent severe changes by Nous in an effort to uphold 'human comfort' the world over, and to maintain a meteorology that matched when Nous was first activated. Now the computer was decommissioned, so too did much of its systems fall into misuse. Although there was no doubt that in some, there was data still being mined and sent to some far-off server.

Per Aadab Heatherow, it was not like this landscape was particularly new or unknown. She gazed out the windows of her cab with a distant bored expression as the craft's computer kept a smooth course to her destination at the base of Baluran mountain.

Born in the Australian outback, she had grown up to know the wild expanse of unmolested nature, without so much as mountains to break the savanna or the sands that wound through Australia's still wild country. There was persistent humor that Australia itself was too much of a deadly country for human expanse, with its great open corridors and everything out for blood. There was laughs that this had been a factor in Nous' resettlement and redistribution programs to enforce peace is demographic nuking and to maintain a balance of population, that there in the Outback Nous' pets would die; and it could have directly put people in risk based on known values.

Except for space, Nous' programmers seemed to have had a liberal definition of safety in space and was the one area Nous could have sent humans to plunder with minimal stress to its code.

“Arriving in destination in ten minutes.” the computer said, its electrical voice sounded full of artificial hope. As if it were trying to convey that it had become as disinterested in the voyage as its master.

Aadab blinked and passed a lethargic look to the LCD monitor in the dash-head of the flying craft. A small blue dot blinked against a satellite map of Baluran, not far off a small golden star pulsed. Aadab grunted a stiff acknowledgment at the computer, and she turned back to the window.

Aadab was perhaps one of the few individuals who could name themselves a true native to anything. Her father's father and generations passed had been residents of Australia, Indians who had migrated to the island country. She was murky on the details, but the scant family stories said they were from Rajasthan. Over time, the family had intermingled with the Nous-imposed migrants of Earth and became nearly as much an amalgation of humanity as many other populations, but something had retained itself.

She was a blue-eyed, dark-skinned woman, almost red. Inky black hair did not fall flat from her head, but curled just slightly. Narrow in face, and slender in build, her chin round. She tapped the arm rest of her seat with delicately painted hands, a string of henna wound from the palm of her hand to the back, and up her arm.

There was a beep from the computer but no patchy voice-clips. She threw a quick look at the screen and she was closer now. She looked up ahead through the windshield and she something in the distance on the side of the mountain. A small blemish in its side where the trees had been cut away.

“You're entering a policed zone, identify.” demanded a man's voice from over the aircraft's speakers.

She had arrived. Aadab reached from the communication's console without hesitation and depressed the button. “Detective Aadab Heatherow,” she called into the microphone, “I was invited here by Tenzin Nagame.”

“Copied Mrs. Heatherow, proceed.” the other end acknowledged.

“Begin the descent.” Aadab ordered with dry indifference as she closed the channel. The computer systems acknowledged with a polite flowery beep as they came in on that once distant blemish.

The engines swirled and danced and puffed as they came in close over the crowns of trees. An even heavier storm of leaves and flora spun up into the air as the aerial car came down. Come in close, a wide concrete landing pad presented itself for the incoming visitor, and already there was gathered atop of it the black and blue transports of the police. White drones darted up to meet Aadab's ride like comets, stopping to hover like silver bees as they eagerly scanned and verified the new visitor.

Quickly satisfied, they dispersed in all directions as she touched down. There was a pneumatic hiss and the door opened itself, slowly swinging up and open like a trap-door. Pulling herself up, Aadab stepped out into the warm humid sun of the Equatorial tropics.

“Good afternoon!” a nearby police officer shouted as detective Aadab swung herself out of the car. Standing up she straightened out her long beige coat before acknowledging the young officer.

“How was the trip from Brisbane?” he asked conversationally.

“Typical, Marcus.” Aadab mumbled in a low voice, “I probably shouldn't have held my breath about whether or not I'd see you here.”

“Of course I'd be here, special victim calls for a special team!” Marcus laughed, stepping back as Aadab stepped away from the vehicle. The door closing in on itself, the motor fired again and the turbines of itself turned over to wheels, and it slowly coasted itself to the side to an empty space to park.

Like many of the present cars, Aadab's held a smooth slicked-back aerodynamic shape. The nose molded into the windshield which in turn flowed into the roof like a water-smooth pebble. The entire shape presented it as being smaller than it was, even down to the small winglets along its side or the fiberglass-carbon spoiler that rose from its molded hatched rear.

But unlike the police cruisers parked idly around it, it was much more civilian. The designated shape of the police cruisers held a more militarized form, sharper, more aggressive. The walls were thicker and almost armored and the noses more rigid and less formed to ram and to sustain that sort of impact. The shells were stronger, darker, but banded with blue bars and streaks against their black shells. Hers stood out from the squad of black bullets.

“Who's in charge?” Heatherow asked, walking alongside officer Marcus as they strolled from the landing pad. Marcus' helmet and sun visor shielded much of his face. But a heavy-set chin and stubbly beard and mustache growth smiled from underneath a flattened, round nose.

“Detective Ada.” confirmed Marcus, “He's a new, from up in Japan. Changed over late last month after Steven retired.”

“How old was that man?” Aadab asked.

“Fucker was clear to ninety, he was getting on.” Marcus laughed, “They say eighty is the new sixty, but even I would get out of this field after I hit fifty years of service.

“I simply don't have the time for this bullshit I feel.” he bemoaned as he paused at the mouth of a covered walk way.

“I understand completely.” sympathized Aadab.

The two continued on to the main house of Tenzin. A patchwork of sun and shadow danced across the wooden planks of a long narrowed walk-way which meandered through a sea of high-canopies. Tiny LED lights at the crowns of the railing pylons giving further direction and soft emerald decoration to the wooden catwalk.

“So what's the situation?” Aadab asked, looking off into the emerald boughs of the mountain trees. Small tropical birds fluttered between the branches, singing their hundreds of songs as the two officers walked through. It was a stark contrast with the endless grasslands she had flown over. It was a welcoming change from the empty norm of oceans and other flat landscapes. She was finally relieved from her boredom as she let herself become awed and inspired by the fresh verdant glow of the light.

“Well, I don't know how much I can tell you.” Marcus said, “Simply put, someone might have broken in, killed Ms Nagame, and bolted off with some shit, Ms Nagame's car included.

“I suppose you're here on the missing property?” he asked.

“When have I ever not worked missing androids?” Aadab laughed, smiling.

“Well when you worked for us, remember.”

“That was missing persons.” reminded Aadab.

“It's the same principle, right?” officer Marcus asked.

“Hardly, you learn pretty fast that missing persons and missing androids are two wildly different situations.”

“Right, Android Jesus and all.”

“Him, and they got friends in the cyborgs.” Aadab continued. The trees parted from the path and the walkway opened up onto a deck of woven bamboo. In every direction a spider-nest system of wooded walks and trails spun out from this location. But hanging above them on thick bamboo and wooden struts, driven right into the side of the mountain Tenzin's mansion loomed overhead; verdant and organic with golden bands of strong treated bamboo allowing the organic shape of the house to hang from its anchored feet in the side of the mountain.

“Which floor?” Aadab asked, amazed as she looked up at the four consecutive decks that comprised Tenzin's impressive home. It would have been rightfully peaceful were it not for the police officers and security staff wandering it.

“Second, I'll take you to the detective in charge. He was with Tenzin last I checked too.” Marcus offered.

Aadab nodded, and followed her old friend unquestioned to the twisting flight of stairs leading up into the home.

The walk up was flowered in native plants that hung over the wood-paneled steps. Growing in bed carved from mountain side rock, or mortared together from river or pond stone they looked natural and a part of the landscape. Even coming onto the same level as the jutting polypore home most everything looked to be naturally inclined to be part of it. And Aadab was not surprised to find that a live tree and been incorporated into one of the central supporting structures of the massive home.

As they entered the home they passed the mighty trunk of that central tree, which had not only been turned into a central supporting beam but a family alter of sorts, covered in trinkets and photos new and old of the Nagame clan. Aadab gave it a pensive loot as the passed, dancing between the outwardly smiling eyes of individuals from as far back as the 20th century. There was a bowl of oranges laid out in a golden bowl at its base.

The woven bamboo stairs groaned softly under the two's weight as they ascended to the next level, each one like an open floor where cotton sheets or thinly woven walls provided a divider between the quarters. As they stepped onto the floor, they were immediately greeted by the elder congressmen.

“Aadab?” he asked, startling the young woman as she stepped onto the floor. His thin phantom-like figure was a justification for a shocked yelp to escape her throat and she nearly backed down the stairs.

When she caught her breath Aadab gave her a small bow. “It's nice you've arrived.” he greeted.

“C-certainly.” Aadab stammered, her heart still raced in her chest as she clutched her breast frightfully. “This is a beautiful home.” she complimented.

“Thank you.” he smiled, but it felt empty. Tenzin held the look of a man whose soul had been sucked out. His tan caramel complexion was shallow and lifeless. He wore a long white robe, a tight turtleneck collar hugged his neck in a stiff embrace. He was in mourning, and no doubt this ongoing investigation wasn't going to let him to forget soon.

“Mrs. Heatherow I presume?” an unfamiliar voice called out to her from behind Tenzin. Aadab looked up to see the man standing patiently by a coffee table. He carried himself regally, with a stiff jaw and narrow almond, green eyes.

“Detective Ada I presume?” she asked.

He bowed. “That's my name.” he acknowledged, “I suppose we both have our parts and time is a resource, so now you've arrived can I pull you aside?”

“Yes you may.” said Aadab, stepping around the old Congressman. 'Poor man,' she thought to herself.

“The scene is on the far-side.” Ada nodded, directing her attention to a barrier of heavy blue tarp clipped to the ceiling on the far end of the floor, “I can brief you on what happened there.”

“Thank you.”

The two turned, and departed from Tenzin's side leaving the old congressman to watch them slip beyond the tarp. He staggered just a bit as the cold reminder of what had happened dripped down his spine.

“We found the victim here.” detective Ada pointed out, without missing a professional beat and as soon as they walked through the veil. He pointed down to a stained patch on the ground. The area was in total disarray.

Kneeling beside the stain on the floor Aadab pulled out a thin device from her pocket. A camera, holding it out she took a picture of the blood stain that had soaked into the fibrous bamboo.

“Tenzin's help found Ms Nagame here late last Tuesday afternoon. She had been strangled, per contusions to her neck. The bruising however was so heavy that we could deduce on location that whoever had strangled her was strong.”

“Do you have any suspects?” she asked, standing up and looking over the room, “Marital problems?”

“Couldn't be that, Tenzin Nagame was in congress the time this had happened. He has a strong alibi, so I wouldn't approach him.”

“Doesn't mean he's not untouchable.” Aadab responded cynically, “Any sign of where the attacker entered?”

“Mrs Heatherow, the entire home is built in open decks. Even if the unsub broke in we'd be few in clues to where!” Ada bristled, annoyed.

Aadab had to kick herself there. Recovering she quipped: “Still tracks.”

“Well there's none of that, we scoured the hills.” Ada mumbled.

Aadab nodded, “Besides the murder,” she began, “I'm going to need to know about this android that's missing and anything else I could use to chase him.”

“Angelo-024, he's a suspect.” Ada mentioned, “We haven't had any direct hits on him. We put a call out on a vehicle that was missing from Tenzin's stock. We got a return on it in Surabaya-Semarang a few hours later but it was completely abandoned.”

Aadab nodded, “Can I get access to the body? I need to look at it, I might have grounds to not only find Angelo on not just a missing property case but a murder one.”

Ada nodded knowingly, “He's our only other major suspect, I'll get you permission to visit the body. I'll have the information and permission forwarded to you on your tablet.”

“Thank you. I'm going to have to go talk to Tenzin now about Angelo, and get some details on him. I'll be on my way to the city within the hour.”

“Good luck.”

Persephone station
Approach vector

MSV Friedrich Lochland slowly drifted into one of Persephone station’s cavernous docking bays, inching along on thrusters only. It’s GDC engine was shut down in order to not rip the station apart with massive gravitational forces. Usually it was more convenient to assume orbit and simply shuttle personnel back and forth to the station, or moor at one of the far out docking spars, only requiring reduced power to the GDC rather than a full shutdown. But a multi day long stay involving significant maintenance and cargo loading required nothing less than a docking bay, and thus a full shutdown.

MSV was perhaps a misleading prefix for the Friedrich Lochland. It was indeed registered with the Commonwealth Ministry of Commerce as a “Merchant Space Vessel”, but it was considerably faster and better armed than most ships of the same designation. Friedrich Lochland was in fact a decommissioned Unyielding class heavy cruiser, purchased and refurbished from the scrapyards above Bravia. Formerly named RCNS Impatient, the vessel’s original hull was over a hundred years old, and it had been mothballed for 50 years before being refurbished and renamed. The Unyielding class predated Commonwealth positron technology, so its turrets were less potent ionized particle cannons. Combined with the removal of its axial weapons, it was cleared for civilian ownership and operations, but it was still very much a warship. Just a very, very old one.

The expense of purchasing and maintaining such a vessel massively exceeded the costs of a more traditional freighter, but the Friedrich Lochland’s captain had come to possess it under some interesting circumstances. The captain himself was an interesting man, engaged in all sorts of interesting business. His name...was also Friedrich Lochland. Lochland was a bit of everything; innocent cargo hauler when it suited him, smuggler and gun for hire most of the time. He occasionally took passengers as well; there wasn’t much of a market for high security high discretion personal transport, but those few who needed the service tended to pay well.

Lochland prowled around the bridge, deep within his ship’s armoured bulk. He was a male Vit’azny, a touch over 70. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either. His frame was lithe, but well muscled, and he twisted a stylus between his fingers with tremendous dexterity. Shutting down the GDC always left him feeling vulnerable and therefore fidgety. “Status?” he called out.
“We’re about 100 meters out, Captain. Shutting down thrusters and letting station tractors take over,” Vana replied with a touch of exasperation. Vana Sadi was a Yanissan woman who served as Lochland’s pilot and first officer. On most ships, the two roles were filled by seperate people, but Lochland insisted that he was the only one allowed to walk around the bridge looking ‘captain-y’.
“Well I’m sorry that my concern is bothering you Vana,” Lochland replied sarcastically. “We’re just a little exposed here, and starships are very expensive. I think about these things Vana, that’s why I’m Captain and you’re...well, definitely not Captain. With the GDC down, a stray drop of frozen piss could punch a hole through the hull.”
A hologram abruptly flickered on by Lochland’s side. It was avatar of the ship’s Virtual Intelligence. Aside from the blue tinge and occasional flickering, it looked exactly like Lochland, and was commonly referred to as Freddy. “Rude!” it said indignantly. “My armour can take considerably more than that.”
“I’m sorry Freddy,” Lochland replied. “You know I’m just worried about you.”
“Apology accepted Cap. And might I say you’re looking particularly dashing today.”
“Thank you Freddy, but I’m still not going to promote you to first officer, much as I would like too. You’re not quite sentient enough.”

As part of his refits to the ship he’d named after himself, Lochland had wanted to incorporate an AI personality. Commonwealth AI tech was rubbish, so he’d gone to the Valerians. Despite his best efforts, he’d only managed to secure a virtual intelligence, rather than truly thinking software. The Valerians had plenty of the things, but they were highly restricted, used only for the military and research. Freddy was a prettty good substitute though. He could flawlessly immitate organic behaviour, hold conversations, even pass basic sentience tests. His command and control faculties were also impressive, easily handling much of shipboard operations, letting the ship run with a crew of only 80, a shade more than a tenth of its designed crew capacity. But Freddy couldn’t truly think, couldn’t improvise, couldn’t contemplate his own existence and self-improve.

“If you two are done jerking eachother off, we’re docked,” Vana called out from the helm station.
“Excellent,” Lochland said. “Freddy, draw up the usual port duty rotations for the crew, and tell Sully to meet me and Vana at the main airlock. If he’s so picky about parts, he can come with us and pick them out himself. Oh, and you’re in charge until I get back.”

------------------------------------------------

Persephone station
Main concourse
The station was mostly populated by humans, but there were enough aliens scattered throughout the crowds that Lochland and Vana didn’t stand out too much. Sully, unfortunately, was bound to draw a lot of attention whereever he went. Sulnatar was a Szitzu, and he towered head and shoulders over anything else in the crowd. He served as the Friedrich Lochland’s chief engineer, and he grunted in protest whenever anyone called him Sully, which was all the time. He was coming along on Lochland’s little shopping trip because he was incredibly fussy about the quality of any and all hardware used on the ship, and Lochland was tired of being cussed out when some recent purchase failed to meet Sully’s rigorous standards.

They stopped by a number of shops and stalls full of various high tech looking devices. The storefronts were largely irrelevant; merchants put them up to display the quality of wares, but all their stock was usually kept in cargo bays in the utility levels of the station. The display wares were not necessarily representative of the quality of the actual goods, and most buyers were more interested in raw materials that they could assemble into the desired goods themselves. Sully seemed to know what he was looking for though, and eventually selected a vendor who met his criteria.

Lochland introduced himself and his companions, but then let Vana take over. Lochland was a fast talker and good at securing a deal, but Vana was even better, and she had certain advantages. She and the vendor went at it while Lochland and Sully relegated themselves to the background. After a while, she shook the vendor’s hand and rejoined her companions.

“Well?” Sully asked curtly.
“He’s solid. He agreed to meet us for an inspection later today, and I didn’t pick up any traces of duplicity. The readings on his exotic isotope stocks he’s got on display are accurate too,” Vana replied.
“Great. We’ll work on pricing if his goods pass inspection. You got what you needed for your pheromone thingy?“
“Yes. His sweaty palms were a bonus, I expect he’ll negotiate very reasonably this afternoon.”

Vana had two main advantages in most negotiations. One she was born with; a trickle of telepathy, just enough to read surface thoughts and emotions, but fortunately for her, not enough to have been snapped up by Toolbox, as most Yanissan psintegrae were. The other advantage, she’d picked up later. In the Yanissan Principalities, genetic modification was the norm rather than the exception. One very popular modification allowed pheromone manipulation, and was so widespread that anyone without it (or at least countermeasures) would be hopelessly disadvantaged in all social and business settings. The tech was originally tailored to Yanissan physiology, but further modification could let it adapt to alien biologies, even individual preferences. The more contact the user had with the target, the better the results. Vana now had a solid sample of the vendor’s biochemistry; next time she spoke to him, the man would find her absolutely irresistible. Unless he didn’t happen to like women; then they were pretty much hosed.

“Alright, let’s get some lunch,” Lochland began leading them towards a restaurant. “I’ll see if we can take care of our other business while we’re at it.”
As luck would have it, the eatery they chose was already playing host to some of those telepathic tentacle balls that Lochland had encountered a few times before, Zedic or Zecidic or something. In comparison, Sully looked distinctly normal, and the three of them were able to grab a table and order food with minimum fuss. Lochland pinged their contact on the station, and settled down to enjoy a hearty meal while they waited.

Sauru'u Controlled Space

Daru'ud II

Tuskar Den Network

Daru'ud II was a harsh desert world, prone to long summers of scarce food, brutal heat, and powerful sandstorms. But for the reptilian Sauru'u, this was hardly so much as an inconvenience. In the other seasons they hunted the fast breeding races to near extinction, only for them to repopulate their numbers in near weeks. They dug their cities and communities, rather than build defiant profusions to the invaders of the stars. Between small dens meant for simple living were narrow tunnels, all connecting to small hubs. Connecting to those were larger tunnels, leading into giant hallways where hundreds of Sauru'u would walk about their daily business, with scrapcobble stalls trying at passersby attention with weapons, foods, and other staples.

Beta Kraw sat impatiently in the shaman's den, as the orange-scale implanted yet another robotic claw on his right hand. He was numb to pain, having been injected with Biosap annestic. He had already come to the shaman multiple times in the past for various other cybernetics, including three times for right-handed claws, all from misfunctional weaponry, a thermal eye, his organic one lost in combat, and internally, he had his left ear system replaced by a mechanical one, as a loud explosion deafened him in his younger years. And each time, the shaman would take longer than necessary on the operations, trying to squeeze every last tyrn out of him, as Sauru'u medical debts are measured by amount of time a shaman operates.

Finally, the tired, old shaman stood up, cleared his throat, and told Kraw "I am finished. hundred tyrns," as he held out his open palm.

"One hundred? I've purchased faulty weapons for more that functioned better than your botched operations!" Kraw snapped. This shaman had
robbed him of his tyrns for the last time.

"I'm afraid I'm the best shaman in this whole den network. If you want a better operation, head on over to the Capita den network, I know one that will--"

Kraw threw the shamans tray against the wall of the den, and dropped a small satchel filled with triangular shaped coins onto the table, mumbling "Greedy snivel" under his breath as he left.

------------------

Kraw met later with Zilo, a fellow green-scale Beta of the Tuskar den network at a large room with long tables meant for feasting, though only the two of them were present, with two bowls in front of them, containing pink, slimy meat. Kraw and Zilo were Betas, who served to their Alpha, who served Tuskar's Patriarch, Olgar, who took command of the entire planet.

"So, what exactly is with all the fighters in town being decommishioned lately?" Asked Kraw, picking at the meat in his stone bowl.
"Apparently a special craft is required for transportation of a secret project on Agani III." Zilo
replied, "The Patriarch himself has broken a few claws when his personnal frigate was forcibly taken. He's taking the next immediate shuttle to Agani III to figure out what exactly is going on that steals precious Patriarchs' luxuries." He let out a chuckled-hiss shared with his comrade.

-----------------

Balda

Capita Den

Capita was the Capital den of the Sauru'u patriarchy, yet nowhere near to being its largest, as that honor fell to the Farug den of Agani II. Its only inhabitants were a few high ranking Sauru'u, a skeleton crew of a guard, the Seer's, and of course, the Apex.

In the large, circular center room sat seven of the twenty Seers, the second highest rank in Sauru'u society save for Apex. In the direct center at a podium stood Patriarch Olgar, with golden scales and red eyes. Olgar snarled, and said to the seven seers "I, Olgar, refuse to have shuttles of my world scavenged for matters I possess no knowledge of!"
One of the Seer's folded his hands, and countered, "Patriarch, the reason we are scrapping your ships are for a top secret operation. Just know that your "sacrifice" will be very useful in the greater scheme of thi--"
Olgar slammed the podium, and growled "I demand to atleast know what the operation is! My world is on the Sauru'u/Rim border, at first risk to invasion by independant Rimworlds or other nations such as the commonwealth! You remove us our preemptive defenses and refuse to tell why? Pray, take all our ships, but I demand to know what for!" veins bulged in Olgars' skin when he finished his rant with a heavy breath.

The Seer council stared at Olgar unimpressed, but apalled. The head Seer with a green robe stood and sighed, "Very well. You are given permission to witness the project on Agani II. Return to your world, and be prepared to make your journey in three days."

"I'll be sure of it..." Olgar sneered.