The two were stopping in for dinner. The shadows outside on the street were already growing long. On a LED light strip on the building across the street a time-stamp crawled to the left reading 7:30; news followed the time, but all of it was the usual: the Broken Point Scalders had trumped the Milbury Boilers in a surprise 20-11 win in game two of a five-game contest for the Dogger championship, the Boilers star thrower was put out mid-way through after a throw of the ball by the Scalders had cracked his shin when he stepped up to swing in that game of Dogger Ball. Likewise unimpressive announcements made by city government were shown, before flashing a brief list of stock reports.

The game the two men were interested in would not be advertised, and it would not happen until after dark, by about 10:30 by the reckoning of the one. In the meantime, to kill time both tucked in to a restaurant. One of the oldest in the city, its brick and mortar facing a dire contrast against some of the more modern refinishing of the comparatively temporal and phantasmic existence of the other store fronts and establishments. Amid the sights and quilt-work reminders of style in the last century and a half, the dark brick, red clay-faced three-story tavern was a nostalgic specter that remained trapped in this world to serve as a reminder that almost five hundred years ago this area was then a city.

Named Unlce Hou's, it was a near ancient former ballroom and eatery for the once noble and stylish. But with the silent exit of the king and the assumption of the Ministers the marked shift in the social dynamic changed the old tavern. And under its exotic sloped and tiled awnings the many faces of Milbury society eloped. The workmen, the merchants, the bankers, and the police.

Stepping through the door the two gray-blue uniformed officers were greeted tenderly by the greeter, who wore a plain, smooth blue dress. Asking them about their day, and where they would like to sit she lead them up to the second floor and found a corner table for them to stand. They did not sit, they leaned on the old wooden table as so many before had. Large glasses of beer called schooners were put before them and they spoke idly and scanned the room.

Uncle Hou's was what was called an Oriental, an establishment that often served seafood and distant and exotic tastes to those well endowed with the funds. Fresh fish, shellfish, and eels had forever been the mainstay of its menu and were tradition, along with the wild spices cooked into it. But given changes in recent history, the advances in continental travel of the last century the cost of such exotic tastes slowly slid down, out of the exclusive pockets of ministers and magistrates and the high society and into the middle class and even – on some parts of the menu – the working class. As such, Uncle Hou's turned into the sort of place all class was obliterated for only a moment, and anyone from any part of life could sit next to the table of a ballister of a doctor and share in the same food. From Human to Alternative.

To further its genre, the aesthetic of the old restaurant further emphasize it. Made of some far, distant, ancient parody of another place and another time each floor was marked with gently swept awnings as it rose its three and a half floors as a stout pagoda. Its windows – particularly on the second and third floors – were narrow and open to the elements, save for a fine screen mesh; it was not uncomfortable since Milbury was always seasonably warm on the southern coast. Interior, it was all made of a carved and finished wood, stained naturally or a deep bloody red along the highlights and accents. Orange lanterns hung from strings with no discernible or regular pattern. There was still a central stage too, though while draped in red curtains that hung from an iron ring hanging from the ceiling was empty. Delicate waves were carved into the wood railings, and where wooden columns met the ceiling the faces of sea dragons stared down at guests and employees alike.

“Hav'ah eve' had to replace one of those little robotic vacuums? I mean, fix it?” one of the suited police officers asked. He was a tall gnarled being, an Alternative. His doggish face was starting to fade and bald in his middle age and the wrinkled light skin was showing more clearly beneath cream colored hair. He was one of the few who managed to end up in any sort of civil service, for specialized reasons. His eyes were a sharp gray-green, and they routinely looked up and scanned the room. His voice was gruff, and while accented wasn't nearly as heavy as the rest.

“I once had one of my boot strings get caught in the whirly gig.” his partner said, a human with light red hair, almost a soft brown said. He scratched his broad double, cleft chin with a hand full of short sausages and muttered, “Sure did scream like a trapped rat till I realized it had somethin' chokin' it and it wasn't spinnin' none.”

“Well nah mate, that ain't the case.” the dog-cop's name was Scabber, a ten-year veteran in the force, and considered a traitor among his kin for it. “Scamp was trampin' about th' bugaloo when I guess she kicked an' feel on it. I think she kneed the bugger.”

The human, Peter Broadshaft – a twenty year veteran - rolled his eyes thinking. “She might'a crunched something. How long you had it?” he asked.

“Two in some-off years.”

“Ye mate, warranty may still be good. Send 'er in and the blokes at the company'll knock it right quick. Be right as rain when it comes back.”

“You ever had to go through that?” Scabber asked.

“Nah, but my 'cus over in Opal Beach spilled some yellow johnny on it when it knocked into his side-table and dumped all down it. He sent it back on a hunch and got it back in four days.”

“Ah, I'll need to try that.”

The waiter walked over, and smiling put down a plate of rolls and long brown rice for sergeant Broadshaft. Glistening white strips of broiled fish gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the corner windows, small brightly colored fruits and vegetables added intense color to the white and baked brown color of the dish.

And still smiling, albeit uncomfortably she delivered Scabber's plate. A dish of small fried eels wrapped up about themselves like long noodles topped with nuts and sprigs of fresh herbs. A soup was set down next to it as a side, pieces of shellfish floating in a golden broth and the opalescent shine of an open clam resting in the bottom showing off the steamed white flesh in its shell.

As the tucked into their food the two went silent as forks and knives clinked and scrapped plates. “You know, I found a good way to fix up some steak on the barbie.” Peter said between bites.

“Oy, don't'cha be starting and givin' me doubts.” Scabber protested, wrapping the small noddle-like eels in a fork before slurping them in through his canine maw. “You get to talkin' about your fixing and I have second thoughts.”

Peter laughed, taking a fork full of vegetables and dragging them through the spilling juices of the soft white fish flesh, impregnated with the herbs used. “Perhaps another day you can come by the place and I'll show you.”

Scabber grunted, sipping the broth from the bowl. Small rivulets of it escaped down the side of the face and dripped from his jaw, wetting the thinning hairs that were like a beard there.

Conversation passed with idle gossip. Trading words about the happenings in the department. As the plates slowly became cleaner, and the light darker there came a tension between them. Finally finished, the waitress came over and asked for desert. They declined, and got the bill. They paid and left.

On the street side a plain black car sat parked. It bore no markings and the windows were tinted. Only its white polished hubcaps shone in the late evening light. Everything was purple and red now. The effect was dramatized further by Milbury's predominately white-surfaced architecture. If there were no clocks in the city, it was joked the residents could tell the time of day by the color of the city. With the exception of places like Uncle Hou's the city explored the spectrum of light through the time of day, beginning with sunrise pink and light blue before mid-day white; as the sun lowered and the day became late it turned yellow and orange before purple and moon-rise black. Then then streetlights would come on, bathing the city in sterile white light before the full blue of a moonlit night.

Sitting in the unmarked cruiser Peter put the keys in the ignition and the engine hummed softly to life. A chromium dashboard lit up with soft back-lit dials and LED screen displays. A projection on the lower part of the center of the windshield lit up with a map of the city. Reaching out Peter touched it with his fingers and with a flinging motion pushed it all the way to Scabber's side. It hit the edge of the windshield and bounced like a ball hitting the edge of a billiards's table.

“What?” Scabber asked.

“You know I don't like it there when I drive.” Peter protested.

“Didn't do shit, mate.” Scabber said.

“I know. But get ready, it's about time.”

“Alright, you drive and I'll get ready.” the beast-man grumbled, as he turned back to the backseat. There a sack lay on the floor and he hauled it over to him as Peter began driving. It was smooth, quiet. The only sound was the regular chatter of fellow officers on the beat. But these two were on a special mission, they ignored it for now.

From the bag Scabber produced several odds and ends in cosmetics. Some specialized to Alternatives, some not. Right away he pulled down the passenger side mirror and set about quickly filling in the bald spots on his face. “Ay, Max. Disguise map.” Scabber mumbled.

“Disguise Map.” a computer voice crackled, and the mirror he was looking into flickered before placing an overlay outline over Scabbard's reflection. Within the imprint of his head, shapes outlined separated areas from his face. This areas marked where he had to fill in. And working hurriedly and delicately he went about the work filling in those areas until the shapes disappeared on by one. Some did not need much. Others more so. Along the length of his nose he had to nearly fill in the patchiness of his snout. And finally, as the car came to a stop at the end of a darkened alleyway he was gently tipping his ears with caps to elongate them. By the end, he looked like a different person.

“Here we are.” Scabbard said, looking down the alley. The windows from the inside were clear, as if they were untinted. From within they could look out and no one would tell they were.

“Close enough. I don't see anyone around.” Peter said, “I'll take us a few blocks away.”

Scabbard nodded, and they moved off again. Turning a corner they parked themselves in a half-empty parking lot. Nearby were a handful of small single-story offices and small business that clearly were not out for the night. It would not be unusual. Even better: one was a small pub. No one would be cautious about a car parked too long if it was assumed they were drinking.

“Alright, hand it over to me now.” Peter demanded. He pushed back the steering wheel and it folded into the dash board, giving him enough room to put the bag down on his lap. Unfolding the driver's side mirror he called up his disguise map. It didn't quiet fit his face, and was in face lager under his chin. A dividing line between his face and the excess explained why. Quickly, he went to work applying a fake beard, and in the marked areas makeup to change his complexion. He worked quickly, dirtying his cheeks and applying the fake beard until it looked natural; the scratch hairs that now rubbed his neck only reminding him why he never grew his out naturally. On top of it, he stuck a fake nose over his own, turning his once small nose into a larger, bulbous schnoz. By the end, he had taken on a cases of rosacea, his nose had grown, and he had a thick brown beard.

“Where'd you put the money, in the boot?” Peter asked, as he unbuttoned his shirt. Scabbard was following suit.

“Bills are there.” he answered. Both wore undershirts. Peter a light-grat tank-top and Scabbard a long white T-shirt, though from his shoulder and ending at his elbow long strands of fur traced a vague shape of what could be believed long, wide sleeves of a cloak cut short. Peter reached back to a smaller bag, and traded out a new jacket with his partner. Black and brown mid-length coats and a solid color shirt to go underneath, or a stripped one. Either took the other-without particular distinction and busily redressed in the cramped cruiser. Peter replaced his shoes, putting on a pair of dress loafers. Scabbard went barefoot. With any luck they hoped, the mid-length coats and change in foot wear would alter their pants in such a way the dark-blue was more semi-casual, than police uniform. The bottom hems of the legs were rolled up to above the ankle and straightened.

The two stepped out of the car. With the doors shut behind them Peter checked his coat and took a deep breath. Scabbard walked around the car to the trunk, and popping it open pulled out from it a medium-sized sack. Peter took a deep breath, “How do I look?” he asked.

“They won't notice.” the Alternative said, walking out across the parking lot, his padded feet scuffing on the rough ashphalt.

Leaving behind the street lights of the parking lot behind them the two walked into the alley shadows of night-time Milbury. High above them in apartments overhead the sounds of music or of life drifted down to the street level on spectral waves to come gently crashing to the ground in a waterfall of faded noise and sounds. Somewhere there was laughter from a late-night comedy show. Somewhere the chords of popular music. Somewhere further out there was a shout through an open window that for a moment sounded clear and near through the first ringing decibels of an angry shout. Making a corner there was a section of chain link, separating a small industrial building from the surrounding buildings. Old, parked cars in various states of repair confirmed the site as a car garage, tucked far from any main road. Looking down along the fence Peter noted the drive to it was hardly more than a normal alley lit only by a single fluorescent light that let down an eerie green glow onto the darkened alley.

There was a rear gate in the chain link that Scabbard opened. Nonchalantly the two walked ahead to the building and knocked on the metal doors. There was a sound from inside, as well as music. The steel door opened a crack and a shape appeared, silhouetted against soft, dim light. “Yeah?” he said.

“Here to pass the swag.” Scabbard said.

“Well then mate, I don't need to ask you.” the doorman said. He stepped aside and pushed open the door. The doorman was a broad framed man with a heavy beer gut and a wife-beater that did little to hide his fully belly or thick chest hair. He let the two in amiably who stepped into the garage.

They were greeted by the smells of smoking, hard liquor, and beer. There was oil, grease, and gasoline, lubricant, solvents, and rubber. Somewhere a stereo played music, but it was drowned out in detail by bouts of riotous laughter from elsewhere in the building. From the narrow side-room they came they passed by a window of plate glass and to a door, in the other larger room space in a large garage had been made for over fifteen card tables, each one was packed and loaded with all manners of hooligans rich and poor, Human and Alternative to even numerous Outlanders who sat leaning over or confidently on old card tables with great smiles, deep scowls, or more commonly forced blank expressions.

“There might be a table open, take a look around.” the doorman said.

The two nodded, and went on ahead. At the edge of the room they found a table, insinuating themselves at a poker table comprised largely of Alternatives. Many sharp eyes were given to Peter as everyone sized him up. Not as a potential new contribution to the pool, he felt; but like predators sizing up prey to eat. He felt on the wrong side of the food chain in this cold moment.

“Deal us in.” Scabbard said, reaching into the bag and tossing onto the table a loose fist of blue, cloud and bird-printed hundred Piece notes.

One of them whistled, impressed. “Ay, ya got enthusiasm, cunts.” a small, frail framed ferret creature said, his wild long fur made up for missing mass but that in the end was pulling a translucent cloak over it, “An, who are you two? Some kinda queers?” he asked, not entirely politely.

“We're just business partners.” Peter said, looking down at his cards. He didn't really pay attention.

“I'm not judgin', there are some blokes out there inta' that sorta thing.” a large hog of Altie said, rather literally. His hide was dark and blotched with sun, probably early skin cancer. He wore a thin beard and mustache and handled his cards skillfully with incredibly short meaty fingers, “I 'appen to know a bloke who is. Anda' jane.”

“And no one at the table that wants to hear 'bout know meat benders!” the ferret bellowed in a shrill voice, to the pig's amusement.

“Regardless, what're yer two's buisiness?” inquired a deep golden dog. He must have been fairly young, his coat on his head was fairly full, though fading on the hands and arm.

“That's between us.” Peter grumbled.

The dog laughed, and rolled his eyes, “Anyways, tens lads, what's your calls.” he said flatly.

“Fuck if I know what you got.” the ferret said, his voice rattling.

“You won't ever will.” the dog said.

Scabbard rolled his eyes and laid down his cards off the bat. “I got eights. Cut the cunt shit.”

The other dog laughed, and suddenly the ferret got afraid. “Hey mate, I'm folding on this one.” the pig followed. The dog laid down his hand and won the round.

The next few rounds passed with only idle banter. As the game progressed the amount in the bag diminished slowly. Though they did not go through every round at a loss. Scabbard and Peter were sure to bring something in and after half an hour, they were seated proper at the table, as if they had always been there. Jokes were exchanged, allegories traded.

“I gotta back out. I'm beat.” the Ferret admitted after forty-five minutes of Scabbard and Peter being there. His pile of spoils had diminished considerably from what the two officers could tell, though it went without knowing if the size of the pile was only an illusion to its value, for what Scabbard was feeding the pool with. Several other times the rest of the gamblers had tried to press details out them, but they kept quiet. The pig had proposed they were part of one of the international cartels, and they should leave it there before the darkly dressed, mysterious figures sitting with them got mad.

The game went on as a game of four until a new player joined in, a rather harangued kangaroo or wallaby. Tired, he threw in a small contribution and quietly apologized. “I had bad luck with the others mate, take it easy.” he said almost defeated. The pig laughed. Peter couldn't help but laugh to.

But the kangaroo or wallaby put up a good character, and despite doing mediocre was a character to be around. While bets and bluffs were exchanged and called he put out some gossip.

“You hear of this Dream See-er bloke?” he asked.

“Think I heard somethin' like 'em once.” the pig said.

“Well I got a few fliers of 'is.” the wallaby but also maybe a kangaroo said, “Some bloke on the street passed them by and a few of me mates did as well, I know at least one went along with it. Maybe you can help me make heads or tails.” he threw out a few rather poorly made fliers about the trailer.

“I ain't tryin' to convert ya none, throw them away if ya gotta. But we're getting them somethin' heavy like jellies on the beach in the Upper Hills.”

Peter lowered his cards faced down on the table and looked at the pamphlet. When someone asked if he was folding or going to double down on the last bet he mumbled something about ducking out on the turn to look at the pamphlet.

“BROTHERS AND SISTERS.” it began in big red capital letters. The whole thing was printed on blue paper no better off than news print, “THE ERA OF DREAMS COMES AGAIN. IT HAS BEEN SEEN. ALL MAN AND BEAST SHALL WALK THE CLOUDS OF HIS PRESENT AND HIS ANCESTORS DREAMS. ASCENSION IS COMING, BROTHERS AND SISTERS!”

The pamphlet gave no address which to inquire, but provided a phone number and a request to ask for “Walo Bingo”.

“I'm going to take one of these if you don't mind.” Peter said.

“You're not buying this trash, are you?” the pig asked.

“No, I just think it's funny.” he remarked. And the game progressed.

It was passed midnight when they spent their bag money, and they rose from their seats. The game had changed faces several times and it was the pig who was the only one left. They thanked the table for the game, though it may have been directed more to the hog.

Safely back in the car the two officers removed their disguises. From the bag a vile of makeup solvent was produced to try and clean up Peter's face and remove the adhesive for the beard. Scabbard just scratched the length of his snout, the hair he had planted there peeling off piece by piece. “Hey, Max.” Peter said, “Call in Headquarters. Inspector Quinn.”

“Calling: inspector Quinn.” the computer repeated, and there was a moment of ringing. With a click a man answered.

“Report.” a gruff voice sounded, tired and impatient.

“Money's in circulation chief.” said Peter.

“Great, come on back and debrief then. I hope you two had fun.” Quinn said over the phone.

“Oh, we did.” Peter said, and the line was switched off.

Looking over at Scabbard, Peter was perplexed. In his hand the Altie held a fistful of loost money. Abandoning cleaning out the fake fur he was counting through it. “Where'd you get that?” he asked.

“Winnings. None of it's ours. Almost nine-hundred pieces.”

“By the Angle, nine-hundred?”

Scabbard nodded, “It's not bad for being mediocre at poker. None of it's ours. They probably think we came out under.”

“Right... I see.” Peter said.

“How much you need?” Scabbard asked, holding the fistful out his way.

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“How much you need? I'm sure your wife wants something. Or kids. A nice night on the town, a show. I don't fucking know what Humans want or like.”

“I'll think about.” Peter said.

“You get half then.”

Usan wa Biru mènt nemwe ase

The mountains seem different tonight

"What's your name?" asked the Cindorayi officer.

"Mori Dar na ye?" (What is your name) repeated the interpretor, Omatu Gumira (Unconstrained Equilibrium).

"Rom Mènt Vine Dar oode yèng ko fa" (I am called Simple Forces), answered the handcuffed Adanaya, looking at the collaborator with steely eyes.

The officer asked them if they knew what they were accused of. Simple Forces shook their head.

"You've been distributing seditious leaflets, haven't you?" asked the Cindorayi like a statement, glancing at the prisoner from aside.

"I don't know what you mean." placidly replied the Adanaya.

"We have the proof, you know. And you know it full well. You'll be executed for this", said the officer without any alteration of her voice. "It's truly unfortunate what you force us to do. If you were a thief, it would be alright, we would put you to work and you could become a productive member of society. But this sort of thing, we can't tolerate. Minds are our most precious asset. But you know that, since you picked this battlefield."

"Why are you telling me this? If it's true just kill me. If it isn't, what's the difference anyway?" quietly said the prisoner.

"Do you deny it?"

"I deny it. But you mind is made, so why even bother asking me?"

"Do you know what happens to terrorists and those who enable them, like you?"

Simple Forces remained silent.

"You'll discover soon enough. The rumors fall far short of the truth." she said with an evil grin. "Up there, on the slopes of the volcano, every breath does feel like an asphyxiation. It's rather unpleasant. Now, I know you think you are a hero. You don't care about yourself. You are defending your people from oppression." She paused for maximum effect – Unconstrained Equilibrium knew her tricks. They'd seen her do it a thousand times. "Well you're not. You're grievously mistaken. It's those like you, in fact, who insist on making your people miserable. You sow pain and misery everywhere you go. You could've stayed neutral in the war. We didn't harm the neutrals; we respected their sovereignty. They still live in peace and prosperity. And now, we've given your people a second chance on Cindorya. It's a new world; we thought we could start anew. You have disappointed us at every opportunity. A-11 looks like a prison: you made it into a prison for yourselves. We wanted peace, but you chose war. All this time, you have been the sole authors of your demise. Do you know how much those you claim to be defending will suffer because of you? Now that you've chosen to break the rules, how can we be sure of your family's trustworthiness?"

"Hostages" thought Unconstrained Equilibrium. The officer loved letting prisoners finish her thoughts. She was convinced it made her fantastically vicious. She had built up the pressure. Now she would would offer an alternative to the prisoner.

"Show them you love them and put an end to this violence. Look at them", she said while pointing at Unconstrained Equilibrium. "They were caught trying to throw a bomb at Chief Commander. They ended up killing twelve of your own kind. Such an idiot. Senseless violence, isn't it? That's what we made them realize. Now they and their family live safely under our protection, because they have pledged allegiance to our empire."
Unconstrained Equilibrium could feel the cold contempt they had for them. The prisoner was very subtly lighting up. If they could have they would've insulted them just like that. But they knew the cameras could catch it.
The prisoner's mouth remained utterly shut. This one would be tough.

The officer wasn't one to let go so easily. "Are you afraid we won't keep our word? We are a people of soldiers; honor means everything to us. We promised we would destroy your nation; that's what we did. It wasn't out of cruelty, but of necessity. And now necessity commands that order be restored and that cannons be lowered to the ground.
You can see for yourself that those who have the humility to recognize their mistakes are treated well. They walk freely among you and us."
Outside a column of prisoners marched by in rythm.

Unconstrained Equilibrium's mind started wandering off. They had translated so many of these interrogations that they barely had to be conscious to do the job anymore. They could part their mind in two, let one half run smoothly like a machine, and the other escape from the walls of the compound.
The barracks were neatly aligned around the forbidding bunker-like structure housing the intelligence activities, made of interlocking cubes. The room had a long window running along the entire upper half of the wall, which provided an open perspective on the empty avenues of the central command, the sprawl of tents and shacks of camp A-11 beyond it, and the mountains in the distance.
Some wind was sweeping dust across the alleeways, adding some grey to the sky, over grey buildings, grey roads and grey vehicles. In the distance a haphazardly-built watertower was precariously tilting in the wind. That was beyond the pale delimiting the Cindorayi quarter, which was in essence a glorified barrack with luxury shops and bright cafés.
Besides soldiers, only Cindorayi engineers and their families were willing to come to the Valley. But they were handsomely compensated for the inconvenience of moving so far from civilization. That was unlike the Adanaya, whose arms had been put to use to extract the incredible mineral resources of the Valley. They lived in the shantytown surrounding the central command, between the inner wall and the outer wall beyond which no one could trespass at night. The splendid snowcapped mountains could never be approached; they were only to be dug under. In fact there was no need for the outer wall; the mountains marked the outer limit of the imagination. There was no world beyond them, hence nowhere to escape.

The officer was still at it. "If you don't care to live, at least tell me what you know so others don't need to die miserably like this." She was whispering, half-threatening, half-soothing.

The prisoner was on their knees now, coughing blood. "Awaye", he muttered. Unconstrained Equilibrium declined to translate this unspeakable profanity. They were holding on well, they thought. Quite a bit longer than most of the others.

It went on for several hours. At last they relented.

"Why are you doing this?" yelled out Silent Forces. "I can't take any more. Just finish me off." It seemed a blood-thirsty creature had lacerated their body. They were lying on the ground, grey with deep red stains.

Officer Haraja took out her respectful and dignified face, which she used to hide a triumphant smirk. She helped them up, and sat them back on their chair.
"Tell me what you know and we'll end this."

"What..."

"Who", she corrected gently. At this stage, she acted like a confidante. The metamorphosis was quite spectacular. "Who are you associates? Who printed the leaflets? Where do you store them?"

Their breath was short now. Like in the mountains. "A dream was made... they helped me. They are the only... one I know. We... each know only one... person in the chain."

The officer looked like she had just lost ten years. She was radiating. "What is their role?"

"They distribute... the leaflets that are printed... outside the camp."

This was a bombshell. The resistance networks were not only linked between the camps, but had the means to transport equipment from one to the other. Officer Haraja would surely get promoted.

"Do you know anything else?"

"No... they told me what to do. I just gave them... out."

She nodded. "You see, you can be reasonable too."

Silent Forces closed their eyes. They were drained of all strength. Tears of blood flowed from their forehead. Their arms flailed behind.

"You'll be rewarded. Your family will be safe. Does that make you happy?"

They looked up, with half-opened eyes. The expression was completely blank. Were they seething with anger or thankful beyond measure? A few tears of waters mingled with the blood.

"It's time now. You've done well. I'm proud of you." The officer smiled.

The prisoner closed their eyes again, put their hands over their face. Haraja got closer, as if to embrace them. She took out a small metallic cylinder, and pressed it against the top of their neck. She clicked. When she let go, they fell to the ground. She left the room, beaming with pride. After a few minutes, Silent Forces stopped breathing. Their pulse slowed to a halt, and their skin cooled down.

They were quite handsome, after all.



The room was cold and dreary. The Adanaya rebel leaders were gathered there, in a small bunker high up in the mountains. An unresolved tension hung in the air.

"Rakaw pamawde." (They choose loyalty) announced commander Yane Illa (Great Expectations) with their coarse voice. "The garrison in Yasheron has reaffirmed its loyalty to the emperor, despite the troops in Sennor (Sylvnor) siding with the protestors. Other towns have declared allegiance to the new regime. The latest to do so is Harma, at the southern tip of the lake. They're trapped now."

Captain Lira na Usan (Dream of the evening) seized the occasion. "Commander aKrajam (Flowing waters), it won't be long before the Cindorayi rebellion takes hold of the rest of the territory. When that is done, it'll take care of the remaining pockets of rebellion. Yasheron will be the first target. It's too precious, and an enemy holding it endangers the road to the space base."

Great Expectations asked, "What do you suggest?" bemusedly. Dream of the evening was ever the adventurer.

"We have to strike first. If we want to be respected by the new authorities in Sennor, we need to show out military and organisational abilities. Ideally, the garrison would surrender to us. When the army arrives, we'd already be in charge. We would have freed ourselves. Otherwise, who says what we'll become. Revolt against the emperor doesn't mean freedom for the Adanaya, despite the fancy words used in the declaration of independence. If we want to organize ourselves after it's over, that's the only option."

The others nodded. But naysayers quickly sprang forward. A lieutenant rightfully pointed out that, "We don't have the numbers. And even if we did, they'd never surrender to us. It would be complete dishonor for them. Why would they do such a thing when they can choose to surrender to a Cindorayi general?"

Dream of the Evening was clearly peeved by this comment. "What's the point of this meeting if we can't do anything?"

The lieutenant replied, "We should act realistically. What can we do? We have less than a thousand soldiers, we have a couple dozen armored vehicles, maybe ten surface-to-air batteries, equally few ground-to-ground missile launchers. We have no planes, no long range missiles. What are we going to do? They have twelve thousand troops. I don't even need to go on. We know they'll crush us if we face them head on."

Great Expectations cut the chattering short. "Captain Ramye (Force) is right. If we don't act before the army down south arrives, we'll never have the authority to negociate with Sennor. We all know how little the Cindorayi respect us. We'll only get from Verasha what we can impose on her."

The lieutenant cut him short. "We all know that. How do we impose anything on her?"

Great Expectations contained their irritation at the subordinate's arrogance. "We can't win if we face off against the full brunt of the Cindorayi forces. We need to keep them divided and get them by surprise. We'll be defeated if its drags on. We don't have the numbers to keep up a long fight. Besides, the PRC's forces won't leave us the opportunity for a long fight. That means we have to strike the heart and take it out. Once the center is down, and the army is on its way, there won't be any point dragging on the fight. They'll surrender."

The lieutenant gasped. "Strike A-11? That's impossible!"

Dream of the Evening pounced on the occasion. "It's possible if we attract the bulk of the troops out of the camp and keep them busy."

Again, "How do we keep them busy? We don't have the numbers."

"We don't have the numbers so we have to look like we do. We won't win this with the usual methods. We always knew that."

Great Expectations was about to present the grand master plan. "We can't attack the camps themselves. They're too heavily fortified. But we can attack the mines, which are more valuable and too spread out to be consistently defended. Take a few down, and the whole garrison will be in full alert. What we need is to empty A-11. While we keep up the pressure in the mines, that's when we use our agents in the camps to stir up some trouble. Except A-11 and A-10. A-10 is the smallest camp. If we draw out part of the troops stationed there, get some support inside, we could probably take over with a minimal taskforce of a hundred or so soldiers. If we can keep up the trouble in the other camps, there'll only be one option left for the Cindorayi: send troops from A-11. We can hold the siege long enough for the plan to work, or not, as long as we keep that contingent out of the way. Then, we lit the match within the camp, and strike from without."

A wave of nodding rippled through the room. The lieutenant started saying something, edging on their chair, then fell back. So it was.

A few hours passed. Despite the frenzied activity in the base, it was practically silent. Snow kept pouring from the sky, muting any sounds in the mountain.

In spite of being the author of the plan, Great Expectations was more than a little apprehensive. It appeared quite sound, but its success was contingent on everything going perfectly right. Everything would not go perfectly right. And they had so little time and so few ressources. The task ahead was daunting.




Great Expectations was swinging back and forth on their chair. When would the news come?

The radio shrieked. "Commander aKrajam here. Can you hear me?" Nobody answered. Another buzz. "Is there anyone?" They started fearing the worst.

"Captain Ramye here."

"Thank the ancestors! Has the mission succeeded?"

"Yes, but... there's something strange happening here."

"What is it?"

"We blew up three mine shafts, but then we realized... there were practically no soldiers guarding them. We took three down, before we realized most of the guard posts were empty. No one in the military command. Not only that, but there were no miners either. We approached camp A-6. Clearly something was going on. We could hear gun shots and saw some smoke rising. You should call our people on the ground to know what's going on."

"Thank you captain. I'll tell you if there is any new information."

What could be the matter? They hadn't yet given the order to start the uprisings.

Well someone else had apparently done it for them, informed their agents. Miners in A-7 had apparently refused to go to work early in the morning. They had been detained. That in itself wasn't overly surprising, especially given the context. But what was was the reaction of the denizens of A-7. A couple hundred had gathered at the gates of the military compound, demanding they be freed. It hadn't gone down very well; quickly the camp had erupted. Within short notice, similar events repeated elsewhere, in A-3, A-9 and without a doubt A-6. At the very moment, crowds were gathering in A-11 and A-10.

Who could be behind this? Verasha hadn't told them anything. There were other rebel groups, but none had the ability to cause such widespread mayhem. What should they do now? This could only help them, couldn't it?

While they were pondering these questions, a radio channel opened. It was unknown.

"Is this commander aKrajam?" asked a shaky voice.

"Yes, that's me. Who are you? Are you behind what's going on in the camp?"

"I am called Lènga Kisaan (Hope). I suppose you could say that. I am contacting you in the name of the Grey Shroud."

"The Grey Shroud? But you were destroyed with A-1!" exclaimed Great Expectations. It was the name of the main resistance group behind the only major uprising since the resettlement on Cindorya, in 2052. It had overrun A-1, the main camp and de facto capital of the valley of Yasheron. But the Cindorayi armed forces had gotten the better of it, and had reduced the entire camp to smoking rubbles, executing practically all of its former inhabitants. It then built A-11 right across from the river from A-1, leaving the ruins for all to see. The repression had been tremendously harsh. On top of the 17,000 Adanaya who had died in A-1, thousands more had 'vanished' in the remaining camps.

"We were nearly wiped out, but we survived. We reformed."

Great Expectations was thrilled to hear this good news, but also felt a sense of unease. "I am glad to hear that. But what do you want?"

"We need your help. We both want to free our kin. We have little time to do so. The PRC's forces are marching towards the valley. We need to act before they get here. We can't afford to wait for Cindorayi's mercy, however good their professed intentions are. We know your plan."

"How...!" Great Expectations was taken aback. The rebellion had been infiltrated at the highest level, and they didn't even know of the continued existence of this organization!

"We'll talk about this later. We had to keep things as secret as possible. Couldn't risk the same thing as in A-1."

"Alright." begrudgingly said Great Expectations.

"You can't capture A-11 in normal circumstances. We can provide you with the abnormal circumstances in which you can."



It was only a matter of time now. The Cindorayi troops had lost control of most of A-11, or what was left of it. In the chaos of the past two days, a bunch of ragtag rebels had descended from the mountains and encircled the central command. The inner wall was breached in numerous sections, but for the time being, the Adanaya rebels, were kept at bay.

General Rogon was staring out the window. The snow storm had not abated since the events of late December. Down in the valley, it was uncommon enough for it to snow, due to the warm microclimate. Such a blizzard had simply never been witnessed since colonization had begun. It gave the fighting a surreal atmosphere. The blown-up buildings were now buried under a good meter of snow. The camp seemed to be made up of thousands of little white mounds. The shells caused a momentary commotion; then, all of a sudden, everything returned to its former stillness.

Sergeant Arsov entered the room and saluted. "General, we have bad news. The frontline has been breached at Velchin. The secessionists will soon be at the gates."

"Thank you, sergeant. You may resume duty."

"Yes, general." He departed.

Rogon turned towards Major Karika. "The sooner the better. We just need to hold on until then."

"Those savages will pay for it." she sneered. "We can't let them savour victory. Whatever happens, the emperor will soon put an end to this rebellion. And all who disobeyed will suffer dearly."

They returned to their still contemplation. Whatever their words, they were both exceedingly worried. It was just a pose. The general continously tapped his fingers on the window sill.

A detonation shook the building. The general rushed outside.

"What's going on?" he yelled in the corridor. An aide de camp quickly came to him. "There is a breach at level -3. We are stil evaluating how many intruders have entered the building."

"The building is breached! Prepare for combat! Join your units!" ordered the general. Soon would not be soon enough.

Several others buildings shook in the area.

Thanks to infitrated agents, the rebel troops had found their way around the network of underground tunnels undetected.

The Cindorayi fought well, but they were quickly overwhelmed, less by the rebel troops themselves than by the mass of hastily armed inhabitants of the camp, who were pouring in through the breaches in the wall. Communications within the central command had broken down.

"This is general Rogon, speaking to all units. I order you to cease resistance and to surrender. Follow the orders of the enemy troops and you will not be harmed. You fought well, soldiers." Rogon cut the radio and turned towards his captors. There was Tunye kam Gaya (Endless Ascent), leader of the Grey Shroud, and Great Expectations. Outside the compound, gunshots slowly stopped.

"We won't harm you." said Endless Ascent. "We need you."

"And why is that?"

"We need to judge you for your crimes against the Adanaya and against your own people." He ordered him to be carried away.

Endless Ascent and Great Expectations remained where they were for a couple minutes. They walked out on the balcony. The freezing wind hit their faces like a whip. It was evening now, and towards the south, the blizzard was clearing somewhat. A few weak sunrays reached them from behind the peaks.

"Usan wa biru mènt nemwe ase" (The mountains seem different tonight), said Great Expectations tersely. "They aren't the walls of our prison anymore. They're the walls of our home now." Endless Ascent nodded. After a while, they returned to their duties.

Outside the room, Endless Ascent was stopped by one of their agents. "Can I do what I was promised?"

"Yes, you may. She would've been sentenced anyway. We owe it to you for getting us in." As Endless Ascent walked out, they shook something off of their hands.

In a room with a long wall-to-wall window, a Cindorayi was bound to the chair. An Adanaya entered.

"Officer Haraja, I'm glad you survived." said Unconstrained Equilibrium.

She replied nothing.

"You don't have anything to tell me. I know everything you know. There's just one last thing I'd like to tell you."

She stared at him emotionless.

"Simple Forces lied to you. Unknowingly, admittedly. There is no such person as A dream was made. Your searches would have led nowhere. I would know, since that was my codename."

She frowned.

"It'll be quick. Please look at me."

Claustrophobic tunnels. Stale air. Dense humidity. One sweated when he simply moved. Among the cacophonous noise it was difficult to hear one so much as think. Drill hammers thundered against hard granite walls, breaking free and drilling out veins of metals and ores embedded deep underground. Operating at nearly a mile underground, ranks of miners operated in space at a premium, closely drilling into the walls to break free rock and minerals. The minerals then would then fall onto, or be shoveled onto a conveyor belt that carried the rock far and away back to the surface, where it would be separated and processed as marketable ore for the refineries on the coast or abroad.

Despite the natural noise – jacks hammering like machine gun lightning, the cries and ringing of heavy lifting machines, the rattle of the conveyors – someone somewhere in the tunnels had set up a radio that blasted a loud raucous music with electrical amplification. The singer shouted over the heavy twangs and moans of guitars and drums that sang so deep that even through the limitations of speakers made the chest bounce harder than with a machine tool in hand.

With all the noise, to communicate through word of mouth was hard to do, and much that needed to be said was done through hand signals and gestures. Team members turning to and placing a hand on their partners and flagging something with motions of the palm and finger. It would be understood, and there's be a nod, shake of the head, or even a shrug.

The miners in these deep tunnels were assembled in teams and because of the heat wore close to nothing but the bare essentials. Heavy soot and dust choked boots, denim jeans that were packed with rock dust, salt, oil, sweat, and grease, and hard hats to protect from any falling debris. Some of them wore gloves, others did not. The teams were of mixed races, but mostly dominated by Alternatives, the vast total of humans ended up serving as supervisors or specialists in the teams, making sure the line kept moving and keeping the pressure on to keep digging. A brief break would come on when a great faded yellow machine would rumble down a narrow tunnel forcing many of the man-animals to press tight against the walls as a heavy bit would be pummeled into stubborn stone to break it up, or to remove an excess load of refuse left on the ground, clearly of no value save to be used as gravel.

As the machine left, a short mongoose hobbled in on quick steps, pushing ahead of him a metal cart with a large plastic tank. Taking a hose wound up against its side he went from miner to the miner tapping them on the shoulder. As they turned to see who it was they noticed him and his truck and happily opened their mouths for the hose to be turned on their faces sprayed with water. From miner to miner he went, distributing as much water as they thought they'd need for another fifteen minutes. As each miner in the branch was watered, he quickly picked up and left through the chaos.

The teams kept drilling, the noise as it had been. The smell of sweat and oil strung and bitter in the air, a salty alkaline smell of industry and hard labor. A metallic clang and snap went unnoticed as a miner's bit struck something and the drill head exploding clear to the drills impact mechanism. “Ay fuck you fucking jizzbiter cunt!” screamed its handler to a world made deaf by its own racket. He was a large wolfish beast, well over six foot and barely big enough to stand in these tunnels. He had been in the mines for years, far longer than most and his skin and fur was permanently stained a deep black and gray from the hard wages earned deep underground. He hissed and grumbled angrily to himself and kneeled over the broken machine he had thrown to the ground. Broken and twisted fragments lay haphazardly across the ground and embedded even in the hot sweating stone around the hole he was drilling out.

He was a hard beast, not only stained he was scarred and twisted from the work and his triangular snout was broken and twisted in several locations from where rocks had fallen and punches thrown to break his nose in several ways. An old mine blast had charred and boiled the left-side of his face and his lips there were permanently pulled up in a sneer exposing long sharp yellowing teeth. His fingers as well had been broken and thickened with callouses from the pick and shovel and they took up the broken machine from the ground. While it was scorchingly hot around the bit he painlessly pocked and spun it in his hands inspecting the damage wrought on it.

He glowered down. The bit had been not just broken, but shattered. The metal too had been mushroomed from the force of the freshly broken shaft impacting against rock several more times before he had noticed. Oh well, all the same. This happened many times. Taking it back up in his hands he stepped back to his supervisor and called in his attention. Holding up the impact drill he pointed out the broken bit and the fat burly man that supervised him nodded and stepped away. He came back a half a moment later with another and quickly the old wolf miner detached the old bit and reinstalled the old one. It thundered and rattled as he fired it back up and he lunged at the wall again. Moments later, after breaking through stone the bit exploded a second time and he fell forward cussing, “Ya sick pissa assblowin' cocksucker!” he swore angrily, distraught and shocked at his misfortune. He threw the drill against the ground and began picking at the rock with his fingers.

What the fuck was he hitting, he thought to himself. He scratched and picked at the loose rocks and even picked out the embedded shards of metal jammed into the rock, but saw nothing that looked unusual. In the harsh halogen light that beamed in from his back he thought he saw what might have been the shine of a fresh vein of ore but he couldn't be certain.

But he needed another bit. Getting his supervisor's attention again he showed him the broken drill, and through signals began recounting the piss-poor luck he had with his particular wall. The supervisor didn't believe him, but was soon convinced to at least look. With a flash light and a small rock hammer and chisel they went to the wall and began working, clearing aside the worthless rock and shining a light on the dull gray-black metal underneath.

Out of curiosity, the supervisor provided the wolf with a new bit and had him drill at the shiny metal where he had been drilling. After a few strikes, the bit exploded and the machine was thrown against the wall. By now several of the nearby miners had noticed and began looking over to what was going on, dropping their drills and the audible chaos subsided.

They began moving over to the supervisor and the wolf, crouching down on their haunches to look at the hole that ended so suddenly, as illuminated by the small pocket flashlight in the supervisor's hand. There was uncertain and deaf mutterings of uncertainty as they looked at what mystery they had found. Packing away the flashlight the supervisor pulled out his tablet and punched in a short message and sent it. Seconds after he made out a second shorter one and PDAs in all the miner's pockets vibrated and work trickled to a stop and the machines shut off as no more ore came up. Even the radio was turned down to a faint murmur as everyone came over.

“Whadda'we got chief?” asked a rat, removing his ear plugs as he spoke.

“Hard to say, lads.” the supervisor said, “We're going to stop working for fifteen. Gotta stubborn turtle to move.”

The crews nodded and began shuffling off back up the shaft, their tools in tow. Coming the other way a small specialist team of explosives experts came down with their heads low. Hard hats with lanterns glowing in the dusty murk of the tunnel as they hulled large cases of explosives down with them.

As they came down one of them stopped and looked around, “How deep are we?” he asked.

“About two kilometers.” the supervisor said. The specialist nodded, “How's the bone?”

“Hard granite, packed in layers. Sand or some shit between here.”

The specialist again nodded, and thought. Taking out a personal tablet he ran some notes and spoke with the supervisor about certain statistical specifics. “We might have a big bump. Can you and your diggers get at least five-hundred meters up?” he asked, “We're going to evacuate this level.”

“Is it going to be that big?” the supervisor asked. The explosives specialist shrugged.

“It might be, but I don't want to drop anything on anyone. Even alties.”

The supervisor nodded, and walked away. A evacuation order was given to the miners on that level, and there was a general exodus to the elevators as hundreds made their way to the main and secondary shafts. On the whole, it was fifteen minutes to get started and everything fell largely silent. Ten minutes later, and the demolition team had joined them at the mid-level shafts, among the red and orange rocks. At computers they began the work in priming and setting their charges and began their count down to three.

At three, ears were plugged and mouths opened as the signal was given and there was a deep thumping shake that rattled the entire tunnels, following by a rumbling rolling roar that coughed up through the elevators thick clouds of smoke and dust that filled every passage it could, spreading out and filling in to settle. The pressure of the blast was like a full body squeeze by the hand of god and many of the miners felt their breath escape them. As the explosion settled they gasped for breath and coughed on the smoke. The demolition men looked at each other and nodded. The power to the elevators was tested, and an empty platform was sent down. When it stopped it was summoned back in working order. It was dusty and littered with small rocks. But it could move.

One by one and orderly the platform was filled and the teams went back under the earth. First among them the wolf, his team, and supervisor. As the chains and chords of the elevator rattled in the air they felt the air grow warm again. But then not become simply warmer, but to go beyond until it got hot. Barely a burning hot, but an uncomfortable oven heat.

It grew until it felt it was to become insufferable. Then everyone began feeling sick. Alongside the wolf a thin athletically built man started panting heavily and heaving as he turned and leaned forward against the elevator. He coughed and cried, before finally vomiting. The sight made the wolf miner sick as well, but he was feeling something too. A powerful all-body discomfort. His gut turned in on itself. His skin felt it was crawling. As he collapsed to his knees he even watched the fur on his arm fall off. His brain and eyes burned as a headache set on quickly and rapidly, fading between an acute skull splitting pain to a dull throb. His vision blurred as he watched the rest of the miners on the platform succumb to the same effects, falling over moaning, vomiting, and shitting themselves. They started passing out, hair and skin boiling off.

As the elevator hit the ground, there was no one on the platform alive to register it had. It was kept there for a moment, giving the dead time to leave before it rattled back up.

4th Feb. 2057, 0730hrs (New Pitam City, Ernst Brandt)

After meeting with the Kor representative last month, Ernst felt that his advances and attempts to broaden trade between the two countries fell on deaf ears. So needlessly to say when during his breakfast a messenger appeared and informed him that the officials were willing to talk about possible trade opportunities. He was very intrigued as to what was occuring in the capital to change their stance. It then occurred to him that he should probably talk to the Emperor before he met with the diplomats.
“Tell them that i shall be over in an hour, I need to make a call.” he informed the messenger. And then promptly sent him on his way.

Ernst “Your highness, Apologies for waking you up, but i have received word that the Union of Kor is willing to start talking about trade. Is there anything in particular that i should bring to their attention?”
Wolfgang “No worries Ernst i was just doing some paperwork.” the Emperor gestures to the stacks of paper surrounding him “Just inform them of our good intentions, and let them know we are willing to assist them in anyway necessary with their ambitions in space. Oh and for Lotte’s sake man stop calling me emperor. We’ve known each other for the past 60 years!”
Ernst “Sorry Wolfgang it’s habit.” he says with a hint of a chuckle “but I will certainly let them know.”
Wolfgang “Alright old friend, let me know how negotiations go. I need to go brief the VEA on the Kobold visitors we shall be having soon.”
Ernst “Goodbye Sir.” he said as the Emperor ended the call.

Upon Ernst’s arrival at the city hall he was escorted to one of the meeting rooms. This time he noted that the room had two guards posted outside. Inside the room was heavily decorated with chitanite, and other more lavish furnishings than other meeting rooms. A beautiful rug covered most of the floor, the walls were covered in chitanite patterns and beautiful paintings of the ocean. There was a large bay window looking out on what must be one of the few gardens in the city. Ernst walked around the room to grasp the minute detail in each design. After a few minutes of observing the door opened, and in walked a woman he had never seen before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Pitam City 3rd Feb. 2057, 2300hrs

It had been late at night when Naki emergency phone started ringing. She wasn't expecting it to be the High King though, sure she was one of the diplomats that could speak several foreign languages thus negating her need for a interpreter greatly but it was really something else to hear the High King over the phone. The High King after all rarely left the capital besides a once a year tour of the Tari major cities.
Van'kor "Good you are up, I have much to discuss."
Naki "What is it High King?"
Van'kor "Please call me Van'kor, as our talks will easily go into the early morning."
Naki "Yes High- Van'kor."
Van'kor "As you know have been a series of launches into space, you are tasked with acquiring trade. Primary goal usual but you are to put a emphasis on resources. Slip in some talks of space and if the bait is taken you are to initiate the talks about acquiring a partner in space. This is no small task, I can call another diplomat but I value your skills as a interpreter could cause issues."
Naki "I gladly except!"
Van'kor "Good now into the details."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Pitam City 4th Feb 2057. 0830hrs.

Naki had been promised position of Head Diplomat which was still vacant from Void War as the previous had died in one of nuked Aldabetan Cities. She had been sure to prepare the room accordingly having some refreshments and snacks as she expected the finer details of the talk would take long. One of the nicest meeting rooms that was mainly only used to impress. It was good Naki had been trained to keep a straight face while she walked with Ernst to the room as the nervousness since talks with High King had not gone away.
Naki "I can assure you that today's talks will be far more fruitful than previous."

Ernst “I would hope so ma’am. Considering my previous attempts at talks have been unsuccessful.”

Naki "Previously talks were hampered by certain policies that were in effect. Those policies have since been suspended so today will be the day. Many changes are happening in the world and space."

Ernst “Well then, I’m most curious to see what you have to say in both regards.”

Naki “Very well, as you know the Union of Kor has expended a great deal of resources lately. I’m sure news travels fast. First though is the usual resource needs such as food but are willing to expand towards other resources. The space launches really are a strain. Require a great deal thus have facilitated the need for trade.”

Ernst “I’m sure that my empire would be willing to send over some of our resource production, and of course any extra food we have to spare. However our empire is most interested in your space ambitions currently, and may be willing to assist you in reaching them.”

Naki “Space? Ah it is good to hear you are interested in assisting us with that. Truth be told the Union of Kor lacks the ability to finish this project of ours in a timely fashion. We will have the documents brought so you can look them over first. Any assistance would be of great help.”

Ernst “Well then let’s look at these documents….”

Ernst and Naki continued to talk for a couple of hours about various concerns both countries had. The talks would also turn heavily into discussing the information about the Union of Kor space project. Though mostly with checking the documents provided by Naki that listed various specifications and how to go about in future schedules would need to be made for transferring of information and several tari engineers to help bring the Wolfen up to speed as schematic information was primarily hard copy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

10th February 2057, 0900 (Spaceport, Princess Lucina)

The Vaspenian Empire’s space port is located in the mountain range to the south of Venris, amongst some of the highest peaks in the range. The space port was once your average air force base that was home to the Empire’s long range bomber command, and ICBM silos. Both of which have been relocated to other bases.



On the base there are a few workshops, for the construction of spacecraft to be launched. Princess Lucina is standing with the head engineer Evrard Sendler. He stands five foot eight inches tall, and while looking rather portly his arms are muscular and well tanned from the sun. These two are quite the sight as they stand on the scaffold looking into the hangar at the new habitation extension for the orbital command. “Do you think we can get this launched by the end of the month?” said Lucina as she, six foot five inches, towers over him.

“I should certainly hope so ma’am. It’s almost 90% complete right now.” replied Evrard.

“Good” She nods her head in thought, “This extension of the station is badly needed before we can progress on anything else. What is the status on the other additions for the station?”

“The scientific module is almost complete as well. However the new reactor, and shielding modules are still behind.”

“And the status of the new corvette hulls?”

“They are coming along on schedule, but we need more time to incorporate some of the new additions to their hulls. We will also be sending up updates for the ones already in orbit.”

The Princess Nods and thinks to herself for a moment. “Good then we should be ready for the next big undertaking.”

She pulls Evrard into his office from the scaffolding, and pulls out a large roll of paper from her bag. She unrolls the blueprints, and gestures to them.

“Do you think you could accomplish this?”

Evrard looks startled, he wasn’t expecting the Princess to come up with a project of this magnitude.



“This is a Shipyard, yes?” He asks looking a little dazed.

“Yes” replies the Princess

He studies the plans for a minute, occasionally using measuring tools to help him, and eventually says: “I think based on the size of this station, that it would be workable with our current capabilities. But it will take 2-3 years possibly even 4 years to build this given how our talks with the Union are going.” he replies.

“Then once the current tasks are completed, i’d like to you begin work on this.” said the Princess as she made to leave.

“Yes your highness” He said, as he once again looked at the plans.

Pokash
Nobash, the Dry Season
February 4th, 2057

"DEATH TO VELUCA!"

"AVENGE BIG SPACE!"

"BLOOOOD ON THE MOUNTAINTOOOPS!"

Big Man Jash oozed with pleasure and other things as he watched the shouting troops struggle through the mire below. A major commander of the military branch of Pokash (incidentally, the country's only branch), Big Man Jash had no greater joy in life than that what he drained, mosquito-like, from the veins of a nation engaged in the delicate dance of war. He loved the fighting. He loved the killing. He loved the mind-numbing logistics of coordinating millions of weary troops. In fact, he liked it all so much that he felt he could sing. Big Man Jash waltzed elegantly over the bodies of his gasping subordinates and belched out his favorite dirge, and within minutes the army struggling below him took up the call with booming pride:



As Big Man Jash completed the final pirouette, he let loose a primal roar that was soon taken up by the entire company of hatalmawsh warriors, energizing the hairy tripods into a berserker sprint across the last few miles of knee-deep muck. The big man knew that this first assault was a mere formality in the big scheme of things (which was his favorite scheme of things). The hatalmawsh suicide rush was tradition; no fashionable war was complete without one. And this assault, Big Man Jash mused with a gleeful grin, was going to result in more hatalmawsh casualties than any other assault in Pokash history. He definitely had a big, shiny medal in his future.

The nation of Pokash had been starved for war. It had far too many young, athletic, angry hatalmawsh men and women who desperately needed weeding out. A country couldn't survive if it was ruled by the small; that's why all those other nations needed to rely on their fancy, glowy, confusing technology to make ends meet. The hatalmawsh were above, or maybe below, such things. And Big Man Jash was going to make sure that the whole world knew it - starting with the Greater Union of Veluca. Pokash officials, particularly the largest and slimiest men for some reason, had wasted little time last month in letting fly with accusations pertaining to the spectacular, and completely anticipated, failure of their most recent satellite launch. Big Man Jash didn't possess the neurons necessary to wonder if Veluca was actually responsible for the explosion. All he wanted was to engage once more in that tiring, monotonous, spontaneously and intricately terrifying, and above all beautiful dance of organized warfare. First, he would conquer Veluca; this was the campaign Big Man Jash needed to secure his absolute dominion over the Big Men of Pokash, and once it was over, he knew no one would dare question his next move: Systematic domination of the entire globe. And then the solar system, if those damn satellites would stop exploding. And then the galaxy - and then, perhaps, the past and future, for Big Man Jash had seen a science fiction book once and had thought the pictures were very interesting.

A cry rose from the front of the line - the lead scouts must have sighted the Velucan border! Big Man Jash felt the blood boil in his veins, aching for the glorious, glamorous game of life and death, itching to be pumped by a three-chambered heart into the limb that struck each killing blow, crying out for release from a mortal wound. The hatalmawsh commander stood up on his rear leg and let out a ferocious battle cry - the hatalmawsh 'war language,' composed of grunts, shouts, and hisses, is arguably more developed than their actual language - a fearsome howl which roughly translated to "Kill all of those damn whoever lives on the other side of these mountains and then make the survivors burn their houses down around them." Big Man Jash's army took up the furious shout as one and broke into a sprint as they whirled their sharpened logs and wooden shields and flailing limbs to fall upon the Velucan border with a charge to rival Custer's own...

Echoes sounded in the marble hall as the magistrate walked ahead, his expression gaunt and stoney-eyed. Tucked under his arm was his tablet, the other arm swung free to the timing of his steps. His gray, striped suit was immaculately pressed and it moved without showing any sign of crease or fold. The warm afternoon sun shone through high windows.

It was not a terribly long walk, only a few feet to where he was going from whence he came in the prime minister's estate on the outskirts of the capital. Veering from his straight course he walked to the side to a plain set of doors and opened them without ceremony, letting them close behind him.

“Good day.” the magistrate said in a low voice as he walked into the room. A wall of windows dominated the other side, allowing an unhindered view into the palm strewn garden below the office and the distant city of Milbury beyond it. The man of the hour sat leaning in a swiveling chair, his feet resting against an ottoman pulled up to the window. In the man's hand a glass of liquor hung delicately from thick meaty fingers.

“Oh?” the man in the seat said, turning stiffly about, “Oh it's you Erwin. How's the biters?” he asked conversationally.

“Matilda's taken them to the beach. Kimberly is at home with the nan, she's feeling a little under the rains.”

“Oh, what a shame.” the prime minister said with a sigh. He lowered his legs and rose from his seat, pressing the breast of his suit with a liver-spotted hand. He left the glass of liquor down on the arm of the chair and hobbled around to Magistrate Erwin.

Prime Minister Martin Handlehorn was not a particularly grand man. He had hardly been one when he assumed the office of prime minister. He was awkwardly built, with a face that suggested he be kept at a distance from the cameras with a fat double chin and large elephantine ears. He was a boarish man to look at, made all the more worse for him by small narrow-set eyes and a bulbous upturned nose. Even in those days his nickname was The Boar, and in the intervening years he had taken the nickname closer to heart and had not only grown a graying beard but become fatter and far less coordinated on his feet than any normal man. He had come to prefer sitting over standing, and resting his hand on the large black wood desk at the center of the office he leaned against it, taking the strain of his girth against his ankles off a little.

“Well than chap, what's the gossip?” Martin Handlehorn asked in his gruff voice, “Is it about that mine?”

“Yes, preliminary information has come out after the initial news of the disaster came up.” Erwin began, taking his tablet out of the pit of his arm and turning it on. Leaning against the desk he let himself sit as the handheld computer booted up, “Before you ask, the Ministry of the Interior sent orders to immediately deploy a risk assessment team to see how bad it is.”

“Good, good. Splendid good.” said Martin. He sounded happy, but there was an underlying sense of subdued fear and concern at the incident that had happened in Central Auslassia.

With a ring the tablet was fully booted after a minute and Erwin moved ahead with calling up the early assessment files.

“So the good news is that any wide-spread threat posed by the mining accident is restrained to the immediate.” Erwin said in a conciliatory tone, “It's trapped almost a mile down under rock, and none of the miners are reporting radiation at ground level or even half way down to it. But for safety they haven't gone back into the mine.” he explained.

“Good, splendid good.” Martin repeated.

“We're not in clear water though, quarterly extraction reports from the mine have the South Emmil mine as being the third highest producing facility for essential industrial materials in the country, and the initial news of the disaster has set off investors like a hive of wasps.” Erwin continued, swiping with his fingers from digitized paperwork to economic forecasts, “Market shares in the holding company have dropped like a dingo's pup and not into a soft bed. Already, forecasted energy prices in the fusion field are predicted to raise by 13% as a result of new unrefined walzidium for export or domestic use; we are not expected to see the effects of this for the next six months however, but long term prospects are not looking good.”

“Bloody hell.” said Martin.

“Exactly.” Erwin replied, “We're in crock shit. To make matters worse the National Union of Mine Workers is pressing the government to assist many of the families with funerary costs. One-hundred fifty eight miners died as direct exposure to an unknown level of radiation and there's concern that some four-hundred more may have been exposed to an unknown level of low-level radiation from the initial blast.”

“That's not our responsibility.” Martin said dismissively, “If those back breakers didn't have a life insurance plan set up, then it's not in our department to intervene. I'm not going to drown this government in charity, not like the last administration. Fucking bleeding hearts. What else, what's next?”

“Nothing much, not until the assessment teams get there.” Erwin acknowledged, “A public statement is of course expected. I've had to deflect early requests from early pencil shanks probing for some material, an official statement from the government: something.”

“I'll get on that then. It won't be too terribly heard.”

“You going to script, Martin?”

Martin nodded, “We are deeply saddened.” he began in a dramatic wavering falsetto voice, “Of the incident we have witnessed today in South Emmil. Our administration will work tirelessly to determine the nature of what transpired, and forth-rightly repair the lives and damages that has occurred as a result. We are a nation of strong leaders, and incidents such as these do not diminish our resolve.”

He stopped, and held out his arms. “That's it.”

“Care if I give that to them now?” asked Erwin.

“If you think it works, then please do.” Martin replied, “I don't need to be pricked with too many questions about it. Give them what they need to go away and don't offer anything else. Not until we have answers. The appropriate office then will handle it from there.”

“Understood. By the way, will you be available for crocket tomorrow evening?”

“I don't play sports, you know that.”

“There'll be barbie and beer.”

“I'll be there.”

February 2057
Union of Kor


Underground Military Research Facility
Medical Studies Wing - Prosthetic Exercise Section
Several days had passed since General Hoj had gotten his prosthetic arm. It had been a good few days, the chitanite fist was very intimidating. After getting annoyed in a recent meeting Hoj had crushed a metal cup with his new hand which had spawned some rumors. Rumors about General Hoj metal fist were popular over some civilian radio channels but were no real ways to prove the rumor. Walking up with a camera to snap a picture of General would easily get someone a broken arm.
General Hoj was in a exercise room within the facility along with the good doctor. Buvi sat on a bench with a clipboard and generals jacket next to her. Currently was just asking questions as Hoj operated one of the exercise machines.

Buvi "No problems? Any issues?"
Hoj "Well it does take some to get used to. Just a little weird to have no feeling."
Buvi "Feeling? Silly, that technology is simply beyond our scope. I am in charge of progress, now back to questions."

Simple excercises to ensure that the new arm was working correctly and the general would need to keep up his physical fitness so arm never gets too much stronger then his natural arm. Accidents could occur if Hoj were to overestimate his strength if he were to rely on mechanical arm entirely.

Medical Studies Wing - Genetic Study Section
In another section of medical studies wing of facility was those who experimented and studied the dna of tari. A advantage to tari hatching from eggs were one could open up the eggs to apply chemicals to change what genes expressed themselves then observe how that effected development. However was a rule that none were allowed to break and that was hatching experimented on eggs was prohibited. A odd rule however put in place because the deformed offspring would be priest caste but artificial.

Fes "Rules are simply that rules. for true progress I will simply change these rules."
Guv "Sir I support your goals to progress."
Fes "Good, Guv you have been a great assistant. Now I make history!"

The rivalry between the two branches of medical studies wing of facility had been a long term rivalry. Recently though the prosthetic department had been gaining a lot more ground. Head of genetic study department Doctor Fes a elderly flat faced Tari that had turned 137 recently. Despite his age Fes was full of energy and had brought his loyal assistant Guve also a flat face to a section of facility that was still mine.

Fes "The first experiment towards a new age! You hear that Guve? I will be the greatest scientific mind of our age!"
Guv "Of course sir."

The section of mine yet to be expanded to had a lot of equipment moved over. Doctor Fes had taken several treated eggs to experiment with trying to create a midpoint between the flat face and long face tari. Naturally flat face genetics were very dominant so would never see any long face traits show in offspring normally except for the deformed of priest caste. By studying different chemical effect on gene expression Fes had created a batch of three eggs that are if his research holds true create a in between of flat face and long face.

Fes "The future will be mine!"
Guv "I have taken all precautions sir so we are not caught."
Fes "Good, I would not like to be under house arrest... again."

Orbital Station Kor-1
Radios had been buzzing aboard the now old orbital station Kor-1. Chief Scientist Yor was busy packing up research data into contains to load onto the reentry capsule that will launch from the old metal coffin of a station.

Grik "Are we to vent the atmosphere after getting into reentry capsule?"
Yor "No, just taking the data of research with us."
Grik "Though orders are to abandon the station."
Yor "Correct though were to ensure equipment to be set on it to act as simply radio signal booster."
Grik "A waste of equipment."
Yor "Station old, not many useful experiments but our data on chitanite in space will prove useful."

With the sun barely over the horizon and great pink and orange bands painting the horizon, heralding the coming dawn two figures strolled across a barren landscape. Following a dirt road they walked under the sleepy boughs of gnarled trees. A man and an alternative, silhouetted black against the dawning morning's sky. The desert around them sparkling like diamonds in the virgin light as the cold night frost still blanketed the red and orange earth.

A kilometer down, the early morning lights of Broken Barrows Station were beginning to flick on. Spots of silver light against a background of velvet midnight purple and bands of warm orange. The weather was clear, and there weren't any storms predicted. But more importantly, some equipment had turned up missing.

The pair stepped up to the nearest bungalow, one of several scattered haphazardly about. The ramshackle huts sat dark, the wooden planks unfinished and drained and desiccated by the sun and by weather. The tin roofs sagged and patches of corrugated iron were a rusty red. Out front of each hung displays of glass bottles that sparkled and shone in the early light of an early dawn. Some hung from wire from the awnings, others were tied with robe from the branches of spindly trees. Some had made their own trees from salvaged metal pipe and hung their bottles from them, or stuck them on mouth over plumbing. The range of brands on display ranging in shape from whiskey to cheap wine, gin to beer, moonshine and scotch and fruit brandy. To the two walking up onto the doorstep of one they knew it wasn't so much the inhabitants put their level of drinking on display, for the most part none of the inhabitants here could put down as much as the display as bottles would lead a passerby to suggest.

Roger Weetherby knocked on the front door.

“Fuckin' cunt's prolly' still asleep.” Baro Daro groaned under his breath, “That bender sleeps lik'a chord-a-wood. T'ain't no rappin's gonna wake the shit.”

Roger looked aside at his weasily companion and rolled his eyes. He reached out again and knocked harder. The bungalow was eerily still. “Feckin' told'cha.” Baro Daro insisted, “Watch this.”

The weasel stepped off the porch and slinked about the side of the bungalow. Following him to the edge of the porch Roger leaned off the hand railing watching as the beast man rummaged through a pile of garbage off the side of the house. The alternatives racked his claws through thrown out boxes and useless plastic bottles, pieces of paper and thrown out rinds and bones until finding whatever it was that would please him. Pulling out a open and empty sardine teen he held it tight in his clawed hands and began working at the rolled back lid, prying it off and folding it up.

“Now what's this you're going to do?” Roger asked.

Baro Daro didn't both with a response and stepped back up onto the porch. Taking the now folded piece of metal he shoved it underneath the window and began slicing and sliding it erratically across the sill until he popped the lock and slid the window up on its dried frame. He was snake like as he pulled himself through into the darkened interior of the bungalow.

“Ye followin' or do I gotta open the door for tha' queen?” he said from inside. He looked out from the window and in the faint light his eyes shone. Roger felt his spine go cold at the image.

“Fine, I'll open the door for ya.” he said, and the lock on the door clicked open. Roger followed inside.

It took a moment for the lights to come on as the switch was hit. But after several seconds the incandescent lighting had flickered on showing the sparsely furnished home in a sickly yellow light. Baro Daro stood in a corner crooning over a table of unattended glass bottles. “Not today.” Roger told him, moving to the back of the home. Down a short hallway he stopped at a door and rapped on the scratched unfurnished door.

“Tracker, you bastard. Wake up!” he called out. For once he heard movement on the other side.

“An' lower yer riser you peckin' cunt or get somethin' on. I know how you is with your bitch in there!” Baro Daro called back. “Don't do us a flush.”

“Quit your gabbin'!” a voice shouted angrily from the other side, “It's five hunder. Why are you in my station?”

“I got an early morning job for you. Get out here now!” Roger shouted.

“Really?” a second softer voice said, sleepy and unhappy.

Satisfied his tracker was awake, Roger walked back into the living room and sat down at one of the stiff armchairs in the room.

There was decorating principle or theme in Tracker's home. The furniture was all mismatched, pulled from flea markets or from road side give aways no doubt. He had an abundance of armchairs it seemed however, ranging from sun baked black leather worn out from the elements, being sat in too much and cracked and scratched to thread bare patterned or plain colored upholstered chairs red, blue, green, or an uneasy off-yellow. There was at least a table, as worn and stained from too many cups placed upon it with no coaster. Magazines without covers languished without order under the table.

There was a television set in the corner that looked better off. But somehow Roger doubted Tracker was connected to any cable or broadcasting service. The presence of a video player on top of it at least indicated that he was using it for something not broadcasted.

The living room shared the same space with a kitchen and a motley collection of wrought iron or old aluminum appliances filled the cooking space, where at its center a rust-stained beige-colored sink took center space. The refrigerator looked old and rumbled on and off where it stood, stacks of cans and containers were piled high on top of it.

From the back a small framed figure walked tentatively out. Her hand sparsley covered in a deep chocolate fur she held a bathrobe tight around her. She never looked directly at the guests, but her coyote eyes tentatively looked between the guests that had let themselves in. Her foot falls clicked on the hard unfinished wood floor as she made her way to the fridge. “You want some fetch? Have you eaten yet?” she asked in a low voice.

“Already ate.” Roger said.

“Bacon.” Baro Daro said.

The alternative nodded and opened the door of the fridge. With conscious movements she ruffled through looking for bacon. As she looked Tracker slinked out. The clothes he wore looked well worn and coated in a layer of dust and sand. He rubbed at his face and wiped the sweep away in his eyes. “Oi, so what you blokes want this early in the morn. It's still bloody dark out you daft cunts.” he groaned.

“Some gear's gone missing from the station.” Roger said, “Someone broke into the motor pool and did off with a ute and a couple hundred kilos of processed bird.”

“If it's a damn bingle your chasing than you don't need me.” Tracker said.

“You daft bastard, you just don't wanna 'cuz your shaggin' some new sack?” Baro Daro sneered, laughing sharply as he licked his lips and leaned over to get a better look at the young altie girl now at the stove. A pan full of bacon sizzling heartily, the cool morning air filling with the greasy smile.

Tracker harumphed. “Say 'bout, how much shorter is she than you; in cakes? Oh, half? Gotta head fulla hair.” Baro Daro laughed, “Can't say much 'bout me wife but it's gotta make her soft under the sheets.” he winked.

“Fuck off with yer gabber, cunt.” Tracker said under his breath, “You're lucky it's early.” Baro Daro laughed.

“You're not on the hops.” Roger commented, pointing about the room, “I figure you'd enjoy the money. Besides, the more combing the bush the faster this is tied up. Bonus if it's done in a couple days.”

Tracker sighed, “Right, I'll come get th' rove back.”

“You still want that bacon?” the coyot girl asked from the stove.

“Take it t' go, deg.” Baro Daro said, standing up. She watched him from the corner of her eyes as he walked to the door. The mongoose stopped short of leaving, looking down at a table set alongside the door. “Oi, Tracka' where'd get the leaf?” he asked, holding up a pamphlet.

“Some batty bloke tried t' sell me into some cult last night.”

“Cunts're out again?” Baro Daro said, turning the pamphlet over in his hand.

“Blokes and sass-givers!” he read out, “Th' era of dreams comes again! It is seen! All hair naked oafs and altie shall walk the fuckin' clouds of whatever and his oldiers and shiet. Ass-cension is coming!” Baro Daro laughed, “Got a leaf like this tacked to my door.”

The computer screen flickered as the robot rolled down the corridor of rock. Debris and untouched machines littered the passage, the only light being what shown out of the remote piloted drone as it inched along. On the terminals next to the pilot's controls diagrams and readouts measured various atmospheric conditions. The humidity and radioactivity were high, however neither sufficient to damage the robot. For the time being, the increased level of radiation had an irritating effect on the live-feed, indiscriminately flickering the screen and filling the live-feed back with a soft static. It was not much to make anything inoperable, but it cast a feeling of uncertainty on the crew as they moved ahead.

Turning a corner the robot's cameras looked on the corridor where the blast had occurred. In the humid air of the cavern a soft blue glow enveloped the cavern, emanating from a side tunnel. There was some murmuring at the control center. The pilots pointing out in awe the radioactive phenomenon. The conditions were plainly obvious: the radioactive source was active in humid conditions underground. The humidity itself was enough that the suspended particles of water were interacting with the direct contact with radioactive waves that they were lighting up.

The robot progressed and went down the passage. At the very end a large fissure had been opened in the wall. Beyond a solid blue light bathed out and the additional intermingling of further passages and chambers beyond. There was awe at the control center as they went ahead. Never before had anyone seen anything like it, and as the drone approached the opening there was excited chatter. What lay beyond wasn't simply a natural cavern, another chamber eroded away by centuries or a millennia of the dissolution of limestone by water, but something wholly different.

At the edge of the opening the robot's camera looked down at a chasm of pipes, ventilation, conduit and catwalks. A great pool of water filled the bottom and the sensors read sharp rises in all areas. Radiation spiked violently, ebbed suddenly, only to erupt again in a great explosion. The live feed repeatedly ebbed from absolute static back to a hazy if clear screen. There was shock and awe as the men at the controls looked on and saw the industrial chasm opened to them. Who would have believed that thousands of meters below them there was something such as this buried there. There was excited talk of calling in for more gear to scout the ruins further, rejoinders that the radioactivity was so high, it was unlikely they ever could. Then in the excitement someone hit the joy stick for the robot wrong and the little robot lurched forward to the precipice, swayed back and forth for a little, and plunged down ward.

The men at the controls screamed as the expensive piece of equipment took a final plunge into the radioactive depths, the screen filling with static and flickering violently. Briefly a sign passed by written in a familiar script, but they could only make out “oy”. It splashed down into the water there, and drifted into the radioactive depths with its live-feed full of a blue light. But as the heavy machine turned into the abyss its cameras passed by to look at a set of violently blue glowing rods deep in the water. And the radioactivity killed it.

Somewhere deep in the chasm, a system activated.

---

At 299,792,458m/s a beam of energy erupted from the ground roughly near the mine. The thunderous clap it produced as it broke through thousands of kilometers of packed rock and sand in a single punch was enough to send tremors rumbling across a wide area. At the coast an earthquake measuring a 5.4 was recorded sending geological experts into a puzzle. But closer to where the beam had come the energy was far more absolute, though no one had bothered to measure it. There was such a force that rocked the ground that it felt as if the sand and dirt all around was going to rapidly liquify. And it was very close to being so, loosening so much that standing structures were absorbed down into the ground. The entrance to the mind itself collapsed, trapping some eight-hundred miners who had gone in to work the least dangerous parts of the mine and to work on meeting some level of production quota. Nearby several houses collapsed killing several, and the tent the robotic survey crews had set up in folded and fell down on top of the survey men, trapping them under disorienting fabric and bruising more than a few heads from falling metal framework.

Traveling through space, the yellow beam of energy interrupted space operations and vaporized one freighter in the beam's way. Observers noted the suddenness of its appearance, like a flash of halogenic light that appeared in a single stretch of space before crackling out of existence as quickly as it had come, leaving no trace. But all of this was much slower than the beam was traveling, and by the time all this had been done it had reached its final destination at the edge of the orbital system where in a silent crack it erupted in a blooming cloud of golden roses that spread out like a nebulae in miniature at a distance, the light of which was so strong that back in the orbit of Novira its presence was a faint haze in the distance, like shreds of wax paper on a window pane. It persisted there, taking on the second transmission from the thing in the ground, with far less dramatic flair than before. As its job was completed, it though held open the door.

---

“Oy ya bungers get outta ya hampers we got ourselves a ringa.”

“You what, cunt?”

“Tis what I thought but we got a ringer, oy what a ripper of one too!”

“Cor, what the blimey hell is it?”

“Take a look ya shit.”

“Oh, bloody hell. It's the Angle I tell you that much. What she doing?”

“Hella I know. Cor, how long has it been since we've last heard?”

“Blimey, that's a hard doovalacky mate. A year or two, mate?”

“That's a bludger a statement, cunt. Ya missing a few zeroes there me thinks.”

“You troppo, mate? Couldn't be that long. When we leave home?”

“With or without Black Hole time?”

“You what?”

“If you hadn't insisted on surfing the waves around a few black holes, the numbers wouldn't be as big of an issue. But fucking hell ya cunt you hadn't decided on that time keeping wouldn't be such a doozey.”

“You accusing me of wasting all your time on rippin' on a few gnarlies mate?”

“How'd you think the Canberra did so much in so little time?”

“...I thought they were just nerds.”

“Fucking hell. Wake up the others and put on some jocks at least.”