Blue Horde Over Avalon, Part 1
Avalon gets to learn about the customs of their neighbours.An
@Enigmatik & Eventua co-production
When the Blue Horde emerged beneath the horizon of a foreign sun, they were presented with what was perhaps the simplest choice imaginable to a nation of born-and-bred spacers. On the one hand - a vast gas giant, orbit speckled by moons and illuminated by the faint but reassuring sight of high-powered drives burning across the endless darkness of Uzay’s embrace. On the other… a small, terrestrial icy body - barely worth a moon in and of itself, the distant glow of greens and the faint trickle of smoke and steam leaving a barely-present atmosphere confirming that its greatest riches were likely already taken by others.
So it was that the vast majority of the horde checked their transfers and started to burn - first the Boyans, then the Kinships, and after them the flotilla of support vehicles needed for an interstellar operation like the one they were meant to embark on. Soon, those living on and around Bran were met with a very unusual and likely quite unwelcome sight indeed - foreign ships, with foreign weapons, and foreign languages filling the communications wavelengths.
Even an infant could guess at what they were up to. The aerostats, tethered to massive orbital supply ships via a slender umbilical cord. The atmo-divers, with massive remass scoops and even bigger engines, burning almost as much as they could pull out with each risky swing into the giant’s gravity well… And the lurking threat of the largest vessels, railguns and missile launch tubes starkly visible even with their more ornate styling. Really, there was only one word to describe it - colonisation.
And now, a small, isolated Homestead on one of Bran’s smaller, out-of-the-way moons, was learning what it was like to be on the receiving end of such an interaction. For days now the station’s supplies had begun to be choked out - first it was just one delayed shipment, but that was soon joined by another, and another by another. It wasn’t
just the obviously valuable goods they were stopping either - even ice and volatile hauls had dried up ever since these new craft had emerged out into Annwn.
In a small, crowded office that visitors to the docks had often mistaken for some kind of elaborate broom closet, the view of the Crow’s Landing dockyard below was narrowed and contained to just an aged, dirty polymer window. The man in the chair tapped the fingers of his pale, sturdy hand across the records and reports that had been coming in over the past few days.
Inhumanly tall astroworkers, spear-wielding giants, cyborg translators, on behalf of some kind of wannabe feudal lord? A few homesteads had tried shooting back and distress signals had already been on their way, but word was that all contact had already been lost at Elfydd’s Door and distress calls had been coming back from
Avalon itself, though thankfully whatever danger had come to there was brief. But between it all, little news had come back from the navy and none of the merchant fleet vessels in the area had been coming to their defence.
It’s too much news, all of it bad, thought Rhys as the fingers of his left hand moved through the brush of his moustache,
not a fan of that at all.As he followed the signal reports from their monitoring bouys, how they had been drawing steadily closer to their quiet little station, Rhys’s mind wandered to an estimate given by his partner up in the central monitor before he'd left for the morning:
If they come here, we don’t have enough guns for everyone.A beep and a whirr knocked Rhys out of the pounding that had built up in his chest. He turned and raised an eyebrow to see Gangler, one of the station's hobots, standing by the door.
Its’ beeps sounded agitated as it gestured for him to follow with a too-long arm. Rhys let his nerves be channeled into a deeper sigh - tiredness, not nerves - and gave Gangler a tight, grim smile as he went to follow. With the thunk of steel-toe caps against corrugated steel, Rhys walked with a heaviness to his chest, his mind wandering back to the garden at the center of the station – Essme would be playing there, but was she worried? If they came here, what would this mean for her and the other children?
They rounded a corner as he followed Gangler’s rickety form, who suddenly swung out an arm to the right, pointing at where a couple of workers were crowded by a small radio monitor close to the main dock.
“Boss,” spoke up one of the workers who stood to his feet and gave a quick two-fingered salute, “you better hear this. We’re gettin’ a transmission through old Guyver’s privy channel.”
Rhys frowned, but said nothing. Council decisions from even a week ago already felt like a lifetime – he wasn’t going to chew anyone out for ignoring something from decades back.
“The situation, then?”
“The Colhurst’s been taken, and the captain told them where they were headed. Old Guyver’s wife was just letting us know to get ready.”
A pause, followed by a single quiet exclamation:
“...fuck.”
Jetei Boyan of the Blue Horde had been placed into a peculiar position. To move beyond Yulan Station was to take a tremendous leap into the unknown - away from the steady routes laid out by the Yam, beyond even Kök Tengri’s outer hinterlands, and in doing so, relinquish one’s ability to rule properly. Of course the Blue Horde hadn’t
abandoned their great holdings… But here, so many stars away from home, he wasn’t foolish enough to think that things would run smoothly. The way of the Khaganate had always involved a certain decisive level of physicality. Yes, the distances might be vast and all served the Great Khagan, but running a station, a habitat or a fleet couldn’t be done with mere transmissions and idle chatter. A lord had to be seen to be followed - if you hadn’t shared air with a man, drunk from his stockpile, drank the water from his reclamation systems, what bound you to him? Oaths? Phah.
So, Jetei had already anticipated that his territories might be squeezed, the kinships beneath him swayed aside and the clans turned to someone not currently hundreds of lightyears away… But that was alright, because as the station (which his men had reliably informed him was named ‘Crow’s Landing,’ based on their chats with waylaid spacers,) slowly changed from a strange, oddly-coloured and shaped speck into the lines and domes of a habitat, new opportunities had sprung out before him, to be seized if only one had the wherewithal to do so.
“Get me a direct transmission line through to the station,” he rumbled out, his communicators nodding and setting to work. They’d long since tuned their translators to the strange patterns of speech these… ‘Avalonites’ used, so despite its oddly synthetic sound and occasional pop and crackle, the message came through loud and clear.
“Hail, Crow’s Landing. This is Jetei Boyan, Fleet-Master in the Blue Horde, loyal subject of Toqoqan Khan-Khuu and lord of Erleg’s L2 Lagrange Point. We have you besieged and isolated, but as neither of us have broken the bonds of hospitality, we hold no ill-will to you and your people. Concede the victory, and you will be placed under my protection and well-treated for as long as it takes for your rulers to agree upon what comes next.”
There was a long, quiet pause, as the channel returned nothing but static.
Then, just as things would seem to grate, there was the beep of a microphone being activated followed by the sound of a thin, synthetic whirring. For close to a minute the whirring raised and lowered in pitch, as if someone was playing some sort of electronic piano, before at last coming to a stop.
Then a click, as the return transmission ended.
Jetei glanced at one of his communicators with a quizzical expression - in turn, they could only respond with a shrug. “Automated tone to indicate the message is received but not processed? Error in the communication line? Some sort of electronic weapon? My apologies, my liege, but we cannot be certain what this means to these foreigners. We will repeat the hail again.”
Jetei nodded. That only made sense, after all - no telling what strange customs these very strange folk had.
The answer, from such a surprisingly patient response, was yet more synthetic whirring – this time slightly slower.
Sometimes, visitors to Crow’s Landing who Simon would insist on inviting to dinner – ‘We don’t want to be rude all the way out here, do we?’ – would seem surprised when they found out Rhys was on the council.
‘Bit odd to be down in the dockyard as a councilor, surely?’ they’d ask.
This was why Rhys didn’t like to spend time with the council.
“We
must demand they leave. I mean, it’s outrageous! This, this…” a nervous glance from the councillor to his right, to a hastily loaded read out, “Joti Boi Blue or whatever his name is, we… he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with! Let him know the knight-marshalls will be right around the corner any minute now, that’ll show him.”
A thicker voice, feminine, cropped up across the table.
“Are you mad? Who here has even seen a knight-marshall that weren’t just dancing on broadcast or telling the youth about the dangers of drinking too much when you cross a bridge? Whatever the hell’s been going on back on the inner system, no one’s coming to help us out. I say we turn over what he asks and politely just… work with him.”
The nervous drone overseer started to speak up with another point, then another, backwards and forwards. An impasse – Rhys’ least favourite step in a debate.
Idly he held the locket open, of those fifteen years ago when he’d been promoted to upper senior, and of the ‘family’ photo taken by the Dockyard Syndicate, with Simon and Essme there as well, and his gut sank deeper and deeper. Then he sighed, snapped it shut, and stood up – the debate fell silent.
“If we fight them, we will lose people, good people. I know the crew of the Colhurst – they’re some of the toughest bastards this side of Bran, and if they felt they couldn’t handle it, I don’t fancy our chances much more.”
“Yes, well… that’s why we just… we warn them first.”
“And if they call our bluff? We’ve got, what… thirty drones in actually decent nick? Thirty-five at a push? I guarantee you best we’ll manage is we gum up an engine, and then when they breach our airlocks and smash our dock to pieces to get in, what then, Haymes? Are you going to stop them shooting or stabbing people till we give up anyway?”
The air was uneasy. As the garden’s senior representative began to chime in, Rhys raised a firm finger of silence.
“...but that does
not mean, Barbara,” he sighed again, “that we will just roll over and do nothing. If this ‘Jetei’ wants to stroll in and demand the people of Crow’s Landing will just do what he says, then we’ll make every step as deniably painful as possible, right? Whoever these people are, they’ve been causing trouble for homesteads bigger than us – even if Avalon is having trouble of their own, they
will send help, sooner or later.”
“...so we let them in and knuckle down?” chimed another councillor.
“Aye,” said Rhys. There was some faint murmuring, but most agreed – it was the path their predecessors had followed during the final republican war, and it had served them when needed in the years since then. With a brief vote and a show of hands, it was decided – now it was just a case of letting others know.
Rhys turned to the thin, delicate man by the monitor-station, who was currently trying to stifle a nervous laugh as Gangler sat in the vocal booth next to them, responding to the looping hails with whatever it felt like beeping about.
“Alright love, they’ve settled on it. I trust you to handle things with everyone? I’m going to get Essme, make sure she’s home safe before I head for the docks.”
Simon gave a gentle smile and a thumbs up, before signalling for Gangler to leave the booth. With a clunk and a whirr the hobot left to join Rhys on his mission, before at last he restored the communication channel to himself. As he spoke, he was simultaneously relaying high priority warnings and messages to the residents and workers of Crow’s Landing – there would be some panic, but he was confident cooler heads would prevail. If nothing else, Rhys would make it clear what was needed.
“Roger and pardon, Fleet-Master, we read you loud and clear. Apologies for the slight delay, we’ve been having some minor technical delays on our transmitters due to it being the annual homestead astrogolfing tournament. Very important local custom, not to be disturbed. Could you repeat your instructions, please? There may be some errors with your translation software, we heard something about a ‘Blue Man Group’?”
“What in the name of Great Uzay’s pendulous ballsack is an ‘astrogolf?” The words had come through loud and clear to the translator, and he’d certainly seemed sure that that was exactly what had been said, but not a single soul on the throne-bridge actually knew what the hell such a thing
meant, and Jetei’s roar of confusion could not and would not be satisfactorily answered until they were down on the habitat itself.
“
As previously stated, came the response, a little terser now. “You are besieged, a fact that cannot have missed your notice. We have control in and out of Crow’s Landing for people and material both, but no honour has been lost and no blood has been spilled. Surrender, and you will remain protected subjects. Resist, and we will be forced to conclude this affair with force, and I cannot guarantee your safe-keeping.”
There was a pause.
There was a click.
“Astrogolfing,” came a small, droning electronic voice, clearly pre-recorded, “is a zero-gravity leverage-ball sport first dated to 2598 CE, though predecessors to the sport appear to have been played as early as the mid 22nd century on the space habitats of Mars and Ceres. It comes in many varieties, but the most widespread variant – first popularized by the former Republic of Ra-Onoff – involves a series of competitors attempting to bat a ‘scoring bee’ – a kind of simple miniature drone – through a sequence of small targets spread throughout the enclosed space of a habitat in as few shots as possible.”
Another pause.
Another click.
“Major astrogolfing tournaments of the 28th century have included-”
”<ENOUGH!>”
Came the response. Not in Avalonian English this time, no, and not through the crackly, synthesised voice of the translator either. A torrent of words in the guttural tongue of the Khaganate followed this single, authoritative command, before almost sheepishly the somewhat familiar voice that had been addressing Crow’s Landing previously spoke again.
“What Lord Jetei means is that although this is a no-doubt fascinating custom that we would be intrigued to learn more about, you have twice received clear communication to clarify your status as to our occupation. Further delays will be considered proof that you have no intention to surrender, and we will deploy our houseguards.”
The recording clicked off as Simon’s voice returned, a politely apologetic lilt to his voice.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, we had been meaning to answer your questions in order, but I can see that might not have been appropriate. My apologies to Lord Jetei, of course he and his guards are welcome to visit his new domain – in fact our most senior dockyard management will be glad to welcome you aboard in person. When would you like us to schedule his landing party?”
“One moment please for the trajectory calculations…” The transmission line was dead air for a few moments, but soon crackled back to life. “The Boyan’s vessel will be able to initiate docking procedures in forty six minutes, Uzay be willing. As a show of good faith, we are releasing some of the suspended resources to your station now, to prevent discontent and shortages. Flagship out.”
As promised, the Homestead’s sensors would soon pick up new movement coming from the fleet that had approached - one large vessel, several smaller ones trailing behind it like tugs being pulled to a port, and several even larger tankers adjusted their trajectories and began to burn. For the tugs, this was a slow, methodical thing, their grid drives humming to life without pomp or circumstance, but for the flagship itself, four fusion engines couldn’t help but make a statement when they burst to life and began to push, the trajectory chart on Crow’s Landing updating in real time as its orbit drew closer and closer to the Homestead’s.
How best to show himself to these strange people? How best to demonstrate the might of the Khaganate, the wisdom of their honourable surrender, and the pledge to protect their lives that he had laid out before his fleet? Jetei tugged at his beard as he pondered these issues, earning him a few fussy comments from the servant who was currently fiddling about with his sleeves.
Some things were tradition - wrought into the unspoken codex which every noble had to learn if they were to thrive in Kök Tengri. He would descend, with his bannermen and houseguards. His steward (or, in this case his translator on behalf of his steward,) would inform them of the new leadership and the appropriate conduct expected from them
and the vows the Blue Horde made to them in return, and then the most loyal of his subjects would disembark, to establish firm control over the essentials of any artificial habitat. But aside from that, the system was his oyster.
It was a small shame he had never been very good at these sorts of things, Jetei mused idly. He was sure that, given the opportunity, there were a bevy of Khans and Boyans and perhaps even a Noyan or three who might jump at the chance to integrate foreigners into their horde, to be the first to claim rule over these foreigners and show them just what their new overlords were capable of… But this was not him.
No,
he was far more worried about the practical aspects of the whole affair. How were his subjects to understand foreign machines without interpreters? How were they to navigate a station that did not abide by the centuries of informal
and formal architectural decisions the Hordes were used to? How were they to know if a creak or gurgle or bump from the equipment was something to be concerned about, or merely the local spirits trying to sniff out these stranger’s reactions? These were the things that troubled him even after his deel was fitted and belted and his blade, sat comfortably in its scabbard, was settled in place.
It troubled him even as he felt the lurch of the vessel as the main engines died down and the backup thrusters began to slowly push them into the correct position, and it troubled him even as his bannermen and houseguards assembled out around him, spears held stiffly and armour freshly polished. With his steward and the translator by his side though, he couldn’t afford to let these thoughts grace his face, the only sign of his interminable inner monologue coming from the slow grinding of his molars against each other.
There was a clunk as the ship came into position and the mating interface locked home. No more fussing, he supposed. Time to show his face to these strangers.
The airlock opened to reveal what was in all a shockingly empty dock – despite its two primary bays littered with hastily dropped sets of tools and parts, or unopened containers. A few workers or drones were present, but appeared mostly to be just sat around, playing cards or listening to some kind of quiet music. Actually facing Jetei’s entourage was a single individual stood at the main entry – tall, unshaved and broad-shouldered, dressed in ordinary green and white workman’s slacks. To his right was a figure almost 6 and a half feet tall, dull grey metal limbs and plating, with a ‘head’ that appeared to consist of a sealed plastic bowl full of plant roots, algae-rich sludge, and mycelial tendrils woven together. It happily beeped and whistled at the arrivals, giving a gentle, creaky wave of its motorized arm.
The man stepped forward, looked between Jetei’s accompaniment, and stroked his hefty but neatly trimmed moustache.
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Jetei,” he said with a warm smile that didn’t bare teeth, “my name’s Rhys. I’m the upper senior manager for our little dockyard, and a lead member of Crow Landing’s council.”
He gave a slow, genteel bow, then stood upright and offered a firm, hefty handshake.
The difference between the two groups couldn’t have been greater. Rhys and his hobot, were practical and industrial, while on Jetei’s side… The lord himself wore a rich blue deel with a silver-coloured belt, fastened firmly to not flap about in microgravity, an intricately decorated scabbard at his side. His steward was dressed similarly, but with much less flair, while the houseguards stood resplendent in their grey-black armour, two banners held aloft before them.
Each one was identical, but completely unintelligible to the crew of the Crow’s Landing. To those that knew however, it delineated exactly who they’d come under the control of: because it was a noble seal, assembled vertically and following the same pattern as every lord within the Khaganate’s did: First, there was the soyombo of the Golden Horde, bourn by every man and woman loyal to the rightful Genghis of Tengri. Beneath, the seal of Toqoqan, to show allegiance to the Blue Horde. Beneath that came Jetei’s own seal, and then two further lines of the rights and privileges that he had been granted in his rule.
The man himself didn’t take the proffered handshake, and instead gestured across to his herald, who ceremonially unfurled a length of digitised synth-silk, cleared his throat, and began to proclaim out names and titles. Next to him, without any prop to hide behind or the surety that came with reading such things more times than one could consciously remember, instead awkwardly shifted back and forth on his heels, was the translator, a cumbersome looking device belted to his hip and snaking up to a mouthpiece and headset affixed over his head.
Around the group had assembled the Boyan’s soldiers. Perhaps if it had just been the banners and spears held aloft, one could almost trick themselves into seeing this as a cultural event - it was certainly odd enough to be one… But then there was the dull gunmetal glint from their holstered firearms, the steel in the glare of the Nokud carrying his lord’s banner, and the general atmosphere that things were not going the way they were supposed to for the Khaganate.
Once the steward had finished with his part, the translator filled in the rest for the benefit of the Avalonians. “In accordance with the customs and Yassa laid out by the great Genghis, Jetei Boyan, vassal to lord Toqoqan Khan-Khuu, has taken control and authority over this station in the name of himself, his liege-lord, and the Great Khagan Ögedei II. In accordance with the peaceful and bloodless surrender, Boyan Jetei has issued a formal decree ensuring the safety and security of those within the station. Those within are free to remain protected guests of his lordship or to swear fealty without suspicion or treachery. They are to be posted and supplied to ensure their continuing good health, and once accord has been reached with the relevant superiors, may leave without threat or ill-will.”
He took a slow breath before continuing. “The duties of the station are as follows: to not obstruct or prevent the habitat’s necessary functions, to not interfere or harm a subject of the Boyan and to obsequiously conduct themselves when under the lord’s protection. Should the lord break his vows, may Uzay shun him, and the Khans settle their fate. Should the conquered break theirs, Jetei is empowered to reassert authority and prevent disorder however he may see fit.”
Jetei nodded a few times, then with a thin smile turned back to face Rhys. “<And we would hate to see this lovely station stained with blood, wouldn’t we?>” The tone carried, even if the words didn’t.
Rhys meanwhile had taken the hint at simply stood to attention, patient as titles were read and duties stated. He was not a political theorist – he’d barely passed on his political theory exams in school after already failing the first time – but Rhys recalled enough of the basics, and the unspoken first rule of feudalism: the conqueror stops keeping his promises when it becomes convenient.
He gave a firm, flat smile and nodded at the translator.
“Well, we appreciate your honesty in what you say. I’m sure Lord Jetei will find this station and her staff very obliging, you know. I’d love to give you all a tour, if you’d like? Crow’s Landing has been the home for some of us going back, oh, four, five generations or so.”
The lanky mechanical figure gave a synthetic whistle followed by a series of hefty beeps.
“...and Gangler, it’s been here for the last century and something. One of the old prototype models before they got too popular back home you know. Helps around here with odd jobs, maintaining the hydroponics and central gestalts, that sort of thing-”
Rhys suddenly snapped his fingers as if remembering something.
“Where are my manners, I’m so sorry. Can we sort you all something out to eat? Come with me and we’ll head for the kitchens.”
“<A tour and a meal? He takes me for the commoners this station is clearly filled with? If they cannot bother to share air with the man who rules them, the rest of this is a waste of my time, by the Khagan’s moustache… Just… Go. Let the Hordepeople do as they need.>” With a wave of his hand Jetei pivoted and turned along with his steward, but the translator would hurry to fill in the gaps.
“The lord Jetei is terribly busy at the moment and must administer to the rest of the fleet in this complicated time. However, we are not inhospitable people - please give a few moments for some essential crew to come aboard, and we will be more than happy to enjoy a tour of the station.” He gave a bow - shallower than the one Rhys had given to his lord, before nervously turning to the airlock that the Boyan’s synth-silk clothes had just vanished through.
Sure enough, he was quickly replaced by a veritable crowd of other… Very different people indeed. Where Jetei had had sparkles of gold in his eyes and an odd sense of beauty about his features, these were… Normal? They wore boilersuits stained with grease, toolbelts and welding masks. A few were armed, certainly - plain scabbards holding blades that looked infinitely less beautified than the silver-and-leather hilt of Jetei’s, and a few even had firearms jutting out from under their arms or strapped to their hips… But none of that would have jumped out to the Avalonites at first glance, because everything else about them was just so
damn weird.They were tall and lanky, towering over Rhys and the rest of the workers at the station. Their skin was pale, their heads (where they were visible at all) were almost universally bald or close to it, and their eyes… Pitch black, shining pools that only showed you your own reflection when you gazed into them. One of the men leant down and said a few, incomprehensible words to Rhys, before holding out a plastic-wrapped package of brightly coloured… something. Next to him, one of the men holding the banners approached, offering a sharp, shallow bow towards Rhys.
“Systems communications specialist Behzad, and Yusuf Nokud, who will be taking over day-to-day running of the establishment in the absence of Jetei.” The translator introduced them.
Rhys strained himself a little to follow the figures who had entered, a solid head taller but inhumanly thin – it looked like beneath their suits they surely couldn’t have organs at all. But he was careful as always, and when some of the workers nearby glanced up from their procrastination to look baffled he just smiled and took the offered gift.
“Thank you Behzad, we greatly appreciate your gift. I have some colleagues in the council and drone control teams who will welcome your insights, I’m sure.”
Then he turned to Yusuf and gave a polite, shallow bow.
“And a pleasure to work with you, Yusuf, thank you for your protection. The council will be glad to help get you up to speed on how things work around here.”
He gave a big smile as he stepped back slightly, quickly checking his watch before clasping his hands together.
“Now, who’d like a tour? We should head for the gardens, close to the kitchens, we can show you your rooms…”
A few hands were raised from the crowd - there was an almost sheepishness about them, less conquerors and more schoolchildren on a trip, trying to figure out their place. There was a brief discussion between everyone and the translator, before finally he turned, and with a synthesised sigh spoke. “It is the opinion of the group here that we should head to the reactor first, in order to better know what needs handling aboard the station.”
Rhys gave a slightly puzzled look, before nodding in something of a gesture of ‘fair enough’.
“Make sense. Carry on then.”
And he waved them on to follow.
The route to the reactor was not a long one – nowhere on Crow’s Landing took more than about fifteen minutes to walk at a good pace – but it was packed. Walking down a central corridor some five meters wide and divided by the outline of what were clearly module ‘walls’ designed to seal shut in an emergency, they passed dozens of doors spaced a few meters apart as they went with simple signs stamped on the front.
“Apartments,” Rhys explained, “or storage, though that one got turned into a karaoke room by the boys a while back,” before taking a sudden swerve to a wide, spacious door that looked slightly newer and shinier than the ‘well loved but worn out’ feel that seemed to permeate so many of the other doors they’d encountered.
“Fancy a lift?” he said with a smile and a waggle of the eyebrows, seeming slightly disappointed at the puzzled looks from the visitors. Gangler seemed to appreciate it, at least.
“The elevator, sorry. We’ll be passing about four floors for this, the reactor’s fairly near the ‘base’ of the central tower. Maybe about 300 meters or so underground?”
Some more chatter from the gaggle of dwellers as they examined the rooms around them while moving through the halls. Oddly enough, once they arrived into the dimmer elevator itself, their eyes suddenly
peeled back, revealing that these strangers had a very normal set of eyes after all. One of the figures - a tall woman wearing near-pristine overalls and carrying a heavy pair of gloves tucked into her belt, rested her hand against the wall as they descended, eyes closed as if focusing intently.
Rhys couldn’t help but give a slightly quizzical look, as Gangler glanced between the various visitors before imitating the gesture, the sound of its terrarium-dome giving a dull ‘clang’ as it leant against the wall.
At last the elevator came to a halt and opened, revealing a wide but densely packed room. Replacement components were neatly stacked in half-open storage, as a computer specialist was busy patching up an aged monitor and replacing some of its diodes. A pair of workers – two of Crow’s Landing’s local fusion engineers, still mostly in simple white working slacks, were sat nearby, monitoring the station’s energy levels and the reactor’s output.
Their gaze followed the tall, foreign observer with suspicion, but didn’t make any attempt to stop her.
The woman who had been resting against the wall once again reached out, placing her hand firmly against one of the steel bulkheads that separated them from the reactor core itself. A slow smile began to spread across her face, fingers flexing lightly as she felt the metal’s hum and purr. “<Magnetic confinement… Proton-Boron?>” She didn’t need a translator to relay the question, but once it was confirmed with an initially awkward nod or two, her grin only grew wider. She spoke another few sentences and bowed deeply towards the engineers in the room, straightening up to hold her hand out and offer a firm shake.
“She says your station has a strong spirit and a loyal heart, tended to by good stewards. High praise,” the translator filled in, and the engineers relented to shaking her hand.
While it didn’t show on his face, Rhys’ nerves were fading slightly. As strange as these people looked, there was a commonality to them that he recognized – for all Jetei’s finery and handsomeness, he was not a man Rhys could ever likely consider a ‘friend’ or an ‘equal’.
Across the many lights and moons of Bran, there was fear across the wide open darkness for the first time in almost two hundred years. But it was not, for once, the fear of endless storms and dense gravity, of debris and radiation and the suffocating cold… no, a different kind of fear had taken hold, one not seen in Bran for almost two hundred years.
It was a harsh place to call home, after all, but Bran was also a place of opportunity. No matter where you had come from or why, sooner or later you could be forgotten. All that the people of Bran could care for was that you had a worker’s heart and a survivor’s wits, and the willingness to extend that courtesy to others.
It was not an easy life, but it was a fair one – it was not a place that liked
bullies.
And so a cry for justice rang across the airwaves, and somewhere on the fringe of an outermost moon – so small and weak it had no name, merely a code in a database somewhere far away – the lights of a rocket began to bloom.
“Lance, do you hear it? The clouds call for justice – there are giants to slay.”
With the draining of fluid and the clicking of steel and the steady illumination of a tomb disturbed, a dead man was waking up.
1x Thank
