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Nations??? Colonies??? I would never-

I promise this is the last one for real ;_;

ALSO NOTE: I've put the Nous-Choir on hold for now, for plot reasons, so it would be the Easifan Promise, the Summation, and Avalon for now

A collaboration with @Enigmatik, in...

The Great Black Sky, The Gateway Above the Steppe

Featuring Orda Khan and Shepherd

Orda Khan stared out at the Gateway swirling before his flagship, a look of deep contemplation on his face. Around him, the various functionaries that kept his court and vessel running bustled around, house guards watching the madcap display almost as impassively as their lord was, the only other oasis of calm in the room being the colourfully-dressed shaman, their sonorous drumbeats broadcast out across the entirety of the ship.

“The fortunes are good, Khan. The stars show that a wise course of action lies before us. We have Uzay’s blessing to proceed.” His beaded headdress faintly clicked with every quirk of their head, the man’s eyes flicking rapidly between the various constellations still faintly visible despite the Gateway’s light.

“Do we have a course plotted?” Orda turned to the helmsmen of the vessel, who simply shook his head.

“The Great Khagn did not issue an explicit edict of exploration. We have many choices.”

“And what do you see? Does Uzay enlighten you as to a path?” The Khagn turned back to the Shaman, who took a few sombre steps forward to examine the crude display before the helmsman.

The curiously-dressed man stared at the options before him, continuing to strike the drum along to a beat that only he could hear. Then, he swayed forward with a nod. “That one. There.”

The helmsman nodded once, turning to the Khan for approval. “So says Uzay. Who are we to deny Their will?”

The course was set. They required only the strength to follow it.

Striding to the front of his vessel, Orda pressed his lips against the bulky broadcaster, then spoke the commands clearly. “Prepare to pass through Uzay’s embrace. All hands ready for transit.”




The great outer asteroid belt was not unlike many other asteroid fields, of course – scattered and remote rocks of various sizes and compositions, in a lazy, lonely dance across the void of time and the vacuum of space.

While at its fringes lingered the Gateway of Easifa, it was, frankly, a strange beast. The Children of Gaia had spent centuries constructing and refining their greatest temple-garden in its vicinity and in recent months the flow of traffic had steadily increased (primarily outwards), but the truth is that much of the space around it saw little in the way of protection or border controls; for Orda Khan the requirements for peaceful passage were… nothing, essentially. A simple 'thank you' with well wishes to the Children of Gaia, and a promise not to harm them or their temple-garden.

The Khan of course was almost entirely ignorant of this fact. The disparate nature of the Hordes meant that what the Khagn knew was not often efficiently passed to his subordinates, and besides- they had had centuries of being able to claim celestial bodies as their own. What lay in the Great Black Sky was theirs- so long as they had the wherewithal to reach out and take it.

And, speaking of reaching out and taking it, they needed an initial foothold. Somewhere they could establish a small örtöö, to grow into a real refuelling and resupply station. Conveniently, there was a suitably sized asteroid within reach of their grasping fingers.

“I expect every ship to know their duty. Drink deep of the waters Uzay provides. We are blessed.” Orda Khan gave an approving nod to the rest of his court. All was well.




The Easifa System – Outer Asteroid Field, Gateway Region

Danger took many forms. Sometimes danger was a rogue asteroid. Sometimes it was the steel ghosts. Sometimes it was a fault in your water recycling systems…

…and Shepherd hated to admit it, of course, but sometimes it was the new guy.

"If you blow this recitation one more time, Mav, I'm going to blow a gasket."

"In a good-"

"No, not in a good way!"

"...sorry. Please repeat it for me, please?"

She sighed, nursing the headache that had been gradually forming over the past hour. Unfortunately, the paracetamol tea she had been drinking was at its limits and Mint had been very clear to her the prescribed dose was one cup every four hours and not one moment sooner.

She looked into Mav's slightly wonky eyes and took a short, deep breath.

"If we overcharge the copper oxide, then we’ll be taken on a deadly ride."

Mav bit his lower lip, his single remaining incisor leaving a conspicuous gap.

"...if, uh…"

Shepherd knew her forehead was popping a vein and she'd stopped caring.

"...it, uh… I'm sorry! I, it's just-"

"What, Mav?! You're thirty years old and you can't memorise a simple recitation? They told me you were a feckless moron but, by the ghosts, I…!"

She couldn't look into his dejected, whimpering face any longer and pushed herself out of the chair.

"Don't touch anything - if the warning light starts blinking red, just wake me up. I need some kind of sleep."

Eat, drink, sleep. The three most crucial acts of a spacer, besides from their work; if she was going to have to spend the rest of her life with him, the best thing she could start doing was take control of her body's needs.

Eat – the hydroponics was a floor down, where Mint was busy checking the potatoes and trying not to look like she had been listening intently to Shepherd's disastrous attempt at teaching what were supposed to be childhood technical skills to a grown man.

"... Good potatoes?" she asked the young gaian woman, whose green algae-infused skin and narrow features made her look more like some kind of fae creature than a human being.

"...oh! Uh, yes, haha."

As Mint sniffed one empathetically, Shepherd just sighed and picked up one of the carrots in the "freshly washed" tray. Raw carrots weren't her favourite but they were, in theory, food. She considered printing a mycelium sheet from the box on the wall, but honestly the idea of eating even a crumb more of it made her sick.

With an audible 'bleh' she made her way to the washroom.

Drink – the washroom taps weren't being used right now: in theory the recycling system was meant to be 100% efficient, but in practice there was always some loss, and for that reason they had to carefully ration what they had until they next located an icy comet - a miracle that demanded prayer. Throwing out a quick one in apology, she hit the switch to give herself just enough water to take a few sips, then sat down at the shower's dry floor.

Why'd you do it, Eli?

How long had it been, now? Half an orbit? Twelve weeks? Thirteen? To spend so long without feeling his hand in hers, or to feel his lips against her cheek.

A mistake, of course. Just a mistake. But mistakes always came at a cost – often in more ways than one.

Sleep – It wasn't comfortable, of course, nor practical, but as she sat in that empty washroom her mind began to wander. To ancestral pastures from pictures long faded, to the quiet drifting in the void, to times spent haggling at the sunport markets on the third habitat…

"Um, uh… Shepherd," echoed a voice through the ship.

Ignore him, he might not exist.

"Shepherd, dear?"

Oh he did NOT-

"Excuse me?!" she screamed, tiredness replaced with pure rage.

It almost felt like the ship was shaking, as she marched herself back up to the cockpit. His rubbery face contorted in a way that left her sick.

"Well, uh, so-"

"Mav, we had a rule. An agreement."

"Well, yes, but-"

"It settles a debt, Mav. A debt! Not even a debt to you! You have the emotional and physical desirability of a rock, Mav!"

"Oh. Well, that's… hurtful, but, I-"

"Oh, it's hurtful, Mav?!"

There was another shake, and this time it was definitely not just in Shepherd's head. The whole ship lurched, followed by the sound of the other two crew mates dashing to their stations.

"...It, uh, there's a warning ligh-"

"Yes I can see that, Mav! Strap yourself in and don't hit any buttons!"

The reflexes kicked in like lightning, tiredness dimming as she took her seat and plugged in her adrenal IV. Hopefully it wouldn't be needed, but the collision was sharp and there was the distant sound of something echoing through the walls, as if tapping against the stone.

The steel ghosts? she wondered, then corrected herself. They were less gradual, less polite. And besides, the Yahsud Alnaar was far from here; its’ annual migratory orbit had already passed on.

Asmovund were more likely, and they were tricky to reason with. So that being the case…

She hurriedly hummed a tune as she hit a switch or three in time to the sound of it, and with a mumbled prayer she engaged the ion thrusters.

With a great crash the ship lurched forward, as if out of the grasp of something, and sped into the deeper asteroid belt.




Orda leaned forward, a frown wrinkling his brow. From his decades of experience in witnessing asteroids, they had never once shown a sense of self-preservation. Yet, here it was, a set of thrusters having burst to life, and the rock changing its orbit in an attempt to escape the onrushing Khagnate vessels.

A more superstitious man might have seen this as a bad omen from Uzay- a sign that their actions here were deeply offensive to the universe, but Orda Khan was not a particularly superstitious man. Instead, despite the Shaman letting out a yelp, he instead chopped his hand towards the vessel’s communications officer. Hurriedly, a translator was rushed up from the blastproof archeology quarters, and a line was opened up directed at the vessel.

The words would boom out across the Lost Lillian’s comms unit. First, harsh guttural and unintelligible, and then changed into something that sounded oddly like a crude text-to-speech function. “Halt! You have the honour and fortune to have fallen under the gaze of the leader of the White Horde, the blessed Orda Khan! He has promised you safety and has sworn his honour in providing all obligations of hospitality should you come aboard his vessel.”




I knew this would happen! thought Dannyel, wrestling with the radio as a light flared to reveal they were receiving a transmission.

He hadn't, of course, this whole course of events was proving wildly unpredictable. But he had known this voyage had to be cursed; to come back to his father's gravebelt with this unloved debt marriage?

At last the signal snapped into place – a voice, human but unintelligible, then shifting, altering…

…an invitation? From who?

With the flick of a switch the message was played over the speakers.

A few moments of uncertainty, followed by a very certain, "Alright! Everybody to the cockpit!"

"We're already here, mum!" Sarah's voice replied, and in another few moments the five of them were stood around the cramped compartment.




There was a wait – too long, almost insultingly long.

Then at last, in one of the languages Orda Khan had broadcasted in, a reply was received. Crackling and fuzzy, the signal obviously produced by a fairly weak transmitter – a woman's voice with a strong accent reflective of Old Earth's Iran, and the sense of a woman with authority and determination. The signal was weak, but whoever this was certainly wasn't.

"Safe journeys and peace to you and your horde, Orda Khan. My name is Shepherd, captain and matriarch of the Lost Lillian. Your offer is very kind, but I would ask that your… horde, please stop trying to take apart mine."

There was a brief pause over the line, the faint audio of people speaking in that same guttural language crackling over. Then, the translator spoke again. “You have my word, as Khan of the White Horde, that no harm will come to your vessel or its inhabitants. My flagship will be approaching shortly. I warmly encourage you to come aboard.”

Another wait, another click.

"I accept your invitation, then."




Shepherd hadn't been sure what to expect, exactly, as the lights of the foreign vessel easily dwarfed the home she and Eli had built for themselves.

As the docking systems engaged and the great ship latched on, she carefully stepped into her hazard sleeve – a patchwork combination of hazmat suit and body armour – and took one last solid breath of the homecycled oxygen she was used to.

Stepping into the airlock, she gave a cautious smile and a wave to her kids and Mint, and pointedly did not acknowledge Mav at all. Turning to Dannyel, she gave him a nod. He knew what to do if they didn’t hear from her in a couple of hours.

“See all of you soon,” she said through her helmet radio, “in this life or the next.”




The airlock door hissed open, and she was met with quite the sight.

It was, for all intents and purposes, a cramped, zero-g spaceship airlock, and yet here managed to stand two men, wearing heavy suits of armour and carrying shortened spears, flanking an intricately-dressed man, a peculiar looking contraption strapped over his mouth, cross-legged and floating in the centre of the corridor.

“Hail,” the figure declared. “Orda Khan awaits.”

Shepherd was starting to regret not getting her helmet tinted years ago, because the sight was baffling. As she drifted slowly towards the cross-legged… the word escaped her. A merchant, perhaps? Arjuani habitat merchants were the only people she knew of who could wear clothes like that.

Quickly trying to correct herself from being too visibly confused, she raised both arms, palms spread out in a greeting.

“Hail to you and your… guards… as well. Peace from the Lost Lillian and her crew, and… yes, please. It is an honour to be welcomed by Orda Khan.”

“These are the mighty Khan’s houseguards. They ensure the security and safety of not only this vessel, but the cohesion of the entire horde.” The official’s arm swept out wide, gesturing to the two men beside them, then twisted himself around, one hand touching against the ceiling to send him drifting forwards and out of the airlock area.

As Shepherd followed, shifting her weight slightly to pirouette off of the floor while trying to maintain something resembling a straight back, she nodded along.

Keep nodding and he might think you understand him, she thought, though the idea that someone could not only own a house but guards for it as well… rumours had circulated for months now of the stability, wealth and influence being seen on the other side of the Gate, but to see and hear it with your own senses was a different matter entirely.

“They seem to be very impressive. Certainly much, um, better equipped, then any guards on the Shabaka.”

Despite the impressiveness of the staff around her, the vessel itself was not dissimilar to what they’d known. Cramped corridors. Spartan, bare metal and reflective sheeting around them. A few panels were decorated with weavings or painting, but the majority of them were left gunmetal. A few folks peeked out from hatches and corridors, elongated forms and short-cropped hair showing them for what they were- born and bred spacers.

“Careful here. Gravity returns.” The pathway twisted upwards - and at the top of the long vertical corridor, sure enough, Shepherd would feel themselves dragged down towards the floor.

“One Gravitational Unit. Carefully calculated from observations of Earth.”

At first there was a lurch as she landed, thankfully maintaining her balance and not collapsing – though the sudden application of so much weight made her lungs feel particularly small. She smiled and gave a gentle wave at the staring spacers, trying to focus on the familiarity – in some ways, not so different from attending a shipmeet of multiple crews. Though it did stand out to her that none of them seemed to be wearing hazard suits – so many individuals crewing a single vessel and being comfortable in each other’s air left an eerie cold up her spine.

“Earth… have any of you been to it? Is the surface safe again? There’s someone in my crew who would love to visit, I think.”

She gave a nervous laugh.

“Maybe once our next ice-haul is done.”

The official shook his head. “Only the Great Khagn’s own Golden Horde has returned to Old Earth. News has been slow, but reports have been pessimistic. We may have ruined the steppes we once were born from.” There was a melancholy in the man’s words as the pair drew closer to another airlock, this one too manned by houseguard, their plumes a bright white.

Shepherd nodded in sympathy, recalling traces of her grandmother’s fairytales and a single tattered ‘photo’ of a family resting upon a mat, sharing food in front of some kind of long lost plant species.

Upon witnessing the guest, the guards slowly reached for indents in the airlock door, then heaved them apart, the thick barriers hissing loudly, then scraping across their bearings. With how smoothly the other doors had run, it almost seemed deliberate.

Shepherd almost winced, then noticed the disparity.

Appearances, she thought.

She breathed carefully, steadily through her nose and tried to focus her mind. Expression like a pleasant stone. Posture straight and standing tall – matching the rigidity of the guards, even if she couldn’t match their weight or height.

The door finally locked itself open. The courtroom awaited.

It did not fail to impress. Where the rest of the ship was cramped corridors and space-efficient, this room was far larger than it had any right to be. A broad-shouldered, hirsuite man sat atop a wooden stool, legs folded over one another and a stern look on his face. He was dressed in fine white fabric that hung about him in the exact sort of way that would make it utterly impractical for life aboard a spaceship, and among the various functionaries about this colossal room were women in gauze, men in equally useless clothing and soldiers, armed with those same blades and short swords.

Perhaps to settled folk this would be nothing impressive, but aboard this otherwise spartan vessel, it spoke of only one thing.

I can afford to have two dozen people using up oxygen for no purpose. Fear me.

Orda Khan smirked a little as Shepherd entered. He tossed an arm out towards the official, growling out a few short syllables.

“The Khan bids you to remove the spacesuit. If you cannot share air with someone, how can you trust them?”

Shepherd’s attempt at remaining stone-faced almost immediately collapsed. This was madness – beyond even the absolutely wealthiest of habitat families. What were all of these people doing, and in a room this big? With nothing in it?!

She was shocked, of course, but the tiniest worm of something… nastier, was growing there. Shepherd quickly blinked away her surprise and tried to focus on the request, unpleasant as it was.

Her teeth crossed her lip, trying to think of a polite way to reply. Perhaps the manner of someone indebted? She bowed her head and kneeled forward slightly, bending both of her knees.

“Mighty Orda Khan, much peace to you from the Lost Lillian. I only fear removing my suit because, as my people are isolated from others for such long periods of time, our bodies get sick easily to foreign air.”

The Khan frowned, then turned towards the official. <“Are they a fool? How else are our bodies supposed to adapt? Keep cohesion within the horde? And, how are they supposed to break bread with us if they’re wearing that damnable costume?”>

The translator paused for a moment, then turned and nodded towards Shepherd. “The Khan bids you break bread with him, and share in the air, so that both groups may strengthen each other’s immunities.”

Shepherd paused, tried not to let her skin crawl at the request too much, then at last she nodded and politely smiled. In the back of her mind she offered a quiet prayer for guidance, and an old recitation she hadn’t had to use in a long time – one she’d almost forgotten.

“I accept your kind offer, Orda Khan. You are the host, and I am the guest – I will act by your custom. Forgive me.”

Reaching up a hand to the neck of the suit she carefully clicked and unlatched it, the carbon-polymer mask and helmet detaching with a heavy hiss as the air pressure shifted and the atmospheres mixed.

With the tiniest bit of strain she removed it, the heavy dark brown curls of her hair messily bouncing back into place and framing her face. Thin features – a woman in her forties, with olive skin – were contrasted by the wide intensity of her eyes, and a pair of delicate scars like tear-drops under her eyes… though the one under her left eye seemed to be much fresher than the one under her right.

As she carefully untightened and detached the hazard suit and its armour, it revealed clothes that were shockingly… civilian? Simple, lightly padded dark purple working slacks from cheaply fabricated synthetic materials. They hung a little bit loosely – she was ever so slightly too thin to match them properly.

She turned to the translator – wondering for a moment if the device strapped over his mouth was as uncomfortable as it looked – and held up the suit’s helmet.

“May I ask, does Orda Khan mind where I put my hazard suit? Should I simply leave it on the floor, or carry it?”

The translator didn’t bother converting the message so the Khan could understand it. Instead, a young woman, her face powdered and hair tied up in an intricate design, took the hazard suit and ferried it away and out of the court.

Another woman, with a similarly pampered appearance, set out a simple cushion and low table before the Khan, the translator gesturing to it. “Please, sit. The Khan has offered the honour of his family’s arkhi, but if you do not partake of drink, tea can be provided.”

Shepherd raised an eyebrow slightly as she approached to sit at the cushion. The term was unfamiliar, and she couldn't help but feel like she was missing something.

Is tea not a drink? she wondered, Is he offering me raw tea leaves?.

However, better the devil she knew than the one she didn’t.

"Thank you very much, the tea would be greatly appreciated.”

A nod from the translator, and he relayed the information back to the Khan. Orda’s only response was an undignified snort, before he began to rattle out more questions. <”Her loss. With that out of the way… Who is she? Where have we ended up? Is the area rich enough in resources to support our efforts here?”>

“The Khan is disappointed you would not take the arkhi, but is nonetheless understanding. He is curious as to where we have ended up, and the people who live in this strange sector of space. How do you make your living here?”

Shepherd thankfully kept fear from creeping along her face, maintaining a gentle smile. This was not someone to offend, and he was not good at hiding it.

But questions… those were something she could help with. Information was valuable to anyone, after all, even pampered foreigners.

"Well… the noble Khan and his horde are in the Gateway Fields of the 44th degree; the area of the outer asteroid belt that stretches from the Gate to the planet of Easifa'Mal. It is largely untouched, between…"

She paused.

Just how dangerous would it be for these strangers to meet the Asmovund? Their technology seemed just as powerful, perhaps more so.

"Well, few people live out here. My family and I – the crew of the Lost Lillian – are ice gatherers. Past the Yahsud Alnaar's reach, deeper in the system, there are the great habitats and stations of Easifa'Thani. Many, many people live there of different species and tribes, but despite Easifa'Thani's many treasures they lack easy access to water. So our crew and many others come out here to gather ice and rarer metals, then we take them deeper into the system and trade our goods for things we need; seeds and soil for hydroponics, replacement parts, improvements to machinery."

There was a moment as the translator considered this information, then in less than half the time, conveyed the message back to the Khagn. For his part, the ruler of this strange ship reached up to his lip, tugging a little at a strand of the moustache that seemed perfectly suited for such an occasion. During the silence another one of the women - who must have been part of a harem, for that was really the only role that made sense for them, set out a small table before Shepherd, then followed it up, perhaps the most ludicrous of all the already absurdist sights aboard this vessel, an open flame burner.

Atop the burner was placed a metal teapot, intricately engraved and sculpted into the shape of a dragon, its forked tongue curved to a spout. “We grow the tea in carefully tended aeroponics, and allow it to sprout in its own time. When it is ready, it is plucked and placed facing the great black sky, so that the light from passing stars may soak into it.” There was a note of pride in his voice as steam began to trickle out of the pot, the khan’s voice finally rumbling out.

Shepherd meanwhile, did an admirable job of keeping a straight face at the madness of it all. Did they not struggle to keep the atmosphere constant?

<Well. She has been useful. Ask her if she would like something more substantial. Reaction mass? Or water.”> He frowned.< “But if these strangers can’t even provide themselves with enough ice to drink, what have they to provide us?” He snorted a little. “With the riches the Great Khagn remarked upon in Sol, we seem to have gotten unlucky.”>

“The Khan thanks you for being such a consummate guest, and asks if there is something we can provide from our fleet. You said water was in short supply - our storeships hold much ice, not to mention we have our own banks of seeds and parts.”

<”Ah, tell her we shall be establishing ourselves in this belt here. She should spread the message - a fair price and security, so long as you obey.”> The Khan gave a dark chuckle.

“The Khan also says that since none claim this asteroid field, we will be making our örtöös - trade posts, here for the time being. He bids you spread the word - fair prices, a guarantee of security, so long as any who come to trade beneath our roofs abide by our customs.”

Shepherd had started to give a polite smile at the kind offer, and to her credit managed to hold it as she processed the Khan’s laugh. The translator’s words couldn’t help but sting a little.

“Of course, when the Lost Lillian returns to Easifa’Thani we will share stories of the noble Khan and his horde. There is plenty of ice and rare materials to harvest, though…”

She held her chin in her hands for a moment.

“Most trade is done at Easifa’Thani – some will gather ice directly and take it there, but most redirect it with a kind of tag or marker for locals to collect and pay them back. Few will come out to the field itself to collect the ice, when their lives are so close to Easifa’Thani, and with so many of the dangers that lurk out here.”

The translator turned back to the Khan to relay the message. For a moment, he paused at the fiddling with his moustache, a contemplative moment spreading over his face. <”And should those redirected resources end up… Waylaid?”>

“The Khan inquires as to what would happen should that flow of redirected resources dry up.”

Carefully, the woman who had conveyed the tea set over to the group began to pour it out. It was a deep orange-black, steam softly rising up before being swept away into the vessel’s air filtration system.

“Do you take milk? Honey?”

Shepherd couldn’t help but squint slightly at the translator’s question. She turned briefly to the woman serving her tea and smiled. The fact she was being offered something with tea on a ship was at this point the least concerning behaviour.

“Oh, um, honey, please. Thank you.”

As she took the tea, she sipped it carefully and deliberately. The comment lingered in her mind.

“Well, the belts are vast, and there are many ships and stations towards the inner belt who watch for incoming material. We have relied on the ice of the outer belt for generations – it wont run out of material for many generations more.”

Her expression became a little pained, just for a moment.

“Besides, since the Gate opened… there will be fewer mouths to feed in Easifa, in the years ahead. The belt will last for generations more.”

The translator turned back and said the only words that Orda Khan needed to know about. Relied on.

A brief exchange later, and the translator bowed at Shepherd. “The Khan thanks you for your honesty and forthrightness.”

Shepherd maintained a polite smile, but something in her chest didn’t sit right. She wasn’t an expert on languages, but it seemed like the translator had skipped some things.

“Of course, it is an honour. Our ancestors – and the ancestors of all of the many sorts of folk that call Easifa’Thani and the asteroid belts home – were welcomed here in exchange for a promise, and for generations we have kept our word. Even…” she visibly winced, as if recalling an unpleasant memory, “the machine-men, the raiders in these places, value honesty.”

“And we shall honour all of you in turn.” The translator conveyed.

Shepherd sipped on her tea.

Even if it is with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, she thought.

Orda Khan took the first sip of his tea, a slow, malicious smile splitting his lips.
New Nation Just Dropped And Their Latest Album Sounds Like A Toaster Started A Rockband

A collaboration with @Jeddaven

Six Months after the Formal Surrender…

Easifa System – Clockwise Spiral edge of the Yahsud Alnaar’s territory

Lovecraft Fangjaw was having a field day, top to bottom. For two days he and his team had camped in the wilds surrounding one of the arctic databases of the Yahsud Alnaar, a barren wasteland of machinery and ice, and had managed to not only destroy and recover one of its drones without alerting the network, but…

Direct access, he thought with a smile, take that, academic asscracks.

A treasure that hadn’t been seen in at least twenty years – to access raw source code for the Yahsud, extract it, and now safely quarantine it in a black box. They’d had to leave immediately, of course – the extraction team had almost ruined their quantum-decay distraction protocols with lousy timing, and half of them got shot to pieces by the remaining drones, but…

This could be it. The thrill of death was etched into his mind, but more so yet the thrill of victory.

But the memory of Asimov was clearly not done with him, because no sooner had they left the range of the Yahsud Alnaar – unfortunately on the wrong side of it from the fleet, so they’d be stuck spending the next three weeks getting back to them – that they’d detected something almost as exciting.

A new star had appeared in the vacuum of space, and it was in a very, very interesting location. Practically miraculous, if he were a religious man.

“Captain?” asked the still shaking intern at the controls to his left, “Should, uh… should we head for the fleet?”

He smiled.

“Oh no, kid. We’ve got something else to see first. How does two for two on world-shattering discoveries sound to you?”

“Te-terrifying, sir.”

“Great! Set a course.”



Easifan System Gateway

Light. Colour. All at once, a violent swirl of energy tore its way into the Easifan system, with a suddenness that perhaps even the original builders of the gateways couldn’t have imagined. Too look upon it was to be bombarded with a violent kaleidoscope of sensory input, light potent enough to blind, images of worlds unknown and swarms of artificial constructions visible through the murky soup of the portal.

Then, just as suddenly, peace.

The portal snapped shut just as suddenly as it had opened, warbling and wobbling like a blob of non-newtonian fluid struck particularly hard before vanishing entirely.

A new set of eyes looked upon Easifa; a bristling suite of artisanal sensors and cameras packed into a space the size of a small asteroid, its smoothly curved hull glinting in the distant light of the stars.

It was one small part of a greater whole, constructed with a particular purpose in mind, which it proudly announced to the system through every communication channel it could manage, both faster-than-light and based on every radio frequency it could spit out, in every arrangement of human language it could manage.

“Hello, there!” It chirped, friendly, androgynous, and welcoming; perhaps even informal. “Today, my name is Copernicus. I come bringing greetings and aid from the people of the Anarchist Federation of Europe, should you wish to receive them.”



Gaia’s Patience – Outer Planetary Temple-Garden of the Children of Gaia

“Out of the way, out of the way!”

Matriarch Fir Carolina was having a day both bad and blessed. First the hydroponics at garden twelve had been faltering and she’d needed to shout at a young sister-neophyte for playing near delicate systems (never a good look, and not something she enjoyed either)... but then someone had been kind enough to give her flowers for her birthday, and honestly that had really lifted her mood.

Then she’d had to taste-test the soup being made for the High Matriarch’s communal meal and the peppers had been absolutely rank, like someone had insulted her mother while defecating in front of her.

But now, as seemed to be forming a pattern for the day, the namesake of Gaia’s Patience was finally coming true. A blessing to paint over every fault – every diary and record for today would clearly scream “Today the Gate was opened! Lost Gaia awaits!”

As she made her way through corridor after corridor, either politely nodding, greeting and waiting as older matriarchs passed her by, or hurriedly waving on or crying out for younger women and men to move out of the way as she made her way to the second floor governing chambers.

As with all of the corridors and rooms she’d had to make her way through, it was dense with foliage from countless species – while ‘hydroponics’ was a term usually used to refer to the specific gardens used to supply food, the creeds of the children had demanded that Gaia’s Patience should be dedicated to the species of their lost, ancient homeworld.

Mothers only knew how many years of asteroid mining, chemical refinement, and careful biomatter recycling had been needed to create enough artificial soil with the right balance to actually sustain so much plant life.

But here, in the governing chambers, it was a different kind of life – people, mainly.

While the creeds forbade most from entering these chambers, matriarchs were freely allowed access – there just normally wasn’t any reason for them all to be there at once. So it was that the beautifully cleared and structured clearing, decorated and arranged in the style of an ancient Roman garden, was absolutely choked with women. A range of ages – from their early thirties in some cases, while many of the High Matriarchs were easily in their 80s at this point – but all of whom having been altered, their bones thin and elongated from centuries of life in low gravity and their scaled skin in shades of pale green from the mixture of reptile and plant-DNA their ancestors had been infused with to greatly minimize the amount of food they had to eat.

The High Matriarchs sat at the center of the throng on ornate, gold-plated chairs interwoven with old plant-matter, before at last shushing the crowd with a single raised hand.

There was bated breath, a message relayed on the comms – evidently translated from an old Earth tongue into the Children’s eclectic creole of German, Swedish, and Portuguese.

”Hello! Today, my name is Copernicus. I come bringing greetings and aid from the people of the Anarchist Federation of Europe, should you wish to receive them.”

The crowd was stunned.

Europe?! was silent, but the thought was universal. They knew people named Europe, that was an Old Earth location! What could it mean? Had humans actually survived after all? Perhaps their other half, those of the Children who had refused to leave Earth?

The High Matriarch in the lead, a stone-faced woman of 70 whose graying hair had been artificially maintained into a tight gray bob that framed her face and emphasized the eagle-like gaze she would hold on those who disappointed her, waved a hand at the murmuring crowd.

“Matriarchs! Sisters! Do not allow this blessed day to be undignified! Please, hold your tongues – we are about to open communications with these strangers! Instead, may your prayers help them to be friendly to us and with open hearts!”

Ahem, she thought as nervous murmuring gave way to silence, that’s better.

“Open the communications!” she cried, and slowly the soft noise of static filled the room.

“Friend Copernicus, my name is High Matriarch Thorn Versailles, speaking on behalf of the Children of Gaia. Long have we waited for the reopening of the Gate and the return to our ancestral home – tell us, are you truly from Europe?”

“Originally.” Copernicus replied, thousands of calculations running across the surface of its electronic brain as it picked apart and analyzed the voice it heard in reply. Storage banks quickly recalled a handful of snippets of information; most primarily, the records it possessed of the Children of Gaia, a pitiable if not nobly-oriented pre-apocalypse cult. This, then, presented a few immediate options, and a loosely-structured approach for the future of its conversation.

“Regrettably, I was forced to resettle away from Earth, along with the rest of my comrades.” They continued. “We’re in the process of preparing to re-establish contact with Earth, however -- it’s necessary to ensure we don’t disrupt the present biosphere, of course; I’m sure you understand.”

In the governing chamber, there was silence. Disappointment, certainly, and no end of questions.

But so publicly is not the place for them, Thorn thought, nor within our home.

She looked to the other two High Matriarchs, and whispered between themselves. After a minute or two, she spoke up again.

“Thank you for sharing this information with us, friend Copernicus. If we might, we would like to meet in person and discuss more, but…” she grimaced, “we cannot allow outsiders to enter the temple-garden except in the most dire situations, in case of disease. Many generations have worked very hard to nurture what we can of a living biosphere within this planetoid. Can we send a ship with representatives to meet you in a clean, neutral environment?”

“Of course!” They replied, inwardly pleased at the care the Gaians were showing for the biosphere they’d constructed. “Although, I will say, I am not a biological being. I am an artificial intelligence, and I can assure you, the vessel I am speaking to you through has been thoroughly sanitized by a bath of ionized radiation. Nonetheless...” It said, pausing,

“We maintain similar quarantine procedures in our dwelling places, and would be more than happy to accommodate your own. It would only be fair, after all.”

The AIs words lingered, and there was a long, long pause. To Copernicus, it might have felt like a lifetime of silence considering how quick the earlier response had been.



Carolina had had to step out of the chambers, catching her breath – the moment the voice had stopped speaking and the comms had been cut, the room had erupted into argument. She’d left through one of the little side doors – an emergency exit – and was now resting against a wall, her face held in her hands.

Artificial intelligence?! her mind screamed, Have other colonies been lost as well?!

The last thing she’d heard before it was lost in the arguing was High Matriarch Thorn’s desperate, failed demands for them all to calm down… but how could they?

Mother, she thought, I need a strawberry.

She found a whole bush of them about ten or so minutes later, of course, on the fifth floor – now primarily containing a mixture of plant and fungal species from across the old European continent. As she sat with her legs crossed in the dirt and tried to enjoy the taste of it despite the bitter irony given the communications that had just gone on, with the weight of it in her mouth, Carolina had to admit this was following the pattern. Of course the Gate would finally reopen only for an AI to appear from it – there couldn’t have been a nastier joke if she’d tried to come up with one.

The sound of strawberry branches being pushed aside distracted her from her melancholy. A young man, probably no more than twenty-three and with gentle gray eyes, held out a nervous hand. She couldn’t help but sneer a little at her nightmarish contemplations being interrupted by a younger man of all people.

“Matriarch-Sister Fir Carolina? Y-you, um, sorry. I have been asked to summon you, please. The High Matriarch said you would be eating strawberries.”

Carolina sat there, mouth half open and strawberry half-chewed, and couldn’t help but slowly grimace. The initial annoyance gave way to worries that she struggled to keep tightly sealed beneath her face; Am I famous for strawberries? crossed her mind, followed by The Matriarchs want me. Right now? That’s bad, probably.

Nevertheless, dignity was always called for – what being a matriarch called for. Tilting her nose ever so slightly upwards, she took the young man’s hand to stand up, quickly wiped the tiniest remains of strawberry juice on her long, dull-grey tunic, and nodded for him to lead the way.



As the network of corridors, gardens and resting chambers gave way to the more sterilized, mechanical environments at the base of the great temple-station that served as the core of its infrastructure, Carolina was already starting to sweat. Not just because of the build up of temperature from so much machinery and the engines, of course, but also because this served as the entryways to the vast array of launch bays for Gaia’s Patience. People milled about from place to place – for the most part men, their domain within the Children of Gaia largely relegated to the use and maintenance of machinery that didn’t directly sustain or modify living things; transportation, weapons, electronics and communications.

Carolina shuddered a little, despite the warmth; it was so… sharp. A massive, triangular room of bronze-like metals and dark gray stone, with craggy domes of metal and rock rising periodically from the ground like giant, ugly boulders; some taller and thinner, others wider. Of course, in truth they were long-range shuttles, whether for attack or simple transportation – vacuum sealed against the underside of Gaia’s Patience, their crew only being able to enter or exit when the seal was complete.

Water… she thought, and air.

The two most precious resources in the whole system.

“Matriarch-Sister, there they are,” spoke up the young man, gesturing to a small group gathered by one of the taller, thinner shuttle ends. It was a single High Matriarch – a short woman of about sixty who looked so fragile she couldn’t actually be standing in the heavy, many-layered robe she wore – providing instructions to a crew of young men. As soon as she saw Carolina approaching, the tiny spectacles on her face practically bounced around with excitement.

“Ah, good, excellent,” said the faintly owl-like woman, “you’re here, Carolina, correct?”

“Um… yes, High Matriarch. Fir Carolina.”

“Good, good…!” hooted the elderly pomeranian, “I have a task for you, you know. High Matriarch Thorn Versailles has asked me to give you a little assignment.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, see, some of us were certain we should just blow up the heathen machine, but, well… some of us think if it wants to talk to us it might be different. For the safety of Gaia’s Patience, however, we have decided the communication should all be handled by a trustworthy matriarch…”

“Oh.”

“...from a shuttle, yes. And we thought, aha, we know the person! So chop chop!” she clapped her hands together a little bit like a seal, “These lovely boys will get you there safe, dear. Confident of that, yes yes.”

As Carolina looked around the small crew of men, nervously smiling and nodding in response to the High Matriarch’s complements… she realized that they couldn’t have been much more than boys of maybe eighteen or nineteen, probably brother-acolytes on paper but still brother-neophytes in practice.

She thought about protesting the decision, of course. She could try and argue it, but… something in her chest refused to let her.

Adrenaline, probably, she thought with a grimace just barely escaping her face.

“Yes, High Matriarch. Of course.”

“Good, good! Get to it then!”



Copernicus watched as a seed-like shuttle – maybe just a hundred or so meters long, a relatively tiny object – emerged from the underside of the planetoid-station and engaged a set of simple ion thrusters to drift closer towards the Gate.

The video of a woman in her late thirties, with slightly rounded features and stray wisps of scalpy blonde hair, was projected through to Copernicus as she started to speak.

“He-hello, ahem,” she said, trying not to seem too nervous on the video but relentlessly sweating all the same, “this is Matriarch Fir Carolina of the Children of Gaia. For reasons we would rather not disclose at this time, the High Matriarchs have asked me to speak on their behalf, away from the Temple-Garden. Do, uh…”

Mothers, hold it together.

“D-do you have, um, human crew aboard your…”

Her brow furrowed, suddenly realizing she wasn’t sure of the proper term. What was it that the Asmovund gear-people called it again?

“...shell? Chassis? Your… body?”

“One of my bodies, but -- no, I do not.” It replied, unsure whether to point out how scared the poor woman seemed or not. Considering her fearful curiosity, it reasoned, it was perhaps best to stick to answering questions for the time being.

“Admittedly, I do wish I did, but... It is safer for them to wait behind the Gateway for the time being. Not to imply that you are a threat, of course; it is merely that I have several bodies, and not all of them do!”



Carolina bit her lower lip, clearly trying to find a way to admit she was struggling to understand what the machine was talking about without seeming like an idiot.

Her mind wracked itself with questions, trying to remember what they knew about AI. There had been records of course, once upon a time – even the knowledge of how to make them, supposedly. But the steel ghosts had, as with all things, eradicated much of their history and knowledge from before the gate was originally opened.

She glanced around the room at her small crew, but most of them seemed as puzzled as she was.

Mothers, I… she narrowed her eyes, I’ve been entrusted with handling this.

“We… we are a threat!” she said, looking into the camera and baring her teeth – an ancient, primal symbol of danger – “and you had best listen to us, machine. We must speak to your creators!”

She raised a single bony finger, doing her best to look intimidating and utterly failing.

“I will warn you – Gaia’s Patience has many weapons and we have fought off outsiders on,” she paused, “many occasions.”

She held her expression, her teeth still bared at the camera, but couldn’t help but wince briefly when one of the pilots tapped a readout for her to see: whatever this machine-mind was, it wasn’t armed.

“If you want to speak to my government, that can be arranged... But it cannot happen in person, unless you are willing to make the journey to our home. It would take... A substantial amount of time to transport so many thousands of people such a distance.” Copernicus replied, mimicking a sigh. There was trauma here -- they’d encountered artificial intelligences before, and it did not go well. “We will do what we can to accommodate you.”

Carolina’s expression immediately broke. No longer bared teeth and an attempt at threat, her eyes went wide with confusion. From what was visible of the other crewmates, they likewise seemed to be in disbelief.

“Th… thousands? How… how many people are in your, uh,” she shook her head, “Anarchist, uh, Fed-... in Europe? That they need so many people to represent them?”

“Oh, approximately... One-point-one-one-zero billion. We strongly believe in representing our people as best as we possibly can, however, hence the necessity of a large General Assembly.” They chirped, mood lifted by a question that was, in all truth, much more pleasant than mild racism and threats. “We are Anarchists, after all.”

Carolina almost fell over, given how quickly she stepped backwards.

“Bil-... a billion people?”

She tried to blink away the shock. Gaia’s Patience had… maybe two million people, and that was usually when too many of the Children in other parts of the system decided to make a pilgrimage all at once.

She tried to correct her mind, focus on being logical – of course they probably had a bigger population, if they had succeeded in finding a planet with life. Easifa’Mal could sustain a big population, after all, if it wasn’t for the steel ghosts guarding it.

But still… such a massive population. It seemed impossible. Fantastical. The Earth had suffered because of so many people, after all.

Maybe that’s why they’ve come here? Looking for a new home? she thought, her eyes betraying the paranoia she was feeling.

They were using AI, after all – perhaps whoever had sent Copernicus were the same people who had destroyed the old Earth? Or at least, their descendants. Though that word, ‘anarchist’, it… showed up in folklore, sometimes.

“Please do not take offense to my question, Copernicus, but, anarchists… is that a kind of alien? Named after the stories?”

"No, no!" Copernicus chuckled. "So much information, lost over time... I wonder how much you could teach us that we've forgotten." It mused.

"It's... A political system, or perhaps theory. In simple terms, one which advocates the abolition of unjust hierarchy and the organization of society on a wholly voluntary, mutually cooperative basis, without force or compulsion. Does... Does that make sense?" They asked.

Carolina looked around at the rest of the crew, their expressions puzzled.

“That, um…” she was clearly trying to wrap her tongue around the words, “is very, uh, interesting. It sounds a bit different from our creed, but we are not forced. The Children of Gaia have prospered and survived by working together.”

A thought crossed her mind.

“In fact, we often work closely with the other tribes and peoples of Easifa. In time, we could perhaps introduce them to you, but, well…” she bit her lower lip, “I think that we would need to arrange for representatives to travel to your home, if you cannot send people. AI are… very, um, worrying. Not just to us, but most of the people of this star system.”

Should I tell it that on Easifa’Thani most would shoot without talking at all first? she thought.

"Oh, we can send people, just... Not our entire government, you see. Perhaps a neutral ground would be ideal?"

Carolina looked visibly relieved.

“Oh! Thank you, if that could be arranged, we would love to meet them! That would be fantas-”

The feed was suddenly cut, and the tiny seed-like shuttle suddenly powered down. A device no bigger than a man’s arm, emerging from the vast darkness at a fraction of the speed of light, had lodged into its side with enough force to suddenly throw the shuttle of its lazy flight close to Copernicus.

Copernicus detected the direction it came from – initially almost impossible to see in the void, looking to outsiders like a rogue asteroid but now giving off tell-tale emissions of ions and radio signals from several kilometers away.

Aboard the Migo’s Teeth and with lungs straining against the metal shell of his frame, Lovecraft couldn’t help but laugh.

The admiralty awaited him, and if the extracted blackbox wouldn’t guarantee it, this certainly would.



Immediately, Copernicus's sensors blared in alarm -- the AI the Gaians were so terrified of, perhaps? Regardless, while the shuttle may potentially end up repowering by itself, it had no way of knowing what sort of damage the foreign object inflicted, and without weaponry, there was even less it could do to retaliate. Thus, it had only one notable option.

"Alert. This is Copernicus. Negotiations have been interrupted. Diplomatic shuttle has been struck by a foreign object of unknown origin and appears to have lost engine control. Attempting to intercept." It beamed a transmission back through the gateway, thrusters firing. Being a wholly artificial being, the probe was able to move at speeds that would be outright lethal in any ship carrying organic life, rocketing across the gulf of space toward the wayward shuttle without so much as a second thought. Maneuvering thrusters spat, twirling it around, around, until it was positioned facing perpendicular to the small craft's direction of travel, arresting its own blistering speed with a sharp guttering of photonic rockets, just enough to receive the lion's share of collision damage -- and latch onto the craft with the array of grasping arms attached to its nose.



It had been a long while since Lovecraft had needed to salivate, but the readouts they were getting from the gaian shuttle…

“Tasty,” he said, “End of history stuff right here, kid.”

He wasn’t fluent in gaian creole, admittedly, but he’d learnt enough to follow the conversation in the recording. The code-eater drone was a neat little invention, one of the tools that left the other tribes wary of Asmovund raiders; reverse-engineered from the internal systems of Yahsud Alnaar drones, it could drill into a hull and quickly access computers that were normally cut off from external transmissions, cracking their encryption and transmitting their data to the raider.

In a world where almost all computers were geared not to handle external transmissions, it had proven to be a game-changer. For Lovecraft, it’d be a much appreciated one.

With its job done, it had then emitted a powerful EMP, damaging the shuttle’s internal systems and cutting the power.

They’ll be fine, he thought, they’re not far from home.

The silent ‘but it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t, really’ ever so briefly sprung into his mind behind the surface, but he shook it away. No time for sympathy.

More curious to him yet was the way the massive outsider probe – Copernicus, according to the transmissions – moved with such shocking speed.

[i]True AI, and it’s friendly? And it’s going to help these intolerant greenies?[i]

He hadn’t thought naivety would be a trait of machines, but as sensors started to pick up at least three gaian craft – rounded arrow shapes, like the love children of asteroids and pinecones, their detachable flak-scales derived from alien shielding systems – he snapped his fingers and transmitted an order over short-wave, safely contained within the ship’s walls from outside detection.

In a separate compartment of the ship, the ship’s gunnery officer excitedly licked its eyeballs. A heavily augmented gremlin, its body having long-been stripped down to the barest minimum of organic tissue to make way for cybernetics and mechanical systems. Fully integrated into the ship’s weapon systems, and always eager to shoot something. It wasn’t a true Asmovund, of course – wasn’t human enough – but Lovecraft liked how hard it had committed to trying to be one of them. It was rare to meet someone who spoke exclusively in transmissions.

But as the order came through – ‘prep weapons, situation could go hot’ – its brain eagerly unsheathed the pair of tiny gray railguns from the ship’s roof, glinting in the distant reflection of their home star’s light.

Lovecraft screwed up the still organic top half of his jaw, a metallic ‘click’ ringing out from his tongue rolling against steel teeth. He’d fought the gaians enough to recognize their power signatures, and he knew them well enough to tell when they’d interpreted something incorrectly.

But… would they shoot? The question burned in Lovecraft’s brain, an uncertainty he hated.

This AI, ‘Copernicus’, was clutching onto the blacked out shuttle, but it wasn’t moving to pull it back through the Gate. On the one hand, it wasn’t unheard of for the Yahsud Alnaar’s drones to engage ships at close quarters, but it was exceedingly rare – and surely the gaians would realize if the AI had weapons to disable and destroy the shuttle, it would’ve just done so rather than fly further away from safety to break it up in close quarters?

Maybe a warning was the best option, to give everyone the best chance to stay alive.

“Hope my gaian’s still good,” he grumbled.

With the flick of a switch, he gave his best smile – folks always said you could hear a smile.



“Hark!”

A transmission in crude gaian, easily detectable to all parties as the mysterious vessel had begun to arc away, rapidly increasing its distance from the escalating situation, “I suggest to my dear greenies, don’t pick fights with strangers to our fair system, and strangers… would do well to leave, for now. Come back with...”

The sound of a tongue clicking against metal came through the transmission.

“...fleshier folk. More human, and you’ll find Easifa a much friendlier place.”

“Have you considered shutting the fuck up, asswipe?” Copernicus barked angrily in reply, drawing power away from its engines as it searched the shuttle for any indication of somewhere it could interface with the ship... Or, in the worst case, wirelessly supply power with microwaves. It’d be a little painful for the occupants, but... “If you want a lecture on tolerance, fine, whatever, I can manage, but I’m a little fucking busy trying to restore power, so I’d prefer not to use my excess processing power on lecturing a gormless imbecile.”

There was a pause.

The leaving ship, now easily detectable, had begun to slow slightly – still far enough to leave, if it had to; while the gaian attack craft likewise began to slow, and weaved out of their formation – more perimeter than pursuit.

With bated breath, the gaians watched and waited to see what would happen with the shuttle.



Today truly had been 4 for 3 on bad times and blessings for Carolina. At the back of her mind, she had to assume it would all work out – but at the front of her mind, she had to try as best she could to keep focused on what they could do.

She was shaking, though, and not purely with fear.

We were making progress! I hope those olcomps are happy!

After the initial shock, it was clear in her mind who was responsible. The impact hadn’t come from the direction of Copernicus – and out here, there was only one group who would do something like this.

Nevertheless, the danger they could control – anything they could control – was getting the power back on. While Carolina had helped with unscrewing several panels, the ship’s brother-technician was furiously trying to replace a number of ruined fuses, and the pilot tried to jumpstart the control panel.

In the darkness, illuminated only by emergency lights and quickly fading emergency glow-sticks, there was stillness, and a cold that was slowly but surely creeping up on them. She could feel her hands getting harder and harder to use – the reptile DNA her ancestors had been infused with had helped them transition to a more cold-blooded system for processing food… useful in the constant warmth of an active spaceship abundant with life, but less useful when the power went out and the void began to creep in.

Mothers help us.



Outside, Copernicus was making rapid progress -- it’d managed to locate a small access panel on the outside of the shuttle, difficult to access in the frenzy of such a tense situation, but with its incredible processing power, it was relatively simple to decode and pry open in the span of merely a few moments.

Next, of course, came figuring out what the hell each of the ports did, but the garbled human languages they were labeled with made that, too, relatively simple -- auxiliary power. Much like its label, the port was just off enough to make interfacing difficult, but not impossible... So it unceremoniously mated one of its power cables with the shuttle, and, with the flick of a switch, shunted sensor power into the craft's systems, all while beaming out a radio transmission in hopes the crew would hear it.

"Carolina?" It asked. "Some smarmy asshole fired a projectile at your ship, and then this happened. Still alive in there? I'm trying to feed you enough power for a jumpstart."

A few seconds later, then some more.

Static.

A click, and the whirring of machines.

Lights blinking to life.

“Copernicus, we hear you! This is Carolina, loud and clear!”

A few moments more and another signal went out – directed at the attack ships, though it was close enough that Copernicus could hear it as well.

“Hold fire, hold fire! This is Matriarch Fir Carolina, I repeat, please hold fire! We are unharmed – we were struck by an Asmovund weapon to steal our data, but we are okay! Copernicus helped us get back online!”

Silence, static…

…then another click.

“We read you, Fir Carolina. You heard her; power down weapons! And don’t harm the machine!”



The times to come were still tense and uneasy, of course – the road to peace can be long and treacherous. The messages to the shipmeets of Easifa’Thani took several weeks to be fully broken down and discussed, but upon that world of words and firestorms there was one clear and unbroken truth:

“The gate has reopened, and we are not alone. At a place of Meeting we shall see this new galaxy of possibilities.”



Three weeks later
The Discovery – Asmovund Array-Ship

The sound of metal fingers against a metal hip. Of a fleshly tongue clinging to a jaw of steel. Of ambitions spat upon.

“We cannot promote you,” Admiral Verne had told him, “glory hounds won't see us making the most of this new opportunity.”

The blackbox had been rewarded, of course – with not having him shot for risking a war with unknown parties, and with a chance to make amends.

“You’re wanted on the bridge, sir,” chirped his intern – still no less a squib of a lad but now just a bit too cocky for Lovecraft’s liking – with a nervous smile, “they’re about to enter the Gate.”

“Aye-aye, kid.”

With a grunt he pushed himself out of the chair in his quarters and made his way to the bridge. It had a different feel to it, in person. From holographic projectors and video screens it had felt almost dream-like… but stood here, on the command deck? At the shoulder of the pissant that protocol demanded he respect?

More like a nightmare.

“Receiving clearance, Admiral,” spoke up one of the bridge crew, “we will be joining the Yaeph’la, Arjuani, Gaian, Veiled, and Cloudkin delegations on the other side.”

“Excellent news,” said Admiral Verne, all prim and proper in her neatly folded and high-necked gray and blue uniform that almost hid the cybernetic voice-box that had replaced her throat when she was a child, “take us through.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Lovecraft’s arrival, a cat-like smile slowly spreading.

“I’ve assured the gaian delegation of your apology in person when we arrive. I’m sure this Copernicus would appreciate one as well, should it be present.”

Lovecraft sighed, but stood to attention and nodded all the same.

When can I go back to getting shot at? he wondered.
A collaboration with @Irredeemable

Six Months after the fall of the People's Union...


A storm of activity in orbit around the great gas giant - where once darkness had served as a constant reminder of their loneliness in the universe, now there was a fury of colours.

For the thousands of crew and staff aboard that great monument to failure, Spirit’s Loss, the reawakening of the gateway was something never seen before. An upending of reality, an unpredictable disaster only whispered of in propaganda channels or restricted archival footage.

For what remained of the ancient, awakening mind of Roselle Ivanović, sealed within the station’s distributed intelligences and having been ‘sleeping’ for the past four days, there was a different sort of horror.

The horror of recognition.

Her consciousness projected, she desperately reached out into the shell of one of her Luminous subjects – a diplat mind, similarly digitised but carefully sealed into a single form. It seemed shocked at the sudden intrusion – obviously still a dull creature, even after all the glory it had been granted.

“You. Explain.” she echoed within it. Through its four arching, multi-spectrum lenses she could see it overlooking a number of reports being received from throughout the station and the various freighters and patrol ships throughout the region.

“My lord, it’s an honour, we-”

"Explain.”

“We-we don’t know yet, there was no warning. My lord, what should we-”

“Quiet. There.

The luminous could do nothing as its lenses acted under her control, focusing on a specific report that had just flared up.

An object coming through? So soon?

With a lightning focus she hadn’t felt in centuries, she dropped the shell of the luminous as easily as the strings of a puppet, and moved through the network. A clear instruction echoed through a hundred minds, relayed to every relevant station and crew:

“Bring it to me.”




Roselle would have sneered, had she still a face to do so.

Through the eyes of another luminous – ‘0841’ was its designation, its personal name instead being some bizarre, nonsensical diplat-human combination that she struggled to remember – she worked steadily. Coordinating the efforts of half a dozen skittering, many-limbed current measurements as they meticulously scanned and cut away at the object that now rested in a hastily quarantined hanger-bay.

How many hours did they have before whoever sent the probe through reacted? Signals had been sent for the patrol fleet to converge on the station and maintain engagement distances, but it would take several hours for the entire formation to be ready.

It hadn’t been much to look at when they’d brought it aboard – not really. It clearly hadn’t been designed with looks in mind: a simple, cigar shaped chunk of metal with the absolute minimum required number of thrusters bolted onto it to allow for a comfortable range of movement. Not much fuel on board either – enough to putter out of a moon’s gravitational pull or align itself with an interesting signal.

But now it looked like the deranged mess of a serial killer. Every internal component was carefully removed and analysed before being placed into some kind of storage. With each step Roselle and the current measurements took meticulous, exhaustive data that was recorded and returned to the network, backups of backups of backups. Every sub-component of every sub-component, chemical composition, precise relative location, weight, arrangement of pieces.

The science of it was good. It distracted her from the nagging fears that had desperately clawed at her mind since the gate reopened.

Now? Why now? Who? From Earth? But they’re dead, impossible. Survived, perhaps - bunkers? Outer planet colony remnants? Other colonists?

The last option was the most frightening, of course. The Mensura Group had recruited from some of the greatest minds available on Earth in its time, but three centuries was a long, long time. If other colonies had survived – in likely greater numbers, given starting populations and methodologies for colonisation – then they would have had access to three-hundred years worth of intellectual and scientific development.

If they had reopened the gate…

She would have shuddered, had she still possessed a body to do so.

But fear did no good. There was work to be doing.




“Capacitors to 80%. Make sure tubes and PD’s are loaded.” Capitán Y Sorono frowned a little. Probes scouted out newly opened Gateways as a matter of course- it would be remarkably silly to let others get the drop on new nations and systems when Azulvista had more than enough resources to cover them all. What was less regular was for one of those probes to put out some seriously unusual signals and then go dark. One-in-a-million collision? Scrappers, pirates, something more sinister? Or just another nation that had jumped the gun and swept up their tech?

Regardless, the Gran Republic was mildly annoyed at the whole affair, and so had sent a small flight of caravels to go and investigate. Five ships, headed by a single carrack- Leonardo, sallied forth from the picket and had formed up in front of the Gateway. Last minute checks had been quickly carried out, and with a single nod of his head, Sonora’s craft sped through the vortex and out, out, out, into the multicoloured hues of ancient technology, and to the beyond.




What awaited the Leonardo and its cohort as they emerged from the gate was not the quiet dark of space. Instead, a huge array of ships and machinery – a vast shipyard, networks of hangar bays and refuelling stations stretching for thousands of kilometers in every direction. As they watched, narrow, rounded structures began to uncoil from various surfaces around the tops and undersides of the stations – and judging by the clear power signatures, they were armed.

There was a brief pause aboard the command node of the Leonardo as they took it all in. “Hold fire!” The order rattled through the wing immediately. “Power down the capacitors. Do not pull the trigger, is that understood?” The patrician barked out orders quickly, easily. It was what they were born for, after all, and the orders in question were nothing more than common sense. A flight like this wasn’t even really meant for a serious engagement – the PUNT war had seen a dozen flights like this packed into one wing of a four or five wing fleet. They were outgunned.

Sensors and visual feeds revealed at least two dozen larger vessels – their exact purpose unclear, though it was obvious they possessed some ability to project… kinetic projectiles? Energy? Along with hundreds of smaller craft – though considering their movements, it seemed they were perhaps civilian or economic in nature. Transports or mining vessels, perhaps?

In truth though, even the larger, armed vessels struck the Azulvistans as… unimpressive. Simplistic, rounded shapes stretching maybe a few hundred metres long, the position of their thrusters indicated machines designed for long-distance pursuit or journeys – not the manoeuvrability of ship-to-ship combat at shorter ranges.

For what felt like a lifetime the crew would wait with baited breath, the unknown vessels and the station’s weaponry watching them with the focus of a wounded animal.




Roselle watched the feeds with an intensity that even her colleagues had found disturbing.

“Here. By four degrees. Adjust the time stamp. Here.” she said to the network of luminous she was currently integrated into, directing every meticulous camera zoom or remote analysis as if she was conducting an orchestra.

For the briefest moment Roselle was reminded of cigars when she looked at the ships that had emerged from the gate, and a craving she hadn’t felt in centuries suddenly emerged into her mind. As quickly as it came it passed, and Roselle wanted to break something when he decided to interrupt her.

“You know, we could have had proper battleships.”

Not the time, Mars.”

“No no, of course. I’m just saying.”

Insufferable as ever.

“Do you have anything useful to add?”

“... We have the element of surprise.”

”What?”

“We have-”

“Say it again and I’ll personally call for your deletion, understand?”

The digital image of Mars that flashed in her mind – all punchable teeth and a scar across his left eye he’d gotten during the violence when the gate first closed – seemed to twist into a frown. She hated the way he had always insisted on staying on Spirit’s Loss, for the exact reason of something like this happening.

“COMMS!” echoed her voice through the network, “Where is the language reconstruction I ordered?! And Minerva better have sorted out her avatar already!”

“You’re naive if you think they’re human,” was all Mars said as he blinked away into another part of the distribution, “or will recognize us.”




“Capitán… Your orders?” One of his subordinates was looking at Leonardo, clearly anticipating some kind of statement from the captain. On his part, the young patrician simply chewed his lip a little, thinking.

“Send a commspacket back through the Gateway. Everything we can grab as quickly as we can grab it. Open our receivers for anything we might get from them.” He nodded, partially to confirm his orders, partially to make himself feel a little better. For a moment he had the instinct to touch the cross that hung from his neck, but he had to put on a resolute face for the sake of his subordinates. Stay calm. Do his duty. It was simple in theory, much harder when an indistinct-yet-large amount of firepower was pointed directly at your tremendously fragile carrack, with no room to manoeuvre out of the way.

Suddenly, a transmission came through. It was a little distorted at first, but after a few seconds it began to clear up. The same message, starting to loop in over a dozen languages of old Earth, in the voice of a young woman in her twenties with a clear New England accent:

“State your intentions. You have invaded the territory of the Sevenfold Summation with deadly force. We want peace. Do you seek peace?”

The image that came with the message was at least a little bit eerie, given the circumstances: a young woman in her early twenties, with lightly tanned skin and wavy brown hair that rested against her shoulders. She stood alone in a lightly decorated white-walled room – to anyone who had possessed a particular interest for the architectural design of the time, appearing as a late 2210s minimalist apartment. She was dressed in comfortable attire, as if ready to have a relaxing day at home during the winter, but as she spoke it was clear something about her lips were off – her mouth moved out of time with her words, ever so slightly.

It took a few repeats for the message to come through in something the Azulvistans could begin to understand. Old Spanish. Old Portuguese. It’d do. Leonardo paused, considering his options, which as he counted them up, proved to be remarkably few. The safest, easiest and most reasonable one was obvious though: talk.

First though, he needed to present himself a little bit better than his clipped military softsuit. Comfortable, flexible and useful for slipping into a hardsuit- certainly. Formal or fashionable? Not remotely. “Dress uniform. Now. Captain’s sash as well.” He barked the orders out towards one of the bridge staff, then paused, adding one more on. “And don’t forget my sabre!”

A few minutes later (minutes which thankfully had not been interrupted by weapons fire,) and he was dressed, buttoned, hair slicked back and sash neatly set across his shoulder. His sabre slid into its sheath with a definitive click and, with a quick adjustment of his cuffs, he nodded. “Narrow band broadcast. Straight at whatever sent us those messages.”

“Salve. I am Capitán Leonardo Adalberto Demetrio Teodoro Y Sonora, a member of the Gran Republic of Azulvisa’s Republican Navy. We have arrived in response to one of our exploration probes failing to report in. We are armed only for our own defence, and are more than happy to discuss matters as civilised people.”

The response came from a man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, with the faint shadow of stubble around his cheeks, a small moustache and the vaguest glimmer of concern behind his eyes, despite the front he was almost successful in presenting. He wore the typical dress uniform of a naval capitán- a black blazer with silver accents, three medals pinned over his heart, a blue sash slung across his shoulders and a broad peaked cap sitting snugly atop a carefully curated crop of light brown hair.

There was a moment, as the looping message suddenly paused. The woman’s face was frozen into an expression of curiosity – head tilted ever so slightly, like someone had just shown her a pet animal that she didn’t recognize.

Then the woman at last replied, more clearly in a form of Spanish seemingly adjusted slightly to account for the captain’s own words and accent:

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Capitán, and what looks to be a fine crew. My apologies for the aggression, we will power down our weapons.”

Sure enough, the heat and ion signatures radiating from the station platforms began to dissipate and shut down. The fleet of ships began painfully, awkwardly adjusting their course and flaring up light signals in old morse code in something to the effect of ‘sorry to bother you, welcome to our shipyard’.

“Would you and your crew wish to enter our station for further discussion and refreshments? Or is it preferable to communicate remotely?”

“It is only understandable under the circumstances,” Leonardo replied, “Our own weapons are now fully depowered,” as he spoke he waved his hand frantically off-screen, the crew picking up on the implied order and relaying it across the flight. “And we are more than happy to meet face-to-face.”

The woman paused, then smiled slightly at his reply.

“I assume you all still breathe oxygen?”

There was a brief pause before the last question came through. A small note of confusion briefly fluttered across Leonardo’s face. “Affirmative. We are baseline humans – as close as one will find to those that left Earth.”

The woman smiled again, and something about her eyes changed – taking on a brown hue similar to that of the human crew who were visible on camera.

“Excellent. Please direct your vessel to habitation bay 4-” she snapped her fingers, and one of the wider, more disc-like structures of the station suddenly lit up, flashing in rhythmic patterns, “and we will get some refreshments ready. Please do not be alarmed at the welcome you receive, the crew will be very excited to meet you.”

And with that, the signal cut out.




Leonardo waited until he was sure he was no longer broadcasting, then let out a slow breath that he hadn’t known he was holding in. He turned slowly to the rest of his bridge staff, took a moment to compose himself, and failed horribly.

“That was fucking weird, right?”

A few nods from the bridge staff. Most of them weren’t that much more experienced than Leonardo himself, especially when it came to diplomacy and foreign relations. “Send another commspackage back through. The entire conversation we just had, all of it. Highest damn priority we can. Oh, and get the marines out of their bunks and in their dress uniforms, now.” He took the opportunity to cross himself at last, then dug beneath his waistcoat to extract his cross and place it against his lips. “Prepare to dock.”




Grul-Phell Tinek, the Blessed, was having a very blessed few days. He had always thought himself a painfully ordinary diplat – of low-born stock by the echoes of the compact system, and never worthy by assessment of any higher measurement and the gifts of the Summation – and yet here he was, on Spirit’s Loss! Crown jewel of the Summation’s extraplanetary projects, the dreamed destination of untold millions of other quantity caste.

A fluke, honestly. A chance encounter weeks ago with one of the kindest members of the time measurement – the one who called himself ‘Gatsby’, tricky as it was to pronounce – and he’d done such a good job when he was asked to ‘juggle’ that Gatsby had invited him to serve as a private entourage! Imagine!

Gosh, his mum was thrilled to bits.

The flight had been sickening, of course – the medication and therapies had helped, but the diplat body wasn’t naturally built for zero-gravity. For a while he’d regretted it, weakly hoping that maybe lord Gatsby would send him back.

Then of course, the sky had unfolded in a cascade of light, like the jaws of a bounteous grippleworm – followed not long after by the appearance of alien ships! Battle stations at every moment! It was all hands on deck, and as Grul-Phell had cowered in a corridor at one point he had almost been trampled to death by a pair of mass-measurement rushing to arm something… when suddenly one of the luminous – those most blessed beneath the masters of the Summation themselves – reached down with a coiled, ever-shifting hand and lifted him up.

“Grul-Phell, friend. Can’t have you getting squashed, can I? You better come with me. We are expecting special guests.”

And now, with bated breath he stood near the front of a huge crowd – of every caste they had gathered, relentlessly curious. He overheard strange whispers – humans? What were those? They knew the masters? From the master's home?

At the front of the crowd and emitting sharp, curling beams of golden light that clearly delineated lines on the ground that no one could cross stood three members of the luminous – those chosen to represent three of the masters residing within Spirit’s Loss.

There was a whirring of wind. The airlock that the crowd stood across from gave a heavy, weezing THUNK as one harsh, cold white & red door sealed behind the arriving aliens.

“You know, Grul-Phell,” whispered Gatsby into his ear, “I trust you. When they step through and we welcome them, you will follow our entourage. They will be delighted at your juggling, I’m certain of it.”

Unfortunately, something about the way it was said made him more nervous. As he thought about it, however, he was distracted by the sight of new lights forming – the three luminous had emitted new shapes now, a set of three holograms far more detailed than the abstract, faintly bird-like forms they used when speaking to society as a whole or giving big presentations.

In golden light they formed these strange, thin giants – like the length caste, in a way. But taller, thinner, without fur, and with a single pair of smaller, many-circled eyes. There were more hushed whispers among the crowd, but Grul-Phell could only watch the form that Gatsby was projecting.

A strange idea came to him – one that he didn’t like very much, and very quickly tried not to dwell on. An idea that smelled of lies, but to which his gut whispered ‘truth’.

Is that what the masters really look like?




Leonardo had gone over many options in his head as the Leonardo slowly approached the foreign station, marines hastily assembling in their small barracks to prepare a formal escort. Of all those options though, not a single one of them came anywhere close to the reality of… this.

They’d met aliens before, of course. Not him personally, but the Republic as a whole. He had considered perhaps a few xenos faces to be among the welcoming committee. Not the entire entryway to be stuffed full of them with their… Saints above, what the hell were they even supposed to be? Things? Beasts? Creatures? He once again failed to keep his emotions off his face, although to his credit, most of the marines had also failed to do so as well.

His escort was nothing like the de Caravajal’s prim and proper diplomatic guards, or the Lobasla 1st’s refined ferocity. They were Sorona men and women, proud and true, but they’d spent most of the war (and indeed, all the time before the war,) being little more than glorified security guards aboard the carrack. Disciplined, drilled and determined, yes. Prepared for… This?

No.

Not remotely.

Still, they were here for diplomacy, so they had to put on at least some kind of a show. “Marines! Attention! Present… Arms!” He drew his sabre in one swift motion, holding it aloft.

Carbines quickly snapped into place, then were planted firmly into the airlock’s floor. Leonardo brought his sabre to his face, then with a quick twirl, eased it back into its sheath. The only vaguely human figures among the crowd were holographic projections, and it was towards the leading number of these projections that he offered a horizontal-palmed salute.

“Capitán Leonardo Adalberto Demetrio Teodoro Y Sonora of the Gran Republic of Azulvista, and the Sonora 3rd Marines at you-” He mentally corrected himself, ”greet you!”

Only one of the three holograms returned the salute – a dark red in contrast to the other two’s golden light, shaped like a tall and well-built veteran soldier.

The central machine-creature of the trio was projecting an image of the woman who had been on the video transmissions, albeit now wearing a projection of clothing mostly identical to Leonardo’s uniform – just adjusted for her fitting, and with a different symbol than the flag of the Gran Republic: of six pillars arrayed, their shadow cast outward and away from a hollow circle.

A similar symbol was painted on the walls of the station in red and white, like a surreal eye watching all who passed.

The woman stepped forward along with the machine behind her, and as she held out a hand the bizarrely crab-like machine followed her movements – some strange mesh of machinery rearranging itself into a smooth approximation of a human hand and matching the position of the hologram’s own.

Cold to the touch, of course, but artificially warmed.

Leonardo, for his part, quickly lowered his hand from the salute and thrust it forward. His logic was simple- if he didn’t give himself time to think about how utterly insane everything was, it wouldn’t be obvious to these strange foreign diplomats.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance in person, Capitán. My name is Minerva, of the time measurement. These are two of my…” she flickered briefly, as if holding her tongue, “colleagues.”

“A pleasure, a real pleasure!” said the hologram to her right, of a well-built man in his early thirties with carefully styled blonde hair, “I… wow! You wouldn’t believe how exciting this is! The name’s Gatsby, sorry, I just… a real honour. You have to tell us what’s been happening on Earth in our absence.”

‘Minerva’ flickered briefly, followed by Gatsby and the third figure both flickering.

The third figure – the one who had returned Leonardo’s salute – was grizzled, his left eye covered by an eyepatch, and his face marked by the wrinkles of a man in his late sixties.

“Mars,” he said with a nod and a pained smile, “a pleasure, captain. And might I say, a pleasure to meet such fine soldiers as well.”

No time to pause. Pausing was the enemy. Thinking about what he was doing more than was needed for diplomatic niceties was the enemy. Anything other than getting through this situation intact, and without sullying the reputation of the Gran Republic, was officially not secondary, not tertiary not even quaternary, but… What was further along than quaternary? Shit, no time to dig through his Latin lessons. Gatsby had said something he needed to clear up.

“Once again, greetings to all of you.” He inclined his head slightly. “I’m afraid to say that we ourselves do not hail from the Sol system, but I’ve been reliably informed it’s bustling and busy again, after humanity’s long absence. As for my men, they have conducted themselves most honourably over the past year.”

The three figures flickered briefly, before Minerva smiled again – almost piteously?

“Well… that’s good to hear, I suppose. We will have to send representatives of our own through the Gate, of course. Please come with me – we have done our best to prepare refreshments as close to old Earth as we can manage, but I warn you that diplat tastebuds are not excellent judges. Plus, three hundred years, it, well…”

“...makes it tricky to remember the details.” Gatsby chimed.

Tricky to remember the… How old were the holograms he was talking to? Were they even human? By any metric? Once again, Leonardo had to clamp down on his wayward thoughts. “Is that the term for these xenos?” He had slipped into using the more offensive Azulvistan term, even if it was purely descriptive at its core. “Diplat?”

As one the trio of holograms turned to surround the machine-creatures projecting them and began to walk down the hangar bay in the direction of several wide doors, leading Leonardo and his crew deeper into the station. Notably, most of the creatures in their abundance of shapes stopped dead at the doorway, jostling for position as they excitedly waved at the marines. The exception being a small mole-like creature who stuck close to Gatsby.

Minerva spoke up as they went.

“Yes. They’re extremely helpful creatures, and as you can see by their abundant forms –- very versatile.”

“I think you'll really love this guy,” said Gatsby, gesturing to the stocky four-eyed mole thing that dutifully followed him, “I’ve taught him to juggle. It’s so funny.”




As he followed the holograms through the hallways of the station, Leonardo couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that he was being condescended to. It was not a feeling he appreciated very much – he’d had quite enough at officer’s clubs and wing meetings during the Galactic War, often by people who had no greater qualifications than a more prestigious family name.

Worse than just that though, he couldn’t also help but feel that the holograms he was walking behind didn’t consider the alien beings were really beings at all. True – they were xenos, and to Azulvistans, xenos were a dangerous, potent threat to be respected and hated, but they were still lifeforms. They protected their colony ships and spawning pools at great personal costs, still were capable of feats of extraordinary ingenuity and heroism, and still worthy foes, but these holograms…

Why did he get the distinct feeling they viewed these xenos not as beings, but as amusements, or… worse… tools?

“Captain,” spoke up Mars as they walked as if to interrupt his thoughts, “I do have to ask. Did your colony open the gate? We were prepared for potential outsiders, of course, but it’s been 300 years at this point. The arrival of your ships was a welcome surprise.”

“I am not best qualified to speak on the Gateways- I am, after all, a military officer, but from my understanding of things the Gateways began opening unprompted around six quarters ago. Not just ours, mind, but many other systems as well. Some of them have fluctuated- opening if only to close again soon after, others have taken longer to come online. Full understanding of them is still a ways off.”

Mars frowned, almost in disbelief.

“They just… reopened? No one intentionally activated them? That’s… mmm.”

“Frustrating? I believe our mathetes have had much the same reaction.” Leonardo nodded.

Mars simply nodded and fell back to the side, flickering briefly as he walked.




The room they were brought to was… well, to describe it as a lounge would have been generous. In some regards it resembled a cafeteria of sorts – a wide array of lightly cushioned chairs were spread out, evidently designed for use by these many different forms of ‘diplat’, while along the walls were a variety of machines decorated in strange, scratchy symbols and pictures of… some kind of food. None of it looked very appetising.

Near the centre was a particularly large table, around which they’d arranged eleven identical chairs that looked like they just about could fit a shorter, stockier human – exactly enough for Leonardo and his marines.

Gatsby gestured to the table with a flourish and excitedly pranced towards it, the elongated, crab-like amalgamation that projected his hologram audibly ‘thumping’ as it tried to keep up with his movements.

“I’m sorry, I appreciate it’s not as diplomatic as you may be used to given how many colonies it sounds like have returned, but… please, take your seats. You’re welcome to relax, gentlemen!”

“Any welcome is much appreciated. We understand that you can hardly expect to have a red carpet prepared on the off-chance that three centuries of isolation suddenly ends.” Although Leonardo pulled out the central of the eleven chairs and settled himself firmly into it, the marines did not, instead taking their positions in a loose formation around their captain. For his part, Leonardo would briefly reach into the inside pocket of his dress jacket. For a moment, the golden cross still around his neck glinted in the artificial light of the station, only to be rapidly replaced by a sleek silver cigarette case. “May I?”

Saints he needed a smoke.

Minerva and Mars both flickered briefly, but Gatsby simply smiled.

“Oh, please do! Honestly, I keep trying to get the diplat to try it but tobacco has been just… so difficult to synthesise properly.”

Well, if nothing else, they were clearly a scientifically-minded bunch, Leonardo mused as he brought a slender white stick to his lips, then extracted a bulky yet elegantly designed lighter, sparking a bright blue flame and inhaling deeply. For a moment, he was quiet save for the faint crackle of paper, before slowly exhaling, a long plume of smoke curling its way into the air. One of the marines closest to him twitched a little.

Minerva flickered briefly, resuming movement as she gave a slightly pained smile.

“Forgive us, Capitán. We’re all still very new to this. We would love to know a bit more about your home and what has happened in the past… six quarters, you said? The last year and a half?”

“Rotations,” Leonardo informed her. “Our home planet of Azulvista does not have the same 365, 24-hour day as Earth does, so to avoid confusion between calenders we use ‘rotation’ for a full circumnavigation of our sun, and ‘cycle’ for day. Fortunately, the mismatch between them is not too great.”

Minerva gave the professional smile of a secretary handling matters that she was being paid very much to pretend to care about.

“Fascinating. We have something similar – sometimes we use a clock and calendar based on the diplat homeworld’s rotations, but with time our numerous projects and holdings across the system required us to standardise. After some debate it was decided to simply use Earth’s calendar as the baseline, for simplicity’s sake.”

Leonardo couldn’t help but let out a wry chuckle. “Our various calenders are a constant cause of debate and frustration- it is terribly difficult to organise things when one must keep Earth, Azulvista and her moons all in mind at the same time, and standardisation seems a distant dream.”

Minerva and Gatsby both laughed politely. This was easy and comfortable, a little diplomatic small talk… then Mars perked up a little at the change of subject.

“I’m also curious at your mention of… you said your men had conducted themselves honourably in the last year. Has there been a lot of conflict in that time? I imagine many colonies have been…” he gave a deep-chested laugh, “...heh, less than easy to deal with. Human nature.”

Once again, Leonardo had the concerning feeling that the holograms he was having a conversation with were a little too distant from their roots. “Most of those we have met have been inquisitive and lively, but not warlike. Unfortunately however, one nation in particular found the new state of affairs… Ideologically unacceptable. Conflict ensued, but I’m sure a better diplomat than I, with far longer to inform you of the galaxy’s goings-on, can provide a better brief. There is a large space station in Sol – the Meeting Place, for the various states to conduct this sort of business.”

Mars nodded, before Gatsby’s hologram leaned over just enough to catch attention.

“Ahem, sorry, the refreshments are here.”

From an unfolding circular door against the left wall the refreshments were brought through, carried by a set of four heavy-set diplat, almost deformed by their musculature. To Leonardo and the marines they looked… for lack of a better description, as if the little mole-creature at Gatsby’s side had been fed a regiment of extreme steroids and had done nothing but sleep, eat, and exercise for years. Beneath the smooth, padded dark-red uniforms they wore there were clear signs of cybernetics and implants, to the point where at least one of them made the sound of metal rods clanging together as it walked.

Minerva flickered briefly at the sight of them.

But perhaps more extraordinary than their appearance was the fact that as they brought trays with various foods and drinks – some recognizable, others bizarre – they weren’t… holding the trays. Rather, as each of them walked they simply held up their hands, claws outstretched, as the trays levitated amidst coils of dark blue light.

With heavyset wheezes the creatures leaned forwards, the trays slowly lowering as the glow faded and the trays came to a rest on the table with a soft clattering. As one the servers stepped to the side, standing to attention by a far wall.

“We hope you’ll enjoy it, Capitán. We weren’t sure what should be prepared, but perhaps a range of foods from the ‘Latin America’ of old Earth. Your marines are also very welcome to take some.”

Leonardo had to admit, he was impressed. The display- the cybernetically enhanced servers, the immaculate uniforms despite the alien physiology, the floating serving trays, was certainly the sort of thing he expected from an entirely alien nation. He snuffed the butt of his cigarette out, brushing any ash off his hand before moving to take the food.

The problem came when he reached out to one of the trays, carefully set with daintily looking tacos, and plucked one up. Already he was slightly irked- between Minerva’s hologram imitating his naval uniform and the Latin American food, he was already feeling as if Azulvista was being poked fun at, but it got worse as he realised what he held.

It was hard to stop himself from freezing. This was not a taco. This was a folded tostado, and it looked suspiciously like wheat, not corn. Slowly, trying to make sure his trepidation didn’t show, he bit into the front of it, one of the marines actually wincing at the audible crunch.

Mi abuela would flip a table if she was served this. Barely marinated, with far too much sour cream, guacamole and salsa and severely undersalted, and where the fuck was the coriander?

He had tried, really tried to keep the culinary horror off his face, but he was pretty sure he had failed, trying to finish the food he had already picked up quickly.

As Leonardo struggled to eat the non-taco without grimacing, the holograms likewise struggled to control their reactions. Minerva flickered several times as if her holographic form was failing her, while Gatsby flickered briefly but otherwise gave an amused smile – though something in his eyes gave away a nervous fear, the thought ‘we’ve offended him’.

Mars remained stone-faced, glancing periodically at the marines.

“Captain,” he said, sneering at the hulking, cybernetically augmented creatures who had brought the food, “I apologise for the poor quality of the food – the diplat sense of taste is geared towards things we would find repulsive, and the salinity of their world’s water supply distorts perspectives. I remember on Earth military food standards were famously rather… hit-or-miss, you might say, but I have no doubt your people’s standards have improved in the past three hundred years.”

“It is certainly a worthy attempt, and I must apologise for my reaction. It is not becoming of your generous hospitality.” He reluctantly picked another one of the tostado-things up as he continued to talk. “We in the navy have the luxury of consistent kitchens and mess halls, and officers such as myself have cooks fit for the station… It’s the infantry that must get along with inconsistencies.” He smirked a little- say what you would about the prestige associated with a tiny carrack command, but it was surprisingly comfortable once you got used to its eccentricity.

Mars nodded but said nothing, before glancing at the marines again. The hologram scratched his chin, as if a thought had suddenly appeared to him. Minerva politely smiled but otherwise seemed to be happy for Mars to speak.

“You know, I think it would greatly benefit our nations to arrange some form of joint-military exercise. The diplat have repeatedly proven themselves quite tenacious when under siege or in urban warfare, and with a few careful adjustments individuals have proven themselves in a range of extreme environments, but, well…” Mars gave a polite laugh, “they lack, mmm… military finesse, you might say. It sounds like your republic is very capable in such matters.”

Leonardo swallowed quickly in his hurry to respond. “While such an offer is generous and would likely have much merit to it, I must confess that I cannot be considered to speak on behalf of the Gran Republic when it comes to such matters. You must understand- I am no diplomat or admiral, carrying great authority within our nation. I’m merely a naval captain of good birth and bearing, sent here to investigate a missing probe.” Actually, that reminded him. “Speaking of which, I presume the probe has been held on this station? If that is the case, its return would be greatly appreciated, as property of the Republican Navy.”

There was a brief pause as Leonardo’s request hung in the air. Minerva and Mars both flickered repeatedly, as if malfunctioning – to the point where even the mole-creature, just quietly standing off to the side and staring at its feet, was now watching them with a… confused expression? Fear? The hulking server-creatures seemed to lean forward slightly, as if wrestling with whether they should run to get some kind of help.

Leonardo too, seemed rather concerned at the flickering of the holograms. They’d done this before, multiple times, for some reason which he had yet to fully fathom, but this was a longer and more intense bout of the apparent malfunction than had happened before.

Gatsby, however, remained stable – just an awkward smile crossed the hologram’s face. He gave a deep breath, then clapped his hands together and held them not far from his chest.

“Captain… you’re our guest, so whereas my colleagues seem content to lose their minds over this matter, I’ll be honest with you.”

He flickered very briefly, then snapped his fingers – from the mechanical body that projected him, a second hologram was then projected: a huge mess of components and dismantled machinery, carefully being catalogued or melted down and tested by about a dozen scuttling robots.

Slowly, Leonardo took another bite of the food, considering the matter as Gatsby continued to explain.

“I’m afraid to say that one of our colleagues was so eager to understand your probe and the potential risks to outsiders that she made the…” he paused, as if looking for a word other than ‘stupid’, “rash decision to have it captured and dismantled immediately.”

He gave an apologetic smile and let his hands open – an age old gesture of ‘how can we fix this’.

“My colleague has informed us that the probe is now in a state where it would be, well, unusable. We would like to make it up to your great republic – I appreciate that destruction of property, navy property in particular, is not a great first impression. We’re happy to return the parts and analysed materials, of course, but… is there something of exchange that might be more valuable instead?”

Minerva and Mars’ both snapped back into place, but simply stood there silently – Minerva in particular looked mortified.

Leonardo took a moment to mull over his words. “Firstly, of course, the analysed parts and materials would need to be returned, particularly the probe’s backup databanks- it’s ‘black box,’ so to speak. As for a repayment…” He paused once again. He wasn’t speaking for himself or his vessel any more, instead he was speaking for the Republic, something he was vastly underqualified to do. “What would you consider to be adequate compensation in a matter such as this, internally?”

Gatsby smiled, flickering briefly, “That’s fair. We’ll start returning the probe's components immediately.”

Indeed, in the space of a few seconds the various scuttling robots on the camera had paused their work, and just as quickly they set about re-attaching or restoring what components they could. Several of the bulkier diplat entered the room, and began to use both physical strength and the strange levitating abilities demonstrated to begin moving the various packs of dismantled parts and melted elements out of the room and off camera, to places unknown.

Then he smiled at Leonardo’s response to his offer by putting the onus on him. Gatsby stroked his chin, as if weighing up possible gifts.

“Well, mmm… I would offer some kind of equivalent machinery, but I appreciate it’s early days to be transporting unknown devices into your home system.”

Mars gave a scowl at Gatsby’s comment, a look of… ‘you’ll never hear the end of this’, but with an undercurrent that was harsher. Deadlier.

The machine at the centre of Gatsby’s hologram turned, its four lenses suddenly narrowing slightly in the direction of the mole-creature. Its gaze had shifted slightly as it stood to one side, glancing at Leonardo and the marines with something resembling paranoia.

A gentle smile spread across Gatsby’s mouth.

“These… ‘mathetes’, you called them? Do they handle all matters of scientific curiosity? Zoology, maybe?”

“It is the broad term for those who have completed an advanced academic degree- what Earth might call a ‘masters,’ of any subject, yes.” He quirked an eyebrow, curious as to where this was going.

Gatsby gestured to the diplat, snapping his fingers. When the creature turned to look at him, the machine projecting him emitted a set of noises, some sort of strange, brief mixture of clicks and… chewing, sounds? Whatever he’d said the creature responded dutifully, shuffling over on two legs when the shape of its arms suggested it would’ve been more comfortable sprinting on all fours.

“This dear fellow, the juggler? He is a member of what we’ve come to call ‘Quantity’ diplat – their genetic baseline, or close enough anyway. ‘True diplat’, unlike the more useful higher measurements that crew most of our ships and stations. I think your mathetes might find him most interesting to analyse, medicate, test…”

His voice hesitated briefly, as if about to use other terms, but held his tongue.

“Well, you get the idea. We have four-and-something billion of them, and they’re quite naturally short-lived.”

“They’re easy to miss.” chimed in Minerva.

“Yes, exactly. And don’t worry, we’ve had many opportunities to test for potential risks, all evidence shows that diplat and human diseases are near-mutually exclusive. Plus this one has been, and will be again, very carefully detoxified before boarding your ship – assuming the idea is agreeable?”

This time, Leonardo was able to hide his distaste. He was very glad he was, because the words that ran through his mind were anything but diplomatic. Slavers. Giving away a sapient being, viewing it as a disposable test dummy… If he’d have been back home, he would have spat on the ground at such an offer. But he wasn’t, and, realistically, bringing back a xenos to question and examine would certainly be appreciated. He swallowed down his distaste, instead focusing on practical matters.

“I can see a few small issues with this- one, you mentioned that their diet is somewhat different to ours? Would feeding him be an issue? Secondly, how are we to communicate? Thirdly, are there any other accommodations we’d need to make?”

Gatsby clapped his hands together.

“Oh, diet won’t be an issue at all. They’re omnivores, but particularly lean towards scavenging detritus – the core food set up for them is a kind of…” he cringed, “well, we’d call it slop, honestly. Our tests involving Earth-based food supplies show they can digest them well enough. And no, there shouldn’t be any other accommodations – if your ships and stations have a waste disposal system, it’ll be easy enough for him to figure out where to relieve himself.”

Minerva stepped in now, smiling flatly.

“And communications will, mmm… we could provide a small translation device?”

Gatsby rolled his eyes at the suggestion.

“Diplat are actually quite intelligent, with the right training. Their brains are hardwired for communication and cooperation – it won’t take long for me to teach him a few key commands in Spanish.”

“I would much prefer communication devices. A few key commands will hardly be useful should the mathetes wish to ask him about family structures or names.”

Gatsby flickered very briefly, almost imperceptibly so, but then just smiled and nodded.

“Excellent point, we’ll have it arranged right away… I must say capitán, this has been, just… thrilling, I don’t think any of us can emphasise it enough.”

Minerva stepped forward, “Yes, it’s been very informative. The other members of the Summation will be curious to know more and arrange more discussions… will you and your marines be staying longer? You’re our guests, of course.”

“I’m certain we can arrange to stay for a little longer, but I must be returning to my vessel somewhat soon, with the probe in tow. I have a report to submit to my superiors.”




It was as promised. Leonardo had stuck around for another few hours, fielded more questions and asked just as many, avoided eating anything else, and then once the news came through that the probe was safely stashed away in the Leonardo he took his leave.

The flight hovered in Summation space- just outside of the Gateway for a few hours more, relaying information back and forth, finally delivering the Time Measurement with a brief data package on what they should expect upon reaching the Meeting Place, and a summary on the rest of the Galaxy’s nations. With that, they turned, burnt engines, and with a surprising lack of ceremony, returned to their home system.




“THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST. WE WILL BE SENDING A DELEGATION TO THE MEETING PLACE IN THE COMING WEEKS. PLEASE LEAVE OUR TERRITORY UNTIL WE HAVE CONTACTED YOUR REPRESENTATIVES AT THE MEETING PLACE. THOSE WHO STAY WITHOUT LEAVING AS REQUESTED WILL BE FIRED UPON.”

So had beamed the message in the hours following Leonardo’s departure. It was a warning that Gatsby had frowned at, but ultimately the others’ paranoia had won out – when it became clear that a number of other civilizations were also reaching out to make first contact so quickly, Roselle had been quick to point out what a mess first contact had been with this… Gran Republic. Time was needed to work out what limits would be needed, and information had to be gathered in more detail to know how the various colonies would feel about their… ‘eccentricities’, as she’d put it.

I suppose we can agree on that, Gatsby thought, though I think the juggler saved it, honestly.

The juggler… Grul-something, it was already escaping him, but it had dutifully followed his instructions.

“I have a special task for you,” he’d said, “go with these humans. We’ll be providing their ‘ Capitán Sorono’ with a device to translate for you – whatever he or anyone he assigns to guard you tells you to do, you will obey them, understood? When the time of your mission is over, I will come to collect you: but I warn you, it will probably be a very long time.”

He’d given a bit of the old spiel, about this being a special responsibility for the good of the diplat sphere. That they were rediscovering ancient allies, who would help the Summation and its good subjects rise to ever greater glory.

The juggler had frowned, quivering slightly, before looking up with that defeated look that so many of the creatures seemed to constantly carry.

“Will you tell my mother? They’ll miss me,” the juggler had pleaded, and for the briefest moment Gatsby had projected the image of a diplat, smiling gently and emitting sympathetic warbles.

“Yes, of course. We’re friends, Grul…” a brief flicker, “-Phell. I’ll make sure they get the news, and many gifts for having raised such a dutiful son.”



He hadn’t lied, of course – some might have in his place, but Gatsby was a good master. He’d been sure to record a brief message, a thank you with condolences and some petty lies about him having died in an accident involving an airlock. Compensation was an obvious inclusion, tickets to move to an apartment in a nicer burrow-city for his mother and a few of his siblings.

But all that having been dealt with and the various operations and projects of Spirit’s Loss finally returning to a measure of normality, Gatsby retired into his digital palace.

Ever so idly, he drifted through the data package that the azulvistans had provided them with; smiling here or there at the summaries of the dozens of other civilizations that had emerged since the Gates reopened.

For a moment, he almost started to skim read it… then something caught his eye. For an instant of time his mind flashed back to his time at university – a mortal man with mortal needs. His mind began to race, idle curiosity collapsing into a black hole of need.

Names. Two of them.

Human, and ancient, and by all rights very, very dead.






NOTE: The below nation's gate has not yet re-opened, they will eventually come onto the scene as becomes relevant for the story/once current story arcs have been dealt with/explored further.


@Irredeemable

Application is now finished ^_^


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