Tortoise

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Destination: The Hold of Clan Buraq

Destination Description written by @Enigmatik

The land out here is peculiar and sunbaked, and that is about all that can be said from it. The sand seethes, claws and scratches at the soil and grass that juts up in uneven patches across the parched scrubland. The road beneath the caravan though is strong and well-trodden, hewn with stone and made straight and even across the landscape, belting across to the horizon, where the caravan’s next destination sits.

There’s little else to obscure it after all, with the crowded foliage and verdant greens of the Emerald Forest left so far behind. Instead, there are the mountains that mark out the centre of Clan Busaq’s power. Vast, imposing things that form part of a scattered chain that stretch deep into the desert, all the way to the sacred Jabal Ilah and beyond. As the caravan has pressed closer though, the staggering scale of the hold has become clearer and clearer.

A colossal ochre stone wall bars easy entrance to the hold itself, but even where wall ends and mountain begins, the defences continue. Cut into the rock itself are structures and fortifications – guard posts, murder holes and even springalds, all manned by tiny figures only distinguishable from the mountains themselves thanks to the glints of light from their broad shields and scaled armour.

But this is only the beginning of it. Just outside of the walls, stretched out in the no-mans land between farming estates and the city itself is a sea of tents, wagons, temporary structures and perhaps most astounding of all are the rolling towers and citadels, and the humongous beasts that have been hitched near them.

They stand nearly ten men tall to their shoulders alone, with tremendously long noses that curl and twist like vast snakes. Massive tusks jut from either side of these trunks, banded with steel and affixed with vicious looking blades or vast metal rams at their ends. Mûmakils – Oliphaunts. Their lesser brethren, the elephants, live in Alwyne’s warmer climes, but these are alike them in shape alone: these creatures are the largest warbeasts seen on this continent – indeed, perhaps anywhere on Alwyne.

The caravan is stopped just outside the army encampment and directed to park themselves in a wide-open space, a few other, smaller caravans already circled. With the return of the army, the city is filled to capacity, but travellers are free to come and go as they always have… So long as they follow the Clan’s laws.

--- ~--( )--~ ---

Athulwin

Athulwin believes that deserts are the most naturally spiritual kind of environment. As the Caravan meandered over the smooth road that led them to this great city of a hold, during those bright noontides when old Athulwin would sit in his Caravan watching the world outside from a safely darker place, he kept thinking thoughts about the universe. The wide open-ness of the landscape pulled such thoughts out of him, willingly or otherwise. The vastness of these dry lands makes you think of your place in it all, as the harsh, the unrelenting sunlight seems to preach sermons.

It's no wonder they're fanatics here, Athulwin thinks. He doesn't use the term lightly. Many have called him such, to his face or behind his back. But sometimes a label fits. Athulwin has met only a few followers of the Light-and-Flame, but he's read some of their texts. They are filled with the same breed of fire he sometimes caught in the eyes of the most intense monks back home. A passion to burn the world.

Athulwin is resting now, trying to think philosophically no more for the day. It's only mid-morning; the sun is still rising. He knows it will not have finished its climb towards noon before he has to work again. Sometimes he hates his life. "A mother's work is never done," a silly old saying goes. Athulwin must be a mother, then. The Caravan can never go more than a few breaths without direction from its Navigator.

Athulwin has spent the day, such as there's been of it so far, listening to the Wind. That's another reason to try not to be philosphical. It's the wrong mindset for hearing from Wind. The Stars are philosophical. Even Fire, in a savage way, carries a philosophy of strength. But the Wind is a gossiper, not a thinker. It does things and it talks. Here's the gossip it has brought him today:

There's slaves here, in the Hold of Clan Baraq. Many of them. Not even far from the Caravan- this desert land practices slavery, and does it openly, not as an ashamed secret. The slaves are kept in pens, within the city walls and under supervision of the army. Athulwin has heard that this Clan Basaq the Caravan is visiting has recently won a small war. From the sounds that the Wind carries him, its becoming more and more uncomfortably obvious that the reason there's so many slaves in this city is because many of them are those that the Baraq clan has just conquered. They were defeated in war, taken captive, and now they're learning what it is to be slaves for the first time. Some of them weep.

The Wind says, also, that they're being auctioned off. Stands have been set up for the army to sell excess slaves out to the populace. These people are being treated as wares for the marketplace.

Athulwin already fears certain names in the Caravan- Mergoux, for sure, and possibly Ilyana as well- are going to take issue with that. They know what chains feel like. Will they be able to keep to themselves about it? Athulwin doubts.

But there's also much merchandise of the more normal kind here. The Wind carries the voices of so many merchants to him. Most people here are human, a few dwarves, a few dog-like Ainok like Malleck and more. The city is a hub of trade for all kinds, and it will welcome the travellers from the Caravan in. At last, something for Gru to do beside whine about a lack of milk. You can buy plenty here.

There's also some traders of another race. Not even far from the Caravan has now parked itself, there's a traveling assortment of Baraka. The snake-people. What a diverse land this desert is. The snakes, he senses, have something dangerous to sell, something very valuable, but even the Wind cannot tell him what it is. Perhaps some of the more enterprise-minded of the Caravan will reach out to these fellow travellers and find out what it is.

Regardless.

Athulwin toys with the idea of sending wind-borne messages out to his fellow Caravaneers to try to push them in the right direction, as he did when they first entered the Emerald Forest. To tell Mergoux and Ilyana, "No, leave the slavers alone." Or to tell the others that this is there chance to restock on needful things before the Caravan goes journeying again. But ultimately, Athulwin realizes, these stand-outs in the Caravan are adults, whether they always act like it or not, and they should be able to take care of themselves without the advice from their proverbial mother...

And, with that thought, the aging monk finds himself falling into a nap.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Athulwin

Oh, by Frowen, there are two of them. Athulwin can't keep the grimace from his face when a second fox-human eases his way out into the open. They come from a fallen star, Athulwin's internal monologue thinks in a tone of awe. How many others fell with them? He manages to keep the word 'invasion' out of his mind, but only just. They look too shaken for that. She- the woman- looks too upset.

This is... what, a horrible accident? Athulwin does not know what sort of obscene travel there must be between the stars for such a thing to happen. The universe feels seems suddenly larger than before, at that thought, and Athulwin feels strangely smaller.

The other fox-human has less tails, down to the thankfully normal number of just one. He's a he. He's, to Athulwin's eyes, attractive. Athulwin finds that irrationally annoying. He won't let his thoughts become so muddled now.

The woman looks back at the other fox, too, who is standing behind her now, and something silent seems to pass between them. Encouragement? They truly are worried. "Fu-mi-ko," she speaks, motioning at herself.

Athulwin gets it. He returns in kind. "Ath-ul-win." His hand to his chest. Almost by instinct he wants to introduce himself as 'Navigator,' that title that's morphed into part of his name through the years, but he knows that would be quite silly.

The fox, Fumiko, signs frustration at the fallen star. Her hands thrown up into the air, just like a pilgrim whose caravan has a broken wagon wheel trying to let everyone else know that he's as upset about the hold-up as they are. He guesses it to have the same meaning. They're stuck.

Athulwin sighs. He took an oath. He won't allow himself to defy it even for whatever insane, unknowable circumstances brought these two creatures to his doorstep. If they are drifters, if they need help and have no other place...

He tells Malleck and the others, in the common tongue, to let the strangers come along with them. He signs to 'Fumiko' and the other to follow him. The not-Beyonders will be brought back to the Caravan.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

Gilt and Yulzan

Collab between Sigma and Tortoise

Andrei frowned at a holographic read-out displayed over his desk. He seemed to spend a lot of time doing that these days, he thought. Just kind of brooding in the general direction of technology. Not because he was a luddite- far from it, he was a tech billionaire, after all- but because lately technology seemed exclusively to be used to convey unpleasant information to him about all the new and gross peoples that the Giltians were meeting.

"Yool-zan," Andrei muttered the alien word under his breath like it's a swear. It may as well have been one. He was told, not asked, but told, that he'd be meeting with at 2 PM, Rainbow Time. It was a voice message from his mother that told him that- more technology delivering bad news, see?- and it told him three hours past. Every thing he knew about the Yulzan he learned in that time. He enjoyed exactly none of it.

"So," he asked Blue Girl, the sym secratary always standing by his side. "They're like... religious zealots? But the weird, skin-crawly alien version? How does that work?"

The tall, aquamarine robot sighed, but in a very contained and polite sort of way. "Well, neither. There's a lot of people, some humans included, who worship them as divine. The Yulzan themselves are either gods or conmen, depending on who it is you ask."

"Hey, I asked you."

"I think they're fully and totally insane," she said. Andrei twerked his eyebrows in the way that signaled that he agreed, but he wasn't happy about it. "Also," Blue Girl said, "they're here. Now. Shall I let them in?"

"Do you have to?"

She did.

The room onboard the esteemed Rainbow ship that the Yulzan representatives were invited to meet the Giltians in was better than ordinary. More decorated, and more spacious despite the cramped reality of life on a starship. It had occured to the Giltians that these were a proud people, and pride makes for a good customer so long as it is well-satisfied. The room was a classy dining hall with a golden chandelier, carpeted and with a beautiful, curved window-wall that overlooked the East India Marketplace. There were a half-dozen stamp servants standing guard around the room, but no persons seated at the dining table but Andrei and four other businessmen. Those five and Blue Girl would be meeting the aliens alone. The less people knew about this, the better. For all the beauty and decoration that abounded, this remained something of a shady back-room deal, and everyone could feel it. There was no food on the table this time. Just datapads and electronic pens, the sort for signing contracts.

The two large doors opposite Andrei slid open.

Andrei was greeted by the sight of two imposing figures stomping past the doors, their build towering everyone present in the room. Flanking the pair was a smaller figure more comparable to human height, a member of the insectoid Aldzir dressed in religious garbs in a various shades of crimson, gold, and ebony. The Aldzir moved ahead, ready to present. “Presenting the most exalted of the mighty Yulzan! The High Ascendants Zara’gul and Vras’thran!” The Aldzir bowed as he shuffled to the left, the High Ascendant representatives approaching table. Both choosing to not sit at the moment.

The Giltians were stumbled a little. The five humans in the room had no one response, but if you were to condense down what they were collectively feeeling just then, it'd read as "What century is this?" There was something so distnictly medieval about that entrance. One of the businesswomen, an OldWell Representative by the name of Mrs. Battle, was shocked into standing up out of her chair and, in an attempt to recover from the awkwardness, did a little bow. The other Giltians looked at her. Then, not to be upstaged in front of a client, followed suit. Three more Giltians stood out of their chairs and sketched their best imitations of short bows before sitting back down. Only Andrei remained seated.

"Well, uh" he said. "Nice to meet you. I'm Andrei Federov. And I suppose you're Zara-gal and Vras Dan." He butchered their names so smoothly you would think it was intentional. "Good to have you here."

Ignoring the rather insulting butchering of their names, however, the rather accidental and awkward bows had alleviated any offences taken, Zara’gul gave a slight nod. “A pleasure.” He begun. “We’re pleased to find humans that are willing to sit down and simply talk with us…it is a rare quality these days.” Granted, it’s a situation of their own making. “The sourness of our war has reached many ears, nearly all have turned against us.”

Vras’thran was next to speak, an ethereal, feminine voice vibrating in the air. “So, few recognize our divinity, blind to their hatred and ignorance of the alien, clinging to their false beliefs in the name of “liberty” or other such nonsense.” She paused as she scanned the room. “But forgive our blather, what business do you wish to discuss?”

"The businessness of business," said Andrei. He shifted his shoulders, crossed his hands over the table. To those who knew him, this was the signifier he was about to start putting on his Reasonable Businessman persona.

As much as he enjoyed playing the offensive drunk, and hated himself for it at the same time, he was technically a trained speaker. There are times to tap into that, he reasoned. When huge aliens are standing in front of you and speaking with the voices of angels, that is one of those times. "You say that all have turned against you. Gilt, of course, has not. We do not turn away a people before we've heard their story-" true, so far- "and we don't turn down possible partners just because others disregard them. There is a place for everyone to work with us. Your war has been brutal, from everything we've heard. This is the time when you need a partner. Someone whose goods can shift things in your favor. We're willing to be that partner, in exchange for, of course, fair trades and reasonable repayment. We are honest businessmen, in search of honest work." There's the deceptive part. "And, of course, that means nothing is off the table. Weapons, metal..." he looked over at the stamps, "...labor, especially. Cheap labor, if you understand me."

Andrei shrugged so lightly it was a lie. "I'm sure we'll come to some mutally beneficial agreements."

The two Yulzan exchanged looks to one another, nodding before turning to Andrei. “Mr. FIdarof. “Zara’gul begun, having his own moment and butchering Andrei’s last name, after decades of Human interaction, some Yulzan still find it difficult to communicate with humans, their many dialects are a confusing concept to a Yulzan, and miscommunication is bound to occur.

“The simple act of your offering to meet us at the table is a more than suitable enough gesture to hear you out. Whatever services you offer, we members of the ruling council are more then willing to pay for it. What more can you tell us?”

Some of the Giltians looked around at each other uncomfortably. One thing they'd learned from the nations they'd met so far is that this is always the Awkward Part. If they receive backlash, this is when it'll happen.

"Are you aware of stamps and syms?" asked Blue Girl, and every human in the room visibly relaxed. Not because they trusted her more than they would've trusted themselves to explain it. But because now they didn't have to.

"The terms are unfamiliar to us." Zara'gul replied.

"Mhmm," hummed Blue Girl. "Well, stamps are essentially biological robots, whereas syms are mechanical robots, like myself. Stamps are programmed to do specific jobs by tailored instinct and by cybernetic implants. For syms, our minds are copied over from human minds; but, worry not, the human is kept safely unharmed by this process. But," she waved her hand, "let us not get too caught up in the details. The essential bit to understand is only this: stamps and syms do most of the manual labor on Gilt, and so that keeps things very inexpensive. We can mass-produce goods with a speed and effeciency most peoples never obtain. What that means for you is that we can sell nearly anything. In your cases... I'd imagine you are in the market for weaponry and other purely-defensive military needs, no? We can supply that."

"And," said Andrei, but didn't continue. He was leaving it to Blue.

"And," said the sym, "we can also sell excess stamps and other syms. To do labor on your behalf. We work several times harder than humans do, rarely make mistakes, and do not require payment. I think it would be most beneficial to your wartime economy if you wished to purchase some."

The two exchanged looks, turning away from the humans as they quietly exchanged words, small mumbles heard here and there before the two High Ascendants turned back and face Andrei and the others. “What you offer is very promising.”

The description of the stamps in particular offers many opportunities, workers, cheap soldiers to swell the ranks of the Janissaries, and in between….and they may provide possible biomaterial for the continued development of the Condemned. The Syms would provide a similar advantage, further automating the Ascendancy in every aspect. “Consider us sold on your…”pitch” as you humans say.”

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

No worries, just glad I happened to see this! If I recall, the duo I had were starting with the caravan, but should I change that now that I’m coming in later?

@Smike

I'll leave it up to you. Despite the fact that we've been going on a couple of months now, we're still in our first Destination. That means you could just say that your gnoll raider and her kiddo have been with us all along and only haven't done anything yet.

I can give a brief rundown of what's occurred so far, if you (understandably) don't want to read through the IC.

I'd strongly recommend you join our discord, as well, even if you don't plan to talk much; it's where I make many important announcements and is the core of what holds the RP together.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Athulwin

Addressing: @Antediluvixen

This isn't what Athulwin expected of a Beyonder. The tales of such creatures are, one can admit, scant and esoteric. He recalls a description of an 'errant spirit' given in the Annals of Wandering Brother Theobald: "Twas like soft sprinkling rain at night, felt and not seen, known by the sensation it leaves one with and not by its form. It chilled my skin like frost." Those in the Old Marshes who believe in Beyonders as real, living creatures always cite this as a 'sighting' of one. Athulwin has just this morning joined the ranks of those who believe in Beyonders; and he does not see anything akin at all to Brother Theobald's Monster before him. This laughing woman, this half-fox. It had in its hands- and it has hands, where Beyonders shouldn't- something like a metal wand. But it put it down.

No, this, whatever else it is, is a person. The words it speaks are nonsense to him; yet Athulwin is one who studies languages, and he knows that what is only sound to him may carry deep meaning to someone else.

Still holding his chain, he tries, at first, some of the other mundane languages he knows. Maybe they do hbe a middle ground with this odd stranger after all. He tries Sinverish, Middle Dwarven, an old elvish tongue, and a few broken words in the Dinnin's language. But whatever else she may think, it's clear the not-a-Beyonder understands these no more than she understood Athulwin the first time.

"Fine," he says aloud, unnecessarily. "I bet there is one language you do speak after all."

He drops his chain to the ground, letting it coil up like a smoldering serpent.

"Peace."

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Woah, Smike! Yeah, I remember you; we're still open and of course you're welcome to join us. I'm sorry I forgot to tag you- there were so many names.

@Smike

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

Ivraan's voice comes in as a far away blur. Terilu hears it a half-second after he hits the floor, a command- or a plea, it's hard to tell which of those is which in the midst of a battle- to "Drop your last skeleton and focus your efforts on the other undead around!"

The bat has to catch his breath first. A wraith like this is a real evil. Not something that dabbles in evil, like Terilu does. Or revels in it, like his old master Arynn had. But an evil in and of itself. It's soul is a black hole. He can't stand it that Ivraan is probably right.

He pulls his mystic power out from over the last skeleton, releasing it, as the giant Galaxor is failing to kill it just as Terilu failed. The huge warrior is too slow for it, just as the skeletons were. But as he gives up and turns his attention to the minions at the outskirts, smashing them up, Terilu's spirits begin to lift.

"Oh yes, Galaxor, yes!" shouts Terilu. This is good. As Galaxor crushes the weaker skeletons, Terilu feeds on their deaths. He pulls in all the power from them that he can; there's plenty of it. Of all the companions he's met today, Terilu thinks the giant is probably his favorite. He's a brute, but brutes have a natural purpose to them. The trail of bones this creature leaves wherever he goes is evidence of that. Terilu wishes he could reanimate them all, but his spirit still aches where the wraith twice wounded him. He won't make the same mistake of sending minions at it again.

Instead he pulls on the dark magic until he can force himself to his feet. He rises up slow and swaying, probably looking a bit like a zombie himself in this tomb's half-light. Ironic. He certainly feels undead at the moment- he looks at the wraith, the thing that is in a way the manifestation of all his own goals. An undead that rules over lesser undead, an immortal that can't die because it isn't alive.

He hates it.

It's that petty, childish kind of hate, the sort born out of jealousy. The hate you have when you see someone else being what you wish that you were. But hate and jealousy both are good for bad magics. Terilu thinks of them as his fuels.

He reaches out towards it with his left hand at the same time that he reaches out towards it in the spirit. In one quick flash, he tears at its soul, or whatever it has instead of a soul, and tries to rip it from this world. It shouldn't work; a midling necromancer like Terilu really shouldn't be able to wound some lord of the dead like this. But in this moment, with it so distracted by his companions and with jealous vitriol burning like coal inside him, Terilu is almost shocked to feel his magic working. The wraith stumbles. Face contorted with agony. The bat is delighted to realize that its the same kind of agony it had just inflicted upon him.

"Ha!" he shouts in triumph, his body still swaying in the dark. "In the name of Ad'itie and all Eratie, by the power of necromancy, I swear that I will put you back in the grave!"

The wraith lifts its head to him. At the look in its eyes, Terilu feels his gut lurch and all his victory turn to fear. He's hurt it. It's vulnerable, more than it was. He knows that much. The others could probably hurt it now. But evil made vulnerable is also evil made cruel and vindictive. "Ad'itie I know of," it says in its hollow voice, the voice of a sepulcher, "and necromancy I know very well. But who are you?"

It rushes the distances between them, not half as fast before, but still too quick for the spiritually wounded Terilu to get away. It reaches him and in two quick slashes of its blade, the bat's blood is splattered against the wall. It aims for the wings next and hits its mark again; two nasty gashes have appeared on Terilu's left wing. It laughs as he screeches.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

One Kay

A Collab of the One and Gilt

You would think living on a space station would be fun. It’s fun in the holo-movies: all adventure, all living gloriously amidst the stars, fighting off disgusting alien invaders and saving the day with a mix of science and resilience fueled by the unstoppable power of the human heart. Kay Cook loves, loves movies. Sci-fi movies, especially, the loud and flashy kind with the lasers and the phasers- cinema is a proud tradition on Gilt. She had movies in her head when she agreed to relocate to the Grand Brand Ambassador, that huge and spinning Giltian cathedral of capitalism out in the stars. “Ambassador” is her title now.

She hated it. Only after her bags were unpacked onboard the station did the smarter part of her mind realize what a horrible life she’d just condemned herself to. It all looked very nice, of course. You can’t walk from Kay’s quarters to the mess hall without walking over a half-dozen golden carpets, through en-muraled walls and under a fucking chandelier or two. The man- she was sure it was a man- who was in charge of redesigns obviously thought Western extravagance was the way to wow foreigners. He knows nothing of art. No mind for symbolism. The beating heart of an artist trapped onboard this tasteless steel cage- there is a tragic symbol for you!

What Kayla really wanted, she had the time now to realize, was to see New things. Something a Giltian had never before encountered. To talk to the foreigners, the aliens, the robots, the foreign alien robots from another world, and be known as the first gal who did it. Maybe she’d make a painting about it. She liked to play with the idea of painting more often, but she always found excuses inside herself not to actually do it. She certainly couldn’t do it here, on this uninspired bourgeoisie mess of a station. Who could?

She stopped at the airlock. She was supposed to be meeting someone here, acting in her official capacity as an ambassador. She’s sure she was given the details, but she wasn’t listening then. It’s not her job to remember, anyway. That’s the job of the man beside her on the golden carpet, her favorite sym, a towering AI intellect who is named Gorilla Bob (and for good reason, too) who stands waiting inside his huge metallic body. She found this particular robot deeply intimidating at first. Not anymore. Nowadays she considered Gorilla Bob one of her best friends, even if he is, awkwardly, her property. The airlock opened, and…

Out of 10 One step out in a perfect synchronized formation, 2-2-2-2-2. 2 Grants walked in the middle, dressed up in an Old Earth suit, a metal sword dangling at their waist. The other Ones, 2 Williams in the front and two in the back, were all suited up in full bone armor with metal indents all over, covering every inch of their body. In their hands, they all had a metal spear and swords at their midsection.

As they neared Kayla, the Williams stepped to the side with the middle Jameses banging the bottom of their spears on the ground. The lead Grants performed a military salute to the Ambassador. Before they could say anything, all the other Ones moved behind him. If one was perceptive enough, they would notice that the One were scanning every inch of the room for hidden dangers while the lead Grants were looking at Gorilla Bob, a small thin smile on their face. Immediately strategies on how to take it out were being formed. Potentially impossible to escape with their lives but their small unit could at least damage it.

“We are the One!” the lead Grants said, each uttering a different word at the exact time the other one finished it.

“You may call us Grant, ma'am. Correct to assume you're the Ambassador? ” they continued in the same way as before, their tone calm and calculated.

Kay looked back and forth at them. Then she looked forth and back again.

“Twins?” she finally asked, arching a ginger eyebrow and trying to hide her shock. “I’m Kay. You can just call me that- titles are so dull, aren’t they? This is Gorilla Bob.”

Gorilla Bob grunted like an ape. He found gorillas to be fascinating and demanded that his sym body should look like a hulking silverback. Kay liked to oblige his weird desires. He walked on his knuckles to the lead Grant. “Nice to meet you,” he said, in a surprisingly prim-and-proper, deeply middle-class British accent. “We have a small banquet prepared to welcome you to Gilt. But before we get going, would you mind leaving your weapons here? They’ll be well-looked after by our quartermasters, worry not. You understand. Safety protocols.” He rolled his metallic eyes as if it was all very silly to him, but he had to do his job, after all.

The lead Grants shook their heads at Kayla's question.

“More than twins. We are One, Ambassador Kay.” they replied and straight away after, all of the One took their helmets off…at the same time, in perfect synchronicity.

Kay looked at them with something that was fascination as much as shock, and horror half as much as wonder. At length, she said “...wow. I’m, uh, not high, right? I don’t think I feel like it.”

“As we said, we are the One. ” simply replied the two lead Grants.

With a sidelong glance at the Gorilla, one of the Jameses, addressed him in a proper British accent.

“A fellow Brit, are you?”

Before Gorilla Bob could reply, the other Ones disarmed themselves as requested. Spears, swords and hidden daggers were laid neatly on the floor. Stamps emerged from walls and shadows to take them up and carefully store them away.

“I’ve never seen Britain,” the gorilla admitted, trying to distract the One from where their weapons might be going, “though I’m very sad to say it. Except for in the simulations and the holo-suites. But near to a third of the first Giltian colonists hailed from the British Isles. Did you know our capital is called Neo London? It has a better ring to it than Neo New York, I can say that much. If we hit things off today you might take a tour of it.”

“It was a shithole before they bombed London back in 2279 and after that…things became worse. Way worse. Shootings, stabbings, bombs. You name it, Britain had it. We’d know, we were in the thick of it a few times. ” replied the James that initially talked with Gorilla Bob before realizing that they must sound weird for people who haven’t lived there nor understood what the One were.

“Our implant allows us total recall of our memories from birth until…now. We remember Earth in its prime and we remember its fall. ”

“Really?” asked Bob. “That’s fascinating! Ah, to remember London as it was, war-torn or no… if you’d ever sell those memories, there is a market for that sort of thing, you know. Especially in the capital.”

“If they do ever take a tour of Neo London, they’ll need to see the Museum of High Art,” Kay spoke in the more Trans-Atlantic accent that was par for the course on Gilt. (She always suspected that Bob’s overt British-ness was an affectation, like his gorilla persona. His madness is what makes him fun.) “I’ve been trying to get a piece in there for ages, I’ll tell you. But shouldn’t you be showing our guests the way to the banquet, Robert?”

“I should indeed,” said the robot silverback. “Follow me, please,” and down he went through the main hall. Half of this side of the station had to be rebuilt so that the airlock would lead down a grand space to a banquet hall. First impressions. They’re everything.

The space opens to a Giltian style eating room, meaning it was a bit like a space-age take on the opulence of 1920’s America. It’s a room you could very well see yourself swing-dancing in, were it not for the table yawning out in the middle filled with too much food.

“We’ve prepared our own cuisine, not knowing what your people eat,” the gorilla said. “So, there’s a lot of British and New American staples, and maybe a little Indian spice thrown in for real flavor. Ah, I miss eating.”

“You still eat bananas, Bob,” said Kay, and it was impossible to tell if she was joking. She sat down at the head of the table, and with a motion of her hand, invited the One to take whatever seats they might prefer.

To say that the One were impressed, it would've been an understatement. The opulence of the place was on a scale they haven't seen since a couple of centuries ago. Yet, at the same time, they silently judged these people. It was old Earth all over again. The powerful living like the kings of old and if the pirates were a sign, the weak were left to die.

It wasn't that the One resented what they saw. Survival was something they understood better than anyone after all. If you were weak, either you grew strong or you'd end up dead. The problem was that it was clear that these people didn't need to let others strive to survive.

At Bob’s explanation of food, the One chuckled grimly.

“Our planet is barren. A nightmare turned into reality. No fauna, no trees, no food. So, you could say, we're not picky when it comes to food. ”

The One group chose to spread around the room, each trying to learn and experience different foods and potential weaknesses or strengths of the Gilt. Only one Grant stayed with Kayla and Bob.

They grabbed something that looked like wine off the table and drank it in one fell swoop.

“Wine. Different from what we expected yet very close to the one from back home. ” they said to Kay.

Kay blinked watching him drink it. "Oh. You like wine! Yes, no surprise it is familiar, Gilt keeps to tradition. Preserving Old Earth and the human way is important to the old men at the top, you know. I think maybe we should find new things too, but that's just one girl's opinion. Aren't you going to feel tipsy? You should try some cranberry jello." Talking too much and too out of order was her way of expressing nerves. These identical men were strange.

"You know," she said. "I represent the Division proper, but there's really a lot of corporations that this whole operation is made from. Do you gentlemen at all have an interest in business?"

Gorilla Bob made a sound between a scoff and a laugh, but said nothing himself.

“Tipsy? From wine? We’ve got something stronger back on our planet…when it doesn’t kill us. Preserving the human way sounds nice and all when you read about it from history books or whatever your people are using to read from but when you experience it? That’s a different story. As for trying different things, I’m sure you’ve noticed that we are doing that all over the room. When we’re back home, we’ll know what the others have experienced even if we aren’t physically doing it. ” replied Grant with a wink. It was true, the drink they made using their own bodily fluids, some of the oil from the robots and the mushrooms was highly alcoholic in nature and highly deadly, most of the time.

“Business? It depends. We’ve come to see what became of humanity after 300 years. So far, we’ve seen the same thing as before, just painted differently. Don’t take it the wrong way but fancy dinners and opulence like this, we’ve seen before. What can you offer us? ” added the Grant in their most diplomatic tone.

Kay looked at him for a long few seconds. Inside herself she was thinking: What? This dirty caveman gulping back wine like a homeless stamp does liquor thinks he’s going to negotiate? And then, pause completed, she burst into laughter. “Oh, you’re wonderful, Mr. Grant,” she said, and with no hint of irony. “What do your people want, then?” Her elbows on the table, she cupped her face under her hands and leaned in towards him. “Come on, let me know.”

“Not, Mr. Grant, please either refer to us as Grant or the One and may we, please, ask you to drop the tone, we may not look like it but we're a few hundred times your age, also…” said the Grant while the other Ones were already looking for whatever makeshift weapons they could find. If they were to die, they’d take some out with them.

“Did we say anything about what our people want? We want to survive and we’re doing just fine from that perspective. Etiquette stands that one with more will offer their wares to the one with less in order to secure business, is it not? Or did the rules of business changed in the last 300 years? ” continued the Grant with a smile. They were enjoying this childish conversation more than they admitted.

“You will show respect to Ambassador Cook,” Bob raised his voice. “The rules have changed very much indeed if you expect us to-”

Two of the Williams almost immediately approached Bob as he said his piece only to move back as Kay talked.

Kay raised her hand, the universal ‘stop’ sign, and the sym quieted down. “It’s alright, I’m only having some fun with our guests.” She wiped her face with a napkin, even though it wasn’t dirty; this was just a punctuation mark in the conversation. Bob was bristling. She said: “Alright, you want to ‘survive.’ Then maybe Gilt is not the partner for you. We don’t care about surviving here. We are for thriving. If that’s what you want, then you talk to us. I’ve noticed you’re all the same, and I think I did hear about that in the news. You’re clones of each other? Well, we mass-produce ‘people’ here, too. They cooked this food tonight. So you already know that we have resources and labor to sell you. And technology, I think. What do you have?”

The Grant let out a chuckle and shook their head. A child. This is what they sent to meet another nation. One that is all for grandstanding too.

“We did mention it since we entered your system. We are the One. You mention that you’re mass-producing people here yet by simply saying “producing”, you’re not thinking of them as people. They’re organic robots, are we correct? Labor is something we don’t need. There are over 6 billion Ones currently active on our planet. Food? As you might see based on our size, we’re not lacking it either, even if the variety could use some improvement. The only thing we’d be interested in would be weaponry. What do we have? Besides our numbers, skills, ability to learn anything once and then our whole nation knows it? Unity. More than any of your machines. We’ve got killer robots. Pockets of altered reality that will give your scientists...nightmares or make their dreams come true. Maybe oil that burns for over 48 hours, Earth time. But we’re talking about what our nations want…but what about you? ” said Grant with a collected tone only for at the end, to approach his head slightly to Kayla’s.

“Me?” asked Kay.

Gorilla Bob answered for her. “What Ambassador Cook wants is to be an artist.” He had offered to pose for her paintings.

“I do,” said Kay. “And I want to see New things. And-” she hesitated, but her natural instinct to keep talking always got the better of her, “-and I want to get off this fucking station. Ugh. Anyway. What about you, Grant?”

“An artist and you want to see new things. You're looking for adventure. ” replied with a knowing wink. They understood the desire well, it was what put them on the mercenary path a long time ago.

“What do we want? We want not to be destroyed by others who'd see our planet as an archaeological site, not our home. It's a dangerous place but it has its beauty. Especially the parts that haven't yet been damaged beyond repair. You should see the Glowy One caverns. Imagine, a room a few times bigger than this, filled with lights of all colors. Shining differently depending where you're looking at them from. Or, imagine standing upon a tall building, thousands of meters high, overlooking an alien city. Trust us, nothing can prepare you for that sight. ”

Gorilla Bob said: “Are you suggesting that Ambassador Cook should visit your world?” His tone made it hard to tell if he approved or not. Most other syms had electronic, auto-tuned voices, or else something alien or something beautiful. Gorilla Bob just sounded like a middle-aged, middle-class middle-manager, and he reading him was difficult when he wasn’t being passionate. Kay is usually one of the things that gets passion out of him.

“That’s what I heard, Mr. Gorilla,” hummed Kay. She’s easy to read compared to the robot. She was enthused. “Well, of course, any such visit must be done in the name of advancing relations between our people, but… I am authorized for such things. If they serve a diplomatic purpose.” She suddenly didn’t care if they had anything tangible to offer or not. This place was so boring.

The lead Grant smiled and shook their head. “We haven't said such a thing. ” then they winked before leaning backwards and continuing:

“That said, it is a good idea. We'd welcome you with welcome arms and you can see for yourself the Circle. It may be a bit dangerous for the unprepared but–” a shortstop and a nod to Gorilla Bob:

“--we're sure that Mr. Bob, whoever else you may bring with you and of course, us, will be more than enough. If we're to guess, Mr. Bob is equipped with enough weapons to take out any danger, nothing to say about his obvious strength. ”

“There is only one rule, if we may impose. You'll have to follow our directions to the letter when we're landing. Our EMP weaponry doesn't have an IFF so to say nor is it controlled by us. ”

“I’m great at following directions,” lied Kay. Gorilla Bob grunted again, and this time it was definitely sarcastic.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

"Sorcerer?" Ilyana had asked.

"Oh, is that me?" responded Terilu. He floated up behind her, his three skellies- intact but banged up- in close ranks around him, watching the spectre. They could feel its power as he could, but they weren't ready to give up without fighting it. His raised dead were just a smidge more resilient under his care than they had been before; having a necromancer pushing you does wonders for an undead's motivation. The mystic whip is at their backs. His will flows through their spirits. Terilu smirks. "Are were you asking Knossos, our more repentant occultist? No matter. I am sorcerer enough..."

The spectral figure strides down from its throne. Wow, that is a powerful energy. It's a corpse, no doubt about that, but one wreathed in such spiritual excess that it's close to becoming a spirit itself. Wrights. Terilu remembers: a creature like this is called a 'wright' in his studies. What a beautiful thing. He knows it will put up far too much of a fight for this, but the young necromancer wishes he could study it. Too bad.

He mutters something under his breath.

His three skeletal warriors charge forward with a creaking battle cry. At the same moment, Terilu stops flying, hitting the ground with a soft thud, and grips his father's staff closer in his hand. He needs all his focus for this. Already, in those few seconds, the wright has rushed forward at his minions with an otherworldly screeching and, in a blur of motion far too fast for anyone's eyes to follow, it has sliced one of his skeletons to the ground. Terilu keeps channeling his necromantic Will through the other two. He tries to reach out to the wright and touch its spirit with his own.

He's trying to enslave it. It won't work. He realizes that the moment he makes spiritual contact with it. This thing is mad, and it's power is unholy; it lashes back at Terilu in the spirit, and he crumbles down to one knee like a man struck. Spiritual wounds are far deeper than bodily ones. In the next moment a second skeleton warrior has fallen. As it is destroyed, the wright uses the narcae that Terilu shares with it to lash back at him even more. He screams in pain despite his Eratie pride. There is black crowding in at the edges of his vision. As it goes in towards his last minion.

The other undead in the room, the ones lining the walls, haven't moved. But they're beginning to stomp their feet and thump their weapons loudly in some ritual celebration. Terilu realizes that, for the first time since they entered this crypt, he may be in serious danger. This creature is a monster.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

A Meeting of Suits

A collab of Gilt and Azulvista

_{Featuring Antonio de Lebrón, Alfonso de Carvajal & Rafael Mendoza.}

“With all respect, vizconde…”

“Señor.”

“Of course, yes, señor de Lebrón, could you explain exactly why you’ve come with us today?” Three men of very different rank all sat together in a plush but otherwise unremarkable shuttle interior, the air already beginning to thicken with tobacco smoke.

“Duque de Caravajal, Señor de Lebrón here is a member of the Republic’s diplomatic corps, just as you and I are. When it comes to foreign affairs, he is every bit as qualified as us.” Rafael’s public-facing chops had yet to warm up for their upcoming visit, but nonetheless he played the peacekeeper, trying to keep the two wildly diverging patrician personalities aboard from becoming too obvious to the latest and flashiest of the new kids on the block.

“I can speak for myself Mendoza, thank you.” Antonio rolled the edge of his cigar carefully around the ashtray built into his seat, his other hand resting around a crystal glass filled with nothing but seltzer. “To answer the question no doubt coming though, because I have been tasked to do so by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and I intend on carrying through those directives. You may be our most well-known face here on the meeting place de Caravjal, but it’s not your duchy to rule as you please.”

“Nor is it a waystation for passing-by señors such as yourself to come in and whirlwind around like you own the place, then flit off to some distant system without any other member of the corps with you.” Alfonso’s moustache bristled a little, but he otherwise kept his composure, punctuating the end of his sentence with a slow pull on his cigar.

“Perhaps, duque, we can see what Antonio brings to the table this rotation? After all, you’ve never seen the man conduct diplomacy before. I’m sure it’ll be an enlightening experience.” Rafael snuffed the stub of his cigarette out, then slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“Arrival time in three minutes. We should make ready gentlemen.”

Docking with the Rainbow was, thankfully, a smooth process. Three-hundred years of accepting guests on and off had made this experience painless, if a little bland. There would be docking fees involved for a Giltian, but here in the Meeting Place, all mentions of money were suspended until you were entered into the city proper. For the sake of PR.

There was, of course, more than one dock, just as any prospering city must have more than one gate. The closest to the three Azulvistans was a large, somewhat messy and industrial affair run by Oldwell, the only company conservative enough to employ more humans than stamps. A metal wall opened up to let them in, hardlight shielding holding in the atmosphere for just a moment, and then it slid shut behind them with an echoing bang. They were guided to a randomly assigned place by lights and a polite, English-accented AI voice. This particular spot only had a few other Meeting Place guests in it- scattered around were ships of bronze, curved beaks like the Giltian's prefer, one with a black "X" scrawled over its corporate logo. The men did not know it, but they were parked within spitting distance of a pirate ship.

There was a long pause from the three men as they stared out at the strange dock, then one by one turned to each other. “Put on a good show, then you get to the front gate and they can’t be bothered to actually greet you.” Antonio flicked the end of his cigar down to the ground in a pointless display towards a cheerily corporate automated greeter, repeating the same sentence over and over again.

“Welcome aboard the Rainbow, Gilt’s largest ship! Would you like to hear about nearby attractions? Please mind the step.” But a hovering holograph sign over a large, open, metal door told them where they could head for something called the "Old India Marketplace," and there a greeter was welcoming anyone coming in.

Normally, with such an obvious class divide between the three men, they’d walk in a single file line, but here, things seemed far more fluid. Antonio and Alfonso walked two abreast, and although Rafael trailed behind the duo, his job was altogether quite different, his dataslate already open and an inch-long microdrone buzzing around his ear, recording every moment.

The greeter welcomed them, asked again if they’d like directions to local attractions, bars, stores or anything else, and offered them a credit chip that would be accepted at most stores until a proper currency exchange rate could be worked out. There was a pause from the three men, then finally Rafael spoke up.

“Hello there. I believe there’s been a misunderstanding - we contacted an official to arrange a meeting for foreign diplomatic delegates, not a tour around your vessel. I have the transcriptions if you require them.”

“Oh? Not a problem at all, I’ll just comm with management on that real quick.” The woman, standing inside a small booth, pressed an unseen button, and her next words were only a muffle to the Azulvistans. Some kind of holographic distortion around her mouth made lips unreadable, but body language says she was having a quick, tense interaction with someone over a speaker. The distortion vanished and she said: "Alright, just one moment. We'll have a st- an associate of mine escort you to where you can go." A few moments passed before a door inside her booth opened and let out a very human-looking stamp; the only tell-tale sign that anything was different about her was the faint, electric-blue glow of her eyes. The glow wasn't necessary, even, but it was a signal to her human owners that she had cybernetic software installed. The Azulvistans would not know this, but she could see a perfect map overlay of the Rainbow- she is probably the only person onboard never to get lost.

"My name is Suz," said the stamp. "If you'll follow me? I can lead you to a representative."

“Interesting to see obvious enhancements like that,” quipped Antonio. “That sort of thing must be rather common around these parts then?”

“Oh, my enhancements are the most common kind,” said Suz, humbly, and because she was trained to downplay her inhumanity. “Only so we won’t get lost.”

Men in tow, she led them through the door to the Old India Marketplace.

Behind the door was- everything. At least, that's what your senses told you, and it was hard to argue with them. The Rainbow was not a place that could spare any sort of space. Every inch seemed to be full. Of color, of sound, of smell, of even the gentle vibrating humm of the spaceship. The men exited out onto a particular "street" that was about fifteen feet across and led off straight for about thirty feet, before branching off into multiple directions. The overall feel of this place was like being in a tunnel- the ceiling arched darkly overhead, and the men were walled in on either side of the passage. Where the road split ahead, some of the branches led upwards like ramps, or downwards into unknown darks.

It was a baffling amount of room to see inside a spaceship. Of course, the Azulvistans weren’t unused to the idea of making your ships a little bigger and more luxurious at the cost of practicality - even their pride frigate had seen itself enlarged and with excess comforts like carpeting and panelling put into place for the inevitable swathe of high-ranking officials and officers who rotated through its halls, but his was altogether on another level. If spaceships were mankind reclaiming life from the void, this was an indulgence of life on a completely different scale.

The Rainbow has few overhead lights. There were no streetlights, either, even though this was clearly the equivalent of a street. Instead, the multicolored hue of this whole place came only from its neon advertisements. This was a corporate-sponsored marketplace, and that means little storefronts punctuated the space every few steps. Some of the stores jutted out onto the walking path, obtrusively. One sold momentos. One repaired sym bodies.

The three men took it all in slowly, their pace now greatly reduced from when they’d been tromping through the parking lot like docking bay. They craned their necks, here Rafael would poke his head down an alleyway, camera drone zooming off and up to capture an overhead shot, there Antonio would pause to examine a stall, rapping a knuckle against its construction.

Between the grander stores, little metal or wooden stands were set up. Here the men and women behind them were not under the employ of Oldwell, but- living the true Giltian dream- were enterprising individuals, selling foods or gadgets or clothing they'd tell you that they produced themselves, but which they probably bought Giltside. The time-honored Giltian tradition of haggling meant that speech was in the air. Talk mostly like English, but with Chinese and Indian fluidly slipped in every odd sentence, as if the three languages had just spent centuries in a blender together. Teenagers leaned against the store walls and women chatted. You had to dodge and “excuse me” your way through.

And from the sound and looks, it continued in every direction.

"We're close," said Suz. "It'll just be to the right and up, then we'll take a quick ride up an elevator, and I'll introduce you to the man you can speak to. I am only a stamp, of course-" her bosses had forgotten to tell her not to mention it- "but if you have any questions, let me know, and I'll answer as best as I know how."

The obvious question was fielded near-immediately by Alfonso. “A ‘stamp,’ you say? A social caste you have?”

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't know what a caste is," said Suz, sounding exactly like an Old Earth AI being given a request it didn't understand. "I'm a stamp. If you'd like, you may scan my code, or if you have any concerns, I can give you some contact info for my originators at Rivertown Gene-" before she could say that very important word, "factory," she was cut off by a crate-carrying man shoving his way through her. "I'm sorry!" she told him, even though it was not her fault.

The three men glanced at each other. Although ‘factory’ hadn’t been said, there was enough information from just the word ‘gene’ and the fact she apparently had a ‘code’ to be scanned for the basic implications to be grasped. This was interesting. Rafael’s fingers rattled across his datapad as the men continued.

She led them to a golden, intricate door that looked out-of-place against the metal spaceship wall, something that looked more like it would exist in a fancy hotel. "Here, our elevator." Where an Old Earth equivalent would have a panel with a dozen plastic buttons, one for every floor, the Rainbow's take on an elevator had nothing at all. You simply stepped inside, and Suz said "EBS Old Plaza, Offices, Office 76, Mr. Federov," and the gilded doors slid shut.

"Elevator," was the wrong word, because it went not only up but sideways, diagonally and every other direction you could imagine, but it did so smoothly and without too much feeling of inertia. There was no window and it was impossible to tell where they were going or how far. The feeling of being in this elevator was, you could say, very much like taking a nap as a child and waking up in a different room, not having any idea of how you got there. The four waited to the sounds of jazz-pop. Suz hummed the familiar song.

This was not actually an unusual experience for the Azulvistans. After all, their own vessels used a similar concept to get you around. They called them ‘translocators’ rather than ‘elevators’ when they didn’t just take you up and down, but it was hardly as if that would throw them. Not when so much else about this vessel was so strange already.

When the doors slid open again, they were already standing inside a totally new environment, a large but somewhat bland lobby decorated with white, soft couches, glass tables with complimentary cookies on them, and windows overlooking another crowded hodgepodge space not at all unlike the Old India Market they had just exited from. It could have taken them to any of a hundred other places like this one. The schematics of the Rainbow has been known to drive unprepared engineers to madness.

"Mr. Fedorov resides here, when he is onboard the Rainbow. This is his private apartment-office. He has been told to expect you- just within the third door, on the right, his sym assistant said. Would you like me to knock for you?"

“No thank you,” Alfonso nodded at the woman. “We’ll take it from here.” He stepped forward imperiously, raised a fist, then rapped three times, loudly, on the door.

The loud knocks were answered by footsteps, and then the doorknob turned and a blue robot, tall and thin and of a somewhat feminine design, opened the door.

"Ah, you must be the Azulvistans?" She didn't wait for an answer, since she had good facial recognition and the stamp had already seen them. "Andrei, your guests have arrived."

"Ugh," said Andrei. She let them into the sparse office. Andrei sat behind an elevated, wooden desk, and three fairly comfortable chairs were already pulled out in front. The rest of the room was mostly empty, sans a mandatory meeting table that- not being needed tonight- was pressed up against a far wall, and the tinted window that occupied the wall across from Andrei from ceiling down to floor.

"You may sit down," said the blue sym. "I'll be glad to remain standing," and she took up position beside Andrei. He was wearing a suit, his black hair slicked back and one ear with a black stud earring, and would've looked nice if it weren't for his general demeanor of a man having a Bad Day.

Of the three men, only Alfonso took a seat. Rafael remained standing, lifting a hand out for the microdrone to settle down, the ever-so-faint whine of its tiny engines cutting out so he could safely stash it away. Antonio instead took up a position to Alfonso’s right, reaching into a pocket to draw out a long, heavy metal case, carefully easing out a cigar. “You smoke?” He glanced up.

"Smoke what?" Andrei asked. "Oh, nevermind, yeah, I smoke. Blue Girl, make that thing do whatever it's supposed to do." The sym took the cigar and lit it, handed off to Andrei. He took an experimental drag.

With that handled, Antonio snipped his own cigar, Alfonso taking the opportunity to draw his own case out too. Rafael’s cigarettes would not be making an appearance, the man still rattling down the conversation in diplomatic shorthand. With the third cigar of the room now lit, Alfonso would begin.

“So you are… Andrei Federov? Is that right? Were you the one who took our initial message, or was that someone else?”

"It was someone else. Most of these things are handled below my pay grade, and then they send it up the line to see who's important enough to meet foreign diplomat types, and then my mother, she's the CEO - I work with the Earnest, Smithers and Black corporation, by the way, that's who you're talking to here - she says 'Oh, Andrei will do it,' and then she tells her sym and her sym tells Blue Girl and Blue Girl tells me at, unfortunately, six in the morning and then here you are. Nice to mee-" Andrei finished the greeting in hard, hacking coughs. The look he gave the cigar was accusatory. "Man, what's in this thing?"

“Santa Florian Cigars,” Antonio said with a smirk. “On Old Earth, they considered Cubanos the best of the best. The Lebrón plantation offcuts make Cubans look like tea leaves.” He extended a hand. Andrei shook it. “Incidentally, I am Señor Antonio de Severino Manuel José de la Cruz, of the march de Lebrón.”

Alfonso’s head snapped across to look at Antonio, confusion wrinkling his face. ‘March’ meant that the man was a marqués, and custom dictated that an heir could use their parent’s title in formal settings… And yet Antonio had only ever referred to himself as señor. In fact, so confused was he that he had entirely forgotten to be insulted by the lesser-ranking man introducing himself first, a mistake he was quick to rectify.

“Duque Pedro Luis Maria Fernández Alfonso Leoncio Alvarez De Caravajal, twice-duke of Veragua.” The Republic still hadn’t given up on that particular claim.

“Rafael Menoza,” the last man finally spoke up. “Of Esperanza, although I’m not of nobility.”

"Hey, neither am I,” said Andrei, “so you're in very good company, Rafael. Although I do have a long lineage, if those are appealing to you all. My family was in business back even in the Old Earth days. Have you ever heard of the Russian Oligarchs? If I add 'great-' to the word 'grandfather' enough times, eventually I'll run into some wealthy ancestors before the Fall of Old Earth. One of them started off in oil or something. Fuel of way back when."

“Way back when indeed. Azulvista never ended up with fossil fuels to begin with, but all that means is we’ve had to diversify.” Antonio nodded with understanding.

Not as much had changed for Gilt. Andrei’s forefathers pulled up fossil fuels from the earth to power society, and now…

He says, remembering his job for a moment: “Of course, we at Earnest, Smithers and Black are doing much the same thing today, in a kind of way. We are the biggest producer of stamps, the second biggest of sym bodies. We also have large stakes in all kinds of energy production and mineral extraction, especially Giltside extraction. Don’t worry, we’re highly diversified and all that- you know, a megacorp and everything- but those are the spots we’re proud to stand out on. Energy, minerals and stamps. We're the ones who keep the world rolling.”

“Ah, yes, there was a mention of ‘stamp’ already, but we’ve not had that explained to us. Are these ‘stamps’ a caste? Human-looking robots? Some kind of… Clone?” Alfonso eased himself forward, curiosity clear across his face.

"Sort of, almost, and yes," said Andrei. After a pause, he realized they were waiting on him to elaborate. "They're synthetics," he sighed a bit, "part cybernetic and part biological, made in cloning chambers. They're not human. They can look human, they can talk and work and walk around being all creepy, but only about half of their DNA really comes from us. The other half is animal, or something unique the nerds made in a lab."

"Or, harvested from the alien species native to Gilt and Argent," added Blue Girl. "Then cybernetics are added, body and brain. They are partly AI. With all that, it's debated whether they have much… humanity, or what the people of the past would have called a 'soul,' but they are created to enjoy doing particular tasks, and those are the tasks their buyers usually put them to."

A look passed across the three Azulvistano’s faces, and they slowly turned to look to each other.

<”Cybernetic and biological crossover is one thing,”> Alfonso had switched to Spanish once again. <”But animal and alien? I should not be the only one concerned here.”>

<”They seem to be fully integrated into society. This one’s a PA to an executive of some kind.”> Antonio gestured towards ‘Blue Girl.’

<”’People of the past would have called a soul?’> Rafael raised an eyebrow as he typed away.

<”Designing beings with a soul, and then enslaving them would be terrible. But is designing something that could have a soul, and then intentionally leaving it out not worse?>” Alfonso shifted in his seat.

Blue Girl laughed politely, if a little tensely, and said in Spanish: <”Oh, no, I am not a stamp. I am fully AI. If any part of me looks biological to you, let me know, I’ll need to get that checked out.“>

<“Fucks sake.”> Antonio paused for a moment, then realising his swearing had been totally intelligible, followed that up with another <”Fucks sake!>”

“I admire how you speak English perfectly, but when you use English swear words in Spanish, it suddenly has an accent,” said Andrei, with no hint of irony.

There was a brief pause for a moment from Antonio, before he mumbled out a few words that sounded suspiciously unkind towards someone’s mother.

“Apologies for the sudden language switch,” Alfonso glanced over towards Andrei. “What you’ve said would be a tad controversial back home.”

Andrei nodded. He couldn’t speak Spanish. “Don’t worry about the stamps, if that’s what this is about. They’re not unhappy. Hell, they’re probably happier than we are.”

Blue Girl said, “They are. Like me, they were designed to most enjoy being helpful and serving a purpose for their creators. If you offer a stamp a choice of anything to do, this is what they would pick, and so would I.”

“See, that too would be… controversial. Although yes, one can’t be a slave if one has no concept of ‘freedom,’ but the idea of denying the ability to conceptualise freedom…” Rafael paused for a moment, discomfort slowly spreading across both his and Alfonso’s face.

Andrei leaned back in his chair, cigar casually in one hand (he was starting to quite like it already) and asked: “Well, since we’re in a philosophy class, can I ask you- what’s the purpose of freedom? What does it do?”

Antonio and Alfonso glanced at each other, then both men spoke at the same time.

“Allows one to pursue their own path.” Another brief glance at each other, the pair of men clearly surprised that they had actually come to an agreement on something.

“Even plebeians are free to choose their path in life, guaranteed by the Republic’s constitution.” Antonio continued.

“‘A man can do as he wills, but cannot will what he wills’” quoted Andrei. “Yes, we choose our own path, but how do we make the choice? Most people go with whatever we think will make us happiest. But what makes us happy? Well, our sense of happiness is all just biology, y’know, genetic incentives to act a certain way. When you kiss a girl you get a nice rush of endorphins, so you ‘choose’ to kiss her more, but it’s just ‘cause your genes want you to keep doing that until you get a chance to reproduce.” He waved his hand lazily. “We think we choose the things that we think will make us happy, but we can’t even design our own sense of happiness. Same with the stamps. We’re as free as them, except our wants come from nature and evolution- or God, or whoever- and theirs came from us. That’s the only difference.”

“Bullshit.” Antonio said with a smirk. “Humans are not mindless endorphin-pursuing machines. Well, most of us, anyway. If we were, nobody would ever bother to do things that are hard or gruelling. The man who uproots his life to head to the frontier and eke out his living doesn’t do so because it’ll provide him with a rush of endorphins. The fanatic who perches himself atop a lamppost for three months straight is hardly flooding himself with good feelings as the rain pours down upon him. Sure, the base elements of what most would recognise as a ‘good life,’ are controlled by our pursuit of endorphins, but that’s not all that makes one happy.”

“Well, as Mr. Federov has said,” picked up Blue. “The stamps, allowed to pursue their own path, would pursue the very one they are on now. So this is all merely academic. But if we’re going to be debating- would you gentlemen like some coffee?”

Andrei nodded. He would like some coffee, always.

Blue Girl said playfully, “Andrei’s taste in coffee changes every other hour. Sometimes he loads it with milk, sometimes straight black. Once he drowned it in hazelnut flavoring in front of some Oldwell representatives and I think it almost caused a corpo-on-corpo war. We have near everything available. Would our guests like anything?”

Rafael cleared his throat. “Café pingado. Two shots, no sugar.” Alfonso gave an approving nod.

“The same for me. We’ll see if what you have holds a candle to our stuff.”

“Café lungo. One sugar.” Antonio added.

“Now, while I don’t approve of my colleague’s language, what he says holds true. To condense all of the human experience down to merely the pursuit of pleasure is… Shortsighted.” Alfonso quirked an eye towards ‘Blue Girl.’

Blue Girl nodded but, weirdly, didn’t look like she was writing any of their orders down. She just stood there. Robotically. In a moment, a knock at the door finally moved her from her statue stance, and when she opened it, two stamps were already waiting there with the coffee, on a literal silver platter, precisely as described. Cream, milk, flavorings, sugar and the dreaded hazelnut syrup were all present and accounted for.

The stamps who brought it in were of a different kind than the electric-blue, pretty girl who led the Azulvistans about the ship. They were neither electric-blue nor very pretty. At least one was actually ugly, a reptile thing with loose, green-brown skin and a wise face like a tortoise’s. It had no shell, but it bent forward just a bit, as if its body still thought one should be there. Looks no matter, it moved gracefully and with amazing evenness, bringing down the platter onto the desk quick but without even a shake of the coffee. The other stamp was short, pitch black-eyed, exceedingly slender, spotted with patchy miss-matched skin, and four arms were clasped behind his back; but he was the more human of the two. They both wore uniforms.

The three Azulvistans watched these new stamps warily. Their appearance was certainly something, but it wasn’t their appearance alone that intrigued the trio. The simple fact that they existed in the forms that they did - stooped, wrinkled and inhuman, spoke far more about the Giltian mindset than the prim and polished Blue Girl did.

“So,” said Andrei, wanting to change the subject, and apparently deciding that this time the drink needed four spoons of sugar but no creamer at all, “what’s a plebian?”

“They are-” Alfonso started.
“Why don’t we let the one person here who’s actually a plebe speak for himself, hmm?”

Antonio cut the more senior man off with a smooth interjection, raising an eyebrow to see if the obvious challenge would be taken.

“An excellent idea,” Alfonso managed through gritted teeth. Antonio would have been disappointed, but this was almost better.

Rafael, glanced between the two bickering patricians then cleared his throat. “There are… Two ways of describing them. The academic way, and the less polite way. The academic way would be to say that they are the majority social group on Azulvista - those whose rights are guaranteed by the constitution, but who do not receive the privileges of the patrician class. The… Less polite way would be to say that they are subjects.”

"Oh, yeah, I've read about those in history classes," said Andrei, already downing the molten hot coffee in a wild disregard for his throat. "So, your patricians head things up, and the plebians do the everyday laboring of society, non? Huh. Classic. Gilt, you guessed by now, we're run by corporations. We have wealth differences, sure, but there's not really enforced classes between humans. I know a man who started as a junior clerk, and now he sits in board meetings with me. We like to let things be more… loose, in Gilt. No real government besides corporate policy. People do what they will, and if they do it smart…" he smiled.

"But let's get down to the real business. I'm here representing EBS. You've seen aboard this ship already what Giltians are capable of. Our economy can produce very fast, and very cheap-" he decided to leave out that this was because of the free labor of stamps and syms, since some things are better left to implication- "and we are eager to make early business connections with dependable nations such as yourself."

Now it was time for Alfonso to take the lead. “I think you’ll find that any nation that has survived has done so by being self-sufficient. Because of this, we are capable of making all the staples and luxuries of living in our home system. If you want to open up our market, you’ll need something we’ve not seen before. So, by all means. Impress us.”

Andrei’s dark eyebrows shot up. “You’re floating on a spaceship bigger than Los Angeles, where four million people live full-time and where you’re told that a government-less society survived for three centuries, and a sentient tortoise just brought you coffee… and you aren’t impressed? What the hell does Azulvista have that’s like all that?” He downed the rest of his coffee in a gargantuan swallow.

Antonio responded with a smirk. “We came from a space station made by a dozen different nations haphazardly bodging together their own engineering that rotates around a world humanity killed three centuries ago, that we arrived at on a ship manufactured in void-docks that can crank out war galleons like a factory makes cars. I’ve seen aliens, robots, robot aliens and alien robots with my own eyes, and we’ve come out of a conflict that saw an entire planet turned into a warzone. Standards here are damn high.”~

“Alright. Fine. Challenge accepted. I’ll have work today after all, like one of your plebians. Blue- will you call your coworkers in?”

Blue Girl hummed, “Of course. And pitch on that: may I recommend the defensive model be showcased as well?”

“Love you, Blue.”

“That’s a yes,” she translated. “We’ll have something to show you boys. Will you step out with us? This room is a little small for the matter at hand.”

The five filed out, leaving a mess of drinks and cigars behind- the sign of diplomacy happening between these two cultures, apparently- and emerged into the larger room the Azulvistans had first seen. Already a few fast stamps had pushed the tables to the side, making way for the show. The complimentary cookies were relocated to a smaller table, just beside four comfortable chairs lined up facing what was now an open space.

There were people emerging from a backroom, except they weren’t people. A line of sym bodies filed out, each of a slightly different form. They were all typically gold and gilded, but some were strong and brutal, who looked fit for either manual labor or melee, and some were sleek and elegant along the lines of Blue Girl. Some male, some female, quite a few just indeterminable; there were about seven in all. The designs tended towards the gaudy and elegant- their movements were mathematically perfect.

Last of all, as if it had been the furthest back in storage, came a design that wasn’t like the others. Though still shiny, it was armored, and its metal hands gripped a gun. It lined up beside the others in brisk, soldier-esque movements. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” waved away Andrei, now with a cookie in his hand, “the gun’s just a model. We don’t make our combat syms as graceful as the others, but that’s probably the most advanced piece here. Blue, do you wanna do the thing?”

“I’ll do the thing,” confirmed Blue Girl. “Gentlemen,” she said, “these are examples of sym bodies. They are advanced robotic forms capable of doing all tasks that humans can, but much more quickly and powerfully. A sym worker compared to a human employee is typically three to five times more effective and, unlike the human, will not require wages beyond their basic energy costs. Don’t worry, they’re quite efficient. We do not sleep. We do not eat. We do not ever stop working. Unlike stamps, we are not organic at all, although our minds are based roughly on human minds.” She lifted her left hand, and at the same moment, every one of the models before them did the same. “Take note: sym minds and bodies are separate entities. You may purchase the rights to a sym mind, like you would any intellectual property, and then you purchase your physical bodies like these to place them into. A good sym mind- like myself, of course- can control five to ten bodies at a time. Or, if you want, you can simply plug a sym consciousness into a drone ship or plane and let us fly it. A dogfighter is far more effective when it does not have to waste weight on a human pilot. Or, speaking of fighting: when a sym soldier, like the one you see now-” the one with the gun nodded- “is destroyed in combat, the mind is not lost. It can simply exist on any one of your databanks and control multiple combat forms remotely, making a perfect, veteran soldier who never really dies, just changes bodies.”

There was a long pause as the three Azulvistans listened to the speech and looked at each other. Alfonso, reaching up to tug at his moustache, frowned a little. “What you’re describing is a threat. Not a personal one, but a threat to the foundational way of life on any nation that does not consider itself post-scarcity.” The three men were clearly having similar thoughts. If syms became widespread on Azulvista… It would mean mass unemployment. A sledgehammer to the Republic’s entire economic system… And worst of all, it would be profitable.

Antonio broke the long silence that had settled over the group. “How much? For a mind and let’s say… Five bodies?” Another long pause. “How about five thousand?”

Andrei stroked his beard that wasn’t there. He went through a phase where he had one, during college; he decided he would be philosophical and start stroking it when he needed time to think about something. He never bothered to unlearn the habit when corporate culture forced him to start shaving again.

“Minds and bodies sell different. Bodies are more consistent. For five of them, I’d say fifty-thousand dolls. For five thousand, we’re talking medium-large numbers now, so economies of scale kick in. That saves nicely. Thirty-two mil, thereabouts. Minds are more individual, since whatever sym might know different things. Usually that gets negotiated by the nitty-gritty bean counters who work for people like us. Or other syms. But the general going rate here in this year’s market, for a batch of the robo-brains who aren’t dumbasses?” His fingers did counting motions, wrangling numbers that were technically large but functionally simple. The economy had entered a hyperactive state since the Gate reopened. Sym minds were selling for a song right now. “It’s about fifty thousand again.” He looked at Blue Girl. “So a mind is worth five times a body, you might say?”

“You might say that,” affirmed Blue Girl. “But I have a feeling these gentlemen won’t know how much dolls are.” She translated it into Azulvistan money for them, based on what Gilt had already studied about the economy of the local superpower.

“And you accept foreign currencies?” Antonio raised an eyebrow, Raphael’s fingers flying to try to keep pace with the information. Andrei shrugged.

<”We can afford five thousand.”> The younger patrician remarked.

<”We? Were you perhaps expecting me to throw the dice on this gamble?” Alfonso was thoroughly unimpressed.

<”Consider it an investment. Fiver thousand? That’s a proof of concept to the syndics.” Antonio folded his arms, then turned towards Raphael. <”And you? You in as well?”>

Raphael blinked a few times in surprise. <”I’m not sure that would be entirely appropriate consid-”>

<”Consider nothing. If you can’t use your position to influence things, what’s the point of having that position. What we pay? They’ll pay triple, at least until they set up their own connections.”>

<”Crude, rude… Shrewd…> Alfonso frowned. <”I can’t very well argue against it. Fine.”> He nodded.

“I believe we have a deal. Doll the five thousand units up, make them look prestigious. More than they will be, anyway. We’ll get you a market. You just need to show them why they should buy.”

Andrei waved his hand in a gesture that was near to being dismissive. “Don’t worry, Mister Señor. Our syms are our art. They will prove themselves to anyone who sees them.” Blue Girl, knowing herself to be first-hand evidence, was happy to nod along.

The trio of patricians turned to leave, Antonio reaching into an inside pocket to draw out a fresh cigar. As he clipped the end, he said only one thing to the two men by his side.

<”Mister Señor? Let us hope their engineers are smarter than their executives.”>

Alfonso let out a polite laugh. Behind them, Andrei was sarcastically waving goodbye.