Rough landing

A new sound comes through the rumbling dissent of the wind: The whining roar of a starfighter's atmospheric turbines as it rockets above the dunes from the north, dodging the thrumming blasts of energy cannons fired by a similar fighter in hot pursuit. The fleeing fighter, bobbing and weaving between spiraling columns of sand whipped into a frenzy by the wind around Sharpeye and Whitestripe, dips its port wing drastically to avoid another shot from the pursuer. Too much dip, however. The wingtip catches in the crown of the dune and suddenly the fighter is spinning out of control, rolling and roaring, sending a rain of whistling shrapnel skyward as it is torn apart while shedding velocity in a fatal series of somersaults along the dunes. Within moments, the ravaged shell of the smoldering fighter is half-embedded in a not-too-distant dune, while the pursuing fighter zooms off into the night sky, its quarry neutralized.

Jumping the shark

The scooter climbs the back of the wave as it rises, and the rider can clearly be heard yelling: "WAAAAAHOOOOOOOO!" as the vehicle lofts over the crest and arches through the air, toward the beach. He's safely past the dorsal fin within a few seconds. But as he starts to descend, still about one hundred yards out near a coral reef, a pair of jet black barbed tentacles wicker outward from the bottom of the wave as it begins to foam and collapse toward shore. The first tentacle snaps itself around the suddenly writhing hulk of a 20-foot-long black shark, which is lifted from the water and flung blithely toward the hoveryacht, clunking against the upper hull before it falls, thrashing, back into the sea. The second tentacle punches through the scooter rider's back, bursting a bloody hole through his muscle-shirt. He's yanked, shrieking, off the scooter, which keeps going through its arc while the rider is pulled back - oh-so-rapidly - into the roiling tumult of the fallen wave. A smear of blood is all that remains as evidence of the rider, save for the scooter itself, which putters on the shore and then goes silent.

The trees talk for themselves

Sixmoon blinks, watching as the intertwined trees - they seem to have laced their upper branches together in order to maximize their options for mobility - move closer, blotting out much of the glowing crescent of Palisade in the starry sky. Two other moons can be seen flanking the visage of the three tree-things as they thump closer to the Athena. As the jabbing roots come thumping down, they tear gouges in the knee-high grass, ripping divots of soil and sod loose.

The rumbling leviathans twirl in their massive, branch-undulating and root-plunging ballet, and get within about one hundred feet of the Athena, casting the offworlders' vessel in shadow before coming to a complete stop. Their branches untwine and they straighten. Their roots dig into the soil. Within a few moments, the trees look as if they have grown here. They seem inert, unmoving, immobile. And then the broad lower trunks of each tree begin to glow blue in symmetrical patterns that appear to be forming letters. The first trunk reads: "With." The second trunk reads: "us." The third trunk reads: "come."

It's not the height...

"One other thing," Neidermeyer begins, but he's interrupted by a sound like the buzzing of a bee swarm coming from outside in the corridor. Into the conference room whooshes a trio of small craft that look for all the world like starship models of some kind. Bobbing and weaving past the surprised-looking thugs who try to intercept them, the ships and their tiny assortment of bristling weapons arc around toward the head of the conference table.

Nikolai opens his eyes wide at the appearance of the tiny ships, "Vhat is this!?"

Montgomery gulps, stunned into silence and immobility, for the present time.

Niesa pushes back from the table, easily slipping to her knees. Her smile, directed squarely at Neidermeyer, broadens just before her head slips below the table's mahogany surface.

Valentine is on her feet immediately, cold blue eyes taking a quick circuit from the ships, to Neidermeyer, to the ships again. She is still for one long moment, posture balanced for a long quick motion forward, as if awaiting something.

A tinny voice crackles from the speaker of the lead ship as it closes on Neidermeyer, who is getting to his feet and drawing his flechette pistol: "Halt! Colin Neidermeyer, for months you have hideously tortured Nemoni prisoners in your clutches. You will now answer for these atrocities."

From her low crouch, the Timonae moves further down the table's length and peekes her head out for a better view of the ship.

The other two Nemoni vessels arc around slowly, keeping their guns aimed at those assembled.

Montgomery stays seated, eyeing the other vessels warily, his hands still resting on the table. His face is almost bloodless in fear and surprise.

Neidermeyer scooches away from the head of the table, shoving Tony the Monobrow thug in front of him as he stands with his back to the Shadowheart cityscape. The Nemoni ships swing in unison to face Tony. Their weapon turrets begin to glow crimson. The lead vessel opens a set of bomb bay doors and from the bay descends a small guided missile launcher. At first, Tony is amused, a goofy grin on his face. Then comes the tinny voice again: "Mini-nuclear missile armed. Prepare to fire." Tony looks left. He looks right. He fixes his eyes on the missile. He grimaces and steps quickly to the left.

That seems to be what Valentine was waiting for, her own pistol going untouched. She crouches, one motion tensing her legs and then sending her in a long dive for the rear of the Nemoni vessel that has its missile trained on Neidermeyer, red hair flying. You only live once, right?

"Sonuvabitch!" Neidermeyer shouts, aiming his flechette pistol at Tony and squeezing the trigger. The Monobrow's head is shredded into exploding ribbons of flesh, hair, gray matter, blood and bone. His corpse thuds limply on the carpeted floor. Neidermeyer then swings the gun around toward the lead Nemoni vessel and growls, "Your turn, pipsqueak!"

Valentine is, inexplicably, frozen in mid-air.

Niesa ducks back under the table, pulling the pulse pistol from the back of her waistband.

The noise of violence prompts a reaction from Montgomery, as he chooses this time to try and slip from his chair and under the table.

Nikolai slides off his chair and dives under the table, "Madness!"

"No," replies the tinny voice through the loudspeaker in the lead Nemoni ship. "Yours." And the guided missile fires its thrusters and launches toward Neidermeyer, just as he's firing off a shot with the flechette pistol. The missile, already armed, explodes inches away from the honcho before he finishes squeezing the trigger, creating a shock wave and a radioactive fireball. The blast causes Neidermeyer's shot to go wild, just missing Niesa and shredding the paneling on the wall behind her and to the left. The fireball swooms outward with a FOOMP!, giving Valentine a nasty sunburn and setting Neidermeyer's expensive silk suit aflame and hurling him backward through one of the plate glass windows. Lit up like a bizarre tiki torch, still gripping his flechette pistol, Neidermeyer shatters the window and plummets into the blue-purple night, falling fourteen floors to the pavement.

A quiet death

Eaglefeather sets his spoon down on the plate, washing down another bite with his beverage. He tilts his head back as he does so, and continues to lean backward as his eyes roll back in his head and the liquid sloshes on his tunic. The cup and cane clatter on the floor as Eaglefeather sprawls unconscious. The serving girl screams.

Late lunch

A technician saunters into the docking bay, carrying a lunchbox in one hand and a satchel full of tools in the other.

The technician, a human male with scrubby blonde hair and rather sunken blue eyes bobs past the crowd, whistling as he goes.

The technician reaches an erected scaffolding on the starboard side of the docking bay, slings the satchel over his shoulder and begins to climb toward a work platform that grants access to the rafters and the electronic conduits arrayed there.

The technician's merry whistling continues, echoing through the bay as he climbs higher and higher.

Finally, the technician reaches the platform. He sets down his satchel of tools, then plops down on the platform's edge, legs dangling over. He pops open his lunchbox and ceases whistling. He mutters something about tuna salad...again...and then grudgingly takes out the sandwich, along with a small thermos containing a refreshing beverage.

The technician munches on his sandwich, gazing out over his kingdom...the docking bay. And it was good. Well, for tuna salad.

Something seems to catch the technician's attention, off to the left. He glances that way, sandwich in hand. His brow furrows, as if pondering an engineering problem just out of grasp.

The technician glances to the right, then back to the left. "That ain't right," he mutters. Obviously the sort unable to leave a problem unsolved in favor of food, he sets the sandwich back in the box and gets to his feet, moving in a crouch-waddle toward the left. The technician's eyes go back to a spotlight that is directed at the spot he's obsessing over. A spot that clearly has a shadow where there should be none.

The strange shadow then spills...if that's the word for it...down the bulkhead to fill the one cast by the technician. He scratches his head. "What the...?" Curious, lunch completely forgotten about now, the technician reaches toward the bulkhead with a bony finger. The technician's shadow suddenly begins to leak...if that's the word for it...along his finger and up his arm - evoking a startled shout as it ripples darkly toward his shoulder, then climbs his neck and cloaks his head. He throws his hands to his head, screaming, and staggers back. He knocks his lunchbox off the scaffold, and the box tumbles - clattering on the deck far below.

Imperator's peril

Soon, the torches and lanterns become more consistently visible through the forest on three sides of the estate. At the moment, no rioters appear to be approaching from the direction of the mountains. Shortly, however, hundreds of Demarians filter out of the woods and start taking up formations around the estate - even moving to cover the gap between the estate and the mountains. A grizzle-snouted Demarian, the leader of the rioters, takes a step toward the main entrance and raises his guttering torch before shouting: "You got one chance, Imperator! One chance! You know what they did to our people! You saw it, no doubt! Turn yourself over to us, no resistance, and this ends peacefully."

The door swings open, just enough to reveal one figure - one that is most definitely not the Imperator's. The guard, tensed and wary, calls out in neutral tones, "The choice of peace is in your claws! Turn back - there doesn't need to be any more blood spilled tonight!"

"So that's how it's to be then, is it?" the grizzle-snouted Demarian snarls. "Why were our military forces aiding in the slaughter of innocent Demarians?! Is this the Imperator's idea of alliances? Is this the Imperator's idea of *leadership?! Let him come and speak for him-" But whatever he was going to shout next is lost in the sudden roar of Demarians behind him, caught up in the fury of the moment, lunging forward at the sight of the open door. And as that front line starts its charge, the movement is seen by other rioters surrounding the estate. The raging, thundering footfalls commence, pounding past the old Demarian as he watches in horror as his charismatic rantings worked a little better than he expected - or wanted. The mob is going after the Imperator's house, peace-be-damned.

Ewwwwwww...

The nurse cringes. "Oh, God." She runs to the door. "Code Red! Code Red! We've got a potential contagion!"

Alarms begin to wail, then the nurse goes back to Parias, trying to help him sit up. "The doctors are coming. They'll have a breathing apparatus for you."

Parias continues to hack and cough as the tightness in his chest gets tighter. He isn't really conscious of what is going on around him. He is still unconsciously mashing the call button. He still can't speak and the nurses words are of little comfort.

A human doctor comes into the hospital room rolling a thoracotamy tray. "Give me the bullet."

The nurse says, "Patient just returned to his room and began exhibiting signs of respiratory failure and internal sloughing."

Parias doesn't notice the human doctor. He is still coughing and is still unconscious as far as what is happening to him at this point. The heart monitor is steadly increasing as well.

The doctor checks the displays over the bed and his eyes widen. "Jesus, his lungs are turning to soup." He looks down at Parias. "I...I don't think there's anything we can do. It's too advanced." He glances back to the nurse. "Full contagion lockdown. We're going under quarantine." - 2001, after Parias was poisoned with Formorak, reproductive fluid of the male G'ahnli.

Communication issues

The engineer, speaking over the comm panel, says: "Colonel, describe that thing again..."

Deering replies, "Sir, it's about 6 inches long, bat ears, and six feet, sir."

The engineer responds, uneasily: "So...it's not five feet tall, covered with brown fur, with two legs, four arms and big ears and...teeth...ohmygod...it's coming right at me!" The comm suddenly crackles and goes dead.

Clerks in space

A clerk sits behind the counter, chewing gum and reading a magazine.

Deering jogs up to the counter and looks at the clerk, saying quickly to him, "Hey....we're in need of weapons, quickly."

Fireeyes looks around, with a bit too much of a smile. He walks up to the clerk, "What are your cheapest guns?"

The clerk glances up lazily. "Hrm? What?" Doesn't seem to have a care in the world. "Starting a war?"

Bomb's away

"No, I mean, really, really bad," PRTR-001 growls mechanically, inserting a metallic index finger into a data socket in one of the auxiliary terminals and activating a holographic display in front of Marlan's command chair. The image shows a radiation signature reading of the Strategic Retreat as it departed the Orphic's hangar bay. The thruster gimbals and faster-than-light nacelles show as "hot." Same with the generators in the engine room. But there's also a cylindrical "hot" object in one of the ship's cargo holds. The Phyrrian says: "Coreseeker."

The Showman

A holographic image begins to take form in front of Marlan's command console as the ship's comms give off a high-pitched whine in Snowmist's sensitive ears: Signal jamming. The image resolves itself into the all-too-familiar Volari, wearing blue robes and dark sunglasses. "The Overmind clearly found out we were coming. Captain Ranix, you and your people remind me of this really nasty rash I got from a hooker on Tomin Kora back in 3002..." His voice trails off and he raises a pale, slender hand. "Neither here nor there. No time to reminisce. Work to be done. Glad you're here, actually. Counted on it. I *love* to have an audience." He smiles vaguely. "Stay tuned!" And then his image fades.

Long odds

"I've already done the computations," Sixmoon replies with a sigh. "The maneuver, conducted by a pilot of undiminished capacity and high skill, has a 19 percent chance of success. The odds degrade with diminishment in skill and faculty."

A man of peace; a place of violence

Sixmoon shakes his head. "He can't sell it to anyone. He doesn't have the authority. It's not that he doesn't trust me, Captain. This isn't about us. It's about the Guild and the clans within it. Each clan is based in a different hive city, with a different queen. And all the clans are serious about their competition." He looks toward the Odarite merchant. "If we get the map, for *any* price, some of the less scrupulous clans within the guild might target the Athena for piracy. He's trying to protect us." He frowns, turning his gaze back toward Marlan. "I don't like it, but I appreciate it. The Odarites can be very cutthroat when it comes to business. You *do not* want to be caught in the middle of a guild war."

Marlan looks across the table over then over towards Sixmoon, "But can you find Palisade without this map? Because nothing is ever fixed in stone,da."

"The map would have made it easier," the archaeologist says, shrugging. "Faster. Now, instead, we will simply have to settle for doing it slower, using the Athena's sensors as originally planned." He picks his PDA off the counter, then says, "Sorry about the wasted time for the detour, Captain." He nods toward Y'rktkl. "Please, let the other guilders know we no longer seek the map. Perhaps that will reduce the tensions between the clans."

The Odarite merchant leans closer to Sixmoon, clawed appendages clacking. "Ykou shkould gket offkworld kwickly, Sikmoon. Kan tellk guildkers nko sellk itkem, bkut thkey thkink Y'rktkl tkell ykou somekthing valkuable. Profkitable. Akthena alkready ink dankger."

"So if we're already in danger how much worse can it get?" Voliarin asks the Odarite.

Y'rktkl turns to answer Voliarin, and spreads his mandibles to begin speaking in his clicky interpretation of Standard when he's cut off by something long, sharp and glittering black k-chunking through the carapace of his upper torso. Looks like a fairly nasty spear, with a jagged point that crunches out the back. His antennae go lax and he collapses on the floor, twitching autonomously as four Guilder Odarites wearing blue sashes and psi blockers start closing in.

Perspective

Sixmoon arches his eyebrows, sets down the PDA, and then stands, peering down at the display. Makes a hmming noise. Pulls out his chair, steps up onto it, then further up onto the table. He stands on the left side of the PDA and stares down at it. Then moves to the right side, peering down. Finally, he moves so that he's opposite where he was sitting, stares down, and then says, "Ah."

A beautiful mind?

Sixmoon frowns, shaking his head. One of the PDAs pops loose. He reaches with the fingers of his left hand to try to catch that PDA, but this causes an imbalance. The blueprint cylinder spins away. The PDAs scatter on the floor. The flimsies waft slowly downward, fluttering like translucent, flat, plastic butterflies. He frowns down at the random scattering of electronics, paper and plastic. He twists his mouth. And then he looks back at Marlan. "What were you saying?"

The survivor

Jean Kassar raises a hand, shaking his head. "Destroy the fighter. Never allow it to be linked to your world. Dismantle it. Melt it down. But save the flight computer. It contains the coordinates for T'lask VII. You must get those to the Homeland Naval Service on Sivad. Our government must launch a rescue operation at once." He then glances toward Sechek and says, sighing, "Four years ago, the multiverse rift crisis was threatening to tear the universe apart. These strange alternate Castori bombed my city, Enaj, and a man named Arthur Pennington gathered many of us together and urged us to strike off to a new world. A distant world." He furrows his brow. "He meant well, but the man is a lunatic." He shakes his head, sighing. "Anyway, we ended up deep in Parallax space, on a planet that had been on none of our charts. We called it New Enaj. We started a colony. Pennington set up a transmitter station, sending queries back home to see if the crisis had passed. And that is how the Nall found us. They found us, and they found polydenum. So, to them, we were trespassers. To them, we had committed an act of war. So, they imprisoned us. They put us to work designing and building the extraction facility. Pennington, he's an engineer and architect by trade. He loved his work."

Penumbra's principles

A sip from his glass, then Penumbra gets up and walks to the window again. "Find a way to contact the developer on Waldheim, Samantha. Determine the amount they'd consider fair to proceed with development *and* leave you alone. Then get back to me."

Sage Evesviia seems amused by this direction for some reason and looks to Samantha for her response.

There's a long silence after that, before the sound of Sam's chair scraping backward announces her movement and she stands up. "And if I don't or can't?" she asks.

"If you don't or can't, that makes you a threat to my business and my personnel," Penumbra responds. "It's one thing to come work for me and start a new life without being hunted. But people who are actively hunted mean a major liability for me. I don't like liabilities, especially if they can be remedied one way or another to everyone's edification."

Penumbra's pitch

"That's right, ladies and gentlemen," the man in the dark suit and red carnation proclaims from the bottom of the ramp as Urfkgar gets within earshot. "Penumbra's Roaming Cavalcade of Mysteries. We've gathered the strange and unusual from one end of the Orion Arm to the other ... and beyond! So, step right up, climb aboard, don't be bashful! Admission's free, although we do charge for liquid refreshments and comestibles! Tips are, as always, appreciated! And the rumors are true! Yes, true! Penumbra's Roaming Cavalcade of Mysteries *is* hiring!" He gestures up the ramp. "Step right up!"

Penumbra's keepsake

"I actually have this little keepsake around to remind myself just how short life can be," Ian says, lifting the lid and setting it aside before drawing out the object formerly confined within the box: A glass jar containing the mummified head of what appears to be a black-haired Qua male. He sets the jar on the desk, then returns the lid to the box before turning his attention back to Ora. "What would you like to see first? Amusements? Oddities? Mysteries? Or the bridge?"

Ora's brows rise, and she actually sweeps her hair aside with a lift of her hand to peer more closely at the jar and its contents, unperturbed by the grisly sight. "Refreshing," she repeats herself, this time with a definite tone of amusement and interest. "To need the antithesis of life to remind yourself that you are living. First? You shall tell me the tale of this artifact. Then, you can show me the rest in alphabetical order."

"Well, I keep it around as a reminder, yes, but I also find that the Chief here is my most trusted and loyal confidant, one who will hear all my concerns and never, ever, ever stab me in the back. No arms, you see," Ian grins. Then he walks around his desk and settles into his chair. "The Chief's tale isn't a very happy one. I'm not even sure it's entirely true. But it's a good one, I'll grant that much. I got him from an Odarite merchant last year."

"Truly?" Ora murmurs, eye-to-eye with the chief now through the murky translucence of the preserving liquid. "I must work my way into his good graces then."

"He knows you as well as I do, so you've got nothing to worry about," Ian replies, smirking. "He thought making you my consigliere was a fine idea." He sighs. "Anyway, his story. His real name, the Odarite told me, was Jon Falling Bear. He was a Qua chieftain back during the bad old days, around the turn of the 29th Century, when the Kretonians were still lording it over the cosmos. Jon Falling Bear was a Mystic sympathizer. He gave them shelter and aid. He led Qua warriors against Centauran and Kretonian extermination squads. A real hero." He leans forward, resting a hand atop the jar. "Enemies, he had no problem finding. Trouble is, he did a piss-poor job of picking his friends. One of his top men, William Hawk, took a pretty practical view of things. The Kretonians owned everything. It was just a matter of time before the Centaurans dealt with the Mystics. No one had a clue the Nall or their friends were going to rise up and do some exterminating of their own. So, Hawk went to the Kretonians with a deal: They spare his life, give him some cushy lackey job like a Centauran, and he'd give them Jon Falling Bear. They took the deal. Hawk sold his buddy out. The Kretonians took Falling Bear's head as a souvenir. They had respect for him. They didn't keep any of William Hawk. They let the Centaurans slurp up his remains. Even the Krets had some standards about backstabbers." He takes his hand off the jar, lacing his fingers together on the desktop. "The Odarites found his head in the wreckage of one of the old Kret warships on the Line of Pain. Now, he's here."