Burnt

As the shuttle hovered towards the colony, Kanen looked out the viewport and marveled at the familiar terrain. He’d rarely seen it from this height, his face far too close to the dirt, and the last time he’d left the place he hadn’t been in a state to enjoy much of anything at all.

The towers poked out of the ground like nails dropped into sand. The colony stayed in intense communication not only with nearby colonies and travelling starships, but with authorities much farther away. Its operations were regulated according to policies that Kanen had never really understood. Sometimes the crew was worked harder than usual, and sometimes … well, sometimes nothing. They always worked hard. It was a question of calluses versus actual cuts.

Beneath the towers, the familiar rock and mud and mess. And, in the distance, the roiling magma that made it viable for human beings even to eke out a living on this rock. This was an active place, full of active people harnessing some very dangerous equipment, all sitting on top of what was effectively a big, crackling, active celestial volcano.

And beyond them, Kanen saw sky-wide nebulas streaking through all viewable space, dotted by planets in their thousands. Each one of those planets, Kanen reflected, by the sheer dint of their glow, would be large enough to eclipse his colony.

He looked down again. The burning glow from the magma reflected off the shuttle, casting it in red and orange hues.

“Goddamn,” Kanen muttered to himself. As the shuttle started to descend he felt the light pull on his stomach and hands, as if someone wanted him away from the seat and out of the vessel; out for inspection by the stars that watched his every move from above. Away from the colony.

***

The hardest part in anyone’s life isn’t the crises they encounter, and if someone tries to tell you different, it says more about their lack of spine than it does about whatever problems they’ve had. Anyone can have a problem, or make mistakes, or suffer a goddamn breakdown. The question isn’t what happened to you or what scars life inconsiderately raked over your hide – it’s what you did after. How you got up again.

***

He walked slowly through the corridors of the colony’s main operational section. There was no rush: he was expected by some people, and not by others, and he would take the time he needed to get this thing done right.

It was odd to be back, particularly without a task to work on. When you have been active for long enough in a particular place, you no longer see how it truly looks in brick and mortar, and instead experience it solely as the accumulation of tasks, needs, pauses and schedules at which you, of course, are the center. This giant wall, reaching to a ceiling many man-heights above, is no longer a wall; it is a route to someone’s office where that meeting needs to be held, or a support structure that will need to be relocated as soon as the company moves on to the mineable rock beyond it, or simply a quiet place where you can take a breather for five minutes in between shifts and bum a cigarette from a pal. But when you leave – not merely this place but the web of duties, actions and results it has woven you into – and then you come back, you come back to it as a dead thing. You stand outside the life it contains, like a ghost.

He walked down corridors that held few people, even fewer he knew and none of whom seemed to know him. A door at the end bore the moniker Betel Saraanen and the title Supervisor below it.

Kanen knocked and entered. A man sitting at a desk looked up from a slew of reports, blinked a couple of times before he recognized the visitor, and said, “I want you gone.”

“Don’t we all,” Kanen said. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. There was a chair in the room but he did not sit down, nor did Betel indicate he was expected to.

“I want you gone,” Betel repeated, “but there’s rumors of Sansha coming in, so we’ve got the usual panicky flights off-base, and the capsuleers have wrecked nearby colonies to the point where we can’t pull in new teams.”

“And the ore needs to be mined.”

“The ore doesn’t need the likes of you,” Betel told him, then confirmed with a sigh, “But the ore, yes, does need to be mined.”

Kanen stood there in silence, listening to the rhythm of the colony. The regular beats that drummed up through the floor proved the mining works were operating at full swing, and the occasional tremor through the wall against his back indicated that the explosives experts were gleefully earning their pay.

“So you better get to work,” Betel said at last. “The details are in your datapad.”

***

You don’t spring back to action. That’s what I learned. After breaking away, and taking the time off you needed to recuperate, you’re not exactly raring to go again. Rather, you need to slowly rev yourself up, like an old, worn, grimily oiled piece of mining equipment, spluttering and coughing in the poisonous air of the mines, sidling and sliding into action one more time. You haven’t had a broken part replaced; you overheated and were given time to cool down, but nothing in you is back to new. Just a little tattered, perhaps a little broken, and uncertain how much it’ll take before you give way again.

***

The workers’ changing rooms were a ways down to the far end of the colony. Kanen knew his allotment, locker and equipment had been left untouched, likely less out of respect than a feeling of bad luck. Miners cared about luck. They’d run out so often that they viciously hoarded what little they managed to scrounge.

There was a good while left of the current shift, and when it ended another one would begin. According to his datapad entry, Kanen had been assigned an area to oversee, but not a particular team of people; rather, he would be present along with any other midlevel overseers on shift to guide operations in that particular part of the mining grid and to jump in as needed when brute force was required. He could walk in at any time and start picking up the slack. The active team wouldn’t be happy, but that was no worry of his. The active team working in the depths of an unstable asteroid colony, floating around unprotected in deepest space, was not expected to be happy.

So it was with no pressure but that of the churning dread of guilt that he turned and headed not to the changing rooms, but to the living quarters on the other side of the colony. He got in at least a minute’s walk before a familiar voice called out his name, and a body marched straight up to him.

“Corwan,” he said to the approaching form. He walked on at the same pace. The younger man, who was about his height but rather less built, sped to keep up.

“Good to have you back, man,” Corwan said. He seemed about to slap Kanen on the shoulder, then reconsidered. “How you doing?”

Kanen gave him a look. “What can I do for you, Corwan?” he asked.

“Well, I’m just wondering. I’d heard you were back and wanted to see if we could have a chat about some, uh, staff issues.”

“If we could talk about staff issues?”

“Certainly.”

“Would those be,” Kanen slowly said, “staff issues that occurred before or after I pile-drived a massive operational piece of mining equipment into a pit full of an intensely, if briefly, surprised group of people? Are those the ones we should discuss?”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Corwan quickly said.

“It was very much my fault, unless you want to pick out someone in that pit as having deserved what happened to them.”

“No! No, no, not at all. But, uh, we do need to think about some changes that have been occurring here, or needing to occur, even before the incident. Are you coming back full time, by the way?”

“Supposedly,” Kanen said.

“As an overseer?”

Kanen ran a hand over his face as he walked, then shot the man another look. “Corwen, it’s not that I don’t appreciate having at least one person here happy to see me. But the mere fact that I’m back here in my old position, however temporarily, means there’s one less slot for you to grab if it’s overseer status you’re angling for; and don’t –” He raised a hand at Corwen, who looked very intent on saying something. “Don’t pretend that you’re not climbing, because we’ve seen you from afar, coming up, knife in mouth. So let’s skip all the camaraderie and the united front dumbass farce, and engage with the real issue instead. What is it you really want?”

Corwan was silent for a moment as they walked, visibly gathering his words. Eventually he said, “You can’t be gone.”

“I was gone for a while, son.”

“But you weren’t gone gone. They still held your position. Even before the Sansha rumors and the capsuleer attacks, they wanted you back.”

Kanen was impressed. Anyone who’d caused the kind of accident he did would have been out on his ass. He certainly wouldn’t have spared any member of his own team if they’d done what he did.

He quelled that thought. It would only lead to pride, and he had not earned that feeling. He hadn’t even earned relief, though he hoped the end of this walk, if Corwan ever let it end, would help him on that path.

Corwan continued, “I won’t get pulled up while you’re here. No one will.”

Kanen considered this. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You want me gone because I’m holding you back from promotion, but even while I’m here, at least nobody else will get the job, either.”

Corwan nodded miserably. “I, uh. I need a bit more time to iron out some issues.”

“Some issues.”

“Some issues with the boss,” Corwan said. “Just some… well, like I said, stuff I need to iron out.”

“Make your position clear,” Kanen said and couldn’t help a little grin.

“Yeah, I–” Corwan caught the sarcasm. “Anyway, yes, I’d like you here so I don’t lose out on a promotion to someone else. But I’m also glad you’re back.”

“Thanks,” Kanen said. He believed it. Corwan was a climber, but he wasn’t dishonest, at least no more than someone needed to be if they intended to make their way to the top by dint of being too oily to hold back. “We’ll talk about this later. I need to see someone else now.”

“All right. Thank you,” Corwin said. “And, uh. Welcome back.”

The younger man walked off, leaving Kanen to make the last of the trek alone. Despite himself, he couldn’t but appreciate Corwin’s honesty. The problem with career climbers was that everything they said tended to be tainted by want. There was the direct meaning of their words, which was always clear and usually more than a little flattering, and then there was the hidden one, the real motivation, which involved their own desires and which you had to discern like you were looking through a darkened glass. Having one of them break cover, as it were, was something to cherish.

He passed a few others on the way, and noticed the way they spotted him, but tried to ignore whatever they said. Snippets of one conversation did pass through his filters.

That’s him. Over there.

That dude?

That dude.

He’s the one? The guy who–….

That’s the one.

Oh. Wow.

There was a pause.

He’s old.

Kanen grinned again, and marched towards the personal quarters.

A knock on a particular door, a deep breath, and when it was opened by a woman her eyes went wide and she slapped him hard in the face.

He didn’t raise his hand to his cheek, though it felt on fire. Her nails had broken skin. “Hi, Beth,” he said.

“How dare you show up here?” she said to him in a voice so quiet it approached a whisper.

“Can I come in?” he asked. When she made no move to let him in, he added, “Beth, I’m back. I am going to be on the colony for some time.”

She glared at him, her lips pinched together. Then she stepped aside without a word. Kanen walked in past her, into the living room, and sat down on a couch.

It was a sizeable living room. The apartment was meant for two people.

“I don’t have a lot to say,” Kanen said to her as she walked into the room. She did not sit.

He added, “Not as much as I’m sure you’d like to say to me. Nothing’s going to help much. I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart, and that I’m trying to make amends.”

“By coming here?” She stared at him. “You think you’re making amends by coming back… here?”

“I was asked to come back–”

“By who?”

“Saraanen. He needs people right now, and I’ve recuperated enough.”

“That’s nice. That’s nice. I’m glad someone has.”

“Beth, I–”

“My husband nearly died because of you.”

“If I could do anything for J–”

“Don’t say his name! Don’t you say his name. He was seriously hurt.” She looked away for the first time. “He’s still in there, on his white bed in that horrible room, and he nearly died. They won’t even let me see him except on weekends.”

“Has he … come back at all?” Kanen asked.

“A couple of times. We spoke a little, but he drifted off. They think it might be all right some day but we don’t know when, and the brain injuries mean he might not be able to…” Her voice sputtered, then failed her. She breathed deeply. “Why did you return? What can there possibly be left here for you, except more people to hurt?”

“I don’t know, Beth. Some way to show I’m not a tired old man who’s lost it for good and who puts his friends in terrible danger,” he said. It was an honest thing to say, or at least it felt that way to him, and for the first time in their talk she met his gaze with something that didn’t resemble hatred.

He got up. “I didn’t want to make this long. Just wanted to let you know, before you heard from anyone else, or saw me around. I won’t be getting in your way. But if he gets better, I do hope you will let me know. I really do.”

He turned and walked to the door. “Take care, Beth,” he said before leaving her quarters.

***

You know you have to go when you start to fail, little by little. The final break that pushes you out – which will always be terrible, and far more costly to other people than it was to you – is not some single event, some great explosion that is isolated from everything else. Not a single grand failure but a cascade of smaller ones that you just can’t grasp, no more than the pebbles falling through your hands. They add up and they keep adding up in a monstrous framework of dangerous failure until finally, by some banal coincidence, something finally tips the whole thing over.

And people get hurt.

All those little mistakes, the ones you wouldn’t have made if you weren’t so tired, and you want to say: It wasn’t me. This is not how I live my life. This terrible wreckage, this is not the work of a man like me. But you only think like that after the fact, and by that time you can no longer attract attention to what you did. You are advised, by those few who will still talk to you when you surface as a human being again, to ‘let go of the past.’ Let go of the past and ‘live in the now.’ Never mind that my past includes several decades of not fucking up, before everything started to slide, and that my Now involves an old man about to work on a ratty piece of equipment on the hard edge of a rock floating in deadly nullsec. To hell with the Now. I’d live in the past if I could; the view is infinitely better.

***

He walked on. He didn’t know what was driving him on: atonement or sheer stubbornness. There was one person who wanted him here, one who wasn’t sure, and one who wanted him dead and gone. If he did this, it wouldn’t be noble, but it wouldn’t be for a debased reason, either. It involved pride and selfishness, yes; but mostly, he suspected, it involved the need to do something – anything – with the rest of his time other than watch it pass him by.

As he passed into the corridors that would lead him to the changing rooms, he saw, through the glass alloy walls, the world outside this place. There were asteroid mountains in the distance, and beyond them, the sun shining bright. He felt the thrum of the earthworks as he walked on and on. And every face, even those who resented him here – and there were plenty – still showed a grudging respect, if only for the fact that he had lasted this long; he lasted this long and he returned.

He walked on, losing track of time. The harness of his old machine was there; he could see it now. It was empty. It was waiting for him.

Innocent Faces

The man in the garish robes and discolored wig was applying he last of his makeup when he heard a knock at his door. He scrambled from his seat and nearly tripped over his oversized red shoes as he scurried to the door, cracking it open to peer at the person outside the room.

“Cherall…I mean, Dr. Adad? Sorry to bother you, but you have a visitor. She’d like to meet you before your show,” said a lady wearing a headset and holding a large datapad. She glanced impatiently from side to side, tapping her foot.

“You know I don’t like visitors, Raha. Especially right before I go live,” he replied with a hint of agitation.

“It’s a sponsor’s kid. One of the holders in the Kor-Azor family. She’ll only be a minute,” Raha whispered. Cherall looked down and saw blond curls peek through the door’s frame a full meter below his producer’s face. He sighed softly before nodding his head and opening the door more fully.

“My apologies. Come on in, child.” Cherall shot a dirty look toward Raha, who offered a short smirk before bustling down the hallway. She spoke over her shoulder as she turned a corner: “Don’t forget, you go live in five minutes.”

The little girl looked up at Cherall with wide, green eyes as she stepped into the room. Cherall closed the door and smiled at her. The wide, red grin painted on his face accentuated his expression, and the nanite-infused compound on his cheeks glowed softly as various shapes illuminated around his cheekbones, spinning and bulging across his face. The little girl giggled at the sight, holding her hands in front of her mouth out of politeness.

“What’s your name, little one?” Cherall inquired, sitting down in his makeup chair gingerly, his knees cracking with the exertion.

“Fimiris,” she whispered through her hands, still staring at Cherall.

“Are you a fan of the show?” Cherall opened a drawer at his desk, rummaging through its contents.

“Yes, I am. I watch it every day.” The girl’s face flushed a dark crimson as she moved her hands behind her back and straightened her posture. “I named my favorite slave after Mr. Wayward.”

Cherall’s smile softened slightly as he continued to search through the desk, opening another drawer and sticking his hand deep into its recesses. “That’s very clever of you. Does your daddy mind that you renamed one of his slaves?”

“No, not at all. He finds it rather amusing, as do I.” The girl waved back and forth lightly on her heels as she talked.

After another moment of intense scrutiny, Cherall found the object he was looking for: a thin holopad with his likeness on it. He grabbed a pen and scribbled on the image before handing it to the girl. “That’s’ very nice dear. But remember, Mr. Wayward is a cartoon character. Your slave is a real person, so be sure to treat him well.”

He handed the holopad to Fimiris, who accepted it with a big grin on her face. She giggled again as the image altered and played a short scene of Cherall juggling bright, red orbs. “Thank you, Dr. Adad! I will certainly make sure to treat Mr. Wayward well.”

“You’re a sweet girl. You remind me of my daughter, you know. You and her would get along very well. Now, off you go. I have to get ready for the show.”

As the little girl left the room, Cherall glanced to a sign posted above the dressing room’s door. It was a simple wooden placard with blocky letters burned into it. The sign contained a short passage from the Book of Reclaiming: “Lead all children to the light of God, for Heaven is theirs to inherit.” Cherall stared at the inscription, deep in thought. After a few moments, his meditation was broken by the buzzing of a datapad on his desk.

* * *

“Children of God, do you know what time it is?” The voice echoed throughout the mostly empty soundstage. A chorus of high-pitched voices responded in unison: “It’s time for Dr. Adad’s Wild Time!”

Throughout the room, dozens of lights flashed on and hundreds of children’s faces appeared throughout the empty space, filling the area from ground to ceiling with holographic projections of smiling children clapping their hands to the upbeat music reverberating in the room’s atmosphere. The children’s images flickered as they clapped their hands in time to the music. After a few minutes, the clapping turned into full applause as Cherall entered the room, running onto a lighted stage and performing cartwheels and somersaults across its width.

Camera drones followed his routine from multiple angles as he flitted around the stage and spun wildly into the air. The music throbbed louder and the children’s applause intensified as Cherall completed his gymnastic barrage by launching himself in the air with the help of his gravboots – and floating back down to the stage floor with eight consecutive rolls in the air. He landed softly, raised his arms, and the music stopped. The children burst into applause all around him, their images flickering more intensely.

“Hello, children. I’m Dr. Adad, and welcome to my Wild Time!” Cherall bellowed to his audience, who applauded wildly in response. Cherall hushed them with a wave of his hand. “We have a very special show to you today, as we are filming this live from our studios on Nakregde II.” More applause ensued.

“As always, I’d like to begin this show with a prayer. Let’s bow our heads.”

Cherall’s painted face retained a solemn expression as he bowed his head. Inside the room, hundreds of holographic faces followed suit. Across the cluster, millions more children bowed their head in prayer as they watched this live feed, their parents smiling with bemusement.

“God, you are a gracious God, and a forgiving God. We do not deserve your blessings, and we submit our lives to you. You bring us joy and you bring us sorrow, but we endure everything in your name. Please grant us the wisdom and the courage to follow you to Heaven. Amen.”

Cherall tilted his head up and looked into the nearest camera drone.

“And now it’s time for the fun to begin! Unfortunately, Professor Playmate is no longer going to be joining us in the festivities: He’s back at school teaching the Theology of Fun! But not to worry, because his brother will be joining us, and I’m sure you’ll love Emperor Excitement.”

The audience was silent in response to this news. Cherall panicked briefly, beads of sweat brimming on his brow and laughed nervously. “But while we wait, why don’t we see what’s going on with Mr. Wayward?”

The audience burst into applause and many children whooped and hollered in delight.

A smile slowly crept upon his face. On the vidscreens across the Empire, children laughed aloud as his cheeks flared with glowing numbers, letters, and symbols, the glyphs morphing and moving along to a bossa nova rhythm that had emerged in the background. Cherall’s eyes followed the glowing symbols as best they could, crossing and uncrossing, twirling and darting inside his sockets.

The clown’s smile intensified as the camera drone focused deeper onto his face. The glowing symbols changed colors and swirled together, forming more complex images and figures. As the theme song continued its rampant rhythm, a person emerged among the glowing shapes: a tall Minmatar man, dressed in plain clothes and covered in tattoos. Two more figures emerged shortly afterward. One figure was that of a shorter Amarr man in elegant robes and pale skin. The other was a large, anthropomorphic furrier standing on its hind legs and wearing a dress. A title in big, animated letters zoomed over the heads of these characters: “The Adventures of Mr. Wayward and Friends,” followed by the subtitle, “Today’s Adventure: The Thief among Us.” Off camera, the children exploded into applause.

* * *

“Cherall, it’s Tadama. They took our daughter.”

Cherall stared in disbelief at the woman projected onto the vidscreen. Tears were streaming down her face and her auburn hair was hanging in front of her face in tangles. Cherall cleared his throat.

“Who took her? When did this happen? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” sobbed Tadama. Her bloodshot eyes pleaded with Cherall. “They just sent me an image of her. She’s still alive, but they told me they’d kill her if I told anybody that she was missing. Except you. I think they want to reach you.”

Cherall stood up slowly, his knees creaking. He stood on wobbly legs as he moved to the nearest data console in his vast living quarters. “How am I supposed to contact them? And who exactly is ‘them’ anyway?”

Tadama entered some information on her vidscreen. She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes with her hands before turning back to face Cherall. “I just sent you a contact number. They want you to reach them through there.”

Tadama glanced around her, panic in her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks and blotted her collar. “Cherall, you have to do whatever it takes to get her back. She’s our baby girl. And ever since you moved out…. Well, she’s all that I have left. I can’t lose her like I lost you.”

Cherall winced and looked down at his data console. His eyes were bleary and he grasped the console until his knuckles went white. “I’ll do what I can, Ta. Meanwhile, I want you to go to the police and…”

“No, I can’t do that. They’ll kill her if I do that. Please do what they want before–“

He raised his hands and closed his eyes, a single tear streaming down his face. “Ok, ok. Don’t go to the police. I’ll talk to them first and see what they want. Anything to get our little girl back.”

Tadama’s face softened, and she brushed her mottled hair out of her face, revealing her unblemished, pale skin – “God’s imbued essence,” as Cherall used to call it – beneath her wild, curly locks. Again she wiped her eyes, now raw from this repeated action, and smiled half-heartedly at Cherall. “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

Her ex-husband nodded his head and waved goodbye as he severed the call.

* * *

The nanites shifted into place, forming the words “The End.” The camera drone zoomed out to show Cherall’s eyes rolling around and around inside his eye sockets, feigning dizziness. The children again clapped and cheered as the camera continued to zoom out. When Cherall saw his full image again showing on the vidscreen monitors around the stage, he lunged backward into a complete triple back flip, and landed on one hand. Spinning in place, he twirled once more into the air before landing on his feet and smiling to the camera.

“So today we learned about stealing, and how wrong it is to steal from God’s Chosen.” He folded his arms in an exaggerated manner and leaned back on his back leg. “As God’s people, we Amarr are entitled to the bounty of God’s creation. The Minmatar, being wayward children, have not earned their right to God’s kingdom. Thus, they must live with the lot given to them by us, God’s chosen people.” Cherall raised his arms again. “That’s why Mr. Wayward was punished for taking Flonta Furrier from his holder. By stealing from his holder, he was also stealing from God.”

Cherall twirled in place, his body twisting violently as it gained momentum. He pirouetted in a constant motion and propelled his body across the stage, continuously spinning as he progressed in a figure eight. As he performed his signature “Spindlemas” dance to the children’s delight, a woman appeared at the other end of the stage. She was dressed in a long, white, flowing dress with a white parasol in her hand. Bright red flowers adorned her hair, and brilliant colors flashed across her dress as she tiptoed around the spinning clown.

The children laughed and clapped as she followed Cherall’s gyrating form, attempting to catch up with him. Finally, Cherall spun in place for several seconds, allowing the woman to sidle up to him. She stood on her tiptoes and extended her arm out, putting on finger at the crown of Cherall’s multicolored head. Instantly, he stopped spinning and beamed at the audience in shock. He turned to the woman and gasped. “Miss Melody, I can’t believe it’s you!” he exclaimed.

The woman curtsied. “Here I am, at your service, Dr. Adad.”

“Welcome, welcome. What do you have in store for us today?”

Miss Melody turned to the camera drone and ran to the front of the stage, dropping her parasol and holding her hands together. “Why, I’m going to sing you a song!”

Cherall ran up to stand next to her. “Do you mean it’s time for….” All the children in the audience screamed with Cherall in unison. “Miss Melody’s melodies?”

The audience applauded as Miss Melody curtsied again.

“That’s wonderful,” Cherall exclaimed. “What are you going to sing for us today?”

Miss Melody cleared her throat dramatically, pausing for a beat before answering. “Today I will be singing the classic hymn, ‘The Children of Heaven Will Gather Together.’”

“We can’t wait. Without further ado, take it away, Miss Melody.” Cherall bowed to her, then ran backstage as the first notes reverberated throughout the hall and Miss Melody’s pristine soprano lilted through the air.

When he reached backstage, Cherall found the nearest available chair and sank into it. He closed his eyes and took deep breath. He became lost in the song’s beautiful melody. As he sat there, listening to the music, he cried softly to himself.

* * *

Tadama looked at Cherall imploringly on the vidscreen. “Did you find out what they wanted?”

“Yes, I did,” Cherall replied.

“Well?” Tadama had bags around her eyes from lack of sleep. Her pupils were dilated and she had trouble focusing on the image in front of her. She drummed her fingers on the data console in ragged strokes.

“They want me to renounce my faith on my program and to cancel the show.”

Tadama stopped drumming her fingers. “That’s it? No ISK, no power deals, no nothing?”

“That’s it.”

“So when are you going to cancel it?”

“I don’t know.”

Tadama glared at his image on the vidscreen. She grabbed the nearest object to her – an urn – and threw it against the wall. “What do you mean you don’t know?” she screamed.

Cherall stood up from his chair, his knees creaking as he did. His legs were wobbly and he could hardly stand. “I just don’t know. That’s not my duty.”

“Your duty is to your family. Have you talked to Samne about this? The two of you have worked together for nearly 30 years now.”

“Samne’s dead.”

Tadama gasped. She looked around the room in bewilderment. “What? When? How?” she stammered.

“They killed him two days ago. The same guys, these ‘Bleeding Hearts of Matar’ terrorists. They’re a splinter cell of the Bloody Hand. They gave me this same threat last week.”

“Why haven’t I heard anything about this yet?” Tadama asked, her voice quivering.

“We’ve kept it quiet. We didn’t know what to do. The Theology Council has officially endorsed our show for the edification of the faith. We couldn’t cancel the show without explaining it to the Council.” Cherall sat down again with a heavy sigh. Across the vidscreen, Tadama followed suit.

After a few moments of silence, she started to sob quietly. Between convulsing breaths, she muttered: “What…about…our…daughter?”

Cherall sat in silence as he listened to his ex-wife’s whimpering. Finally, he said, “I have an obligation to my faith to–“

Tadama shot up from her seat and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Fuck your righteousness for once, Cher. They’re going to kill Prandi!”

Cherall remained silent, his head bowed in prayer.

“You’ll never see her face again because you don’t have the balls to upset the Theology Council. What God would allow this to happen?”

Cherall raised his head and looked Tadama in the eye. “’The road to Heaven is paved with tribulation. Those who remain with my flock shall never be vanquished. Their family shall be reunited in Heaven so long as they remain faithful to me.’”

“You’re a coward and a fool, Cherall. I’m going to the police.”

* * *

At the end of the program, Cherall stood in the center of the stage, a single spotlight shining down upon him. He smiled to the camera drones.

“Now we must end our show for today. Please bow your head in prayer, children.”

In turn, the children bowed their heads. In the air surrounding his body were the images of hundreds of devout faces peering at the ground or with eyes squeezed shut, their hands folded in front of their faces, and their lips moving softly and silently. Cherall followed suit.

“Dear God, you have taught us so much today. You have taught us about the sin of stealing; about your love for your children; about the sanctity of the body; and about the importance of faith. We pray for your forgiveness as we strive to understand your Word, and as we attempt to lead the life you have shown us. Please forgive us, for we are sinners. On our path to Heaven, we stumble; in our journey of faith, we get lost. But so long as we are found again, we are grateful for your blessing. Amen.”

The children raised their heads and stared at Cherall. Cherall, in turn, raised his head as well.

“And now children, I must leave you for today. Go forth with God. We shall be reunited soon with God. Remember that God loves us all. Good night, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

As the children applauded for the final time that evening, Cherall looked around at all the faces surrounding him, the hundreds of visages floating in the air inside the room, staring down at him and smiling. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he continued to look at them, searching hopelessly for something familiar among all the innocent faces.

The Resurrection Men

By the time the beatings stopped, Rokan was barely even aware of what was happening. There had been rising increments of sharp pain, delivered to his ribs and his legs and his hands and his head, and then there was suddenly nothing but the dull, hazy, red-rimmed awareness of excruciating aches all over, fighting for their share of attention from his fading consciousness.

It was so late at night that even if he had dared to take his hands from his face, he wouldn’t have been able to see. All he heard was the sounds, like slabs of meat being bashed by rocks.

He lay there, hunched in on himself. In the part of his mind that had gone very cold and analytical, he was amazed to find that he was unable to move. Also, he was lying in a small puddle of water, so he should have been freezing, but his body felt numbly warm.

Daring the world to poke and stab, he cracked open one eye, then the other.

It was hardly worth it. He was in the same alley as before, with his back to its mouth and his face to the wall. He saw light glinting off the puddle he was lying in.

Someone took a few steps behind him. The glint of light was blocked out.

A deep, raspy voice said, “I believe this is our man, Mister B.”

A rather lighter and softer voice said, “I do believe you are correct, Mister H.”

“Shall I hoist?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Rokan was lifted up with such strength that it was as if he were weightless. Maybe he wasn’t paralyzed, he stupidly thought; maybe he had simply died back there and these were the collectors who’d come for his remains.

But his body was hauled out of the alley – one of his captors said, “Look sharp now, young man, you’re out of harm’s way” – and set inside a hovercar that pulled up and hummed quietly. Everything hummed quietly, inside Rokan’s head.

Coming in right after and taking their seats opposite him were two men in dark coats and hats, each at least a decade older than Rokan. Their faces betrayed no expression: They were neither cold nor confrontative but simply, Rokan assumed, at ease with who they were and with the purpose of what they were doing.

The warm numbness started to fade, and he gingerly tried to stretch his arms and legs. They obeyed, if creakingly. So he wasn’t paralyzed. It must, he reasoned, simply have been the fear.

The two men did not look as if they were inclined to speak, and the windows were shaded so dark that Rokan couldn’t see out, so his attention naturally turned to himself. He gingerly felt his face. His lower lip was busted, and one of his eyes felt swollen up.

The men apparently noticed this, because B regarded him for a moment, then reached into a pocket and handed him something. “Here. Put this on you, son.”

Rokan accepted the thing. He regarded it with careful interest. It was a small round patch, sheer but with faint lines crisscrossing it like a gossamer web.

“It’s a cure,” B said. “Electrodes will cool down the swelling, and the silk they’re embedded in will stick to your rather broken skin without harming it any further.”

Rokan nodded his thanks. He peeled off the patch’s protective skin and gingerly placed it on his face, as near the swollen part as he could tell. It felt nicely cool.

There was a slight bump on the drive and he winced, but his face didn’t throb as much as he’d expected it to.

“Where are we going?” he asked them.

“We’ll be there soon,” the other man, Mister H, told him in a dulcet voice.

Rokan shifted in his seat, which made little lines of fire crackle throughout his body like veins in a lava outflow. He could move, though, and no bones seemed to be broken. He wondered if he could bolt from the hovercar – they were clearly keeping to low speeds – but decided not to take that thought any further. Whoever these men were, they had saved him from a terrible fate.

Probably.

“Look, I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he said. The two men regarded him with something resembling faint amusement. “But am I in even more trouble than I was before?”

“Lying in the street, being kicked to death by hooligans?” H asked him.

Rokan gave an awkward grin, feeling the skin on his face tear just a tiny bit. “They’re, uh. They’re maybe a bit more than that.”

H seemed unconcerned. “You have talents, young man. They got you into trouble, and we aim to have them get you out.”

Rokan closed his eyes and sighed. “Talents. So you know why they were after me.”

“Of course we do,” B said, quite jovially.

“I am not going to work for you.” He opened his eyes again and gave them what he hoped was a defiant stare, though its effects were somewhat spoiled by the need to keep looking from one to the other. “I needed to get into that vault, and I tried, and I failed, and they were probably going to kill me for it.”

B made a tch sound. “These people were amateurs who were going to beat you to a pulp. We really cannot abide that sort of behaviour.” He leaned in. “We have a proper use in mind for you, young sir.”

“Look … you know what it is I do,” Rokan protested.

“You break into secure places,” H said. He had not leaned in but was sitting upright; in fact, to the best of Rokan’s recollection, he not moved during the entire trip.

“I don’t break into them. I just…” He shrugged. “I undo the locks.”

“That place you were trying to ‘undo’ had some quite powerful, time-sensitive safeguards. Ones that are usually bypassed only by very complicated – and very expensive – AI procedures,” H said.

“Those aren’t that big a deal,” Rokan said.

They raised their eyebrows at him; not in admiration, he suspected, but rather in genuine surprise.

“Of course” – he rubbed his bruises – “I didn’t know about their backup systems. Or how quick the guards would come.”

“You’re pretty good at this kind of thing,” B said.

“When I’m not getting beaten to shit? Yeah, I rather think I am,” Rokan told them.

The car glided to a stop. They stepped out, Rokan waving off the offered support from his two rescuers and gingerly finding his feet on solid ground. They were in some manner of underground parking complex, cars all around them at regular intervals. Rokan had no idea where they could be. The walls were metal and opaque plastic.

“This way, please, sir,” B told him, raising an arm in guidance down one of the marked walking lanes beside the cars. “Mind you keep to the path, now. Some of the vehicles come fairly roaring in here, and we don’t want to put you at risk.”

They led him out, up a series of steps that led to a door. B arrived first and quietly stood in front of it. There was a hiss, then an extended pause, followed by a click as the door unlocked.

“Scanners?” Rokan asked.

“Cellular. Gaseous form,” H told him.

“Seriously? Why not ocular, or DNA?”

“Those rely on body parts,” H said. “Can’t trust them.”

They walked through the door, down a well-lit corridor that led them to other well-lit corridors. Eventually they went into a room that Rokan half expected to be terribly uncomfortable, like an interrogation chamber or a prison cell.

It wasn’t. It was smaller than he’d expected, and outfitted with a carpet on which stood three faux-leather chairs. Two of them were side by side, facing the third. Beside that one was a small machine, a square block with dials and screens, on top of which lay variously coloured patches similar to the ones he’d received in the car. The machine put Rokan in mind of the world’s first robot. The lighting in the room was pleasant, originating part from a large semitranslucent bulb in the ceiling, and part from standing lamps located in each corner. There were pictures on the walls.

“You can be at ease, sir. We only want to engage your services,” B told him.

He sat, and the chair quietly moulded itself to him. After the beating, and after the tension of the drive – where, he now realized, he had been scared rigid even though the seats had been quite comfy – he felt the tension at last seep out of him, as if he were a dirigible stretched full of air that had been pricked with the tiniest of holes.

“We want you to put these on,” H said, indicating the patches. “They will feel a little … grippy, maybe a little sticky for a moment.”

He hesitated, so B added, “Oh, don’t worry, sir, we’ll turn our backs.”

“Where do I stick them?” he asked.

“Anywhere you like. They’ll inject some things that can move around on their own.”

He leaned forward and gingerly pulled off his shirt, wincing when he saw the muddy streaks of blood on one side, where he’d been cut, and the red welts on the other, where he’d been repeatedly kicked. As he applied the patches he found they stuck pretty well the moment they touched his skin. They adapted to his skin in a manner he didn’t understand; after a little while he could barely see they were there.

B handed him a dry new shirt. He pulled it on and gave a pleasurable little sigh when he smelled its freshness.

“Who do you work for?” he asked them.

H, who was checking the machine, looked at him briefly and said, “A capsuleer,” then returned to tuning the machine’s dials.

The word raised such dread in Rokan that he felt as if electricity had been shot into his heart, doubling its beats and crackling out through his veins until it reached the skin of his fingertips. He gasped for air.

“Steady, now!” H said, raising an open hand with palm out either in placation or warning.

He took a deep breath. Whatever this was, it was bigger than he could probably handle.

B regarded him amiably. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

Rokan realized his throat was parched. “Yes, please,” he croaked.

B left the room for a moment, then came back with a glass of water. Rokan drank it down. It was wonderfully cold.

He looked at the machine, which H had finished tuning. It was silent, but several of its monitors displayed ever-changing figures. “Do I have to … I mean, what do I have to do?”

H said, “Nothing very much. At least not right away. We’re just measuring some of your basic abilities. Do you feel anything?”

He sat there quietly, checking for itching, strange bumps, odd internal pokes, or anything he might not be imagining. The two men took their seats opposite to him and waited.

After a while he took in another deep breath and sank a little further into the chair, letting the backwash of adrenaline envelop him. It really was very comfortable here.

“No. Nothing much at all.”

“Good.”

“So am I going to be working for this man?” He checked himself. “Is it even a man?”

They nodded. “You could be very useful to him, and to others of his kind,” H said.

He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. From the looks they gave him he was sure they knew what he wanted to ask, but he tried to say it out loud nonetheless – for some reason it was important to him to ask how he could be useful, to take charge of his own usefulness – but his throat was parched again and all that came out was a croak.

“We are measuring your ability to handle certain types of stimuli,” B said, pouring him another glass of water from a transparent can. Rokan couldn’t even remember him having left the room to get the can. B continued, “The tests shouldn’t reach you at a conscious, perceivable level, at least not the kind we’re doing right now.”

“So what are they for? Is this a health check before I go on board?” Just the words go on board gave him a nice, warm little sense of freedom. He found that he didn’t care much about what he’d have to do. He’d be away from here; on a spaceship, out in the darkness. What an adventure.

B gave H a look, who said, “It’s a check, yes. We want to see if your brain can handle the pressure.

He liked their funny speech, and the odd way they emphasized things. “Like a capsuleer,” he said. He really felt very cozy. “Can I have something more to drink?”

B filled his glass while H continued, “Yes, precisely so. Capsuleers interface with modules in very much the same way that we’re having your body do now, albeit at a much simplified level.”

Rokan drained his glass in two gulps. A question popped into his mind, one that he’d never have thought – or probably dared – to ask.

“Why isn’t everyone able to be a capsuleer? If I’ve got talents…” He left the second question unasked, his voice trailing off.

B said, “Well, not everyone has the constitution. Capsuleering isn’t just sitting in a pod. It’s a thoroughly complex interaction of many different elements, mechanical and biological, that converge inside a person’s body.”

H added, again with that weird emphasis, that certain sections of the brainwere capable of dealing well with certain parts of that interaction. “It isn’t quite understood how they work, but we’re constantly researching it. Sometimes we find out how certain ship modules can be better adapted to the capsuleers, so that their output or function can be improved. But it’s hard.”

“I can imagine. Must be … complex,” Rokan said.

“Not so much, but it’s a difficult bit of …” H waved a hand, apparently looking for the term. “Reverse engineering.”

Rokan started to say something, but H plunged on. “There are a million ways to adjust the modules. We’re just not always aware of exactly how they should be adjusted. First we need to find a brain that’s capable of operating at better capacity than hereto identified, and then we know in what direction to take the technology.”

“Are these huge changes?”

“To be honest, they don’t look that grand on paper. Maybe some piece of equipment, some module in a spaceship, raises its output by five percent. But that alone can make a huge difference in interstellar combat. It may turn the tide of entire battles.”

“So you need candidates like me,” Rokan said.

“Precisely.”

“Am I going to get to meet the capsuleer?”

B and H looked at each other again. B said, “Mmm … I suppose that isn’t out of the question.”

Rokan thought all this over. “That’s awesome,” he managed. The three of them sat in silence for a moment before he found himself bound to add, “I mean, I’ll be happy to help you with your research.”

” I know you will,” B said, quite genially.

“But guys, I’m feeling really tired right now. Could we … sorry.” He leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. “Could we take a break?”

The fuzziness in his head was overwhelming. It felt as if the lights had been dimmed; and things glinted: the machine, the chair legs, the teeth of Mister B and Mister H, who were giving him big, benevolent smiles.

“Oh, it’s alright,” they said. “Rest now.”

The room really was rather dark.

“Rest.”

Anoikis

Imagine if the bars to your prison were all you had ever known.

Then one day, someone appears and unlocks the door.

If they have the power to do this, then are they really the liberator?

You never remembered who it was that closed you in.

- Ior Labron.

***

March 10th, YC 111.

Taking one last look at those unnatural shapes, the CreoDron board of directors slowly removed their Egones and returned their attention to the other figures huddled around the table. Everyone was waiting silently in the darkness. Those with ocular implants bowed their heads slightly, and the strange images faded from their mind.

“We only have these six so far,” a voice said from a speaker in the middle of the table. “But what you are seeing says enough. There is an 18% probable match, just from this one alone.”

A reproduction of the last image suddenly dominated the far corner as a large plasma-nanite panel came to life. The intense colors of the scene overwhelmed the dim starlight that filtered in through one of the clear walls, the pale blues of Carirgnottin I subdued by the glow of a deep crimson nebula on the screen, teeming with the lives and deaths of a thousand stars. The backdrop seemed to pulse beyond the silent and lifeless structures, drenching the entire room in a strange sanguine hue.

The clearest of the six, the image showed a ring of circular, dome-like structures, which would later come to be known as Enclaves. Each structure was connected by conduits that arched around to every other dome, joining the separate discs together at perfectly smooth angles. Scale was difficult to determine, but the entire complex was easily the size of a station. Though nobody would venture a comment, there were some who even then guessed that it was a city they were looking at.

A city of sorts.

As they stared in silence, each director’s eyes eventually came to settle on the imposing dagger-like spires that jutted out from the ring, their angles sharp and yet each edge beautifully smooth. There was no visible seam, no weak point in the gently overlapping and undulating armor. Eight of these spires towered over the rest of the area, standing watch like ancient protectors.

“Not ten seconds after our drone was sent in to capture this image, we lost the feed.”

“We need to send real people in,” one of the directors interjected, brushing the Egone before him aside in a less than subtle gesture of dissatisfaction.

The last comment from the superior was meant to have been dramatic. It was supposed to have humbled the subordinates into contemplative silence and sent them fumbling at the sheer scope of what had already been uncovered. The fast-moving minds of the men and women here shelved such concerns for now, however, and quickly prioritized other matters entirely, robbing their leader of his first contact moment.

In retrospect, the old man (as he indulged himself in being called) would appreciate the quick-witted minds of his “subordinates” and their own lists of concerns, particularly since this was, in fact, not the first time New Eden had been here.

“Another hour spent deploying drones will mean someone else beats us to the discovery,” one of the directors offered, skirting the deeper point entirely as they opted for pragmatism.

“And it could mean much worse than that,” another director added furtively, throwing some more ambiguous worry into the mix. The room was still fixated on the ring of domes, and the dark, shadowy spires that rose above them; the reminder was somewhat premature.

“Let’s not waste time stirring people up with innuendo, Mr. Darieux.” The softness of a female voice commanded the attention of the room, long before those gathered actually perceived the gross insult she had dared to utter.

The woman who spoke was a Federation Senator – and a Jin-Mei woman at that. This brashness was not her fault. She could only know assertion to be where she stood now, glimpsing something before her superior was even aware. She had long ago recognized that the fastest route to the truth was not dissimilar to the flight path of a bullet, or the trajectory of superheated coronal mass crashing into a planet: an inevitably straight line.

There was no other way to run something as vast as the empire she helped steer, and so she followed up quickly with another lunge for the truth, before anyone could muster their senses to speak.

Board room etiquette could go fuck itself.

“We all know who you intend to throw out there.”

A lasting silence hung about the room as the others lowered their gazes, dreading to watch the exchange.

No matter what happens next, they thought, she’s out of here.

“Do you disagree with this course of action?” The voice from the speaker asked, the stillness and calm in his voice like venom, slowly paralyzing everyone in the room. He was making it her call now – a tactic she never thought to expect.

“No.”

“Very well,” the voice replied. “Someone find Burreau.”

The directors raised their gazes and quickly arranged for the extraction of one of their finest through a few simple gestures and nods. First, all eyes turned toward the two Security Directors, whose bowed heads assured the rest that Burreau’s personal bodyguard had already been contacted and support was inbound. From the way they almost smirked, it meant their people were close enough to presume she was safe. A criss-cross of raised eyebrows thereafter would confirm the temporary closure of key stargate logs, and a “clean” route from her current location to HQ, as well as fleet support from a wing of CreoDron’s finest.

Black Ops fleets had been deployed, Sin Battleships were already undocking and rapidly vanishing in flashes of blue light as they were each deposited along a chain of cynosural fields stretching outward toward Burreau – toward something each crew knew only as the cargo. Local CreoDron patrols relocated to stargates, ready to intercept. Ishkurs and Ishtars deployed drones preemptively in a gesture of threat, drifting at a distance from the passing civilian traffic as their larger brothers circled above, invisible to all.

Before the directors had exhaled for the second time, her passage had been secured and escort arranged. A valuable asset, they understood. Worth the cost of deployment. Perhaps that senator grasped this much as well; it would explain the behavior. Their eyes never quite left her as she stood in the corner, arms folded, failing entirely to understand their secret language of smiles and nods.

Maybe she’s staying after all, they thought, looking among themselves. Maybe the Jin-Mei came without permission.

Maybe it’s personal.

***

“Sir?”

Hilen was still there, staring at the ground where Lianda had stood. For just one moment longer, he would allow his eyes to rest on the soft marks in the grass, tracing over the trail of small footprints she had left for him.

Cold Wind taught him to move without sound or track, and to perceive the paths that are hidden.

It was his job to follow her now.

“That was One I just had here. Did you get a trace on the call?”

“Carirgnottin, sir. She’s not moving either. We have her on infrared at the moment, and she’s still in place.”

“ Two is still missing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Understood.”

“Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“What is it, Arii?”

“The security detail on her right now is like nothing we’ve seen. The feet on the ground have multiplied by a factor of ten…my whole team is on edge. The timing, sir. Seyllin.”

He hesitated for a long moment, wondering just how much of the last conversation she needed to hear in order to do the job effectively. He only knew it wouldn’t have to be everything. Hilen Tukoss never shared a detail people didn’t need to know.

“With respect, sir, it’s obvious. An entire planet was just destroyed by some cosmic event and the astrophysicist we’ve been tracking for months just disappeared. Vanished. Off the grid completely, without any of us knowing where that second clone went. And now we’re being told that her surveillance status has been bumped to top priority?”

“Let me bring you in then,” he said, turning her own zeal back around. “If you are ready to assume equal responsibility for our new assignment?”

“I’m ready,” she replied without hesitation.

“CreoDron has just discovered a new solar system. They arrived there through an unknown wormhole in Vitrauze. They believe the events in Seyllin created this wormhole, and may have created others. So far, only scout drones have travelled to the other side, but what they have found suggests that this system is home to another civilization. Five images returned only planets, the last shows something else entirely. They found structures, large ones, and I don’t mean on a planet.”

“How advanced are we talking?”

“While scouting what appeared to be some kind of facility out there, one of CreoDron’s drones was shot down. The other five are still positioned at the entrance to the system.”

“Sir, we need to get to Vitrauze.”

He considered for a moment the 82% probability that things were not as they seemed. He couldn’t dismiss it, but he distrusted the numbers. Instinct was telling him that nothing ahead was all that foreign, that they needed diplomats, not scientists.

“No,” he replied, staring down at the information panel overlaid on his wrist. Soon enough, a flood of intel would begin to pour in as a hundred different sources all alerted him to the same event. “Check the news feeds. One is about to hold a briefing live on The Scope.”

“They’re going to announce the findings?” Arii asked, turning her attention toward a nearby screen as she searched for the face of her prey. She could see movement on the infrared – she was sitting upright. Like she’s about to say something important, Arii thought.

“No,” he repeated. “They’re not, and there’s no point chasing them. They’re about to contest the CONCORD travel advisory, and yes, soon after they’ll announce the wormhole. Six press releases later though, and they might start talking about scout drones, maybe release an image or two, but they’re sitting on this. They won’t release that sixth image.”

“Why?”

” So the Vitrauze project can continue undisturbed. Why do you think we lost Two? She’s gone already.”

“If she’s gone already, then why aren’t we going as well?”

” Because someone in the Senate was feeding her intel before CreoDron even arrived. I doubt every senator has been made aware at this point. There’s too many; it would risk a leak.”

“Someone highly placed?”

“Perhaps, but not necessarily. Someone who at least has an overview of security. Someone with pull.”

“So you think the area has been locked down already?”

“I’m not sure, but they only need to know what system to look in, and then we would become very noticeable, very quickly. We’ve stumbled on to something here, and right now, nobody knows it is the only advantage we have.”

“What’s our plan then, sir?”

“First we need to pass this up the chain of command.”

“Understood.”

Somewhere far from Carirgnottin I, in an equally dark and oppressive board room, another group of figures waited impatiently as one of their own excused himself to take a call.

***

“Have you lost control of your asset, Hilen? Do you even know where she is?”

Hilen felt his wrist grow warm. Looking down at the information overlay once more, he could see the first trickles that would soon become the flood. A hundred of his best people all turning in the wrong direction.

“We know where One is. If you’re near a holovid screen–”

The man raised his view to one of the panels filling the lobby outside the board room. Just below a large platinum-thorium etching that read “ZAINOU BIOTECH – BOARD OF DIRECTORS,” there was the pale, innocent face of the Jin-Mei he’d ordered his corporation’s best surveillance to watch. The voices back inside grew louder for a moment before being quickly overcome by the growing sound of her own voice. They were all watching now.

“I see her. What is going on?”

“They’re escalating her profile. It’s a distraction, sir, and I need everyone there to ignore it. We have a situation unfolding in the background.”

“I’m listening.”

“Before I explain, I need you to get in touch with Ishukone. Find someone as high up the ranks as we can get quickly and unofficially. We’re going to need them for this.”

Hilen waited for an answer.

“I see,” the director finally offered. “Tell me, Hilen?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is it their previous experience that you’re after?”

And suddenly Hilen realized that he knew. He knew something, at least. Enough to ask the question, and ask it in such an indirect way. There was no telling what was infiltrated now. No line was secure.

“Yes, sir.” Hilen felt a dull ache in the depth of his stomach, the pain of the one soldier who returned back to base alive, having seen the onslaught to come.

Except this time, nobody had fired a shot, and nobody would.

***

What do you intend, ambassador?

I propose we call for a private summit of national leaders, to discuss an exchange of information and come to an agreement about the best use for select recovered parts. We could use the Inner Assembly to arrange for the meetings quite easily under the guise of an understandable concern for these events, which have touched our worlds too, as we will inform them.

The evidence?

It will be systematically accumulated and re-integrated into current technology in ways that render the salient points unrecognizable. The finer details will have to evolve organically, but the framework will be a new, non-binding agreement regarding scientific commodity trading. Although the primary motivator will be the acquisition and development of new technologies, there are also factors such as quarantine periods, comprehensive safety testing, and many other additional barriers to access the empires can and will likely impose without suggestion. The various research benefits inherent to each unit guarantees widespread financial self-interest. Our engineers have already produced a range of schematics. Some of them are new technologies, but we believe the concession here is a smaller one in the long term. Where we could, we focused on improvements upon pre-existing methods.

How do you suppose this will even work to suppress the information?

You must understand two things. The first is human sensitivity. Seyllin is dominating the media, and as such, it is dominating the public consciousness. This works to our advantage, but only for so long. The world’s attention is turned toward the disaster, so now is the most opportune moment to make bold moves elsewhere. None of them want to be the first to speak about the potential profits, the new resources, the opportunities and secrets that can be uncovered. At this moment, those avenues will be forced into the background, and yet undoubtedly pursued all the same. If the empires are already operating on a covert footing, then we need not lead them there.

You seem confident in this plan.

I simply believe it will be an easy law to pass in this moment. The non-binding nature will appear in line with the current lack of information. A symbolic gesture made in the spirit of peace and cooperation, made quietly and where few look, a means for all parties to ensure a more secure future.

The capsuleers?

Naturally, there will need to be a waiver on capsuleer-related science and industry, but this is the second thing you must understand. The truth will find its way out eventually. Please forgive me for saying so, but I cannot properly serve in this role if I do not give you the most accurate analyses I can. The truth will find its way out. We cannot control their access. It will be they who make the discovery.

How quickly do you expect this to happen?

I cannot say. Their interests are unpredictable, but they are divided and divisive. There will always be ones who question what most do not, but I believe that overall, they will share the same goals as the empires. They will take what they can understand and reintegrate. We may see another rise in their power and autonomy as a result. We should expect them to monopolize on this new opportunity as well. Given the inherent dangers of exploring Anoikis, they are positioned favorably to do so. In terms of raw resource gathering capabilities, conventional empire fleets will not be economically competitive. We will struggle to maintain a presence eventually.

That will turn the empires toward research.

Not if we intervene and provide for them what convincingly appears to be the most promising final applications of any potential studies. This hints at precisely the point we must illuminate. When framed as a concern for the balance of power between the empires and the capsuleers, our interests will appear far more congruent with theirs, and our actions will remain understandable. The empires can be made to quickly appreciate how little control over these new areas they will have, and from there, it will be simple to assist each of them in coordinating access to components we identify as key. They will recognize it as the only opportunity any of them have for strategic equality. None will refuse.

Our research?

>Had she not realized yet? In the early months, we can make a great deal of ground.

Early months?

She had not. The ambassador swallowed. Emotion was rippling inside each cell, bursting throughout the bloodstream as it tried to break free.

The capsuleers. They will settle. They will understand the network eventually, and they will command it.

They will not be everywhere at once, and we can move undetected.

In this environment, so can they. We are all headed to the same destinations. We have no desire to be noticed, and no hope in conflict with them.

Then we will use these early months well.

She recovered quickly from that thought, he mused. Yes.

If the situation is ever understood in its entirety, as you predict, then there will be consequences for these actions.

I do not share that view. What we do now benefits all parties. If our motives are ultimately viewed as benign, then any perceived wrongdoings can be explained in full detail as they are identified. Trust and clarification at the highest tiers will filter downward and provide the level of institutional compliance necessary to establish the agreement.

You must still realize that we cannot become publicly involved in this?

Yes, this is obvious to me. The suggestion will be put forward earlier, between myself and the other ambassadors, or the national leadership, if you please.

The former.

The ambassador cleared his throat. “I understand. Was there anything else you required of me?”

“Did you hear of Burreau?”

“Briefly.”

“What is your assessment?”

“I believe she is dead.”

“You are correct. There was activity on the line. She was at one of the mirrors.”

The ambassador almost seemed to smile for a moment. “She learned well.”

“She was taught by the best. We are concerned about the reasons why she was chosen. ”

“Perhaps you should be, but then there are not many astrophysicists with clones.”

“Let us hope it is that simple.”

“I would not hope. I would investigate.”

“Thank you, ambassador. That is all.”

***

Vitrauze Agreement.

Article 8, Section E

CONCORD subsidization in the acquisition of scientifically valuable by-products.

Although preliminary, through the spirit of peace and co-operation that affirms this treaty, each of the four member nations have exchanged sufficient information to identify four key salvageable materials of scientific interest. Seeking to both minimize their impact on capsuleer economic development and to allow more time for proper investigation into the impact of all unknown materials, the member nations have agreed to focus on four lower tier by-products identified during initial excavations of unknown space.

Clause 1) The four member nations of the treaty have each agreed that the preliminary findings, and any agreements based thereupon, on each of the four units is strictly provisional. Current scientific opinion broadly agrees that these items are of little material value. However, any reassessment undertaken by any of the member nations that is deemed to invalidate this initial finding may be deferred to.

Clause 2) CONCORD, in operation with the SCC, has agreed to facilitate and subsidize the acquisition of these items through capsuleer markets at a standard price agreed upon by all of the four member nations.

***

October acquisition metrics (Capsuleer Markets / SCC):

Data Library: 11,799,985

Neural Network Analyzer: 1,162,057

Coordinates Database: 244,234

Drone AI Nexus: 70,726

Valklears

“I am not going to train you; I am going to try to kill you.”
- Valklear Instructor

During the long years of enslavement and the great war for liberation, the Minmatar tribes found themselves sorely lacking in able-bodied solders. They were forced to create them from their most dangerous criminals – murderers, rapists, thugs, etc. The program was a remarkable success. The Valklears won the Minmatar a slew of military victories and emerged as the Rebellion’s most notorious elite force.

With the end of the Rebellion and the formation of the Minmatar Republic, some politicians within the new government questioned the need for such an iniquitous military force: The need was gone, peace was won and surely such ugly necessities of the past should be resigned to history to make way for the new Minmatar age? The military commanders would have none of it, and the Valklear program remained and continues to prosper to this day, although it has lost none of its infamous reputation.

Valklear commanders rely wholly on specialized recruiters to fill their ranks. They tour the courtrooms and judgement halls of the tribes, and with a trained eye they pick out the prime cuts of criminality from the great swathe of vicious, vile, and corrupt. Once the recruiter has selected a candidate, he works on brining the convict into the system. Each recruiter has his own persuasive technique, but for many hard convicts, presented with the option of a lifetime behind bars or a shorter term in the military, the choice is a rather obvious one.

The recruiter’s selection is not as clear-cut as one may think, though. They recruit from a broad range of the criminal fraternity. One day, a violent psychopath may be paid a visit, the next a serial killer, and then perhaps a corrupt lawyer, a notorious embezzler – even people who may have never held a weapon in their lives. The path the criminal has taken matters less than their skills, instincts and the inherent potential the recruiter perceives.

Once a candidate has accepted the proposition, they are silently removed from their cells and the penal system loses them in a maze of red tape and paperwork. Any digging within their records will show that these prisoners took their place in the death chamber or got transferred to a maximum-security facility. The Valklear candidates are lost in the system and will never be found.

When the candidate is removed from their prison cells, the training begins in earnest. Hundreds of evil-minded bastards, bloody killers, and fiercely intelligent criminals are put through one of the most gruelling training regimes known in New Eden. Through intense training, the prospective Valklears are melded into unstoppable war machines. Instructors push recruits beyond their limits in order to see if they push back. The candidates are beaten to see if they will get up again, then beaten down even harder. Recruiters want that indomitable glint in their eye that says, “Fuck you.”

Those candidates that wash out are thrown back in the penal system with even harsher sentences. The ones that make the grade – and to the recruiter’s credit, it is a surprisingly high percentage – are then indoctrinated into the Valklears proper, where the expectation of “tough bastard” gets re-evaluated once more.

A Valklear’s tour of duty is dependent upon the term of his original sentence, not including the full year of training after selection from prison. If a Valklear survives his tour, he immediately becomes a free man. He is also given a new identity, and any links to his criminal past are wiped from the records and replaced with a suitable cover.

After their tour with this elite force, most Valklears find a calling suited to them in other military branches. The former Valklear will in turn get transferred to another unit, though his new comrades will remain ignorant of his background.

Currently, some of the highest-ranking members of the Minmatar armed service were once Valklears. This fact is kept top secret; the public remaining ignorant of a Minmatar military run by murderers and thieves.