Chapter 10: Mere Coincidences

High atop the Amber D’Alsace Spire, Kristol’s penthouse quarters sat in darkness – only the light from her large closet shone across the floor. Inside, Kristol sat on a stool removing her field boots. Setting them neatly in order with the rest of her boots, she took off her black field uniform. Naked, she hung up the uniform next to the others and grabbed a set of burgundy silkfen robes. Putting them on, she rubbed her hands up and down the fine cloth, pressing the soft fibers against her skin.

Although her job demanded toughness and keen insights, Kristol adored the end of the day, when she could slip into soft clothes and drink a nice hot cup of kaffa tea. She stepped out of the closet and the light flickered off, while all the lights in the apartment flickered to life. The closet door slid shut and Kristol stepped into her spacious kitchenette. Sitting on the countertop glowed a COM beacon. Kristol walked past it, deftly pressing down on the plastic dome, before she reached in a cabinet for some tea.

The beacon fluttered to life projecting a pale yellow dashboard of current events as a sturdy male voice said, “…steady economic decline in the Bethel system is an indication that the minor skirmishes in the Outer Realm may be sign of what’s to come in the future. Asteroid crashes into the Pento moon. Local governments plead for aid. Nebulaic cruise ship docked due to outbreak. New shipworks opens in Notwen Belt – employment rate increases one point. Kristol Bantashe – You have 3 communiques. One from Staff Sargeant Bencoo, one from Grand Minister Withryn and another from Bluefeather Marketing. Would you like to experience them?”

Kristol measured out three spoons of deep red tea leaves and dumped them into the brewer and said, “Play all, except the Bluefeather.” Kristol pressed a green button on the brewer and immediately the tank began to steam.

The beacon display shuddered as it played the message. The profile of Staff Sargeant Bencoo came up as his message played, “Commander, I did the analysis on the altercation at the Palladin Complex. The Saculian’s huntsman papers check out. They’re legit, though something to me seems fishy. The Solar kid is gone. It’s as if he mysteriously fell off the grid. I did a COM drop on every ship within the space of the planet and nothing. No logs, registers or scans of him anywhere. Though, a controller from the Worm Network tower confirmed that an undetectable anomaly made an unregistered jump through Tunnel 17 to Draedus. So I did a back check on Solar – to see why he’d have a bounty on him. Nothing. The kid’s a courier. Comes from a normal family. Mother died years ago and his father is a registered archeoxenologist. Seems strange to put a bounty on a nobody. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”

Kristol watched the display as she poured a cup of tea and said, “Unless the bounty wasn’t on the kid, but on the package.” She took a sip of the spicy tea – warmth spread throughout her body.

The beacon shuddered once more as Grand Minister Withryn’s profile came to light and began playing his message, “Kristol, dear. I hope all went well with the fracas you had to attend to. I wanted to message you to tell you I am stopping by tonight. I have some business that requires your attention.” The message faded and the beacon began recanting the daily news.

Kristol, surprised by the message, gulped her tea down and coughed slightly. She looked over her night robes and briskly walked to her closet again, but before she could open the closet and change into more appropriate clothing, the chime at the front door sounded. She grabbed the ties on the robes and tied them tighter across her waist – it would have to do, there wasn’t any time.

Stepping over to the door, Kristol touched the keylock and after the scan, the locks chuffed and the door opened. In the hall stood over a dozen Minstere, dressed in full dark purple fatigues, adorned with golden braids.

“Secure the chamber,” one of them said and six of them entered her apartment and checked each room for assassins. After a few moments, they returned and in unison said, “Clear!”

With the apartment cleared, the Minstere ushered Withryn into the apartment, who immediately stepped to Kristol and took her hand. “I’m sorry about all of this. It is quite embarrassing.”

“I understand,” Kristol said, gently taking her hand back. “Security protocol is always mandatory. Care for some kaffa?” Kristol walked toward the kitchenette, but stopped when Withryn wasn’t following her.

“No thanks,” he said. “I’m more preferential to cabul. Please help yourself, though.” Kristol nodded and went in to retrieve her cup, when she returned, Withryn was approaching her ornate dining table, admiring all the etching in the dark wood.

He stopped momentarily to turn to the Ministere at their posts within the apartment and said, “Please leave us. There are no threats here, I can assure you.” The guards relaxed their posts and left into the hallway.

The whole display seemed odd. Kristol sipped her tea and watched Withryn sit down at the table. His eyes were tired and he fidgeted with his hands. Uncomfortable, Kristol thought. Best to breach the subject first – take some pressure off him. “So this business,” she asked. “What do you need from me?”

Withryn looked into his hands and said, “Have you ever heard of the Gar’Dan?”

Kristol sipped her tea and cocked her head in thought. That sounded familiar. Her mind raced through all her courses in her training, but nothing really came to life. She really wanted to know this – wanted Withryn to look at her the way he does when her work wins merit. But she had nothing.

“I don’t imagine you have,” Withryn interrupted. “Universities rarely carry any mythology or theology course anymore. No need, really.”

“What are you talking about?”

Withryn settled into his chair and continued, “It’s a Terrian myth actually. Many millennia ago, before the COM, before many of the luxuries we have now, intelligent life was rather primitive. They believed in gods – in supreme beings who created everything.” Withryn raised his hands in the air as an expansive gesture. “Belief systems were adhered to, followed diligently, sometimes using barbaric rituals like sacrifices to appease the gods. One of these myths, the Gar’Dan, proposed that a god named Qalla bequeathed a fantastic boon upon its people.”

“What was it?”

Witheyn looked into her eyes and she saw a fire his, a deep passion that showed Kristol that Withryn either deeply believed this story or deeply feared it. “Much of history may actually prove its existence, wars, empires, radical shifts in political power. Wherever the Gar’Dan goes, great power follows.”

Krsitol’s heart raced. Her skin tingled. “What was it?”

“A great suit of armor,” Withryn said. He wiped the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Capable of immense power and possibility.”

Kristol drained the dregs of her tea and put the cup down. “Power and possibility? What kind of technology could be that powerful? I’ve heard the hulls of Rastarian ships are nearly impregnable and the N’Galia are developing a plasma that can supposedly raze an entire planet.”

“Not technology, dear.”

“Not technology?” asked Kristol. “What’s more powerful than the technology of the combined GSA?”

Withryn stared at his reflection in the smooth dark table. Now a wave of vulnerability swept across his face as he said, “Not technology. Magic.”

Kristol slapped the table and let out a boisterous laugh. “You really had me there.” She stood up from the table and brought her cup to the kitchen, but when she turned around, Withryn was right behind her.

“The pressures to keep everything together is immense,” he said. His eyes were dark now. She knew that darkness. Obsession. Things were getting uncomfortable now. “Forces around us are moving, dear. The Slavos are increasing in strength. Hallastare’s grip on the underworld has increased to unprecedented levels. My analysts suspect something else is at work here. These pressures are not indicative of expanding technology or intelligence. Something beyond is at work.”

Her face drew blank as she stared at him. He fully believed this. Some kernel of paranoia crept into his mind. He was so different at the gala, though she knew he was an expert at putting on the appropriate face. She found it hard to think that a simple suit of armor could be responsible for such dramatic shifts in power. “Where did you get this information from? Who has the accumulated knowledge of such obsolete history and legend?”

Withryn turned and found a seat at the table again. “Many years ago, I had an advisor. He told me of these things before they happened. At the time, I dismissed them as crazy musings from an obsessed historian. But everything he predicted has come to pass – the rise of the Slavos, Hallastare gaining more control, even the outbreak of the Nerge. But now…things are different now. I should have listened.”

“Who was this advisor?”

Withryn looked shaken. He fumbled for the answer as if he remembered the story, but nothing about the storyteller. “Solar,” he said. “Telo Solar. He was so young, but yet, so sure.”

It was as if every thought in her mind crystallized into one pure, prophetic thought. “What was that name again?”

“Solar,” he said. “Telo Solar.”

* * *

On the docks of the High Port of the Minstere, Kristol stood outside the G.S.A.S. Scythe monitoring inventory as the crew loaded the cruiser. Her conversation with the Grand Minister shook her. His tales of long dead civilizations and their myths at first seemed ludicrous, but his resolve about there validity struck her. She hadn’t realized things were in such turmoil. Had she not been paying attention, mired in her day to day activities to see the larger picture? If she had, she was not going to make that mistake again.

A handman dressed in black fatigues approached her and said, “Travel rations are stowed. Munitions is being loaded now.”

“Good,” Kristol said. “Get onboard and begin a systems check.” She made a few last second entries in her datapad and handed it to the Handman. He saluted her and stepped aboard the vessel.

Kristol walked slowly down the dock, admiring the hull of the vessel. Even though the Scythe was a small-class cruiser, it still eclipsed the size of most large bulk freighters. Its design mimicked the size and strength of a bulkhead saltwhale – a large rounded square head that grew tapered to the stern where six quantro engines sat to launch its massive bulk out of the atmosphere and to steer it, two large fins at the stern and two sets of two wings along the starboard and port sides. Large enough to house eight landing shuttles and over one hundred crewman and Handmen, the Scythe was perfectly outfitted for missions requiring fewer dockings.

Past the edge of the dock, dawn began to show its rusty tones, nary a cloud in the cool, crisp sky. Behind Kristol, crewman scrambled about the dock, hauling plastellic crates of ammunition and artillery. Even though she liked when a busy day ended and she could relax, she enjoyed the anticipation of a mission before it began. Plans being set. Supplies administered. Systems cataloged. Everything had a good sense of order to it and it made her feel confident.

“Your Kristol Bantashe!” said an excited voice. “You saved the Grand Minister!”

Kristol rolled her eyes and turned around to see a young man carrying a pile of musty, old books. Her head tilted up and down as she tried to size up the man. “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”

He extended a hand, dropping four books in the process. “I’m Professor Keyston.”

“You’re late, Professor,” she said sternly. “And you’re young. I was expecting someone a little older.”

Keyston picked up the spilled books and said, “My mentor, Professor Ag’Hule. He was old.”

“I’m over it,” she said. “Get onboard.”

“I’m afraid your messenger didn’t tell me much,” he said. Where are going?”

“Draedus,” Kristol said.

Keyston gulped and said, “Through the GSA Worm Network?”

“Yes,” said Kristol. She paused, noticing that the professor seemed uneasy about the concept of travelling that far. “You are aware going the long way would take approximately 1,559 Param Eon years, right?”

“I understand,” said Keyston nervously. “I’ve just never traveled through the network.”

“How did you learn all you needed to know without leaving the system?”

Keyston smiled a bit and said, “I largely learned what I know through Professor Ag’Hule. He was Flagellan – they live for hundreds of years. He was really the smart one.”

Kristol turned and walked toward the entrance to the ship, leaving Keyston in her wake. “Don’t worry about the ride. It might rattle a few teeth out, but you should definitely survive the journey. And when you get onboard, stow those books away. They smell funny.”

In the cabin aboard the GSAS Scythe, Kristol stood over the bridge. Below her, deck officers sat in plush pits monitoring the various systems throughout the ship. In the center of all the deck officers, sat the pilot, his hands braced against the thrust and pitch. The viewport stretched all the way across the cabin – creating a full 180 degree view in front of the ship. Out in front of them the blue giant sun rose on Param Eon casting a violet pall over the sky and throughout the cabin. Many officers threw up their arms to shield their eyes.

“Let’s tone down the intensity on that light,” Kristol said to the crew. Below, a deck officer adjusted a slide control on his console and the image across the screen grew shaded. “Okay. Detach and set course for Tunnel 17.”

Kristol turned to a helm chair atop the bridge and sat down. She pulled a harness over her body and strapped herself in. Throughout the cabin, all the deck officers did the same. A loud metallic clunk echoed throughout the ship and as the engines fired, a shudder ran down the entire hull. Slowly the ship lurched and arched into the sky. Within seconds the ship was already entering the atmosphere and picking up heat. The ship rattled slightly in the turbulence, but after a minute, the shaking subsided and they slipped into space. The Scythe banked right and away from the glare of the sun.

They travelled for almost an hour, before the tunnel entrance loomed in front of them. By all accounts it appeared invisible. Around its perimeter floated numerous red glowing sensor satellites – marking where the entrance was.

“GSAS Scythe,” said a voice coming through the COM. “You are cleared for departure.”

“Proceed,” Kristol said to the crew. She tightened her harness once more and looked to the side, where Professor Keyston sat, his forehead drenched in sweat. “Relax and remember to breathe. And don’t wretch before we make the jump. That would be messy.”

The Scythe gently slid closer to the entrance. Soon the marker satellites moved out of view. As the ship’s nose plunged through the tunnel, all the stars disappeared and the viewport went black – save for one barely perceptible dot of light directly in front of them. Then a great creak and shudder careened through the ship and everyone blasted to the backs of their seats. Worm travel always felt like falling to your death while your insides were being forcibly removed through your mouth. Suddenly all interior lights and displays flickered and went out briefly, before restoring themselves again. Ahead the dot grew rapidly, until with a violent lurch, the ship ejected out of the worm tunnel, and slid away from another set of red marker satellites.

Kristol unlatched herself and approached the bridge rail. “I want all systems checked and a flight plan for Draedus established. Notify the Handmen to suit up and prep a shuttle.”

She turned and stepped towards the professor, who still hadn’t released himself from his seat harness. His face drained of color, Kristol expected what was about to happen. Keyston opened his mouth and burped out bile all over himself, covering the entire front of his vest.

Kristol flashed a curt smile and left the bridge saying, “And someone clean up the professor!”

On the shores of a great lake on Draedus, a shuttle rocketed into the atmosphere, headed toward an expansive lake home on the farthest shore. A glorified three-level prefab, with faux fawnwood siding, the home stuck out amidst the pinet trees and carab-brush. As it drew closer, plumes of thick, black smoke could be seen drifting above the home. The shuttle made a quick pass over the house and settled into a landing beside it, kicking red dust into the air. Immediately the hatch erupted with eight Handman scrambling around the house. Kristol emerged last, barking orders, “Get in there and search for survivors!”

She watched the billowing black smoke rise above the house and drift over the lake. Withryn’s words echoed in her mind. The bounty on the Solar kid. His father acting as Withryn’s advisor. The predictions. The razing of Telo’s home. Random thoughts and questions were coming together now. The impossibility of it all burned away like ancient paper. None of this could be mere coincidence – a purpose was rising out of the ashes, a purpose that was becoming quite clear. If this Gar’Dan did exist and if it commanded the power that Withryn described, the entire foundation the GSA was built upon was about to crumble.

Chapter 9: Gifts

Looking to get away? Then head down to Landravus Beach on Daedrus. With sun-drenched beaches stretching along miles of crystal blue water off the Yu’Lyn Sea, Landravus Beach is the place to be. COM our agents for more details!

Palo sat, transfixed to the bright viewport of the Jade Tendril as advertisements and pitches for vacation destinations streamed across the screen. White sand beaches. Veena trees. Crisp violet skies with tufts of clouds. Children splashing in slow motion – water droplets spraying everywhere. Bright patterns flashed over his retinas. He did not blink. He did not swallow. It even looked for a time like he wasn’t even breathing. His skin drew cold and his brain felt liquefied. The voice of his COM beacon back at his apartment rung in his ears, “You have 318 communiques. 289 from your father.”

It had been twelve years. Twelve years since he last spoke to his father. He hadn’t treated him well that night. They fought. Telo brought him another gift. Palo threw it onto his trunk. Ignorance and anger. Those were the last moments he spent with his father. He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be happening this way. He had wished for this day almost every day for twelve years, and now that it was here, he knew he was wrong. His stomach turned, his face grew pale and his head lolled to one side.

“The washroom is down the right corridor,” Jade chimed in with perfect timing. “First door on the right.”

Palo slowly lifted his head – momentarily trying to find the person who just spoke to him. Then his neck tightened and he got up and ran down the right corridor, where he scrambled to the washroom and wretched – chunks of half eaten derr fruit and bile splashing into the basin. A systematic sensor whirred and the water came on, flushing the filthy remains away. He coughed and gagged, then wretched again.

Behind him in the corridor, he heard storming footsteps. He turned to see Morigin walk by. He stopped long enough to look in the washroom and say, “You too, huh? It’s like I have signs in here that say, ‘Welcome aboard. Puke anywhere you like.’”

Palo peeked his head out and saw Morigin detaching the cutlass that hung over the entrance to the cabin.

“What are you doing with that?”

Morigin turned and swiped the air with the cutlass. “We have a stowaway.” And like that he stormed back down the corridor and into the annals of the ship.

Palo turned back to the basin. The last rivulets of water ran down the drain with a gurgle. In the mirror, he saw a different version of himself. Not the happy-go-lucky courier washing back torripdus at Halfsie’s. He felt around the pocket of his vest and felt the imprint of the cred chip, remembering it as it rolled over his knuckles in the Shrapnel Club. Credits seemed so important just a few hours ago. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and stepped back into the cabin.

…but if the mountains aren’t what you’re looking, grab your trino boards and head to the Turin-Malin Dunes, where the sand stretches across ticks of your imagination. Refreshing oasis bars. Trino-sailing. Kaacker safaris. Rock-climbing. If you crave adventure, Turin-Malin is the place for you…

Slumping in a wide seat behind the captain’s helm, Palo kicked his head back and stared at the wiring, couplings and control panels aglow on the ceiling. The viewport ablaze again with deep yellow sands before him – Kendarrian hunters posing by a rough Kaacker, a pack of Densii trino boarding in the sands, a party of humans lounging at an oasis bar, colorful drinks sparkling in their hands.

“Morigin means well,” said Jade. “He just hasn’t been the same since your father was killed.”

Palo lifted his head and again tried to isolate the being speaking to him but did not find anyone. “Excuse me,” he said. “Who are you?”

“The Jade Tendril.” Palo’s face flushed over in confusion and Jade said, “The vessel you are currently travelling in.”

“You’re the ship?”

“I’m sorry to frighten you.”

Palo stood up and examined the flashing viewport as if Jade was behind the screen somewhere. “I’m not frightened. I’ve only been on one ship – when I left home for Param Eon. A Nahsodrant freighter – really old. Only thing I could afford.”

“Well,” Jade said. “Morigin has given me many custom personality patches and contraband coding. And I am impenetrable from COM tampering.”

Palo looked up from the viewport and said, “What do you mean?”

“Disconnected form the COM,” Jade said. “Of course we have our onboard COM connections, but Morigin was very picky about not having any visibility on the grid.”

“But the COM connects everything,” Palo said. “How else would the GSA be able to united so many systems?”

“You really haven’t been around much lately,” said Jade. “This war with the Slavos, what did you think they were fighting for?”

Palo sat back down in his seat and thought about it. “How do the Slavos get information? How do they live without the COM?”

“The Slavos are a devout species,” said Jade. “When the GSA tried imposing alliance and the COM on their own technology and way of life, they took it as a great insult. They value their freedom.”

“But they’re barbarians,” Palo said. “Every night I hear more stories about how the Slavos are viciously rending worlds apart in the Outer Realm. They’re monsters.”

“I will not lie to you,” Jade said. “They are barbarians. They are monsters. But much of what you see through the COM has been filtered and often sensationalized. You see there are some in this galaxy that think of the COM as a disease, a disease of methodic control and hypnosis that is slowly rendering the souls of all species within the GSA dormant. For many years it has been this way. That is why the Slavos fight. They do not wish to be controlled and slowly stripped of what they are.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Palo said, scratching his head.

“There’s a lot that doesn’t make – “

Before Jade could finish, a calamity ushered into the cabin. When Palo turned, he saw a spry young woman step into the cabin. She wore a tight, gray, one-piece jumpsuit with lines of red squares running down the sides of her legs and arms. Bloodstains splotched her jumpsuit and her petite face was marred with dried streams of blood stemming from her nose. Her hair was cropped short, save for a wide strip of hair slightly longer ranging from her forehead over her head and down to the base of her neck.

Morigin followed her in, pointing his Colt 45 into her back, his sash wrapped around his forehead and falling across the front of his shoulder. “Got her, Jade.”

Vaga turned around to Morigin and said, “Please, you can put the weapon away. Where am I going to go?”

“You’re a conduit,” said Morigin as he pointed to the seat next to Palo with his pistol. “Sit down.”

“Can I at least wash the blood off my face?”

Morigin pointed the pistol at the seat again and said, “No. I like that look. Cute yet feisty.”

Vaga sat down next to Palo. When she looked at him again, she recognized him and said, “You’re the kid on the video file.”

Palo looked at Vaga, then at Morigin and said, “What is going on? Why did you take us?” Morigin leaned over to Palo and handed him the Colt 45. Palo held it limp in his hands. Morigin reached over and corrected Palo, aiming the weapon back at Vaga.

“I didn’t take you,” he said to the both of them. Then he turned to Palo and said, “Well, I did take you, but not her. She’s a stowaway. And a bloody, thieving conduit.” Morigin pulled down a storage panel in the back of the cabin and rummaged through it. “I didn’t need her, but due to a completely unforeseen series of circumstances, I do now.” He quit rummaging in the storage panel and closed it, brandishing a set of ancient rusty manacles and a small key on a piece of thread.

Morigin leaned over Vaga and placed her hands in the manacles and closed them around her wrists. “Ah,” he said. “Better. These have no circuitry whatsoever, so those sneaky little finger-snakes can’t get you out of them.” Morigin turned to Palo and said, “As for you, I really had no use for you until just recently. You see before your father was killed by two Carniv mercenaries, they siphoned his brainpan,” Morigin took out the memory kor from his long-coat pocket and held it up. Palo recognized it immediately.

“I thought siphons were banned centuries ago?” asked Palo.

“Yes,” said Morigin. “Importing another beings memories into the brain of another had one nasty little side effect – insanity. They tested the product on the colonies of Valla-Hal. Marketed the thing as a way to relive the lives of those you lost. People began seeing ghosts, only they weren’t bustling around their prefabs, they were inside their head.”

Inside Palo’s chest there was a sudden vacuum. As he watched Morigin hold up the memory kor, he realized that for the last day, he actually held the remaining vestiges of his father’s memory and he didn’t even know it. He felt an immediate closeness to his father now. Something that had wavered years and years ago, was now gone. It was a feeble thought to cling to, but it was the only one he had.

“The problem is,” Morigin said. “The data, the memories, the information your father had collected in all his years far surpassed the limits that the normal human brain could hold.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” Palo asked.

“We need you to fill in the gaps,” Jade said.

“What could I know?”

Morigin stepped closer to Palo and winked at him. “Enough to continue his work.”

“But that’s impossible,” Palo said.

Morigin pocketed the kor and said, “Not impossible. Just forgotten. You never knew your father that well, did you?”

Heated, Palo stood up and said, “What do you know of my father!”

Morigin matched Palo’s intensity. “Evidentally, more than you.”

That was it. Palo stupidly threw a punch at him, which Morigin countered with a kick to his mid-section. Doubling over and gasping, Palo fell to the floor at Morigin’s feet. He leaned down to Palo and said, “You’re just a kid. I didn’t grab you to kill you. I would have done that already – you’re annoying. I grabbed you because you just may be the last pieces to a puzzle that your father was working on.”

Morigin stepped over to Vaga, grabbed the manacles and yanked her upward. Dragging her over to the console, he said, “Pull up the data. Let’s see what this kid knows.”

“Just use the kor,” Vaga said. “You don’t have to yank me all about.”

Morigin pushed her closer to the console and said, “But that isn’t as fun.”

Palo pulled himself off the floor and walked up to Morigin and Vaga. Her hands looked small in the rusty manacles, her ear lobes and hair soft. He felt himself wanting to reach out and rub a finger along her cheek. Then Vaga held out her hands over the console and Palo watched as the tiny fibers sprawled out of her fingertips and writhed into the console like a thousand tiny snakes. The viewport immediately went black – gone were the advertisements for Draedus. Only a cursor blinked in the upper left corner.

“What do you want to see?” Vaga asked.

“The R’Ihande,” said Morigin.

Vaga turned and looked at Morigin, almost as if to confirm it. Palo thought about that word. It was odd. He didn’t remember it from anything, but the movements of his mouth when he said the word silently seemed familiar. It was like he had said it before.

“What is that?” asked Palo.

Morigin turned to Palo and said, “An artifact.” He nudged Vaga and she turned to the viewport, her eyes glossing over white. The viewport flashed with thousands of scrolling files. The cursor selected one and opened it up – immediately filling the screen with lines of intricate coding.

“This is just the raw code,” Jade said. “We’ll be able to access visual and audio sensory data via the onboard systems. Unfortunately we’ll need an experience chamber to access any other sensory data.”

“Where do we want to start?” asked Vaga. “There are millions of files, referencing that thing,” Vaga said.

“Maybe you should start at the end,” said Palo. “The last thing you and my father were working on.”

“Brilliant idea,” Morigin said. “The R’Ihande was the last thing we were working on. That’s why I said it. We were excavating a fallout bunker on Typhon. We were close, he said. That’s when he sent me back to Draedus to seal another artifact in the vault. That’s when he was killed.”

A part of him wanted to jettison himself out of the airlock, but like that strange word, this code left a flutter in his mind. He tried thinking of his father. Imagining his graying hair. His pants dusty and dirty. The boots lying on the floor of the closet, nuggets of dried mud and rabble on the rug. Palo tried to imagine all the worlds Telo visited in his work, how his boots trudged the soil of hundreds of planets. The clutter in every corner of their house – trinkets, ancient parchments, bones, odd mechanisms shattered and ir-repairable.

Palo stepped forward. This was all getting old and he had eager thoughts about seeing just who his father was. He spent the better portion of the last twelve years hating him, but now he was dead…at least physically. But before him strung out on the viewport were millions of lines of code – his father’s memories. He rubbed his eyes – this was all strange. Just hours ago he was sitting with Halfsie, wishing to get enough cred to buy the ship of his dreams and now he was here – on a ship he didn’t know, with people he didn’t know, all about to peer into the private mind of his father. “Just open one…anything,” he said.

Vaga turned back to the viewport and selected a file. The screen filled with code and after a second or two, Jade translated the sensory data onto the screen.

The screen was dark and only one sound echoed through the cabin – a thick, velvety rope of water streaming into a basin. Onscreen, the blackness split and showed an aged hand holding a penis right in the middle of urination. Everyone gasped in the cabin and turned away, except for Vaga, who watched in interest. “Perhaps another,” she said.

Watching Vaga pull up file after file of his father’s memory, Palo watched his father eating meals, talking to Morigin, heaving heavy pick-axes, dusting off ancient systems consoles. He wished the file search could go slower, allowing him more time to absorb the father he missed out on. But a tiny voice in his head remembered Morigin kicking him in the stomach, so he stood and said nothing. In front of the large viewport, Morigin leaned, trying to glean any clues from the memories.

“These are all conversations I’ve had with him,” Morigin said. “We need to go deeper. We need his thoughts.”

“That isn’t possible without an experience chamber,” said Jade.

“Well, then we’ll find one,” Morigin said. “Tap into the COM and find one. Just because they’re banned doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“You know full well who will have them,” Jade said. “And we can’t risk it.”

Palo saw Morigin’s face flash with anger as he turned away from the viewport in disgust. What were these people up to? What was this R’Ihande thing and was it truly this important? A hollow feeling grew in the pit of Palo’s stomach. Something wasn’t right. Everything seemed to spin, so much so, Palo stuck out a hand on the captain’s seat to stabilize himself.

“We’ll use the girl,” Morigin said.

The files on the viewport immediately went away and Vaga extricated herself from the ship’s console and turned around to Morigin. “You can’t do that,” she said.

“You’re a conduit. You’re built for this.”

“You can’t do this, Morigin,” said Jade.

Jade’s voice seemed to be tender to Palo’s ear – like a mother’s voice to frightened child. He looked at Vaga. For the first time since he had met her, she looked scared. Her face had fallen pallid. Palo looked to the floor – he had to do something. He couldn’t let Morigin do this to her. He straightened up and approached Morigin. “I remember something.”

Morigin turned and looked at him. “What do you remember?”

“Gifts,” Palo said. “My father gave me gifts all the time. He knew I hated him for being away all the time, so he always sent me gifts from all the places he went to.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, since my father was killed for the information he knew about this R’Ihande thing,” Palo said. “Then perhaps he encrypted all his information.”

“Your father would never trust technology to his secrets.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Palo said. “His gifts to me are the encryptions.”

After he said it, Palo half believed it himself. It sounded like just the thing to distract Morigin long enough for him and Vaga to escape. Or at the very least hold him off. Palo felt the hollow feeling in his stomach dissolve. He felt in control now. Things were up to him and not up to the captain.

“These gifts,” Morigin said. “Please tell me they are not back on Param Eon.”

“No,” said Palo. “Never. After I left home I never told my father where I was going. All the gifts are back at my father’s house on Draedus.”

A smile erupted on Morigin’s face as he turned back to the viewport and said, “Good. We’ll be there momentarily.

Chapter 8: Home Sweet Home

An explosion – then deafness. When Sellihca opened his eyes he saw his childhood home blown open, fire licked at everything. Outside, people ran through the village streets screaming, only to be torn down by vicious creatures leaping through the crisp air. Above, loomed bulk-class troop cruisers, their engines aglow against the night sky, idling, dropping troop cans on the countryside below. In the last remaining corner of their house knelt his mother, Nelope, a cleaver in one hand and a repeater pistol in the other. A large gash sketched across her faded indigo face, pulsing with blood.

“Go, Selli,” she said. “Blend into the night. Run, hide. Save yourself!”

A fellow villager ran screaming into their burning house, only to be trampled by a gruesome creature – half Felta, half Urik. As they watched, the creature tore into the screaming villager’s flesh – blood splattered over Sellihca. All he could do was watch the horror. As the Slavo ate, the creature absorbed its victim – its skin grew mottled with indigo, patches of black hair grew over its body and one eye rolled over white.

Nelope stood up and said, “Go now, Selli! Run!”

Sellihca lurched upwards, quickly grabbed his hunting blade and rifle and rolled out of the stone window. He ran as fast as his small legs could. Every step or so he would turn his head to watch – his mother leaping and slashing the beast with her cleaver, dodging its outstretched claws, firing the repeater into the monster.

Then he stopped and turned. His mother was standing over the quivering body of the slain Slavo, nudging it with her foot. Then she looked up the grassy hill and caught Sellihca’s eyes – she could always find him, even the darkest hiding places. About to run out of the broken house, a horde of Slavos leapt onto her. Sellihca turned and ran, listening to the gurgling, muffled screams of his mother as the Slavos tore her apart. He ran to the only place he knew he’d be safe – his goomwa tree.

Overlooking the village, he climbed the massive tree and nestled into a large branch crook. Thick with red velvety leaves, he was completely hidden, but had enough breaks in the leaves to see it all. His breath heaved. His heart raced. From that tree he watched the complete annihilation of his village. As his eyelids hung heavy, he heard the blasts and explosions in the distance. Other villages were being razed. Repeater fire. Explosion. Screams. Explosion. They were so far off, yet Sellihca felt they were right below him. He leaned back and forced his eyes open. When they fell, he startled himself awake, only to let his lids fall once again.

Sellihca opened his eyes. Gone was his home world, the Slavos, his mother’s screams. His ears rung. Dust floated in the air all around him and odd people dressed in sleeping robes stared at him. Lying broken amid the rubble, Sellihca reached to his chest and felt for his sternum scar. It was healing nicely and there was no damage to the precious cargo within his ribcage. His head spinning and his body numb, Sellihca activated his COM on his ear and chin and gurgled the words, “I could use a clean up crew in here…again.”

But before the Broken Fang could rocket to the side of the building to pick him up, the whole apartment flashed in red light. Peering around the rubble, Sellihca and the awakened tenants saw three Param Eon enforcers hovering about the crater of the apartment – their flashing warning lights spinning frantically. Sellihca held up a hand to protect his sensitive eyes from the bright flashing red lights and said, “That figures.”

While Sellihca freed himself from the rubble, a voice from one of the enforcers yelled, “Down! Face down to the floor and put your hands behind your head!” The sound of activating pulse cannons filled the apartment. Sellihca was no fool. One he could definitely handle, two maybe, but three enforcers full of Handmen were too much – even for him. He lay on the ground and put his hands behind his head. As soon as he did that, doors slid open on the enforcers and nine Handmen jumped out, decked in full-on assault armor and rifles. Two of them immediately ran to Sellihca and pinned him to the floor.

One of the Handmen wore no helmet or armor at all. She wore black Handmen fatigues that covered every inch of her body except her head and neck – perhaps her most striking features. Hairless, her round skull held pale blue watery eyes and as evidence to her experience and endurance, her jaw, lips and neck were stretched with terrible burn scars. From his position on the floor, Sellihca watched as she strode over to him and knelt down, holding a reignfire pistol to his temple.

“Made quite a mess here,” she said. “Scared a lot of people.” She paused to lick her dry and stretched lips. “I’m betting your story hasn’t quite gone the way you had written it.” She pushed the pistol into Sellihca’s temple harder.

Sellihca spit dust out of his mouth and said, “Permissions.”

“What?” she asked.

“Permissions,” he said. “Look me up. I have huntala permissions for Param Eon. Granted by the Outer Realm Magistrate.”

Her gaze wavered as she looked toward one of her Handmen. He knelt over Sellihca with a coder and pressed the tip against his dark indigo skin. Vibrating briefly, the coder registered the captured skin cells and data streamed over the viewplate of the Handmen’s helmet. When it stopped it showed a picture of Sellihca.

“Mairrem Retsbew,” the Handmen read. “He checks out, Kristol. Has huntala permissions. Looking for a Palo Solar.”

Kristol stared her watery blue eyes at Sellihca, mulling over what she had in her hands. Then she pulled back the pistol slowly and holstered it on her hip. She ran a gloved hand over the side of her face and looked down at Sellihca. “Release him,” she said.

Sellihca shrugged off the Handmen holding him down and stood up. Kristol glared at him. He felt like she was seeing through every fleshy layer of him. Thoughts swirled wildly in his head. Was she a patho? Could she read his thoughts? Or was she just really, really good at seeing people for who they really were? The longer he looked her in those ice blue eyes, the more it felt like they were boring through his skull.

Sellihca dusted off his arms and said, “Sorry for the mix up. I didn’t know he had that many friends.”

Kristol blinked for what seemed like the first time since he met her and said without a smile, “Then you’re not very good at what you do.”

He stood by as the Handmen filed into the enforcers. Kristol had leapt onto one but held onto the door before getting in. “I would hope for your sake, our paths do not cross again.” Cuvee engines flared to a high-pitched hum and the enforcers slipped off into the night. Sellihca watched them zoom away.

Almost instantly, the Broken Fang rocketed up from below. The entry hatch slid open and Sellihca jumped inside. The cool air pouring down from the overhead vents soothed his dirty sweaty neck as he walked to the cabin. So far nothing had gone to plan. Sure he defeated Mar, but his armor was nearly destroyed. And this latest setback. He literally had the courier in his hands before… Before that ship crashed the party. What kind of ship was that? He had never before seen anything like that.

He arrived in the cabin and thrust himself into his seat. And that Handman. Odd. He had never felt so unprotected before in his life. Seventy-five years of work, and one Handman got him. Must be getting sloppy. He had to redouble his efforts. Think ahead of everyone. Get to the point before anyone else. Bending over to the console, he said, “Scour the ship for tracers. We aren’t leaving this planet until we find any bugs those Handmen placed on the hull.”

Sellihca leaned back in his seat and punched up his charts on the console. A deep blue planet came to life on his viewport.

“Have to repair my armor,” he said to the empty cabin. “And the only place I can fold flashore is at home.”

* * *

As the Broken Fang slid over the rolling hills of Saculias, Sellihca watched in great delight. The land beneath his ship still lied scorched and torn asunder. The landscape was littered with ramshackle colony prefabs – speckled with plasma burns and repeater fire. Every village he flew over showed no signs of life, only ghost towns remained. Near the horizon a great stone city rose up. Overtaken by bloodweed and rappa vines, it too looked to be deserted.

Leading away from the city, wound rough trails across the prairies, worn down by the migrating herds of sheva. Then he saw it – growing larger out in the distance. A large goomwa tree, his goomwa tree – its massive branches dead and broken, the soft, red velvety leaves long gone. Sellihca felt a dull sadness growing in the pit of his chest. Goomwa trees were great symbols to the Saculian clans – they showed mighty strength. And now all that made Sellihca strong seemed to fade.

He brought the ship down next to the tree. As the entrance hatch slid open, he turned his head in disgust. A foul wind blew the stench of rot and death into his face. It had been almost one hundred years since he returned. Not much had changed – just more and more decay. Striding toward his tree, he looked down on his old village. Rustic hadclay lodges and huts still stood. A few prefabs were scattered throughout.

A smile lit up his face when he saw a few villagers mulling about. There were less last time. He knew the Saculians couldn’t be kept down. The Slavos decimated the entire planet, yet life lived on. A few survivors had made it – determined to resurrect their village, their city, their home.

He patted the withered trunk of the goomwa tree and walked down the hill toward the village. Either he was getting used to the smell or it was fading away. It didn’t matter. As he neared the town a crotchety old man stopped and held his indigo hand up to the fading sunlight.

“Ogidnew!” exclaimed Sellihca. “I haven’t seen you in –“

The man lowered his hand as Sellihca approached and continued on hauling a sack of grain over his shoulder. “About a hundred years?”

He watched as the old man sauntered off, oblivious of Sellihca’s joy. He shuffled forward to catch up to him and said, “Ogidnew. Have I offended you?”

The old man continued walking and said, “Me? You’ve offended everyone which goes by the name Saculian.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” the old man said and continued walking.

Sellihca stepped in front of the old man and hefted the large sack of grain off his shoulder. The old man grew angry and grabbed the other end of the sack and pulled. Sellihca pulled back.

“How have I offended everyone?”

The old man tugged again. “You left.”

“A lot of us did,” Sellihca said. “Your granddaughter, Solte did. Half of those that survived left.”

The old man tugged at the sack and pulled it out of Sellihca’s hands, landing on the ground with the heavy sack in his lap. “We despise them as well.”

“But why?”

The old man stood up and hefted the sack of grain back onto his shoulder. “Our planet was dying and you chose to leave. You chose to abandon your home for the wealth of the guild. You left us alone.”

As the old man carried on without him, Sellihca looked down at the ground, saw his feet once again on his home lands and it hit him. Of course he was to be hated. All these people, left starving, wounded, loved ones lost to the Slavos – they were the strong ones, rebuilding a lost civilization from the ground up. His head spun imagining the hard work, the strength that lied within these few people. How their hands ruptured with blister, their bellies quaked for food.

That night, as he pounded and shaped his armor with his old flashore hammer and steel, he thought about his actions. With each pound and clank he grew to hate himself. The coals in the fire cast a bright glow across his indigo face, his mouth seized, his eyes furrowed. Pound and clank. He saw their tired faces, their sick children, their putrid food. Pound and clank. He saw the Slavos tearing his people apart, the bright blue glow of their starships hovering overhead. Pound and clank. His mothers scream. Her eyes as he turned and ran away.

Then at a moment of utmost clarity, his COM lit up and he listened to the message that wisped into his ear, “I can save your planet. I only ask for your loyalty.”

Sellihca held up his helmet, forged back into its original state, the glow of the fire casting a shimmer across its smooth surface. Around lay the other pieces of his armor, hammered and folded back into their original form. Then as he brought the helmet down, he saw his old friend Ogidnew standing before him.

“The town council have agreed to pass forgiveness,” he said. “They only ask a favor. Deep in the Hoovra Caverns, dwells a rogue Slavo – abandoned by its kind. For years we have tried to rid ourselves of it, but none have succeeded. The council asks you to remove the beast and all will be forgiven.”

The muscles in his face fell slack and the fire felt cold. Sellihca looked at his reflection in the helmet, his fierce white eyes. His mind ground down to a stop, crystallizing in two choices – stay and rebuild his home piece by piece, with the strength in his hands. Surely that would take more time than his lifetime would allow. Or go away again. Fight another battle and bring the boons of Haalastare to his world. Power, wealth, the ability to regenerate a world with a turn of the hand. It seemed so simple.

“I must go, my friend,” said Sellihca. He held his hand out to his friend’s shoulder. “My connections off this world can heal it much faster. My fight lies elsewhere, but the rewards come here. You must trust me.”

Ogidnew’s face fell into sorrow, his white eyes turning a shade of gray. “Do what you must.” Then the old man turned and walked out of the rubble that once was Sellihca’s home.

“You’ll see,” said Sellihca. “Someday bulk cruisers will arrive here…thousands of them, maybe even millions. Loaded to the gills with workers, food, technology. Salucias will thrive and become greater than it once was. I promise you!”

As Sellihca packed up his armor, his mind raced. Ogidnew’s face flashed in his mind, his deep wrinkles growing deeper, his eyes dimming. He imagined the council shunning him, damning him. They could get on without him, they’d say. Who needs him, he’s just one – we are many. They’ll eat their moldy femta bread and drink fermented goanna spirits and toast to his departure. Saculians were strong. They’d carry on without him. Wouldn’t they?

He hefted his armor trunk onto his back and walked up the hill to the Broken Fang. Half way there he turned back to the town. Torches wavered in the breeze outside the great hall. He heard no eruption or clamor. No righteous cheer to strengthen themselves. And for a brief moment, he thought perhaps they weren’t strong enough, perhaps all they needed was one man to lead them, and bring their world back into the light.

Behind him he heard the engines of his ship lurch to a start, so he turned back around and finished his hike up the hill. He stopped at his goomwa tree and rubbed the bark with his hands. Rotten and dry, the bark crumbled in his hands and fell away like dust. He adjusted the trunk on his shoulders and walked into the ship, saying, “Our contact sent us the coordinates. Let’s chart a course and get there before they do. I have to realign the circuits in this armor before we arrive.”

The entrance ramp slid closed and the boosters glowed. The pawney grasses blew and bent to the force emitted by the engines as the ship rose, until high above the goomwa tree, the engines whined to a great scream and the Broken Fang roared into the atmosphere.

Chapter 7: Reading His Mind

Wedged in between massive towering factories and shipworks, the Shrapnel Club had all the looks of a crashed niktu cruiser – the entrance sign flickered with loose wiring, the walls crawled with soot, grease and erratic plasma burns, even the main sewage drain out front consistently blocked up, leaving large puddles of foul garbage water standing about. Add to that the tendency of the Korban district to always attract the dingy, poor and desperate masses, and you have a location on Param Eon that even matu rats and flybacks stayed away from.

When the entrance to the Shrapnel Club slid open and a robed figure walked out, they were sure to give a quick scan to the wet streets and humid air. With nothing but a few vagrants lying about in tossed garbage, the robed figure strode away from the bar and entered a darkened alley. Once there, the man pushed back the hood to reveal his face – bearded with a green sash tied around his forehead.

With a dash, Morigin removed the dark brown cloak and approached an elderly man in a dirty white tunic sleeping amidst a cache of empty hydronal barrels. The man had a long grey beard with a couple of scars emblazoned on his eye and cheek. He wore an ancient leather belt and attached to it was a cylindrical device that crackled with the occasional spark when he moved.

Morigin bent down to the man and brushed his hand across his face. The old man woke with a start and tried to lean up, but had no strength to do so. Reaching out, Morigin lifted him to his feet and helped put the dark robe over him.

“Oh, dear son,” said the old man. “Thank you. But I have nothing in return.”

Morigin helped the old man back to the ground and said, “You owe me nothing.”

With a crotchety hand, the old man reached to his belt, took his sparking device in his hand and reached out to Morigin with it. “Take it,” the man said. “It has served me well, but I am afraid it is damaged beyond repair. The crystals inside have long since died. Take it as a token for your kindness.”

Morigin took the device and said, “Thank you and rest peacefully.”

As he left the old man, Morigin pressed a button on the device only to get jolt of electricity pumped into his hand. “They don’t make them like they used to,” Morigin said and stuffed the device into his long-coat pocket. Then he ran his finger down the curve of his ear and touched his chin to activate his COM. “Jade?”

“Did you get the kor?”

Morigin tightened his long-coat around him as he walked and said, “Yes, I did.”

“Head a click north to the Erip Mav shipworks,” said Jade. “Dock 1173.”

“Got it,” Said Morigin.

Walking the docks at night in Param Eon looked more like a celebration than deep bruteiron hull construction – above him, in shallow orbit, enormous cruisers hung, partially completed, the snap-fire of helios welders crafting metal into vessels of power. Morigin looked up and smirked. He thought of Telo and how they met. A scrappers pub on Spectre. After a three day shift without sleep, Morigin joined some co-workers in a little celebratory moir wine. His hobby project was done. “I’m calling her the Jade Tendril, boys,” he had said. “Because I built in some custom surprises for anyone trying to take her.”

After nine bottles, Morigin grew belligerent and picked a fight with a Perado, and even though they’re small, they have one mean stinger. Morigin took two shots of that stinger – one in the leg and another in the neck. He took enough bioelectricity in those stings, he would later feel them every time a storm brewed on any planet.

But Telo found him outside that pub and nursed him back to health. “Scrapping is a waste of time,” he told Morigin as he changed his bandages. “Battleships, technology, the COM. It means the end, young man. What do you think the GSA is fighting the Slavos for? Freedom? Peace? No. Nothing as patriotic as that. Power. It’s all a quest for control over the other. No one believes in anything but power. Faith and God died many millennia ago. But I intend to put an end to that. And I can show you ways of making a larger difference – making a life for yourself than just being a scrapper.”

As Morigin entered dock 1173, he looked up to see shift shuttles arriving from orbit, no doubt loaded to the gills with workers ready for shore leave. He smiled at the memory of Telo, privately thanking him for saving his life, even changing it. As he approached the Jade Tendril, the running lights fluttered to life and the entrance ramp opened with a great whir.

Walking aboard his beloved ship, Morigin stopped by an empty display case and opened it. He took the sparking device from his long-coat and placed it carefully into the holding pins. He looked up at the cutlass gleaming from its post above the entrance to the cabin. “Don’t worry, old glory,” he said. “You’re still my favorite.”

“You’re not talking to your relics again, are you?” asked Jade.

Morigin shut and locked the case, then said, “Don’t worry baby, you’re my favorite.”

“You just said that to the cutlass,” Jade said.

Morigin strode into the cabin, removing the kor from his long-coat and said, “Let’s take a look at this.” He inserted the kor into a data port, turned around and removed his long-coat. Laying it over his seat, he added, “For selfish reasons, I hope it was a complete siphon.”

He watched the viewport of the ship light up in streams of data. As the data streams opened up, Jade systematically sorted, named and filed all the data from the siphon kor. As Morigin watched he saw a file structure developing on the screen and soon it reached the end of the page, only it didn’t stop, it kept scrolling with new files. Before long, he couldn’t track the creation of the files – the viewport was a flurry, creating the file structure.

“We’re at 35% capacity,” Jade said. “It looks like they took all of it.” The file list moved faster and faster. Morigin stood and watched even though his eyes couldn’t register anything on the screen. “43%...51%...59%...67%...69%”

Morigin finally sat down in his chair and watched the processing from the corner of his eye. “You don’t really have to list off the percentages. Just let me know when you’re done.”

“73%...88%...92%...99%” Jade listed with the smallest hint of a snicker.

“Very funny,” Morigin said.

“125%”

“It’s not funny anymore.”

“143%” Jade said. “No, I’m not being funny. 159%.”

Morigin stood up and watched the data download again, the file structure continuing to grow beyond comprehension. “What does this all mean?”

“173%” said Jade. “The human cortex can hold approximately 11.713 krayts of information. We’re at almost 19 krayts and it’s still going.”

“A standard kor only holds 20,” Morigin said.

“182%” Jade said. And like that the date stream ended. Only a blinking cursor at the bottom of the list made any movement. “The kor didn’t have enough space to hold all of Telo’s memory.”

Morigin rubbed his bearded chin and stared at the blinking cursor. “How could a human hold almost two times more information than his body could hold?”

“Implants?” asked Jade.

Morigin stood up and began pacing in front of the viewport. “No. He wasn’t the tech type. Not keen on biological upgrades.”

“Perhaps his brainpan was abnormally large,” said Jade. “From what I’ve heard, biology can at some times be ‘miraculous and mysterious.’ I mean, you’ve said it yourself that beings don’t need technology to expand their minds, open up their abilities. Right?”

Morigin looked down at his feet and then looked up at the viewport. “This is beyond biology, Jade.” Pushing a button by the data port, Morigin ejected the memory kor. He held it up to the interior lights and looked deeply at it. Then he muttered under his breath, “The old man as right.”

“What was that, Captain?”

Morigin put on his long-coat again and placed the kor in a pocket. “Nothing,” Morigin said. “Listen, I’m afraid we’ll need to find Telo’s son. They’re bound to be gaps in Telo’s memory and I have only been with him the last twelve years. He may have some information we’ll need.”

The viewport changed and showed Jade splicing into the Param Eon directory. “Palladin Complex. 224-M.” Jade said.

“Fire halos and let’s go get him,” said Morigin. “Pull up a building schematic. We may have to bust in to get him. If I remember correctly, he had no love for his father. So this might be harder than tracking down those Carniv. And on the way, hyper-encrypt all sensitive files on this matter. I don’t want to take any chances.”

* * *

High above the Palladin Complex, the Jade Tendril soared. The Palladin Complex glowed violet. Numerous windows were dark, no doubt their residents fast asleep.

“Let’s not wake the neighbors, Jade.” The running lights to the ship blinked out as it hovered around the building. “Take us around to his place. I want to check to see if he’s there.” The Jade Tendril banked and slowly hovered around to the left side of the building. They lowered down a few floors before stopping just outside Palo’s apartment. “Let’s tighten the cameras to the interior.”

And as the viewport lit up and showed the interior of the apartment, Morigin stood up from his seat. In the living room of the apartment lied the courier he had interacted with earlier. He seemed to be just waking up from taking a stun bolt to the forehead. His arms and legs were bound.

“What in the name of –” said Morigin, before he saw another person step in front of Palo. “That kid is Telo’s son?”

“It appears the person he was supposed to deliver the kor to has found him, Captain,” Jade said. “We should do something before something bad happens.”

Dazed, Morigin shook his head and said, “Yes. Get him!”

A panel beneath the front of the Tendril burst open, revealing twelve mechanical tentacles. They struck quickly, blasting through the apartment wall. One jabbed at the intruder, spinning him around, while another lurched in and coiled around a screaming Palo. Before the intruder had a chance to react a third tentacle slammed into him, knocking him through four apartment walls.

From the viewport, Morigin saw frightened tenants peering through the rubble at his ship. The intruder looked to be down. “Get him in here, Jade!” yelled Morigin, but the tentacle froze. “Jade? Get him in here before that crony gets his marbles back!” Nothing. He slammed the console with his fist and the viewport shuddered briefly. Then the tentacle recoiled and pulled Palo into the cargo bay.

“Sorry, Captain,” said Jade. “I don’t know what happened.”

Morigin looked into the viewport as if it were a face. He winced his eyes and said, “What’s wrong with you lately? Are we missing a patch or something?”

“I don’t know,” Jade said. “Something hasn’t felt right –”

“– since Kcid station, right?”

“Yes.”

Morigin turned away from the viewport and stormed out of the cabin. “Well, find it and fix it. I need you to be less…ditsy.”

Morigin walked through the halls of the Tendril toward the cargo bay, thinking about Jade. They had been together for so long, he couldn’t imagine ever being without her. But something was wrong and it needed fixing. Maybe he needed to visit his pal Spiglas again. One of the best system profilers he knew, Spiglas helped Morigin program Jade with personality patches and silco-DNA. “She’ll be a one-of-a-kind vessel once I’m done with her,” he told Morigin. And that she was.

Morigin arrived at the cargo bay door and punched the entry code in. The thick metal door slid open and Morigin stepped in. Palo was sitting in the corner and stood up when he saw Morigin.

“Thanks,” Palo said. “How did you know I was being attacked?”

Morigin waited impatiently for Palo to approach him. “We didn’t. You got lucky.”

Palo cocked his head at Morigin and said, “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“Top of the Skylar Vane,” said Morigin. “You probably saw me splay that Carniv before you fell off the roof. And no, you don’t know me.”

“What’s going on?”

Morigin stepped toward Palo and grabbed him by the arm and ushered him out of the cargo bay. “Did you ever answer any of the messages your father sent you?”

Palo pulled his arm back and said, “My father?! No. I have nothing to say to my father.”

Morigin strode away toward the cabin. “Well good then. Because he’s dead.”

Palo ran to Morigin to catch up. “What do you mean dead?”

“Deceased. Not breathing. One with the ether,” Morigin said. “Not of the living. It’s a pretty simple concept really.” They approached the annex of the ship, where Morigin had displayed all his relics. Palo turned around and took them all in – the cutlass, the Colt 45, a rusty dagger, numerous old journals, an ancient war helmet.

“My father has stuff like this.”

“Had,” said Morigin.

Palo ran up behind Morigin and put him in a choke hold, but Morigin easily twisted around and threw him to the grated floor. “Why do you have to talk like that about him?” asked Palo.

Morigin had Palo by the scruff of his shirt with both fists and said, “At least I talked to him.” And with that he released him and walked into the cabin. Palo got up and followed him.

“Jade,” said Morigin. “Let’s map a course for Draedus. Maybe junior here can be of help.”

“Help with what?” asked Palo.

“Captain?” asked Jade. “I found the system error and am attempting to fix, but I’ll need your help.”

“My help?” asked Morigin. “How can I help you with a system error?”

“We have a stowaway.”