Snippets

Water always flows downwards, they say. From mount to hill to plain to sea, down and down it goes—but that ain’t completely true, and I know it. Wander across this earth as much as I and you will come to know that mists rise, ice melts, blood and sap flows, clouds form and storms rage. Yet far easier it is to think that water is mere water and always obeys gravity in the same manner as the human. And the human—are we not beings of water as well, with blood pumping up to our brains, down to the toes, back to the heart? We and all the living, crawling, swimming, flying things in our immediate universe. Yes... yet where I now tread, water flows only down, down, ever deeper down. Ankle-deep is the muddy stream as we make our way further into the cave, moving through a space that is about two arm-spans wide. The sloshing of my boots is joined by that of the two others behind me—Adrok, then Vilka. In front stalks Thulk the thrall, his bare feet stealthier to the ear as we make our way through the damp passage. The tunnel itself—as our headlamps illuminate it—is of a reddish-brown sandstone with bands of darker brown running along the lower wall, a sure sign that the stream we now slosh through runs stronger in the rainy season. Now, of course, it is winter, with the outside world we left behind dusty and dry. Yet this small stream still flows from up high in the mountains, finally coming to a cascading fall. The main stream continues its journey east to join its kin and flow into the Korl Sea, with a steady rivulet of water hitting a great boulder at just the right angle for it to run into the cave. That is where we entered. “Hear that?” Vilka suddenly asks, stopping. Adrok and I also come to a halt, switching off our headlamps as we turn toward her. “What?” “Shh- Slave! Stop.” The thrall obeys Vilka and I prick my ears, hearing the rhythm of my heart and breath, the passage of the stream—nothing else. Yet Vilka I trust with than more than my life, and her ears even more so. She cocks her bald head to one side, eyes closed, narrow face scrunched up in concentration. We stand like that for a minute, maybe more, when she nods, her smile sly as if she has formulated some great universal truth during our span of silence. “What is it?” I ask again, shifting my shotgun to the left hand and running the other through the sweaty mess that is my hair. “Our prey is here,” says Vilka. “I heard its growl.” “You sure? This is the third fucking cave we’re tramping through and I don’t like to hunt for something that ain’t there,” Adrok complains in his gruff baritone, green eyes scanning the dark tunnel ahead. “I’m sure-sure, Ad. It was low, but it wasn’t far—the droc is near.” “You hear anything, Thulk?” “No master,” the thrall lisps in his slow, stunted voice, eyes downcast. “Thulk only hears the water and the walking—and the talking. But Thulk smells, yes master, Thulk smells something not right.” “Up ahead? What?” Thulk turns his head to stare deeper into the darkness. “Death is what Thulk smells. Not much death, but not old death—a fresh kill, Thulk is sure,” the thrall drawls. I nod, bringing the shotgun’s stock to my shoulder, my finger so near the trigger that the slightest squeeze would cause a solid slug to explode from the barrel and slam into the sandstone wall. “Lights on. Adrok, take point. Vilka behind me, Thulk at the back.” The hulking mass of muscle that is Adrok gives a grunt of compliance, casts a quick glance at his sister, then makes his way past me and the thrall, already twisting valves and checking gauges on his flame-spewer. Adrok begins to walk and we follow, the pace slower now that the mow-hawked warrior with the two gas canisters strapped to his back and the long, bulky spewer in his hands has replaced the lanky, sinewy thrall as pointman. As Adrok strides on, the pilot light on his weapon now lit, I relax my mind and marshal my senses, my eyes focused on a point beyond the man’s bulk. Our headlamps throw shining waves of light over the flowing stream, the ripples of our passage breaking the surface even more. My ears are like that of a cat, every drip and tread and breath I hear. We know our prey well and we know it wouldn’t be attacking us head-on in such a confined space, but it never hurts to be ready. When hunting a droc, caution is the wisest strategy—fools become food, or worse. “It’s opening up ahead,” Adrok notes, slowing his pace as he rounds a corner. When I do the same, I see that he is right—a great cavern stretches out before us, about twenty spans wide and five high. Our lamplight barely reaches the furthest wall, and I reckon it to be about sixty spans from us. The stream continues on, gathering itself into a pool where the cavern levels out and then escaping into a small cleft in the left-hand rockface, flowing deeper into the planet, deep into the dark unknown of subterra. Our lights play over the relative calm of the pool, over the walls bordering it, failing to illuminate every dark corner and hidden alcove of the vast cavern. The sandstone is more of a pale beige this deep in, with the air less damp and far more stale. “Thulk? Vilka?” “Nothing,” says the huntress, her long-fingered hand already resting on the revolver holstered at her waist. Thulk takes a deep sniff, two more, then nods. “Is here master, deeper, further—I smell prey and beast.” I nod. The thrall’s nose is as keen as that of a pig’s, so if he tells me there’s death then there’s death. It’s a shame that the proctor is dead, but that is the way of the world. If we had tracked the droc here sooner we might have saved the man’s life and gotten our bonus from Holdmir Tolk, yet I had known from the start that the chances of this were slim. In truth, we were lucky to have hit the trail on our third try—droc hunts can drag on for weeks or even months, depending on the beast’s sex and habits. Finding signs on our fourth hunt-day is a stroke of luck, and the loss of coin is nothing compared to such fortune. “Anything else? Musk? Nest-slime?” Thulk slowly shakes his head as his beady eyes stare off into the distance. “Too much water to smell right and far, master. Might be, might not.” I nod, gazing at the pool ahead of us. Where the stream enters it it is far too muddy to see the bottom, but about five spans in where the silt has already settled I can see it clearly. The water is about two man-heights deep in the center, leveling out to one in spots where it borders the cavern wall. “Thulk?” “Yes, master?” “Find us a way. I’m not keen for a swim.” The thrall gives a slight nod, then sets about the task. First he wades to the left, enters the deeper part, and swims to the edge of the wall. Once he’s there, I can see that his feet will not touch bottom. He swims on, left hand tracing along the wall as he searches for handholds. Fifteen spans on, past the cleft, he reaches the far edge of the pool, gets out, and repeats his search along the opposite side. Here the going is easier, with Thulk’s feet now and again touching rock and the wall rough enough for him to keep himself abreast in those spots where the pool deepens. Though still too much swimming for my taste, it seems to be the best path. “Right, we de-gear here. Packs off, you know the drill.” Thulk shakes his head a few times, his lamp bobbing as the headband shifts over his skull, with rivulets of water spattering every which way from his stringy hair. Then he approaches and starts to help Vilka and me loosen straps as we remove our packs and stow the gear that we don’t plan on taking into the pool. Adrok again sets about twisting valves as he kills his spewer, sealing the weapon off from its fuel. “Thulk, go ahead. Me and Adrok will follow. Vilka, cover us.” “Sure thing,” she says, eyes fixed on the far side. The thrall enters the pool again, with Adrok behind him, the giant man holding his spewer above his head with both hands as he starts to wade along the wall, going much easier than Thulk or I thanks to his height. I have my shotgun gripped by the stock in my left hand, raised above the surface as my other hand guides me along the wall, my legs kicking in behind me every time the wall grows smoother and the pool deeper. The water is cold, far too cold for comfort, but I grit my teeth and bear on. Finally, the three of us reach the opposite side. As Adrok again sets about readying his weapon and Thulk once more shakes himself off like a wet dog, Vilka enters the pool and starts making her way across. While the other two get themselves ready, I stroll deeper into the cavern, trying to work some warmth into my muscles. Twenty spans in, I note that the walls remain regular, with no signs of any side-passages. A few paces more and I notice a hollow in the rockface, and in it I find our corpse. “Thulk!” The thrall comes running, then grinds to a halt when he sees the body. “This what you smelled?” I ask, nudging the corpse with my foot so that it flops onto its back, a wrinkled face and milky eyes now staring into the void. It was once a wiry elder, and he is garbed in a strange, knee-length robe which is surely woven of red silk, judging by the texture. “Yes master.” Adrok makes his way to us, with Vilka having reached the shore and checking her gear. “One good thing then—it’s not the proctor,” I tell the warrior. “He’s far fatter.” “Don’t get my hopes up for a bonus, Lenik. By now, it should already have the fat bastard. Greedy fuck of a holdmir ain’t gonna pay us for pieces of his proctor, that much I know.” “Why you think it dropped this one?” I ask, looking at the dead man laying like a ragdoll on the stone, his neck clearly broken. “Probably already got the proctor and is saving the skinny one for later. Or it smelled us and buggered off, which makes no sense, never seen ‘em done it,” opines Adrok. “What you think, Vilk?” The huntress strides to us, eyes settled on the corpse. She crouches next to the man, taking his head in hand and twisting it this way then that. Then she draws a dagger from her boot and cuts through the silk, parting the folds to reveal the man’s naked form. Next she flips him over onto his stomach, and again cuts through his robe to study his flesh. “Not a drop of blood, no wounds. Don’t know how you smelled him, slave,” Vilka notes as she continues her examination. “Neck broken, wrung, but no claw marks. Red welts though, definitely fingers. Clothes aren’t wet, and this man hasn’t been dead for more than three hours, the excrement is still fresh—he comes from deeper in, or he flew across the pool, which I doubt considering his age and lack of wings.” “What? Inside? You sure?” “Only way that makes sense,” she answers me. “What if we got a bunch of bandits here and they crossed the pool with a boat? Then they offed this one and went on their way?” “His socks ain’t wet, Ad. And no scratch marks and splashes on the rock showing they pulled a boat, unless they carried it out, or used a raft. No... he comes from deeper. Maybe someone carried the corpse in by hand, but why take the trouble to keep him dry if he’s already dead? And why bring him in in the first place when a grave, crevasse, river, or fire will do a much faster and effective job of disposing his corpse? Someone killed him, and the droc passed him by.” Now, I’ve been a hunter for most of my life, and have offed two drocs on my own. If I know one thing and know it well it’s that drocs don’t waste a kill. One thing I know even better is that the beasts don’t allow folk to walk about in their lairs willy-nilly, so if this man lies here, neck snapped by human hands and with him having come from inside—then either there is no droc, or it has already moved further in and ignored the corpse, with both eventualities making no sense. Hadn’t Vilka heard the beast, and Thulk smelled it? And Surely a droc wouldn’t leave fresh meat to waste if it has passed this way? “Bullshit,” states Adrok, spitting on the ground, his thoughts clearly having run along the same lines as mine. “I tell it like I see it, brother. What do you think, Lenik?” I was silent for a few seconds as I stared at the corpse, then further into the cavern. “Whatever this is, whatever he’s doing here, there’s only one way to find out,” I say, shouldering my gun and motioning for the others to follow me. As we near the end of the cavern, covering every corner with our weapons, I notice that the roof starts sloping down. Soon enough we reach the far wall and there, to the left, discover a passage that runs slantwise up, as wide as a horse’s arse. I halt before it, listening, watching my companions to see if they sense something. Vilka is ready for action, but it's clear that she hasn’t heard the beast, while Adrok remains as stoic as ever, hand near his spewer trigger. “You still smell the beast, Thulk?” “Yes master, yes, closer now.” “Right. We don’t know what’s going on here, but it sure as fuck ain’t normal. Now, old Thulk here has a nose that can locate a rose in a shit-pit, so if he says he smells a droc I’m inclined to believe him. Vilka? Adrok?” “I heard it before we hit the cavern,” is all the huntress says. “If it’s here, it’s here,” opines the hulk. “It’s just that a brooder wouldn’t be leaving around flesh when she can use it for egg-laying, and a bull sure as fuck ain’t gonna make his way past a corpse without taking a few good bites. No, even if it knew that we were chasing it, it would’ve picked the meat up and carried it away. Way I see it, bunch of bandits entered here some time ago to hide away, right? And maybe there’s a nest. So we got a brooder, she smells the bandits, and rushes in to save her nest, right? Now, why they went and iced that old fella I don’t know, but maybe they dragged him here so as to take him out later, so as to not stink up the place.” “Might be,” I say, “but why would a brooder leave her nest?” “Maybe her larder was too small and she went out to—” “But we found no prey near the entrance, unless she smelled them sooner and dropped it when she started tracking them—or never caught it,” Vilka interrupts. “Still, Lenik is right. I’ve never heard of one leaving her clutch.” “Maybe it came here to make a new lair, then got a whiff of us and made a scram for it, missing the old fella. Means it might double back if there’s trouble ahead.” Vilka shrugs. “Easier for us.” “Time to find out. Adrok, point.” And so we enter the passage, walking over dry stone as the narrow tunnel twists and turns its way up into the mountain. Adrok, followed by me, Vilka, and Thulk—all of us determined to solve this mystery.

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Klordimus Axel Rex was an average fellow, with no discernible eccentricities of the personality. His sense-tentacles sprouted elegantly from above his eyes, his posture was appropriately slumped and his pheromones were neither too salty nor too sour. His hooves trotted rhythmically over the floor, with the scales on his six legs flickering with polychromatic splendor in the sunlight shining through the glass roof. What Klord didn’t know though, being an ordinary fellow, was that today was no ordinary day. As he made his way through the Hall of Science, hooves clacking and clonking over the obsidian flagstones, Klord’s head was filled with ordinary thoughts. What species of bird am I to cook tonight? and Has Blordima Voxel Rax fixed my oko-toko flute yet? and Maybe I should Invite Bxard to have his hooves polished with me. Such was the mundane chatter that filled his three brains when Klord reached the Gate of Science, which led to the Sanctum of Science. As was his daily habit, he joined the line of scientists who shuffled forwards one by one to gain admittance through the gate and into the sanctum, where the true work of the Hall of Science was conducted. See, for the average Morbldraxian citizen, the hall was nothing but a fancy museum full of doddering old fools who pursued useless pastimes such as resurrecting extinct species, looking at the stars, and tinkering with cogs and ratchets and pipes to create smoke-belching machines that moved way too slow. Indeed, the entire great edifice of the Hall of Science, stretching three kays into the sky, was nothing but an idle curiosity to the Average Zo of planet Morbldrax. Finally, Klord’s turn came and he made his way forward. “Proffer your Pass of Science,” the red-saronged guard drawled as he studied Klord, his face set in an expression of glornox, which directly translated means ‘the surly, half-contemptuous, half-indifferent look on the face of a petty bureaucrat.’ Klord inserted his seven-fingered hand into the side pocket of his sarong, which was black and covered his entire back, ending at knee length. His digits closed upon a metal disk, which he took out and offered to the guard. After much ogling and a quick swipe, the card was handed back to Klord. “Insert your senstacles for pheromone sequencing.” Klord complied, shuffling over to a big machine with many screens and blinking lights. He inserted his sense-tentacles into two small, self-sterilizing holes, keeping them there for ten seconds while the amino-sensors matched his pheromone pattern with that on the database. When a green light flared up and the machine went ping, Klord stepped back. “Welcome to the Sanctum of Science, Klordimus Axel Rex,” said the guard, which he said every workday and in the same unwelcoming, glornoxy manner. Klord nodded—his usual reaction—and made his way past the checkpoint and through the obsidian gate which stretched up ten times as high as he. After walking into a great hall he again joined a line, with all of his fellow black-garbed scientists having made their way to the appropriate elevator that would take them to the right research department. And this was the fundamental nature of the Sanctum of Science—it stretched many kays deep and wide into subterra, forming a city beneath a city. Few citizens of Hrolxad, Capital of Morbldrax, knew that they were in their daily lives trotting over vast caverns equipped with no other goal in mind than conquering the universe through science. No, the Hrolxadians attended morning and evening oko-toko symphonies, applied themselves to breeding or acquiring ever-better tasting fowl and the spices to season them with, or were wrapped up in the ecstasy of having their hooves polished. And while they pursued such innocent pleasures, thousands of scientists were testing weapons, gathering intel and applying themselves to ever more arcane branches of research. Klord’s line was shorter than the others and as he stood there, awaiting his group’s turn to shuffle forward so that a metal box could plunge them deeper into the planet for a decent day’s scientific endeavor, he spotted someone quite dear to him. “Frakxa,” said he as stepped from the line and toward another. Frakxalko Nexel Mox, for it was she, smiled wide when she saw Klord, baring her blue-gums and the rock-hard, muscly outgrowths that served her species as teeth. “Klord,” she said slowly, surely as she turned to face him. Klord’s heart jumped within its cavity when he saw her smile, when he saw how elegantly her torso slumped away from her back, how her legscales shimmered in the light. When they finally met, they embraced—their foreheads touching, their senstacles intertwined. With great pleasure Klord tasted that Frakxa’s pheromones were also finely balanced today and for the briefest of moments that most alluring smell of all came to being and swam through their brains—sweetness. Then it was over, and they stepped away from one another. “Made any headway with the parameters?” Frakxa asked, casually continuing their last conversation where it had left off. Klord gazed into her eyes for a second, three, then nodded his head. “Not yet. The search function is still far too barebones, and while we can lock onto the same instance after the initial pull, temporal drift still occurs, and we are no closer to isolating terrestrial targets. Norda has a new system she wants to try out today though... She said it has something to do with making it select only spaces with a certain gravitational threshold.” Frakxa shook her head, liking the idea. “Makes sense,” she said, “because at least this way you’ll be able to remove void-captures from the equation, which will make things go swifter for you lot.” Klord sighed, hoping that his breed-mate was right. Seeing that his group was about to shuffle on into the elevator, he let his hand run over Frakxa’s shoulder as he smiled. “See you next meet-day, Frakxa. Let’s hope they approve us this time.” Seeing the slight twitch of sorrow pulling at Frakxa’s lips, and faced with her silence, Klord turned away and went through the doors. When he turned around to have one last look at her, Frakxa put on a brave face and waved at him. Klord waved back, seeing that she remained as much bothered as he by the matter. If the government didn’t soon approve their breed-day, thought Klord, things between the two of them might become rocky indeed. In this matter their hands were tied though, for such was the rule of law on Morbldrax—you mate when you are told to mate, a fate that... Klord shuddered, and so did the steel cage he was in as it plunged into the depths. He well remembered his younger years, and while he had stepped the same path as all his fellow specie members, he had found little delight in it. To be taken from your parents at birth, to be raised by the government’s machines, by their driven yet dull socializing agents, and to meet those who have created you only once every sun cycle—Klord had found the entire, twenty-year long process of isolation and indoctrination to be harrowing, especially as he had loved his parents, a rare phenom for one of his species. If only he had been able to farm fowl with his father, and if he could have listened every night and morning to the peaceful yet complex tunes of his mother’s oko-toko... Klord shook himself out of his reverie. He had work to do and such personal qualms should never be allowed to overshadow this prime directive. Besides, the government did what it did for the good of the species, not the individual—and it has done so for countless millennia. Morbldrax has stood mighty for many aoens, so what right did Klord have to question the system? As a scientist it was clear to him that this path made his people strong, and the existence of sorrow within it was merely a required, sharp-edged cog that made the entire machine function fluidly. When the elevator doors slid open, Klord extinguished this line of thought and started heading through the labyrinthine tunnels of the sanctum, toward his department. He passed many doors, some small, some wide enough to dwarf the passerby. All the doors where marked, from ‘Department of Xenopsychology’ to ‘Hall of Music’, the latter of which always sent shivers down Klord’s spine whenever he passed it by and heard the anguished screams and atonal chaos of musical equipment being employed toward the goal of murder. Finally, he sighted a plaque which simply read ‘Transportation.’ Klord pushed open the two unassuming wooden doors, entering a small room with a door at the opposite side. To the left was an alcove with seven lockers, one of which Klord opened. He stowed his lunch, his Pass of Science, as well as his wallet, which contained his parents’ and Fraxka’s vid-papers. As usual, he first looked at the laughing visages of those he loved as they moved about on the flat surfaces before putting his wallet away. Then he took a deep breath and pushed through the final door. The room which Klord entered could only be described as cavernous, so large in fact that management had decided to cut costs and keep the walls and roof bare stone. Only the floor was tiled, and Klord’s hooves clacked on the white marble as he made his way to the center. And there, by far the most prominent feature of the great room, was a box which seemed to be made of glass, a perfect cube twenty by twenty meters on each side. Around it were gathered the five scientists Klord called colleagues, all busy at their stations; Nordaxmil Hoxel Arx, head of the Department of Dimensions, and three strangers who were garbed in black sarongs with twin golden horizontal stripes running along the sides—Council of Science bigheads. “Klordimus, you are late,” said Norda, not bothering to turn as she sighted his reflection in the cube. “No matter, you are on time,” she determined, only now turning in Klord’s direction. “My apologies, Chief Nordaxmil,” came his reply, with him making sure to remain formal in the presence of the council members. They seemed little bothered by him and his slight tardiness, though. “No matter Klord, no matter. As you see, we are honored by a visit from the council today, and I assume you well know why.” “The new gravitational parameters?” “Indeed! Our little project has been running for three years now, with varying results,” Norda stated, more for the sake of the council members than Klord’s. She now turned to address them. “As your excellencies well know, we have summoned portions of suns onto our planet, we have plumbed the depths of alien oceans, we have captured asteroid chunks that can be mined for ...” As his boss continued her presentation, Klord shuffled his way over to his workstation, coming to a comfortable stand as he stretched his arms out and activated the screens with a swipe. “Listen to that,” Hradixos Kexan Arx muttered from the next station over, throwing a glance Klord’s way. “She talks of stars and rocks and muck as if such tasteless things are the true goal of our work, skipping the most important practical application.” “Which is?” Klord asked as he began running a system check, deciding to humor Hrad. “Elementary, my dear Klordimus—what is the most noble pursuit we Morbldraxians can apply our interdimensional transporter to? Why, finding the most succulent, exotic fowl in existence, of course.” Klord chuckled when he heard this, throwing a quick glance to make sure his betters were still busy with exposition. “I sure can go for some Red-Crested Booghen right now, Hrad. Might not be the otherworldly flesh that you hunger for, but sure is tastier than the Klongfowl breast I got packed in my mealbox.” “Hey now, don’t sell Klongfowl short. My neighbor, the one I always tell you about?” “Porx?” “Yeah, she. Well, she’s been breeding Klong for thirty cycles now and I tell you—she’s unlocked their secret. You see, with them the flavor isn’t in the breast, nor the thighs, but in the legs.” Klord shook his head, seeing that his station was in faultless operation and that the containment field, which was his responsibility, functioned as it always did—fully. He turned to Hrad, intrigued despite himself. “Everyone knows they have tasty legs, so what’s your point?” “Patience, my dear Klord. See, Porxika has devised the perfect solution—if the legs are the fowl’s most endearing attribute, why not give them more of it?” “She added legs?” “No, no, she bred to enlarge. Ten times the size, Klord—ten times... Imagine that sweet, succulent limb—well spiced, of course—popping its flavor into your mouth.” “You’ve had some, then?” “Hah, pity me, no. Porx might be a good neighbor, but when it comes to her Klongs she’s a straight-backed proprietress. She fears that someone will copy the genetics by keeping a piece tucked away in their cheeksacs—something you know that I, noble Hrad, would never do.” Klord gave a short guffaw, nodding, for he knew well how cunningly perfidious his colleague truly was. “Problem is,” Hrad continued, “once you get a generation with a tenfold increase in leg size, mating becomes difficult. This much Porx at least shared with me—first she mounted them by hand, then developed a special harness. Last week I saw a team deliver an insemination unit, so she might have got tired of doing things man-” “Hradixos, Klordimus, do we bore you?” Norda suddenly interjected, having sidled up behind the scientists. Before either one could mount a defense, she continued. “No matter, no matter.” She retreated a few steps and began addressing all present, arms outstretched. “My esteemed colleagues, as you well know, the council graces us with their presence on this day. As they already know who we are, and as we have no right to infringe upon our excellencies’ privacy, introductions are complete.” Norda walked over to the central console, which had far more screens than any other. “All systems are operational, therefore we commence. Our sensors have been keyed in to a limited set of permitted gravitational fields, and this I believe will make finding desired planets, at least, far easier. Current search parameters are based off of our own home, as well agglomerated data on other solid planetary bodies that we have thus far observed. As was the original conception of the Transporter, we will aim for a piece of upper crust.” Klord shook his head, seeing the sense in this new approach. The Transporter was by all means new tech, developed by a true Morbldraxian genius a mere three decades ago. The creating of the box itself had taken over twenty years, with it being constructed from gralxide, named after its inventor. Being the toughest material known to science, gralxide could withstand the heat of novas. It had required the power of an entire city to construct such a large cube of the stuff, and the only other place Klord knew of where gralxide was employed was around the Council of Science chambers. If the entire Morbldrax were to be disintegrated, the council chambers would remain, floating sealed through the void. Since the invention of the Transporter, it had been quite the monumental task to figure out just what could and could not be done with it, and a greater majority of all catches had been empty space. Seeing as the goal of the construct was to rob other advanced species across all dimensions of their most potent weapons, scooping up a big piece of nothing served no purpose at all. “Sign off,” Norda commanded by habit, despite her station showing her that all systems were in order. The scientists started doing so in turn. “Plasma furnace gyrating and operational.” “Containment field up.” “Dimensional phaser tuned and ready.” “Coordinate field prepared for capture.” “Analysis array functioning.” “Subsystems are running as intended.” “Very well. Your excellencies, today’s capture is directed toward Dimension 21x9026, which we have in our previous explorations proven to be at least as amicable to organic life as ours. Though we have yet to gather any proof of such existence within it, I am certain that our new parameters will offer results within the year. Our current target, based on the preliminary scans I have conducted throughout the week, seems to orbit a red dwarf and is the only large solid body within the system. We commence.” Norda started swiping her fingers across the screens and soon enough a low whirring hum could be heard reverberating through rock as the cube began drawing on the furnace’s power. The capture, as always, wasn’t slow but instantaneous—where the gralxide cube had been empty, it was suddenly filled with black basalt from top to bottom, with small veins of magma snaking their way through the rock. “Analysis,” was all that came from Norda. Jurdimok Drax Vex, a wizened old fellow, stepped forward with pixslate in hand. “Igneous rock with molten components. Based off of planetary norms, it seems to be a portion of the upper mantle. Geomorphic analysis-” “That’s enough, thank you Jurdimok. As your excellencies can see, it has been our fortune to accurately capture a portion of what appears to be a solid planetary body. Gerdix, adjust vertical axis by three hundred kays upward. We try again.” Detanglement always took minutes more than capture, but worked in basically the same manner—whereas the chunk of basalt had been transported from one dimension to another, it would now be returned by the dimensional phaser to the exact spot on the coordinate field from whence it had come. While the furnace whirred, Klord double-checked that the containment field was still up. It existed outside of the gralxide cube and therefore was always as stable as stable can be, but with magma coursing through the rock and councilors in the room, Klord was taking no chances. Soon enough, the rock chunk disappeared and there remained no evidence that matter had ever been transported into the cube. “Second capture. Commence.” This time, the cube remained empty, or at least seemed so. “Jurdimok?” “Atmospheric. Fifty-three point six nitrogen, twenty-six point zero nine methane, nineteen point four seven oxygen, zero point eight nine carbon dioxide, zero point three three assorted gasses and solid particulate. Comparative climatological models suggest that this area is most probably between troposphere and mesosphere.” “Promise!” exclaimed Norda. She studied the data on her screens for a while. “Very well, adjust vertical axis downward by thirty-seven kays. Let’s see what we find.” Again the Transporter did its thing, and this time around every Morbldraxian in the room let loose a deep sigh of wonder, for Norda had guessed the lay of the land perfectly. There, in the cube, was about a meter of topsoil and from it sprouted a lush tangle of crimson and orange vegetation, colors vibrant enough to dazzle the eyes. So large were two of the slick, oily trees that their root systems went a quarter of the way up the cube, with their trunks cut off at the top. “A marvel! Your excellencies, I present to you a life-bearing planet. Surely, fortune favors us this day.” The councilors, and everyone else, were too dumbfounded and entranced by the sight before them to form any response. It was then that Klord saw it—through the colorful tangle of vines and leaves and branches, a flash of blue. “See that?” he asked Hrad. “See what?” Klord motioned to the cube. “Something moved. Something blue. Wait... watch...” Hrad studied the spot, as did Klord, yet both saw nothing. “Jurdimok, will you please do us the hon-” “There!” shouted Klord, unable to stop himself from interrupting his boss when he saw the flash again. “What is it, Klordimus?” Norda demanded, not bothering to hide her irritation. “Chief Nordaxmil, something’s moving in there, something blue. It was low first, then I saw it up high and-” “If it’s there, we’ll catch it in the scan. Jurd-” This time, everyone saw the blue blur as it moved at an unimaginable speed, slamming into the gralxide— and cracking its surface. “By Zogel’s hooves! What the frax is-” Again it rocketed into the side of the cube, the crack only enlarging. “Containment!?” Horda bellowed as she near-galloped to Klord’s station. “Field is utterly stable, no signs of breach. I-” This time, Klord saw the movement early enough. The... thing aimed itself at the crack, almost seeming to fly at it, slower now but with more force. Klord got a quick glimpse of its blue furry body, four jet black eyes, and then... the gralxide shattered. Worse, far worse immediately transpired when, in front of Klord’s unbelieving eyes, the field fizzled out. Broken gralxide careened into the room, ricocheting off walls, with one fragment cleanly decapitating a councilor. And close behind the shards, slower now, came on the loping, blue bipedal thing, madly tittering and howling, long arms swaying at its side as it charged straight toward the scientists.

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"Baggan dathing good back there, Job?" "Aye aye Cap, gotter right and ready for insertion." "Kay kay. Swinginin' for zero run." "Roger." "Fuck! Get--" The missile struck Behemoth, an ancient smugrunner, just behind the cockpit. As the craft's bulk plummeted earthwards, two white blossoms bloomed; the crew had deployed their parachutes. Then Behemoth hit surface and its payload went boom in an ear-and-earth shattering explosion. "We gots us a fowl run, boys and girls!" "Ima smoke the leftie," said the scavenger who had downed Behemoth, already busy slotting another rocket into her launcher tube. She took a stance, legs akimbo, eyes tracking the target. When the AI locked on, she squeezed the trigger. The slim rocket erupted in a bloom of white, it's trail growing ever thinner as it accelerated to it's target. Doefff! "Now that's a pretty flower! Les makanather one!" "No fair!" a scrawny mow-hawked scavee shouted as he charged right into the rocketeer--making her pull the trigger. "You fuck what you do!" she raged as she punched him between the eyes, the rocket meanwhile striking out unguided. It zoomed past a foot away from Job's face, only to kamikaze itself into a nearby hill, causing an eruption of a shale bank and the blooming of an ocher cloud of dust. The wind was on Job's side; he managed to use the dust cover to safely land and unclip his harness. His immediate response was to run--there was no time for checking gear, for injuries, even for Cap. No, Job knew--in fact had seen--what had become of Cap. "I'll get you, you fucks," he managed to grumble as he ran into the hills, past the crater left by the ex-missile. It was about four minutes before the first shots started ringing out. Whether they had found his trail or merely sighted the parachute, Job didn't know. He didn't care--their aim was off, the ratatata of their autos slamming into boulders and acacia trunks. After about six hours of swift hiking later, Job circled around over a low mountain by edging his way along the cliffs. When he judged he had reached an isolated spot, he had a good sit. With a wide view of the valley, he sat and listened for three straight hours, or so he judged. Finally seeing no lights or fires, and sensing no signs of pursuit, he pulled his hood over his head and buried himself deep into his jacket. Morning came, cold but not freezing. The fresh air slammed into Job's nostrils as he raised his body, stretched his legs, and made the final ascent. When he reached the top, with the sun already peeking out in the east, Job saw a sight that gladdened his heart: Civilization--or what approximated for it out here in the Badlands, at least. Still, either to get lost in, or to ensure mutual security--you were always safer from scavees in a town. So, Job made his way to the sprawl of shanties, corrugated palaces and great tents that stretched over the horizon. 'U AINT WELCOME TO FREDSVILLE' said some graffiti on a rusted shipping container on the edge of town. When Job walked past it, a door flew open on its rusted hinges, expelling a great cloud of dank-smelling smoke. From this musky mist stepped a hob-legged, barrel-chested man with a long, drooping red mustache. His eyes around the irises, following the theme, were red. He wore a broad-rimmed leather hat, which for some reason had been sprayed pink. "Whatcher want in Fredsville, then? Aintye see the sign?" "I've been downed by some scavees out west last night. I ask only shelter, mister, and I'll pay my way with honest or dishonest work, whatever you so please." "Ach then lad, ye gotyer a pretty slick mouth there, hey? No matter, aint no matter, tell Joko at the Dusk Inn I sentyer and that he's to feed and stable ye fer a night. After that, I'm sure you'll earn yer keep, or fuck right off, right?" "Right, right..." "In you go then!" the man bellowed through his nose tarp, waving his arms expansively. He then entered his container and slammed the door shut. Thumping, grinding music soon started to flare up from inside, almost making Job hallucinate that the smoke-spewing container was hopping up and down over the ground. He shook his head straight, turned around, and set off in search of the Dusk Inn.

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Long has their journey been across the wastes of Po, across that barren land of shifting red sands, long-forgotten ruins and vast pans filled with nothing but salt and hazy desert air. Long in the coming was Modro’s vengeance, and Jella’s, and that of Gerhain—that of every innocent babe and brave young lad and grinning elder of their clan. Six years, six years since that bloody, brutal raid; six years since he saw the corpses of his wife and newborn both—so mangled, so brutalized that the memory of it always sent painful jolts of hatred and sorrow through Modro’s head and heart, leaving first a pang of guilt and then a hollow sorrow that stayed with him for days on end. Such was the state the grizzled warrior found himself in as the fell fortress of Shak Imher at last came into view, nestled against the grey cliffs that bordered it on three sides in the valley far below. The sight of it sent a shudder down Modro’s spine and made his hand stray until it rested on the cold iron of his double-headed axe, as if to make sure that it was still strapped to his pack. “Ho! Halt!” Gerhain, who was scouting ahead, shouted to those trudging along in single file, with the mist-shrouded peaks of the Urspine Mountains to one side and a precipitous drop to slopes far below on the other. Gerhain thrust his arms into the air, as if in praise to the unseen sun, and began addressing his two lieutenants and the thirty-two warriors who had survived the perilous trek. “Yonder, my beauties, down below at the feet of Ur herself, lies the fastness of the Shak, that serpent Imher. We all know that it is our destination, and those of you who are of the Vaanri know all too well why.” Here a minority of the warriors, twelve in all, nodded and grumbled in assent, for they, along with their three leaders, where the last of that great clan which had once called the banks of the river Horl and the verdant plains that rolled along them home. Vaanri one and all, Modro knew well that the same blazing desire for vengeance that raged within him coursed through their blood as well. The others in the column looked eager for a fight, aye, and greedy for spoil, but they were warriors of the jungles and wastes, of city and hame—few among their number had any true quarrel with Imher. Still, Modro knew that they would fight as well as any Vaanri; they were part of the band, some even having joined less than a year after the Shak’s fateful, brutal raid. “A day’s descent, by dusk we’ll be above them. Hear me then, my fellow fools: tonight we rest, and tomorrow night, when the red sun again hides its face behind Mother Ur like a craven jackal crawling into its hole, we’ll crack that castle open, slice off Imher’s fruits and stuff them in the rotten hole that he calls a mouth!” The sound of rough fighters cheering and jeering echoed against the slope, and only when Modro heard this echo did he know that his voice was among them, loudest of all—so lost had he been in blood-filled visions of the past. Gerhain’s eyes were still settled on his troupe, waiting for their excitement to cool. “Gurkon, Adalheis, you come with me. Let us make our path and find our camp before the stars roll over the sky.” The tall Kerangian woman and the shorter, grey-bearded Vaanri man did as they were bade, shrugging off their backpacks and shuffling carefully past those ahead of them to fall in behind Gerhain, whose shoulder-length flaxen hair shifted like reeds in water as a light morning breeze flowed down from the peaks. The chief nodded, then cast a quick yet meaningful glance in Modro and Jella’s direction. Having met their eyes, the big man adjusted his horse-leather sword belt, turned about and set off with nary a word. “You alright if I keep rear, Jel?” “And leave me with the job of herding our pups down this fucking rock?” “Don’t you worry, I’ll be whipping them into a brisk trot from back there.” “Gawping and gaping at the misty mountains, more like. You’ve always been one for admiring scenery, eh Modro?” Modro almost said that he had been admiring her splendorous scenery during their long hike from the arid crags that make out the western foothills of the Urspine, but wisely held his tongue—Jella had punched him once before and he still had the gap in his upper-left maw to prove that her fist had claimed three teeth. His tongue explored that cavity as he considered his answer, looking into her cold brown eyes. “Can’t say you’re wrong there... Aye, quite the view,” Modro said at long last as he plopped himself down on a boulder, folding his left leg over the right. Jella grunted. “All right you dogs, you heard the chief! We better reach camp by dusk, so no lagging, no lollygagging and for fuck’s sake, no more songs about sheep! If I hear another-” “Just get on with it, Jel,” Modro interrupted, keeping his voice low. She shot him a dirty look, knowing all too well that he had sung heartily along when the lads and lasses had started with ‘Old Man Eggert and his ewe.’ She held his gaze for three heartbeats, making sure that he felt her bottomless scorn, then swiveled her head smartly back to the waiting warriors. “Right. Form ranks, make sure two of you take Adelheis and Gurkon’s packs. If the carrying is too heavy, distribute the load. I don’t want to hear that anyone’s broke his leg, or lost her footing and plummeted down the slope—no fuck ups, no delays, let’s go!” And so the long line of marchers set out again, one by one filing past Modro where he was perched on his rock. They all seemed to be in a good, brave mood, and Modro felt the shadow of such emotions stir in his breast as he studied their faces. Now that their goal was in sight, now that their four month long trek from the whaling town of Jaggard was complete, it was as if all the hardships of travel have been sloughed off them; all the sorrow of having lost forty-seven companions along the way; all the tension after being beaten by sun, beset by bandits, and having to face the innumerable, skulking beasts that laired between the coast and the Urspine. They seemed ready. They had to be.