Episode 85: Triangulated Progress

Carmen stopped mentally prodding her asteroid and took a deep breath.

“Okay, we’re cool. I don’t think we’ll be crashing today.”

“That would’ve made an amazing news story, though,” said Vince, releasing his mental hold on the asteroid as well. “I can just see the headlines. ‘Flashman and Shift Missing on Mandrake: Racers Presumed Dead After Nebula Cup Qualifier.’”

“I think you got our names backward on that one. No way I’d get second billing to you.”

“They’re going alphabetically,” said Vince. He looked up from the rocky terrain of the asteroid and saw the comforting expanse of stars overhead. He knew that if they stood on the opposite side of the asteroid they’d see Mandrake filling the sky, and that its toxic rain clouds and vast jungles might just be discernible from this altitude. Instead, he saw the comforting image of three other asteroids, one being his own.

“Now we’ve just gotta get me back to my ride,” he said.

“Thanks again,” said Carmen. “Probably could’ve gotten myself out of the planet’s pull without help, of course, but I’d be having a mondo headache right now. One for the history books.”

Their headsets chimed, each with a tone that let them know that Xorn’Tal was trying to speak. They’d cut off the headsets to minimize distractions while tugging Carmen’s asteroid out of its fall to Mandrake, but now that they were done Xorn’Tal had something to say.

“Hope he’s not been waiting long,” said Vince as they activated their comm sets.

“What’s up, Xorn’Tal?” asked Carmen.

“Officials: nearing,” said the plant creature’s synthesized voice.

“Good,” said Vince. “We can show them that we caught the Phantom Matador’s asteroid.”

“But the Matador got away,” said Carmen, glumly. “That… stupid bat.”

“Shangmere,” said Vince. “I don’t think they like being called bats.”

“Right, sorry,” said Carmen. “I’m just… we had him. The Phantom Matador was unconscious, on my asteroid, and officials were minutes away, and then that stowaway grabs him and leaps for Mandrake.”

“Look at the bright side,” said Vince. “He probably burned up in entry.”

“Right, but now we’ll never know who he was,” said Carmen. “I wanted him in jail. This’ll just give him a mysterious exit without knowing who he is. Watch, five years from now the racing federation’ll probably hire someone to be the new Phantom Matador and mess with racers again.”

“Maybe that’s what they did this time,” said Vince.

“I doubt it. The suits aren’t that creative.”

“Other concern: plasma report,” said Xorn’Tal.

“Plasma report?” asked Vince.

“Edge of system: racers/stragglers: watched. Sensors: long-range: energy signature: massive. Plasma storm: causeless.”

“I’m sure it’ll be on the news when we get back to Veskid tonight,” said Carmen.

“Hey, at least your friend’s jump went well,” said Vince. “You know. Eventually.”

“Right,” said Carmen. “I’ll need to pick him up eventually. You guys are still good not mentioning him, right?”

“Secret: safe.”

“Absolutely,” said Vince. “Gotta help out our fellow adrenaline junkies.”

***

Zack nervously watched the nearing ground, reflexively waving his arms even though he knew that the parachute would keep him safe. True to Carmen’s word, the robotic elements of the parachute were steering him toward a clearing, but the nearby jungle still loomed ominously.

He took a deep breath and braced for impact as he dropped the last dozen feet, but was surprised by the sudden jet of compressed air released by the parachute, providing some extra thrust to make the final moments of descent that much slower. The extra efficiency caused Zack to over-correct, and trip on his feet as he reached the ground.

He brought his arms up to keep his face from colliding with the ground. Just before he could get his bearings, the parachute fell as well, covering him. Already worried about the potential for jungle insects, Zack thrashed madly beneath the parachute, trying to extricate himself.

From the tree line, Chala watched him carefully, an arrow set in her bow. The newcomer certainly didn’t seem like the standard poacher, but he still had to leave.

***

Captain Ortega and Ensign Trell looked out the window of their dead ship, and witnessed the vast array of Dyson Empire vessels around them.

“This is… unexpected,” said Trell.

“Where are we?” asked Ortega. “I don’t recognize any of those stars. Was… was this a projected teleport? Can Dyson teleport ships? Some sort of jump drive?”

“It seems so,” said Trell. “But… I know it’s folly to try to recognize constellations from a variable position within a system, but I’ve crossed Morcalan space many, many times… something looks wrong about that.”

“Are you there?” crackled Trell’s communicator.

“Captain?” said Trell. “Captain, you made it with us?”

“It seems so,” said Captain Calen from within her Scuttler. “We seem to be in a mobile hornet’s nest, Trell… oh, the delicious targets… attacking now would be suicide, of course, we mustn’t attack yet…”

Ortega breathed a sigh of relief. Trell glared at him.

“I think Captain Ortega expected you to try to blast your way to victory,” Trell said.

“The thought crossed my mind,” said Calen. “Had we a dozen vessels I probably would, for victory then would be assured. But as it is now… we have a chance that we mustn’t squander. We’re in a dire situation, though, one that I’ve not yet solved.”

“And what’s that,” asked Ortega.

“How long until some ship captain looks out its window and realizes that we’re not a single vessel, but a depowered Dyson fighter being clutched in the talons of a powered Morcallan scuttler?”

A tense moment of silence filled the chamber.

“I’ll get to work on those reactor repairs, Captain,” said Trell.

“See that you do.”

Episode 84: Virellium Wave

“The system definitely has a numeric pad to the right of the pilot’s terminal, just like you describe, Captain,” said Ensign Trell, speaking into her communicator.

Captain Ortega looked at the console curiously, furrowing his brow.

“Input the numbers, then,” said Calen from the other side of the communicator. “Let’s not keep our dear pilot from his duty a moment longer.”

“Hang on a second,” said Ortega. “I was all over these computers earlier… that pad doesn’t do anything.”

“That pad is standard on most terminals like this,” said Trell.

“I know,” said Ortega. “That’s why I tried using it. I had to settle for the other numeric input along the top of the controls when the pad didn’t work.”

“You probably just had the number lock function disengaged.”

Ortega looked over the console more carefully.

“The button for that isn’t here,” he said. “I couldn’t engage or disengage it.”

Trell looked over the controls carefully before nodding her head.

“Captain, he’s right,” said Trell.

“What does that mean, then?” asked Calen.

“Stand by,” said Trell, kneeling beneath the console and removing a panel. Ortega prepared for a lengthy investigation, but was startled by a surprised gasp.

“There’s definitely a change here,” said Trell. “Definitely not standard.”

“What do you see?” he asked.

“It’s a rerouting,” she said. “Ordinarily I’d be spending minutes looking over the circuitry, but there’s a secondary circuit board here, it looks like it’s fed directly into the numeric pad. It also looks like there’s some rudimentary broadcasting components, probably capable of generating a low-power signal over a short distance.”

“Curious,” said Ortega.

Trell pushed her way out of the panel, smiling a more genuine smile than Ortega had ever seen. He stepped back so that she could stand up.

“One last thing,” she said. “You’re going to like this, Captain. The secondary circuity board that plugs directly into the numeric pad? It’s using the Phoenix Circuitry. The same style of circuits and materials used in this ship’s alternate systems are definitely being used in that one board. I think we’ve just found the Phoenix Circuit’s user interface.”

Ortega smiled and almost confirmed that he did, in fact, like the information, before he heard Calen’s low, rattling laughter from the other side of the communicator. He wasn’t the captain she’d been speaking to.

“That is delightful, Trell,” she said, amid triumphant chortles. “Hear me now: we’ve uncovered the weakness of Dyson’s impregnable defenses, the weakness that will lead to our final victory. I don’t know how, but this is the key to the Vaults of Vengeance. Input the numbers, Trell. Input the numbers and reveal the first true treasure to be pulled from the Cypulchral Cloud!”

Trell eagerly tapped Tan’s sequence of numbers into the panel. Quickly, and thankfully, the chiming alarm finally, finally stopped, prompting a relieved sigh from both Trell and Ortega. For a moment nothing happened, leaving the room in silence and stillness. Then, one of the screens over the console activated.

LAST COMMAND: 00:10:48:48

VIRELLIUM WAVE ACTIVATION: -00:01:12:12

“Virellium wave?” asked Ortega. “That seems… unlikely.”

“All Virellium functions through a wave,” said Trell. “Allegedly, at least. Morcalla’s never had much to work with. Most people talk about it like it’s a form of matter, but it’s actually a form of force energy, like in most energy weapons.”

“I know,” said Ortega. “The rarity’s why it seems unlikely, though, not that Virellium would have a wave.”

“It may be a small wave,” said Trell. “It wouldn’t require much to cover a system with a low-effect or no-effect field.”

“What are you two blathering about?” said Ortega over the communication channel.

“The numbers activated a console, Captain. It’s registering a command that came through almost eleven hours ago, and saying that something called a Virellium wave will activate in… one hour, eleven minutes, and twenty-nine seconds.”

“Oh, that’s intriguing,” said Calen. “For the record, sensors are indicating that the Phoenix Circuitry you’ve uncovered is beginning to activate. It’s… glowing. Under certain scan images you even look like a bird’s skeleton, surrounded by a halo. It’s quite poetic, I think. These are the ashes from which Morcala will rise.”

“We need to die first, Captain,” said Trell. “I don’t think we’ve hit that point yet.”

“Agreed,” said Calen. “But it’s nice to know there’s an option.”

“I think you two are overextending and mixing the metaphor a little,” said Ortega. “Either way, it looks like we’ve got an hour to prepare for… something. This is probably a signal that’s been sent to the entire Dyson fleet, or at least a large subset of them. This may allow us to figure out what their next move is, but… if it requires the ship’s other features to function, we may be out of luck since we’ve not had time to repair the ship’s reactor since the scuttler’s Neutrino Load neutralized it. Can we repair the reactor in an hour?”

“If we’re lucky,” said Trell. “Probably not, though.”

“Work on getting it up and running,” said Calen. “If we can reactivate Tan’s vessel without it blowing up on us, it will be more useful. Assuming you’ll need more than an hour, though… if I activated the scuttler’s retrieval functionality, I think I would be within the field of energy that the Phoenix Circuitry is activating. Trell, can you calculate an appropriate point of attachment that won’t puncture the circuitry itself? Ordinarily I wouldn’t be concerned, but we may be able to let the scuttler’s engines guide Tan’s fighter, albeit clumsily.”

“Brilliant plan, Captain,” said Trell. “I’ll have that calculated in minutes.”

“Wait, what’s happening?” asked Ortega.

“The scuttler’s about to engage in some actual scuttling,” said Trell. “Scuttlers rarely use this function these days… and almost only use them to tear another ship apart in combat when it comes up… but due to the slow precision required, it’s an awkward combat maneuver, and has more use as a means for tugging deactivated ships around.”

***

Twenty minutes later, Captain Calen input Ensign Trell’s calculations. The scuttler closed in on Tan’s fighter vessel, and activated twelve drill-like lasers. It slowly drifted toward the fighter, matching its velocity and spin, and carefully punctured areas of the hull that would be more or less unimportant for the near future. As the laser drills twisted to more accurately cut into the ship, the field of phoenix circuitry energy enveloped the scuttler entirely.

Once the drills cut their holes, the beams stopped. Twelve metallic pincers dug into the side of the fighter, like a tick attaching to an animal. Usually a scuttler would flex, unflex, and twist its pincers at this point, causing it to shred and bring down most enemy ships, but Calen belayed that protocol before it became an issue.

“We have connection,” said Calen. “I think we’re good to go.”

“Understood, Captain,” said Trell, from the other side of the communicator. “I’ll begin the repairs to the reactor now. With luck it should be back online in two hours.”

“Hopefully we won’t need it before then,” said Calen, leaning back in her chair. “Keep me updated.”

Calen felt good for the first time since hearing Admiral Cresh’s announcement that Morcala was surrendering. She didn’t know what would be happening when the countdown ended, but she was certain that it was the next step to victory, and the next chapter in her glorious career.

***

Emperor Dyson steepled his fingers and smiled as he read the latest report. The Morcalan resistance was staying strong, but it was settling into a predictable pattern. They were causing damage… but it was all superficial and easily repairable. He felt they were probably enjoying the chance to play act as members of a resistance fighting against an oppressive regime. It was an annoyance, but as long as he didn’t try to stamp them out entirely, their acting could be a powerful asset.

The door to his throne room opened, and Harold Zamona crouched to make sure that he could enter without bumping his head. It was the closest that Harold ever came to bowing. Dyson was always cheered by Zamona’s willingness to be on equal terms with him.

“We are ready, sire,” said Zamona. “We can move on. Enough troops will be staying behind to keep up the defenses while the attack continues.”

“Wonderful,” said Dyson. “You know, it occurs to me that with the gathered energy we’re finally overcoming Alexander’s problem. There will never be an end of worlds to conquer, at least not in my lifetime.”

“Don’t spread yourself too thin,” said Zamona. “The ancient Romans had their conquered slaves whisper that victory is fleeting to their generals, and even that reminder didn’t keep them from collapsing in due time. And besides, conquering these regions is only a fringe benefit for our real job.”

“Of course,” said Dyson. “It is time to begin our primary work. As usual, I imagine that the components of The Emperor’s Eye have a different destination than the fleet?”

“Naturally,” said Zamona, smiling.

“Perfect. Would you care to do the honors?”

The Emperor gestured to the massive red and orange device at the edge of the throne room. Zamona smiled and approached the monolithic machine, opening the deceptively small cover over the circular input device. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the medallion he’d worn ever since entering Dyson’s service. He cracked it open and removed the colorful, curiously hot coin of Virellium energy from within.

He placed the single Virellium coin into the input device before closing it, briefly thinking to the moment of the coin’s acquisition. He pulled a lever at the side of the machine and heard the snaps of electricity from the internal diodes, the rumble of thunder within the crystalline orbs that surrounded the device, and the powerful energy within the coin cascading from the machine as it generated a wave that would affect Dyson vessels across the system.

The scent of ionization filled the throne room, and the sensation of a great fire surrounded everyone in all of the ships touched by the wave, Dyson and Harold included. The fire was hot, but strangely without pain…

…and then the moment passed where they ceased to exist…

…and then, in a cloud of plasma, the fleet reappeared at its next system.

“This is strange, folks,” said Mark Matthews, continuing his color commentary. “Long-range scanners keeping tabs on the race’s final stragglers are picking up a huge energy signature just outside the system! Technically out of bounds, but pretty close to the race track. Well, the race began with a party crasher, maybe it’s about to end with another. Just a few minutes before we get a good visual on the far side of Mandrake, though, so I should have news for you on that end soon!”

Episode 64: Under The Table

Doctor Silas Rogers, better known across and beyond the Angelor Republic as The Soul Survivor, stood in the middle of a catwalk in the remains of the ruined station. His red, metallic body stood tall while he processed what data came in from the station’s machinery, advanced by even his standards but tamable through his patient application of research. The glass jar that sat where his head should have been seemed to stare into the dense fog of the Cypulchral Cloud, even though his personal sensors could barely push more than a few feet. The water in his jar bubbled thoughtfully, creating the only sound of activity in this long-dead place.

A Morcalan Scuttler cut through the mist. It approached the remnant of the station that used to be the hangar, perfectly landing at the spot designated by the coordinates that Doctor Rogers had included into all of the signals he’d been causing the station to generate. He had seen this vessel twice before, once while escaping to it and once while escaping from it, but this third time felt triumphant. He strode toward the landing spot as the Scuttler’s simple exit hatch lowered. Captain Calen stepped off first, followed by Ensign Trell and another figure he didn’t recognize… likely the unintended messenger who had been silently working for him for much of this day. Finally, the noble Captain Ortega stepped off after the others, smiling and even waving as he reached the bottom of the steps.

“We’ve come to lend assistance, as requested,” said Calen as Rogers neared. “What does the Soul Survivor need?”

“Passage away from here once my work is done,” said Rogers, selecting the resonant tenor voice that he preferred. “I’m almost disappointed. I’d expected to need to wait as long as a quarter of a century, but it appears I underestimated the ways in which I might benefit from Dyson’s attempted empire, brief though it may be.”

“Hey now,” said Pilot Tan.

“Your allegiance to this upstart so quickly after he conquered your region suggests subtle mental tampering, just like the one I’m using through your cybernetic lens.”

“You don’t even know which region I’m from.”

“With as short a time as Dyson has been around, it really doesn’t matter,” said Rogers. “What’s your name? I wasn’t able to get a good look at your records. The signal generated by this station had wreaked havoc with your ship before I was able to bring it to heel.”

“I’m Pilot Wilson Tan.”

“We’ll have much to discuss, Wilson,” said Rogers. “But first, I would speak to Captain Ortega.”

Ortega stepped forward, nodding.

“Clever use of the Dyson Empire’s technologies, Rogers,” said Ortega. “A visual output from a device designed to subvert certain neural preconceptions. Instant friendship and good will.”

“Yes, yes, I’m brilliant,” said Rogers. “Walk with me. You’ve information that I need.”

The servos and gears in Rogers whizzed and clanked as he turned to walk along the catwalk, heading toward an archway that separated this outer region of the ruined station from an interior section. Captain Ortega strode forward, easily catching up with Doctor Rogers as they moved.

“This is incredible,” said Ortega. “A portion of the nebula thick enough to contain heat and a breathable atmosphere.”

“I wouldn’t breathe it for more than twelve hours, if I were you,” said Rogers. “The cloud’s vapors contain many unpleasant materials. Illness and death would occur without treatment, or at least lengthy immersion in a proper environment.”

“So we’ll need to return to Calen’s ship before long.”

“We’ll be able to leave well before then,” said Rogers, stepping through an aperture and entering a long hallway. The hall was made from a red metal that Captain Ortega didn’t recognize. It featured walls that angled away, tapering to a point on either side and causing it to have, once the ceiling and floor were counted, six sides. Holes and patches in the walls and floor revealed unusual lengths of crystal that resembled pipes. Ortega had encountered any number of unusual alien technologies, but he didn’t recognize any of what he saw in the holes in the walls.

“What is all of this?”

“An engine of destruction,” said Doctor Rogers. “The Morcalan legends were true, to a degree. I’ve been searching for this space station for years under a number of different pretenses, a difficult task as it rarely spoke of itself to the ancient cultures it assaulted, seemingly at random. I believe this to have been the Terror Teknika of Thorrid Three, the Rupture Seed of the Crystalline Rifts, and the storied final doom of the Sepia Lord of the Vishnari.”

“The Sepia Lord didn’t exist, though, and the Crystalline Rifts are thought to have just been poetic descriptions of a standard nebula.”

“I believe that history is wrong on both of those counts,” said Rogers. “If the Sepia Lord didn’t exist, then someone very much like him did, and he grievously wounded this place. We are standing, Captain Ortega, in the flagship of Terranda Xol.”

“Xol?” said Ortega. “The… mythical birthplace of the Pyrhians?”

“Birthplace, Heaven, Hell, Shangri-La,” said Rogers. “Xol was their pre-life, after life, and most sought legendary location of the early space faring Pyrhian fleets. Like certain other cthonic entities, the name was used as both a location and a person. There was little difference between describing Terranda Xol and the location itself. This mobile fortress, though, was her way of traveling between the stars, and bringing her will to the non-Pyrhians, matching the early Pyrhian texts. ‘And Xol flew to the sky, to war with the far folk, to bring Xol to all.’”

“I’m not familiar with Pyrhian scriptures,” said Ortega.

“Not scripture,” said Rogers. “That passage is listed in their historical records.”

“Human historical records include stories about ancient England being home to giants,” said Ortega. “But I see what you mean. So why did you come here?”

“To gain an understanding of myself primarily,” said Doctor Rogers. “After the battle with the Sepia Lord, this facility was nearly destroyed. Terranda Xol needed to repair her flagship, using the raw souls and purified life of those who treasured life the most. This coffin of the Sepia Lord, this… cybernetic sepulcher swiftly fled to find those who lived more fully than any others.”

“And then what?” asked Ortega.

Doctor Rogers paused at a door at the end of the corridor. Rather than opening the door, the robotic frame twisted, miming the humanoid action of someone turning back to look at someone over their shoulder.

“What?” said Ortega.

“You don’t know what happened next?”

“No,” said Ortega.

“You really are a cretin,” said Rogers. “Obviously what happened next was the battle of Morcalan legend. Xol sought the souls of Morcalans to repair and refuel her fortress of terror, and the Morcalans stopped her. Barely.”

“Wait, the Morcalans are the ones who love life the most? Honestly?”

“Have you met them?” asked Rogers. “It’s hard to imagine a society more fully dedicated to acting wildly. I believe parts of this are lost in translation, though. ‘Loving life’ may not be as accurate for you, but something about the Morcalan principals of life resonated strongly with Terranda Xol, or were at least sufficient for her purposes.”

“Something doesn’t add up, though,” said Ortega. “Chronologically, ancient Pyrhian history and tales of things like the Sepia Lord are… well, old. They’ve been spacefarers much longer than humans, and Morcala wasn’t around during that time frame.”

“Don’t forget the incredible damage to this place,” said Rogers. “Even an idiot like you should be able to appreciate what moving at less than light speed means over such vast distances. Worse, imagine traveling at light speed without relativistic dampeners functioning. Morcala might not have existed when her quest began, but the early eras of their settlement would have already passed by the time Xol reached them and discovered a suitable race for her needs.”

“And you believe that she could truly find an interaction between her physical machinery and an immaterial concept like souls?”

“Of course I do,” said Rogers. “I’m an example of such technology, am I not?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Captain Ortega.

Doctor Rogers lowered his arm toward Ortega, and a glow rapidly filled his mechanical palm. Before Ortega could react a beam of energy shot forward, slamming into Ortega’s space-suit, knocking him back. Ortega’s suit seized and spasmed, no longer giving him the freedom of movement it normally provided as he hit the ground.

“I don’t know how you avoided the hypnotic lens flare, Ortega,” said Rogers. “But your acting needs work. A newly converted friend would at least humor me enough to agree that my soul lives. Or, at least, would be able to call me Soul Survivor instead of Rogers, as you did when you first left the ship. I would have your aid in this, Ortega, but if I must reap the life-harvesting soul-power of this dread place and the worlds beyond by myself, then so be it.”

Ortega glared from behind the helmet of his space suit as Doctor Rogers turned back to the door and opened it.

Much earlier, on another world…

Harold Zamona stepped up to the desk and nodded to the man behind it. The man was wearing an old Garamor military outfit. In another organization that might have been showing off, but in the Desperate Measures Agency it probably meant the person had an active career outside of his secretarial duties.

“Desperate times?” asked the man.

“Gettin’ there,” said Harold. “I was looking for some help with some work I’m doing. I’d like to get a list of your agents working on protection jobs.”

The secretary raised his eyebrow and glanced at the screen of the terminal at his desk. He looked back at Harold.

“You look familiar.”

“I get that a lot,” said Zamona. “So, how about it?”

“That kind of information is confidential, I’m afraid, and even if it wasn’t it’s harder to get that kind of information outside of the Veskid office. Best I could give you is information on agents on this planet, and outdated information on ones who’ve left here recently.”

“That should do,” said Zamona. “I believe the agent in question is either here, or recently left here.”

“That’s great. Doesn’t actually change the fact that it’s confidential.”

Zamona dropped a stack of bills onto the desk. One of the few reasons that Harold vastly preferred non-digital currency was for moments like this. A chip could contain so much more money, but with hard currency the recipient could actually see how much was being offered the moment the offer was made.

The secretary’s eyes widened a bit. He reached forward and flipped through the stack, rapidly approximating how much it contained. The man shook his head.

“Look, sir, I appreciate the offer, but I really mean that it’s confidential.”

Zamona dropped a second stack. The man behind the desk quickly pulled both stacks under the desk, rifled in a book for a second, and pulled out a sheet of paper which he handed to Harold.

“There you go,” he said.

“That was fast,” said Zamona, suspiciously.

“You’re not the first person to swing by this week. I printed some off in advance when I saw the trend. Paying customers deserve a speedy response.”

“I see,” said Zamona, taking the paper. “Thanks. You really helped me out here.”

“I hope so. Remember us the next time you need to take some Desperate Measures!”

“Right.” He shrugged his massive shoulders into a turn and walked back out the door.

The secretary opened up a tab on his computer, marked an officially accepted bribe, the service it was accepted for to ensure that he hadn’t given away too much information, and how much above the company’s cut of the bribe he’d accepted. Business continued to run smoothly, if you just understood how to regulate it.

Episode 58: Pressure in the Cloud

Pilot William Tan was thrown from the airlock onto the floor of Captain Calen’s ship. A helmet obscured his face, and his hands were fastened behind his back by a set of the Astroguard’s magnetic manacles. Calen lowered her Maelstrom Ray as Captain Ortega stepped in, just behind his prisoner.

“I wouldn’t expect you to treat war criminals so roughly, Ortega.”

“When in Rome,” said Ortega, removing his helmet. “Didn’t want to risk you thinking he was loose. Pushing him down meant he would be clear of any weaponry aimed his way.”

“You’ve a poor opinion of my senses if you think I can’t tell a prisoner from a boarder, Captain, and an even poorer opinion of my aim if you think you could protect him that way. Is our prisoner much use to us, or is he what passes for ballast in this cursed place?”

“He knows how to interpret the information I was able to pull off his computer,” said Ortega, removing a black cube from a compartment near his belt. “An active interpreter is more useful than a quick information grab, especially since the Cypulchral Cloud does things to sensors. He said he wasn’t able to shut his sensors off after The Signal took hold of his ship, so I’m hoping that they were thorough.”

Calen saw the black cube in Ortega’s hand and took a step back, eyeing it warily.

“What possessed you to bring something from that ship back here? I don’t want to risk my scuttler becoming infected with whatever spoils you’ve brought back. More than one tale of salvage ends horribly.”

“This is an Astroguard device, Captain,” said Ortega. “It was made with those kinds of situations in mind. All I need is a monitoring device, and I can use this to examine the data from his computer in isolation from your ship’s systems.”

Calen nodded, still looking over the cube from a distance.

“Permission granted,” she said. “You’ll do this under the supervision of Ensign Trell, though. Not to cast doubts on your techniques, Ortega, but I’ll trust a Morcalan engineer with field experience before I’ll trust the work of a team of technicians working from the safety of their own labs. Trell! Get in here!”

Moments later, the Ensign stepped out of the bridge.

“Trell, the good Captain’s got some information from the Dyson vessel. Help him to get to it so that there’s no chance of the data coming into contact with our systems. We’re playing with fire, today, and I’ll take no chances.”

“Understood, Captain.” Said Trell.

“Meanwhile, I’ve got a prisoner to interrogate,” said Calen. Before Ortega could react, her hand shot down, circled around the pilot’s neck, and slammed him into the wall.

“Wait!” said Ortega.

“No,” said Calen. “I’m sure you think you’ve gotten everything you can out of him, Ortega, and he may even believe he’s told you everything of value, but I insist on wringing our guest dry.”

“Can you at least wait until after Trell and I have more data from his computer?”

“What’s your name, boy?” Calen asked, ignoring Ortega. “I don’t like having strangers on my ship.”

A muffled response came from inside his helmet.

“Why’s he traveling without external speakers?” asked Calen.

“I turned them off during the flight over,” said Ortega. “Didn’t want him interrupting things before you’d had your say.”

“I thought he was being a little too polite for one of Dyson’s mongrels,” said Calen.

“Is that just a basic flight suit?” said Trell, looking at the prisoner’s outfit. “Those things barely have any insulation. Or heating. Captain Ortega, people can die from even brief exposure to space travel if this is all they’re wearing.”

“He’s fine,” said Ortega. “On the way over, my suit measured the temperature and pressure, and at this spot in the cloud it’s actually not bad. A little worse than the top of a standard planet’s highest mountains, maybe. He’s probably cold, but he wasn’t going to die.”

“That’s incredible,” said Trell, reaching over to the prisoner’s helmet and reactivating its external communications. “Pressure like that shouldn’t be possible in a gas cloud this size. Especially this close to the exterior. If only our sensors were working right now, I’m sure the data would be valuable.”

“-old, cold, cold, cold,” said William as the speaker on his helmet crackled to life. “Stop saying I’m fine, I’m cold, I’m cold.”

“We can hear you, Pilot Tan,” said Ortega.

“Good, then you know I need to warm up,” said the prisoner. “I went through blizzard training that was better than this.”

“You’ll warm up soon enough,” said Ortega. He looked up to see Calen nodding in surprised approval.

“What?” he asked.

“There’s a mean streak in you,” said Calen. “You hide it well. That’s a bit reassuring.”

“It can get the job done sometimes,” said Ortega. He walked closer and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I don’t want you to sacrifice your technique here,” said Ortega. “I really don’t. But there’s something not right about this. Go easy on him during the interrogation.”

“Don’t go soft just when I’m starting to believe there’s hope for you, Ortega.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “There’s something off about him. Too calm. He’s practically a civilian, the way he acts. You might get something useful out of him, but I don’t think he’s worth getting blood on your hands.”

“Typical Astroguard morality,” she said. “You think he’s not dark enough to be worth getting blood on your hands. I may go easy on him for your sake, I may, but know that he’ll have to prove himself. My hands are primed for blood, Captain, and it’s up to him to see if he’s bright enough to be worth staying clean.”

Episode 40: Performance Review

Harold Zamona gingerly picked up the glass and began to drink. The poison within the beverage mixed well, creating an unusual flavor. He would still prefer to not take such measures in his endless quest to weaken himself, but he did take some wry pleasure from the knowledge that he probably had the most discerning palate of any human where strength-sapping poisons were concerned. The gauntlets were more effective by far, but when used in conjunction with other means he could feel like he wasn’t constantly on the verge of overpowering their capabilities.

The large monitor on the side of his meditation room crackled to life with an annoying chime. Harold glared at his beverage and made a pointed decision to finish his drink. The chiming grew more insistent in tone, volume, and frequency while he finished the last poisonous drop. He carefully set the glass back onto its table, and turned to face the screen.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said.

The computer knew enough of his moods to interpret that statement as an activation command. Emperor Dyson’s genial face appeared on the screen. His immaculate outfit and well trimmed beard annoyed Harold more than it should have.

“Harry,” said the Emperor. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No,” said Harold. “It’s not a bad time. Not as such. Morcala is trying my patience.”

“Oh? Is there no fight in you, then?”

“There’s plenty of fight in me. The Morcalans aren’t fighters. They’re play actors.”

“Quite committed to their roles, though.”

“Yes. They’ll march to their death even if ordered not to by a superior. I told you that having Admiral Cresh in our pocket wouldn’t be enough.”

“I concede that you were correct,” said the Emperor. “The Neural Guidance Facilitators are either not ready, or the Morcalans are made of sterner stuff. It took too long to affect just one of them, and even his position of power was not enough to sway the masses.”

“The Suzerain would have been more effective. She has less control over the military, but more influence on public opinion.”

“What’s done is done,” said the Emperor, waving his hand dismissively. “We have enough of a foothold to fight the Morcalans as we would any other planet.”

“I’m still not convinced of that. We may need to leave a greater force than usual here. A token military presence with automated troops won’t suffice.”

“Not yet,” said the Emperor. “My hope is that we will soon discover an internal conflict. Their personal pride will override their patriotism in due time.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” said Harold. “They’re already unorganized, and their guerila tactics are almost more effective than their standard military techniques were when they were following orders. They nearly destroyed the lens before extraction.”

“They did?” asked the Emperor. A look of genuine concern crossed his face.

“Did you not know? It was in my report.”

The Emperor looked crestfallen, as if the suggestion that victory had not been such a certainty was a greater loss than an actual failing would have been.

“That is… upsetting. I apologize, Harry. I hadn’t taken the time. That lens is nearly irreplaceable.”

“I know.”

“And essential for the final stage.”

“Yes. It is. Using it as a weapon now is, as always, a tremendous risk.”

Emperor Dyson slumped in his throne. Zamona considered, not for the first time, how much of an effort he put into the show of it all.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We got it out in time. And even if they’d been able to damage it, we would have been able to repair the damage. It would have slowed us down, but they wouldn’t have damaged it beyond the point of repair.”

“Good,” said the Emperor. “Excellent. I’m eager to leave Morcalan space and continue our great work elsewhere. Do you have our next targets in mind?”

“I do,” said Harold. “Other systems are finally beginning to take note, and governments within the Angelor Republic are considering you more than a local problem now. We can expect stronger preparations against our arrivals moving forward. But thanks to your technology, Emperor, we won’t have to keep moving in a straight line. Or even a continuous one.”

Dyson sat up in his chair.

“Oh, wonderful… we harvested enough energy for the entire fleet to use?”

“More than enough,” said Harold. “Once we finish establishing ourselves here, we’ll have our pick of any system in the Republic.”

Episode 36: Call from the Cloud

The Cypulchral Cloud loomed on the vidscreen, like a purple and grey wall of fog. It had a definite outer border, but tendrils of the cloud extended beyond its perimiter. Apart from its strange density, it didn’t seem all that special to Captain Ortega. He’d seen many nebulae in his time, most of them larger. Captain Calen and Ensign Trell, on the other hand, were staring at the cloud with a sense of trepidation that he hadn’t seen on either of them before.

As they neared, the cloud filled more and more of the viewscreen until it was all that could be seen. Ortega thought he detected the faintest hint of pixelation on the screen, but it left before he could put his finger on exactly what had changed.

“We’re hitting the first stages of the cloud now,” said Ensign Trell. “Motes of dust, and initial electromagnetic interference detected.”

“Will the scanners even be worth it in there?” asked Ortega.

“If the tales hold true, they won’t hurt,” said Calen. “The weird and uncatalogued energies within the Cypulchral Cloud will interfere with scanners, but won’t disable them. I’ll take a fighting chance to see any dangers before they come my way.”

“Captain, it may be worth our time to disable certain features of our computers,” said Trell. “If the reports can be trusted, the cloud’s ability to upload corrupted data can do serious damage to some systems. If we encounter the Soul Survivor it may also help us to prevent him from uploading his mind into our ship again.”

“Excellent plan, Ensign,” said Calen. “He took my ship before, but I’ll see him frozen in hydrofire before he does it again!”

“You mentioned drifting pieces of scrap before,” said Ortega. “Do you have any plans for avoiding them if our sensors go down?”

“Not one,” said Calen. “If I’m fast enough on the controls I’ll be able to bob and weave away at the first sign of trouble, but not before we take a few bruises.”

Ortega nodded. If not for the potential risk from Doctor Rogers, he would concede that the cloud wasn’t worth exploring. Even without the ghost stories that surrounded it, the Cypulchral Cloud’s hazards would warrant a ship more specially designed than the scuttler.

“Having second thoughts?”

Ortega looked at Trell. She’d caught him staring through the viewscreen, and likely had a good grasp on his feelings.

“Always,” he said. “A part of me is worried that Doctor Rogers knows nothing about this place. He might just be running here as a convenient hiding place.”

“Too late to back down now,” said Trell.

“Why?”

“Because we’re here,” said Trell. “Only cowards turn back from an engagement once the course is set. We’ve not even encountered any dangers that would warrant a tactical reevaluation.”

A chime sounded. Captain Calen snapped out of her studious examination of the viewscreen and Trell turned back to her station, looking nervous.

“What’s that?” asked Ortega.

“We’re being hailed,” said Calen. “Normally we automatically receive them and log the messages.”

“I removed our regular acceptance of hailing frequencies when I disabled some of the computer’s functions,” said Trell. “I didn’t want to take any chances with any features that allow external sources to automatically do things to our computers.”

“Should we answer?” asked Ortega.

“It would be safe normally,” said Calen. “But it’s also exactly the kind of thing that wouldn’t be safe in the old stories about this place.”

The chime sounded again. Ortega turned to look at the impending wall of purple mist and vapor. It didn’t look dangerous yet.

“I don’t see any ships that could be sending a hailing frequency,” said Ortega.

“There are none in the range of the scanners,” said Trell. “The scanners don’t penetrate the cloud, though. Neither do our eyes. A powerful transmitter from just inside the cloud could be hailing us.”

“Could we locate the source of the signal before accessing it?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” said Trell. “But not now. The amount of interference we’re receiving is already playing havoc with some of the data that our sensors are picking up. It might be safe to open the message and see what it says. If we’re lucky, we could close the signal if it appears to be nothing but a jumbled message.”

“Is it safe to do that?” asked Ortega.

“No,” said Trell. “Any exposure could potentially work faster than I could keep up with.”

“There’s one other factor we need to consider,” said Calen.

“And that is?” asked Ortega.

“It could be a distress call. I know we’re all thinking it… it’s the most likely reason to hail a ship out here. We can’t let our fear of what it might be keep us from answering it as we usually would. Trell, prepare to instantly close the message if it’s nothing but garbage. Ortega… if we’re lucky, this is The Soul Survivor realizing he’s made a terrible mistake and trying to find a quick rescue.”

“I doubt that,” said Ortega.

“As do I,” said Calen. “Regardless, it’s a risk we have to take. Trell, open the channel.”

Ensign Trell nodded and activated the communications array. Moments later a man’s voice rang through the bridge.

“-ease respond. To any ship in range, we need assistance. This is a repeating message. Please, respond. To any ship in range, we need assistance. This is a repeating message. Please, respond.”

Trell looked to Captain Calen as the message continued to loop. Calen nodded and Trell entered a command. Seconds later, the message broke off and the same voice, speaking in real time, came over the loudspeaker.

“Are you a rescue vessel? Really a rescue vessel?”

“Yes,” said Calen. “We’ve heard your distress call and can lend assistance if-”

“I’m transmitting my best guess as to coordinates,” said the voice. “I worked them out beforehand, they’re attached to the carrier as a secondary signal. The moment you have them, you need to cut transmission!”

“Why?” asked Captain Ortega.

“Because the signal will find you,” said the voice. “Assuming it hasn’t found you already.”

Episode 32: Tale of the Cypulchral Cloud

“Trell, find a way for us to find out what’s happening back at Morcala,” said Captain Calen. “Start working out the safest route to go back. Or to get out of the system, if necessary.”

Captain Ortega watched Ensign Trell nod and return to the bridge. Calen rose to follow.

“Wait,” said Ortega. “Why won’t you follow him to this… cloud place?”

“Our priority is restoring Morcala, either by rushing to its defense or by escaping to return and fight another day. The latter option marks a defeat too great to bear, but the sooner we accept it the sooner we can return.”

“I have trouble believing that,” said Ortega. “I’d have thought that you would rush in to save your planet, no matter what the odds were.”

“If the war is still in progress, that’s exactly what we’ll do,” said Calen. “If the war is over… truly over… we’ll just be throwing resources away that would best be saved for the next war. And we’ll want to initiate that soon.”

“And this cloud? Why does it sc…”

Calen paused at the door and looked back at Ortega. He quickly rethought his question.

“Why does Trell telling us that he went to this cloud make him a lower priority? You were eager to track down Doctor Rogers for what he did to your ship, but now you’re letting him off the hook?”

“The Cypulchral Cloud is an ancient and dangerous place,” said Calen. “The space dust and gasses mark the remains of an ancient battle. It used to be a terrible weapon, a doomsday device that might have destroyed the system. Some reports say that it would have destroyed reality itself, but tales do have a nature to grow larger than their facts. A great force came together to destroy this weapon. The force was doomed to fail, but it gave a smaller group the chance they needed to covertly enter the weapon. They destroyed the beast from within, dying in the process. The explosion took out many of the surviving forces who gathered outside the weapon as well. From that day on, the cloud has… failed to disperse. The titanium mists are still charged with electromagnetic energy, making it impossible to scan or navigate safely. Remnants of the debris that weren’t vaporized can collide into a ship without warning. Worse, strange fragments of corrupted information have downloaded onto the computers of ships that have entered the region, data that rarely translates into anything meaningful, sometimes corrupting computers as the data integrates. Other stories suggest that it’s a haunted, evil place. Spacefaring superstitions aside, it’s as dangerous as any battle, but in a battle you can at least defeat your enemy. The Cypulchral Cloud is a needless death waiting to happen.”

Ortega looked back into his glass. The Spinewaster Ale still waited, daring him to drink it.

“I can see why you’re reluctant to go into this place.”

“I’m glad you see things my way. Your foe is dead, Captain Ortega. The Soul Survivor will be lost to us. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”

Ortega looked back at Calen.

“What if he does?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if Doctor Rogers had the same information you gave me? An ancient weapon converted into a scan-proof hideaway, that still has debris from the original weaponry within it? Stories about corrupted data automatically uploading itself to other ships? What if he learned more about what the weapon did, or where it came from? It sounds like the kind of thing that he’d want to get a closer look at.”

“No,” said Calen. “He’d never get near it. We keep a close eye on it with security satellites. Only Morcalan science vessels are allowed anywhere near it.”

“When I finally caught up with Doctor Rogers, he was using a stolen science vessel as a base of operations. One he’d outfitted with his own signature cloaking device. If any ship would be designed to get into this cloud, it’d be that one. What if he wanted to try and learn more about this ancient weapon? Or worse, what if he already knows something and wants to reactivate it?”

“Do you believe that the Soul Survivor is mad enough to try that?”

“For the right sort of power or leverage? I think Doctor Rogers is mad enough to try anything.”

Calen turned from Ortega and walked back to the bridge. Ortega considered drinking the rest of his Spinewaster Ale, but resisted the urge to try when he recalled the intense sensation of near-pain that it caused. He followed Ortega the short distance to the bridge. Trell was busy at her station, intently listening to something on her headset.

“New orders, Ensign,” said Calen. Trell looked up from her station, revealing a stunned face. “Trell? What’s wrong?”

“It’s a message from Admiral Cresh. I don’t…”

“Play it,” said Calen.

Trell removed her headset and loaded the file into the public address system. Moments later, Ortega heard the voice of Admiral Cresh again, a voice filled with regret.

“This is Admiral Cresh,” said the recording. “We have finally finished our negotiations with Emperor Dyson’s herald. There are still terms to discuss, but… our government has agreed to surrender, and to aid Emperor Dyson’s forces in their future conquests. We will fight on, under his banner. All vessels still in range are ordered to immediately return to Morcala for their new assignments.”

The stony silence that followed made Ortega more aware of the ambient ship noises than he had been before. A look at Calen revealed a face of sorrow and rage.

“Ensign Trell, set a new course for the Cypulchral Cloud to track down The Soul Survivor. We’ve been ordered to die. We need to make it official.”