Waking up once more in the cold, white room, Cynop turned to Brift. At least, he turned to where Brift should be. Seeing that the room was utterly empty, he found himself on the verge of panic. Since this had all started, he had been putting on a brave face for the sailors under his command. Without them looking to him for support, he'd somehow lost his own.
The door, which had only ever lifted enough for bowls of the awful fungal gruel they were given as sustenance before now, opened high enough to reveal a pair of shining metal boots, followed by matching greaves, an armored torso draped in a rich purple tabard with a thick belt running around the middle and a long, cruel face. The face was more similar to a Human than any other species Cynop was familiar with, but the nose was too long, and the eyes were wrong–large pupils ringed with purple with no whites to be seen. The orange, clay-like face with a wiry, almost root-like black beard growing down from the chin and cheeks was the only flesh Cynop could see until the creature unclasped his hands from behind his back and steepled them under his chin in thought. The hands were the same smooth, orange-tinted complexion as the face, and the fingers were long, with bulging knuckles at every joint.
Remembering himself, Cynop stood up and looked the creature in the eye. “Where are my sailors?”
“You needn't worry anymore about them,” said the armored cyborg. His voice was harsh and gravelly, grinding against Cynop's ears like sandpaper.
“They are my responsibility, and I will worry about them until I get them home, one way or another.”
There was a short, harsh barking sound that Cynop assumed was a laugh.
“There is no need to worry about that. The Drakmundi–which I believe is a fitting name for my people in your tongue–have relieved you of your duties. Griffonia now belongs to us, along with all its people. We will take what we desire, and you will serve us or perish.”
“You may find us more trouble than we're worth,” snarled Cynop, his love for the Republic overshadowing his fear.
Farbin huffed out another short laugh, turned, and walked from the cell, closing the door behind him and unconsciously scratching his metal chest plate.
He had proven what he wished to. He could speak fluent Talpaertan. Keeping the prisoners all together had given him a chance to study the language long enough to run it through his programming and master it.
He would continue to intercept transmissions and process them to ensure his vocabulary was exhaustive, but he was confident he had mastered the syntax and pronunciation. Some heralds neglected learning the local tongues, but Farbin found it extremely helpful in identifying and crushing resistance movements. Regardless, he would send the Council whatever they asked for. His people would survive no matter the cost.
For now, it was time he fed the beast soldiers. The Griffonian sailors needed to serve some purpose, after all.
***
“Do you believe in the Progenitor?”
Glynn’s head snapped up from her notes at the sudden question. “What?”
Darvik wasn't meeting her eyes. “Do you, uh, believe in the Progenitor?” he repeated.
“I suppose so,” she said thoughtfully. “But I am not a social worker. I am certainly not your therapist. Despite the seemingly cozy setting, I am here to teach you to use your psychic powers, not discuss theology. To that end, have you been practicing your telekinesis?”
He had been–quite a bit in fact–but he'd also always been a back-of-the-classroom, showing-intelligence-is-showing-weakness kind of student and didn't want to look like he cared too much. He shrugged.
Glynn shook her head. “If you don't practice you won't improve.”
“I'm asking for reasons involving my training,” said Darvik.
She looked at him, confused.
“About the, uh, Progenitor,” he clarified.
“Okay,” she said, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Explain.”
“I, uh, saw something when I was on Koo L'Koom,” he began. “When I had gotten knocked out by the beast's aura.”
“You said before you were simply unconscious and had no recollection of that time,” said Glynn.
“Yeah, I didn't really want to talk about receiving a vision when I wrote that report. Given my… background, I thought looking like a madman wasn't in my best interest.”
“Anyway, the vision?” prompted Glynn.
Darvik nodded. “I saw… a man? He was dressed like one of the old ranch hands from back home.”
Glynn nodded thoughtfully. “What did he say?”
“He said he had plans for me,” said Darvik, rushing the words a bit in an effort to get them out of the way.
“And then?” asked Glynn.
Darvik shrugged. “I woke up.”
“Hmm. Do you think it's related to why you were able to function in the presence of Koo L'Koom's aura despite your T-suppressor medication wearing off?”
“That's what I was hoping you could tell me,” said Darvik.
“Well, visions of the Progenitor as a familiar, agrarian figure are not uncommon,” said Glynn. “They predate many worlds’ recorded Great Teachings, or are considered their foundation, in some cases.
“Please understand that this discussion is not confidential and your amended recollections will be added to your file.”
Darvik’s face contorted a bit with regret, but he nodded his understanding.
“Now,” continued Glynn, “on with your training. Please go get the block.”
Darvik looked over at the shelf at the all-too familiar wooden block. Reaching out with T-waves, he grabbed the block and brought it over without moving a muscle, plunking it down on the table. He couldn't be certain, but he was pretty sure he saw the slightest hint of a smile on Glynn's face.
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***
Hunt looked dubiously at the three hulking ships docked by the Drihn. AetherCrate Hauling, who had a fully functional repair hangar at the airfield had donated a king's ransom in aqua-colored paint so that the hulls of the newly-acquired ships would match Hrake’s flagship. However, the open-air upper deck and cobbled together appearance screamed “Ramshackle Collective.” Hunt thought that if he listened closely the phrase “death trap” may be audible as well. However, Hrake was exceedingly proud of his burgeoning fleet, and Hunt did his best to be diplomatic.
“Perhaps you could speak with someone who knows the construction,” said Hunt. “The Fleet intends to head towards Cradle on our way towards the unexplored regions of the Cluster. If you speak to Admiral Crush, she may be willing to take a look.”
He knew he couldn't guarantee Crush's aid, but goodwill had been flowing rather freely between the victors of the Cornucopia War. Even the PIC, typically an antagonist within the nations that recognized the Code, had been relatively friendly as the free nations enjoyed the bounty of the Cornucopia Cluster.
“I will reach out to her,” said Hrake, nodding thoughtfully. “I will need to ask leave of my King, as well.”
“Do you think he'll object?” asked Hunt.
“Considering how well the voyage went, I doubt he will deny my request, though he is always eager to have the full fighting force of Gred on Hruduk. He sees value in trade and defense, but does not wish for his people to spread themselves too thin.”
Hunt nodded. “His caution is wise, but I suspect the Hrudukites of Gred will be a force to be reckoned with in the galaxy under his leadership.”
“That is kind of you to say,” said Hrake with a smile.
***
The underwater village of the Shairet was like nothing Lawbine had ever seen. The smooth, multicolor stone construction was beautiful in and of itself, but it was lit up by swirls of cultivated bioluminescent algae.
Few of the locals spoke Talpaertan, and none spoke his native Aeratan tongue, so conversations were short but friendly.
Some of the children darted back to a parent's arms or into a building when they saw a foreigner coming, but many continued playing and singing or simply stared with the innocent uncouth of a child. The bulky aethersuit he was wearing so he could breath below the surface probably wasn't helping matters.
“And up there is the blacksmith shop,” Chreep was saying, indicating a downward facing cave mouth that appeared to contain air rather than water. “Our smiths and scholars have been studying under the mechanics and engineers of AetherCrate. We hope to join the other sapients in the larger galaxy-”
“Ah, our friends return.”
Lawbine turned, surprised to see Vanbrook and Raivyn approaching.
“Good chat?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Vanbrook cheerily, ignoring the attempt to needle him.
Lawbine nodded. Vanbrook had adjusted his strategy. He'd have to tread carefully now.
“Chreep had just been showing me the village,” he said. “It's impressive.”
Raivyn nodded. “The Shairet are exceptional masons and algae cultivators. I'm glad we got a chance-”
“All personnel, report to stations immediately.”
Triflin’s voice on the emergency comms channel cut off Raivyn's comments and the three looked at each other significantly before turning and making their way to the tower.
“Sorry, Chreep,” said Vanbrook. The comms were contained in the Squadmate’s helmets so Chreep hadn't heard the announcement. “Looks like something's up.”
“I will accompany you,” said Chreep.
When the four companions broke the surface and exited the tower, they were greeted by the chaos of hundreds of sailors scrambling back to their stations.
“Talon Squad, this is Rai,” said the psychic. “What do we know?”
“Nothing more than what Triflin just said,” answered Reclan over comms.
“Talon Squad,” said Hunt, cutting into the Squad’s channel. “Please report to the bridge of the Wingspan. Bring Ambassador Chreep if possible.”
“Chreep, can you accompany us to the Wingspan?” asked Raivyn.
“Of course,” he answered. “May I ask why?”
“Sorry,” replied Vanbrook “But we're in the dark on that one, too.”
When they reached the bridge, Hunt was standing by the bridge’s main display and fidgeting nervously.
“Ambassador Chreep,” he said. “I'm glad you're here. You have visitors.” He indicated the display. A massive, bare-branched tree hung in the aether, rotating slowly, unblinking eyes scattered over the rough bark. At the top, gnarled limbs reached upward, at the bottom, organic thrusters occasionally fired from hollow tubes within the cluster of roots. The trunk was swollen in the middle, allowing room on the inside for officers and crew. An Astralbian star tree.
“Where is this image from?” asked Chreep, his features darkening dangerously.
“High orbit,” said Hunt.
“Shoot them down,” said Chreep.
“Extremely inadvisable, Ambassador,” replied Hunt. “I certainly can't do so under my own authority. We intend to talk to them and wanted you, as a representative of Gateway, to be present. They are trespassing in your orbit but they have not been aggressive. It is common practice to warn invaders and hear their reasoning. If they are wise, they will apologize and leave immediately.”
“Then let us hear their apology,” said Chreep, folding both of his sets of arms.
“Don't hold your breath,” muttered Vanbrook.
Triflin made the call and soon a haughty, narrow female face filled most of the screen.
Hunt took a deep breath. “Hello, this is Admiral Hunt of the Griffon Republic Navy. I'm here with Ambassador Chreep of the Shairet people. We wanted to know what you're doing in the Shairets’ sovereign orbit.”
“I am Lady Rewna. We are on the lookout for a group of deserters,” said the Astralbian.
“You are not welcome here, Astralbian,” said Chreep.
“You are not familiar with Astralbian policy, I take it,” said Rewna coldly. “We do not consider orbits ‘sovereign,’ nor do we recognize any galactic code. We will be gone when our mission is complete.”
“Your Emperor died the last time you invaded our world,” seethed Chreep. “May it be so every time you flaunt our sovereignty.”
“Lord Wyven is not Emperor Jylik,” said Rewna. “I suggest you wipe the board clean concerning your perception of the Astralbian Kingdom. We will not land on your clay. We will leave when we are finished.”
The screen went black, and Hunt caught a murderous look on Chreep’s face in the reflection.
“If we had our own defense system we would blast them from the aether,” said the Shairet.
“I hear you,” said Vanbrook. “Honestly, it sounds like a good time. But you'd be making a lot of trouble for yourself if you did that. Have you talked to the other villages and tribes? You'd be bringing them into an interplanetary war.”
Chreep deflated some, but there was still fire in his eyes. “We suffered one invasion and settled with driving them off. We may not be so forgiving if they dare come back.”
Hunt nodded. He was impressed by Vanbrook's diplomacy. He would have expected the notoriously hot-headed swashbuckler to be begging to take the fight to the Astralbians as soon as possible.
“We'll keep monitoring them until we're ready to move on, and do what we can to make sure someone on Gateway can keep up surveillance when we're gone.”
“That is much appreciated, Admiral,” said Chreep. “The Republic has been a valued and steadfast ally.”
***
Glinya looked over Riventius’s shoulder at the console of their stolen ship. The tuft on the end of his semi-prehensile tail flicked back and forth as he looked over the same data.
“Looks like they know where we're heading,” Glinya said warily.
Riventius turned to her, his long canines bared by a lopsided grin gracing his short muzzle. His pointed ears were perked up, the excitement of the cat-and-mouse game he was playing with the Astralbians making his heart race.
“Relax,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his clawed hand. “There's one more planet to try.”
“Even if there is, the Griffon Republic has gone dark on us,” said Glinya.
“If we can get to them, they'll take us in,” noted Riventius. “And there's one place the Kingdom won't expect us to go, or be willing to go themselves.”
He punched some buttons and adjusted some dials, changing their destination. This was going to be fun.