(Starspeak)

The cult, we learned, was divided into upper and lower camps. The far more numerous initiates stayed in camp of shacks close to the water, while the more decorated members stayed in a much more advanced compound atop the hill.

Impossible to ignore was the raised arena dominating the yard in front of the compound. Its sides were stone and polished clean, but its dirt surface was visibly pocked and stained with blood. Brutal fights were a regular occurrence here, one within the last few hours even.

A layman could have a hard time identifying some of the advantages our new tech had over modern Earth counterparts, our handbooks especially. If you didn’t know anything about psionics, they seemed like less impressive smartphones.

But as we’d hiked up the hill, flanked by cultists scrutinizing us up and down, I was struck by three things. First was the path itself: definitely not cut by hand. The flat stretches were tamped down and buttressed with machine sawed logs while the steps were cut from stones that weren’t moved by hand. Technically possible, but these cultists didn’t seem the type to hone civic Adeptry. Second was the compound itself as we reached the top. It was too nice a building, more of a single lavish manor with a few peripheral buildings than a more evenly distributed compound. A grand façade was cut into the wood, and I immediately spied electric lights through the windows. Third was the Vorak themselves: clean. Mavriste had described a bunch of rednecks, not just huddling in the woods, but camped out on an island. But instead of being mangy and gross, they were well groomed…at least atop the hill they were. The initiates by the water hadn’t been in squalor, but the smell of salt from them confirmed they probably did all their bathing in the ocean.

I was beginning to get a sense for how this cult operated. Fight for ‘worthiness’, and enjoy a better life. Literally competing to see who got to sit atop the hill.

All this led me to doubt Mavriste’s recollection of the island not having a radio presence.

So, I activated my handbook while it was still in my pocket. There was something comforting about pressing the buttons and actually thumbing through the settings with the touch pad, but it was equally possible to operate entirely hands free.

Antenna in my pocket, I gave our surroundings a sweep and found the compound was hopping with radio signals. They were broadcasting something. Weird. It seemed like static, but I knew enough about cryptography to know even a seemingly jumbled signal could contain a dense code.

I had a hunch about who they were contacting too. At least, trying to contact.

Red-sleeves was quickly brushed aside in favor of Vorak wearing higher ranking colors on their robes. A green and a yellow wearing pair—both Adept—turned red-sleeves away at the manor compound’s front door, admitting us.

Mavriste stared down the both of them, and for a second, I wondered if another fight was about to break out. Going by the walls and windows, it didn’t seem like fights just broke out. There was structure to the cult’s crazy battle philosophy.

But then again, it was a crazy cult. So, it probably wasn’t best to make assumptions like that.

“Yeah, you two still aren’t enough,” Mavriste said. The two turned their attention to me, and I felt a few psionic ripples go out from them. Measuring me up. “…And I wouldn’t go anywhere near the alien. I’ve guaranteed his safety, so fighting him means fighting me.”

“…Fine,” yellow grumbled. “Chief’s out back.”

Chief? No, that wouldn’t do at all. That was how I thought of Sendin Marfek, even years later. No, I’d need a different word.

Boss? Honcho?

I really didn’t want to have to ask for anyone’s real name. I doubt any cultists would give one either. The robes and the colors, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the cult made its initiates do something ridiculous like swearing off their old identity.

Green and yellow sleeved rak led us through the manor’s first floor to a sprawling patio in the back where a gaggle of robed cultists were engaged in something like meditation.

Mavriste and I both picked out the leader—the only one not wearing a white robe—and I sensed Mavriste relax a tiny measure. I did too. The leader was Adept, but they didn’t give off emanations like Nai or Mavriste.

They didn’t even measure up to Middle Bear, Vo. If I had to guess, they were probably somewhere near my level, an L2 with some well practiced tricks, but fundamentally disadvantaged against the most impressive class of Adepts.

“Wait,” yellow threatened with a point. Green reinforced the gesture, and both of them returned toward their posts.

Mavirste asked, nodding toward the cultists.

I observed.

he assured.

I gathered.

Mavriste said,

I nodded.

he explained.

I said.

Mavriste shrugged.

I said.

I said honestly.

he asked, keeping his eyes on the cult leader in the navy robe.

Mavriste grinned.

I said.

Mavriste snorted.

I admitted.

Mavriste asked.

I admitted.

he mocked.

I said.

The cultists’ meditation circle seemed to have concluded, and more than half of them were beginning to congregate around us.

Most wore colors further up the spectrum, I saw. Cyan. Blue. Inspecting the leader’s dark robe more closely revealed that they wore a purple band around their sleeves. The higher energy end of the spectrum, I recalled. The purple-colored band brought to mind a name.

Royal.

The vibe the cult leader gave off supported the idea. This was their little kingdom isle, and they ruled from the top. I didn’t need psionic emotional detection to tell me how they felt. The arrogance poured out, just from their swagger and expression.

We stood politely while the Royal and a number of blue and green wearing cultists tried not to be too obvious in surrounding us. The leader in question materialized a simple chair and plopped down aggressively casually.

Dismissive.

Nice try, but I’d played that card too many times in the past for it to rattle me now.

“…Going to say anything?” the Royal asked. They were looking at Mavriste when they spoke, but the small glances as they approached said their attention was on me.

But why hide it? I was a weird alien. It wasn’t weird to stare at me. It was weird to hide it though.

I posited.

Mavriste said. “Weren’t you just a green the last time I was here? Cyan? What happened to Harpe Vitar?”

“Dead,” the Royal said cockily.

They did not elaborate.

Mavriste took the news in stride though, shrugging. “Eh, ‘live by the sword, die by the sword’.”

I eyed him. The phrase was in Starspeak, but had he translated that from the Bible?

He gave me a knowing glance back.

Wow , he actually had…

“I’d like to ask a favor,” Mavriste answered simply. “Last time I was here, we seemed to part on amicable terms at least. I’d like the chance to continue the trend.”

“Ask all you want,” theRoyal said. “We’re not the favorable type though.”

Mavriste asked me.

I agreed.

“Then I’ll keep things simple,” Mavriste said, leaning in conspiratorially. “We’re tracking a human corpse, and we’ve tracked it here. I’ll challenge you for the corpse.”

“No,” the Royal said simply. “We’re not giving it up.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Then I demand a counter-proposal,” Mavriste said. “Let’s negotiate like proper rak.”

I saw him hold back a wince as soon as the words left his mouth. He’d misspoke and he knew it.

“Look around, missionary, this is not a place for…‘proper rak’.”

The assembled crowd, finely groomed as they appeared, were indeed rough customers. Every one of them had that look in their eye where they were weighing whether it would be best to disembowel or decapitate you.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Mavriste was a soldier though and remained undeterred.

“I can challenge you plainly if you prefer,” he said. “Negotiating a solution is always my first instinct, but let it be known that I don’t keep trying solutions that won’t work.”

“I said…we’re not giving the corpse up,” the Royal spoke, smooth and intimidating. “We have our own business with the Human corpse.”

“…And the person who gave it to you, right?” I asked.

The Royal had been doing their best to pretend to ignore me, but they couldn’t help but look my way. Stiffly.

“Someone was trying to ship you the coffin that corpse was originally in,” I said. “But what were the bones inside then?”

It was a shame we had to leave the evidence of the crime back with Mashoj. It might have been a great bargaining chip now.

“Whatever, whoever they are…is none of your concern,” the Royal said.

I darkened at that.

“Tides,” Mavriste swore.

None too proud to admit, I almost shot the cult leader on the spot. It would have been a coinflip for if their skull had the augmentations to survive the wound—or for the bullet to enter clean through an eye socket.

“Caleb…” Mavriste said, diplomatically. He subtly shifted his footing, interposing himself the tiniest fraction between me and the Royal.

“Care to look at me one more time and try telling me a human corpse is none of my business?”

It was the look on the Royal’s face that let me wrestle my anger back into check.

The rak’s face was a mask, but they were too eager by half. Bits of excitement made it through their expression. Little twitches at their smile, not blinking.

I recognized.

<…I’m a known quantity,> Mavriste recognized.

Yup.

he complained.

I took a deep breath. Needed to center myself.

“I want that corpse,” I said. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

“I must disagree,” the Royal said. “Because there’s nothing above or below these seas that will see me turn over the corpse to you. It is our property. Fairly acquired.”

“People aren’t property,” I growled.

“Corpses aren’t people,” the rak replied, smooth as glass.

“That corpse was stolen, and I don’t care if you paid good money for it. I’m going to find it, the only question is how many teeth you make me—”

I snapped my jaw shut. The Royal looked like they might jump with glee any moment.

I knew they were riling me up. They didn’t want to deal with me either. Of course they didn’t. They didn’t want to deal at all. They wanted a fight. Could we just offer one? Any fight we’d be willing to offer would see Mavriste volunteering to assume the risk, and that wasn’t any fight they were interested in having.

“Arrgh!”

I threw up my arms in frustration and stamped away from the rak—a hand snatched my collar and yanked my head down.

Hairs on my neck stood up as I felt a blow miss by a hair’s breadth.

My brain lurched into action. The hand on my collar was Mavriste’s. He’d pulled me under an attack someone had thrown at my head. Given that, it had to come from…

I twisted my body without looking and kicked at the attacker—a robed cultist with a band of green on their arm. They doubled over at the gut and two more of the surrounding Vorak were inches away.

Mavriste and I both had the same idea: space.

I materialized a pressure bomb between them and blew them both wide of me. Simultaneously, Mavriste summoned up his black cloak of whatever hell’s darkness and slung his approachers with just a gentle swing of his arm.

Standing this close to the thing, at least part of the trick became obvious: it was a gas that stayed clustered around his body instead of dispersing. There had to be some asymmetry to the trick too. Those adult rak flew way too far for the easy motion he made.

Upside: we had our space. All rak, including the Royal were giving us a healthy berth of several meters now. Downside: we were surrounded on all sides, and they were all reaching for ranged attacks.

I started to materialize my revolver, but Mavriste snatched a claw back around my wrist. Without even looking.

he said.

He didn’t need to tell me twice.

I drowned the area in a cloud of orange smoke. I couldn’t see what Mavriste did, but I jetted upward. Un-Coalesced and in heavy Kraknor gravity, I couldn’t get the vertical I wanted, but I still cleared the patio’s wooden awning.

A glowing black blur darted out from my cloud like a bullet and into the manor’s hall. Mavriste.

I took the overhead route, jetting one more time up to the roof.

I admitted.

Mavriste said.

he conceded,

A rak came up behind me, brandishing a sword like the initiate before. Unlike them though, they elected for thrusts rather than slashes. Smart.

I materialized a stave and deflected each stab. I got an opening when their footing slipped on the roof, and I materialized my gun.

Except a black blob of Mavriste’s plasma cloak burst from beneath before I could shoot, sending the rak off balance and tumbling down the slope.

he instructed me.

It was frustrating, but he had a point. Nothing that had happened so far would leave the island. But deaths had a way of changing that equation.

I growled.

Eyeing the patch of rooftop his attack had come through, I saw that the roof itself was unharmed. On top of all its other effects, Mavriste’s plasma cloak appeared to be a selective solid too. Could he freely modify the criteria?

That might explain a lot of why it seemed to be his preferred trick.

Whatever route Mavriste took inside the manor, he left chaos in his wake.

Reverberating sounds like powerlines were interrupted by screeches from Vorak followed by the snapping of wood and shattering of glass.

Mavriste really knew how to throw a rager of a party.

Aside from the first Vorak to follow me to the roof, all my opposition came on the ground once I made it to the front yard. The psionic call had gone out, and even though I was actively interfering with it, enough of the cult still got to confirm my location with their own eyes.

I leapt from the roof, flaring my maneuvering jets to soften my landing. Four cultists were awaiting me on the ground, thankfully only one of them was Adept. The first three to come at me were blown backwards by kinetic bombs.

The Adept came at me just like the first three had though, no powers. Funnily enough, they gave me the most trouble. They dove aside from my kinetic blast, and when I went for smoke, they closed the ground quicker than I could take advantage of the cloud.

Once they materialized a pair of knives, I matched them with knives of my own.

Not in my hands though. Mine were propelled into their back—they’d gotten close enough to me that I could accurately materialize rocket knives behind them, technically aimed at my own self.

Their body was ever so conveniently in the way.

I kicked the bleeding rak clear of the arena, turning my attention to the armored cultist with a cyan band leaping from the second story window.

They landed roughly, but I didn’t give them a chance to collect themselves before attacking. Careful to pace myself, I didn’t draw on my powers yet, deflecting and blocking their claws by hand until I forced otherwise.

It seemed like their armor was made out of ice, or some analogue because just touching the plates was freezing. The two icicle swords they resorted to strengthened the motif. They were clever about how they materialized them too, thrusting it for my head while the weapon grew into existence in their hand.

It was a cute trick for extending reach in a close quarters battle, but I went to one of my lesser used blue prints and stuck them with a cattle prod before they could skewer me.

Operating on muscle memory, I moved to finish the rak off when Mavriste interrupted me again.

As a black blur, he burst from the same second story window, landing between me and the ice-armor cultist, and inflated his plasma cloak like a bubble.

When it popped, the cultist went tumbling off the edge of the arena.

Absurd, I couldn’t help but think. Even now, Mavriste was fighting to keep everyone alive. I was seriously beginning to doubt my initial judgement of him. Was he really a soldier?

I’d never actually seen him kill anyone. In a way, that made his skills even more impressive. Even Nai would have trouble wearing kid gloves fending off…this…many….

Wow that was a lot of opponents.

Mavriste said.

I said dryly, standing back to back with him.

No fewer than thirty cultists were surrounding us now, but they were all waiting on the outskirts of the arena. Intentionally or not, we’d just thrown ourselves into the ring, and the cultists looked ready to still abide by the rules.

The Royal plodded out of the manor with all the easiness of a cat with the cream. This was everything they could have wanted.

This was a crucial moment, and both Mavriste and I knew it. Wordlessly, we were on the same page.

“There’s a reason negotiation is my first instinct,” Mavriste said. “It’s a poor host who attacks their guests.”

“Not very worthy,” I chimed in.

It was the first sentence to have any visible effect on the Royal’s mood.

Mavriste complimented.

“Then allow me to demonstrate otherwise,” the Royal said ominously, stepping up to the arena. “Stay out of this, missionary, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I promised his safety to more than just him,” Mavriste said. “Kill him and all his allies shall fall upon this place with such a fury as to put the hurricane to shame.”

Mavriste lowered his voice threateningly, “and I and mine shall be among them.”

“You talk to much, Mavriste. Let the whelp speak for itself, or I really am going to kill it,” they said, materializing a spear—no, a trident.

“Try it if you think you can,” I said.

Mavriste tried.

I insisted.

I gaped at him.

“[You did not just quote Spider-Man to me!]” I said, aghast.

The Royal lunged at me, but even if Mavriste had dragged my eyes away, my attention remaind fixed on my opponent.

I caught the spear by the head, trying to lever the Royal using their own weapon, but they simply released their hold on it, dematerializing it in my grip and forming a new one.

“No, seriously, how the [hell] did you hear about [Spider-Man]?” I said.

Mavriste said innocently.

<…It’s the right thing to do,> I conceded, even as I could imagine Nai screaming bloody murder at me.

The Royal regarded our exchange warily. Here we were chatting while they were ready to rumble. Anyone smart would recognize it as a polarizing move: we were either bluffing, or completely serious. No in-between.

The high-ranking cultists were smart enough to at least think of that possibility, but you could see them needlessly consider all the in-between too.

“…Your missionary friend is your safety-line?” the Royal eventually chided me.

“Trust me,” I said, “I’m not going to need it.”