I didn't hear no bell.

The day was cold and rainy. The water was as clear as rain usually is, which was a far cry from how it had been only a few years ago. There was no radiation, no chemicals, no spores, no viral contagions in the rain.

It was just cool water.

Thunder rumbled the macroplas windows, lightning, bluish white instead of red or purple, snarled through the clouds. The wind was brisk, making the trees sway and the grass ripple.

Brentili'ik found the storm calming as she stared out the window at the darkness. It was fall, and darkness had come early, but that was all right.

She needed something as simple as a storm after her long day.

Every day there was something new to handle, something to continue working on, just something to lead her people out of the darkness of the Lanaktallan Overseer Era, through the rebuilding after the First and Second Telkan War, and into the frightening times of the Atrekna War.

Today had been particularly hard for her.

Casualty lists from Operation Iron Piglet had been released.

Names, with units and final deeds attached, sometimes with personnel file pictures, sometimes with a picture taken from file footage.

The wounded.

The missing.

The dead.

Sixth Telkan Marine Division was undergoing final preparation for interstellar movement. Seventh Marine Division was being put together. Third Telkan Naval Task Force was undergoing trial runs.

More Telkan to take the fight to the Atrekna, to keep the Telkan people safe from locusts from beyond the stars.

The majority of the Killed In Action were listed as "No Remains Recovered", which the Telkan people were used to after the bitter fight during the First and Second Telkan Wars. The Telkan Marine Corps often had their suits auto-destruct rather than the deceased Marine's remains risking co-opt by the Dwellerspawn or PAWM.

In the places where remains were recovered, it was usually a closed casket.

She closed her eyes, sipped at the harsh drink she held in one hand, feeling the ice click against her front teeth, then exhaled slowly as the liquor burned in her gut with a sullen fire.

Her husband's name had been on the list.

Wounded In Action.

She'd seen the After Action Report.

He'd been hit with an atomic weapon, had been under artillery bombardment, had been out in the open while directing counter-battery fire.

The entire time he had been wounded seriously enough that he had required several rounds of robotic and blade-and-laser surgery.

It hadn't been expected.

Two months ago her secretary had caught an odd personal email from a Colonel, with a video attachment, that had come through with a bunch of personal emails for various Telkan civilians, all bundled together with the report of how Fifth Marine Division was doing.

It had been a quick note from the Colonel about how her husband had been wounded but was recovering quickly. Attached had been a letter from Vuxten as well as a video where he had been surrounded by other wounded Telkan. He had been smiling and waved at the camera carefully, one arm in a sling, his chest and the whole side of his head bandaged.

But she'd seen the heavy bandaging on the others.

The Colonel had a cybernetic arm in a sling, and she knew that meant the Colonel had recently lost his arm.

Still, seeing Vuxten's name on the Wounded In Action Listing had taken her breath away, even though her mind had automatically checked the date of the listing against the date of the video.

Her brain had told her that he had been wounded before the video had been recorded. Her thoughtful side had told her that there was nothing to worry about.

But her heart had ached anyway.

Still, she'd swallowed down her pain and made sure the Office of War had sent out the proper notices with the proper accompaniment.

She sipped at her whiskey and gave a self-mocking half-chuckle at a memory the welled up.

The Color Guard Commander standing on the carpet in front of her large wooden desk, telling her why he had to often get his men out of jail in the morning. She had been confused why the same twenty Marines kept getting in trouble from drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, assault, public nuisance, public intoxication, and damage to public property.

The Color Guard Commander had politely, but firmly, reminded her that those 20 Telkan delivered the official paperwork to family members for deceased Marines. They carried caskets. They handed the flag to children, wives, broodcarriers, parents, siblings. They watched Telkan collapse on the ground with grief, listened to the family members weep for the Office of War Casualty Notification Representative to go away, please go away, oh please please go away. They watched broodcarriers stare at them then shake their heads and say softly 'no no go away no'. That podlings had screamed "I HATE YOU!" at them. That males and females had struck those Marines, yelling at the representatives for lying, you're lying, why would you lie, it's not true, stop lying.

The Color Guard Commander was solemn, standing in front of Brentlili'ik desk.

All twenty Telkan had alcohol dependency issues. They had trouble expressing their emotions, as they were trained to stand, enigmatic and stone faced, even as the family members reacted.

The Marine Corps had not issued them emotions, so they stood, blank faced, flanking the chaplain, stepping forward when the inevitable reaction occurred.

It was after the notifications were handed out, after the caskets were lowered, that the trouble began. Sometimes they just went out with one another and went on a complete bender that usually ended in a wild fight with the police, even though they were pitting bare knuckles against law enforcement soft armor. The police went easy on them, knowing the reps wanted nothing more than a baton to the face to make the pain go somewhere else.

But other times, they took angry young males, angry young females, out to drink and then fight. Took them somewhere that they could scream their pain, grief, and heartbreak to the uncaring sky and, if necessary, throw a fist into someone's face and get punched in return so the pain didn't hurt so bad.

The Color Guard Commander informed Brentili'ik firmly that only a single Telkan had lasted longer than six months as a Office of War Casualty Notification Representative. Every single Telkan that left needed weeks or months of therapy.

When she had asked who that lone Telkan was who had served longer than six months, the Color Guard Commander, who, due to time dilation had been in service nearly twenty-two years as a Captain, had stared at her and said a single word.

"Me."

And here she sat, with whiskey in hand, staring at the window that showed the stormy night outside.

The buzzing of her comlink interrupted her dark thoughts and she swiveled around, touching the accept key.

"Madame Director, the Director of Intelligence is here," her secretary, a gold mantid, said.

"Send him in," Brentili'ik said. She picked up the bottle of 'Ol' Wavy Grain' whiskey, straight from Smokey Cone, and refilled her drink. She pulled out another glass and poured one for the nondescript Telkan who entered.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Madame Director," the Telkan said.

It took Brentili'ik a second to remember his name.

"Director Terklek," Brentili'ik said. She held out the whiskey and the other Telkan took it, sitting down in the chair. "What brings you here at this late hour?" she asked.

"There's a shuttle landing that I thought you'd want to know about," he said. He sipped at the whiskey. "This is good."

"Should be. It's all the way from Smokey Cone," she said. "What's on the shuttle?"

Director Terklek gave a strange frowny shake of his head. "The ID is that of a Digital Sentience science professor who took a leave of absence two years ago, but the biometrics are all for a human."

"Could it be an ID glitch?" she asked.

The Director shook his head. "No. Trust me, when the biometric file came through, alarms started wailing in the entire office."

"Why? Is he a terrorist or something?" Brentili'ik asked.

The Director shook his head again, took a sip of his whiskey, then continued. "No. Worse."

Brentili'ik raised an eyebrow.

"He's an Earthling. An unmodified pre-Diasporia human," the Director said.

"A what now?" Brentili'ik asked.

"Well, he has some genetic mods, none of which can be cross referenced," the Director said. "But his genetic phenotype is flagged as Earthling."

"And he's landing here?" she asked.

The Director nodded. "He should be landing already."

"Do we know why he's here?"

"No. Another strange thing is he's traveling with some kind of repair and maintenance robots with a built in grinder/nanoforge combination," the Director said. "Despite running a deep scan, I can't find any templates or manufacturer information," he shrugged. "The nanoforge is locked down."

Brentili'ik nodded. "All right, do you have him on video anywhere?"

The Director touched his implant, then tossed a glittering ball into the middle of the room that expanded to show a figure walking across the tarmac, a small boxy robot on clattering tracks at his side.

Brentili'ik frowned, staring the a human.

Male. Worn, lined, tired looking face. Washed out blue eyes. Tall, lanky. He walked with more of a directed, slumped shamble than with a purpose.

Denim jeans and jacket. Heavy boots. Moo moo tender hat. Gunbelt with a heavy magac pistol sec-locked into the holster. The video highlighted the human's forearm to inform her that he had a spring-loaded knife sheathe under his jacket, strapped to his arm.

"Looks like trouble," Brentili'ik said. She zoomed in on the face and realized that his eyes were in shadow. "No declaration of intent?"

The Director examined a hologram he projected above his hand. "Just 'personal business' and 'mind yer business', which is permittable under Confederate Freedom of Movement Statutes."

Brentili'ik brought up a form and signed it. "Take this over to a judge, get a warrant to put surveillance on him," she stared at the hologram, where the Terran, no, the human was flagging a taxi. "He looks like trouble."

The Director nodded, set his glass down for the reclamator to take take of, got up, and quietly left the room.

Brentili'ik stared at the hologram, frozen just before he entered the taxi.

You look really familiar for some reason, she thought.

-----

Brentili'ik stared at the hologram as she watched the human, the Earthling, get out at the edge of the woods. He looked around, reached down and pat the robot that had just clattered out of the taxi, and put his hands in his pockets.

"How's he doing that?" Brentili'ik asked as the human pulled a can of narcobrew out of his pocket and cracked it open with the same hand that was holding it by a strange curling of his fingers.

"We can't figure it out," the Director of Intelligence admitted.

They watched as the human lit a cigarette, put the lighter back in his pocket with the pack of cigarettes, and then kind of, well, slumped his way into the woods, his empty hand by the gunbelt, thumb tucked behind the belt.

"We've got a quick reaction force nearby," the Director said.

Brentili'ik nodded. "Think he's an assassin?"

The Director shrugged. "I don't know. Sending one man against the duo in the woods? I'm not sure they can be ambushed."

The two of them watched as the man just wandered through the woods, idly headed vaguely in one direction, but seemingly unhurried and unconcerned about following any coherent route.

At one point the Terran stopped and waited for a moment as the flyspy cam caught up.

He turned and looked straight at the camera, lighting a cigarette, shading it with one hand while using the flint and steel lighter with the other, his eyes hidden by the shadow of the brim of his hat as he stared at the camera.

"He knows we're following him, even with a microbot," the Director said.

"I've never seen that brand of cigarettes before," she said. "White, with a red circle and red letters."

The Director checked the records. "He didn't have any cigarettes in his luggage. He hasn't made any purchases. He apparently lives off of cigarettes and narcobrew. We ran a check on the brand name and came up empty."

"So, nothing we can trace," Brentili'ik said softly.

"No. Same with the narcobrew cans and bottles," the Director said. "Worse, about two to five minutes after he discards the empties they dissolve. We got one in time to run sensors over it. They dissolve into some type of quantum foam vapor that quickly disappates."

"He's gotta be some kind of assassin or wet work clandestine agent," Brentili'ik said.

She looked at the Gray Girl standing against the wall silently, but the Gray Girl said nothing, just staring at the hologram, which was reflected in her mirror shades.

Terklek shook his head. "He's approaching the perimeter."

A broodcarrier popped up and Brentili'ik noted that the Earthling had paused for almost a full ten seconds before the broodcarrier stood up from the ferns, which gleamed with what little rain had gotten through the trees.

The broodcarrier spoke. "who? what?"

The man's lips moved, but again, the microbot didn't pick up what he was saying.

"That's right there is the weird part. His lips aren't in synch with whatever he's saying. We checked starport records. It makes it look like he's using a translator but he's not. Somehow, he's figured out to get the sounds he wants to speak Confederate Interspecies Standard, but have completely different, almost random, lip movements."

"Gotta be a covert operative," Brentili'ik said as the broodcarrier vanished. "He's not trying to sneak up on them."

The three observers watched as the microbot recorded another broodcarrier popping up. The Earthling petted her head gently and the broodcarrier laid her head against the Earthling's chest for a long moment. The first one reappeared, said 'yes come welcome', then leaned against the Earthling so he could pet her too.

"This is weird," Director Terklek said.

Brentili'ik just nodded.

The microbot wouldn't come close enough to record the meeting, but ten minutes later the Earthling left.

Director Terklek put his hand to his datalink even as he tossed another window up in the hologram emitter's field of display.

"Yes?" Lady Keena's voice was serious.

"That individual who just visited you?" Terklek asked.

"Yes?" she asked again.

"What did he want?" Terklek asked.

There was quiet for a moment. "He's on a quest. I am sorry, but bonds as deep as though forged by common blood prevent me from saying more."

"Is everything all right?" Brentili'ik asked.

"Madame Director," Lady Keena chuckled. "Yes. It is. Herod is just looking for someone."

"Who?" Brentili'ik asked.

"His mother. He believes she still lives, that her eyes still see what others would prefer remain secret, that her hands still guide blades to carve out her own fate," Lady Keena said, and disconnected the call.

Brentili'ik stared at Terklek. "Does he have a mother on record?"

Terklek shook his head. "He's a digital sentience."

Brentili'ik stared at the hologram, where the spycam was following the Earthling as he wandered his way out of the forest.

"Who are you looking for, Blue Herod?"

-----

The Ancient Atrekna regained consciousness slowly. He could remember leading a half dozen Young Ones, with another Ancient One, to investigate a gravitational anomaly on the planet's surface to ensure it wasn't a prelude to another Inheritor assault upon the planet. They'd taken a slavespawn escort.

His memory was hazy after that.

He opened his eyes, staring above him.

Characters and sigils were being displayed on the macroplas above his face. Strange graphs and levels were being shown. He tried to lift his arms and found that he was bound by straps.

There was a hiss and the macroplas drew back. The air was cold and carried the sharp sting of disinfectant. Above him was a ceiling made of metal panels, with cables, tubes, and hoses hanging from brackets attached to the ceiling tiles.

He shivered in the cold.

He looked around and spotted a figure in the shadows. The figure was unmistakable. Two legs, two arms, a head on top of the torso. Short, squad, and thick.

A lemur.

He reached out with his formidable psychic power, seeking to dominate its mind, or at least drive it away.

Instead, there was pain behind his third eye. He made a noise of distress and tried again.

Nothing but pain.

There was a metallic clink, then the sound of steel grating on stone. A flame appeared. Pale, yellow. It lit the end of a white tube, which began to glow. Smoke puffed out around it even as there was another clink and the flame vanished.

He tried to use his psychic powers to examine around him.

Again, just pain.

He looked around wildly.

Monitors. More tubes. Crude looking technology everywhere. Bulky, primitive looking computer equipment. Brushed metal walls. Eleven other tubes, all dark except for data being displayed on the upper fourth of the cylinders, which had macroplas on the upper half. The rest of the tube was brushed metal.

He turned back in time to see a red glow at the end of the white stick. The glow illuminated nothing, and it faded slightly right before more smoke billowed out.

He struggled, trying to get loose, giving up once dark sweat coated his skin.

The lemur walked forward and the Ancient One felt himself cringing back slightly.

It reached out with one hand and put it on the top of his head, pressing his head against the padding he was laying upon. The other hand came up to put the tube between two fingers. The end glowed again and the tube was removed from the lemur's mouth.

It leaned forward and exhaled smoke into the Ancient One's sensitive eyes. Chemicals burned his eyes, making them water, and he made a noise of distress.

The lemur was wearing a carefully crafted circlet of Substance-W and crystal. The central crystal, a red diamond cut to achingly precise angles, suddenly glowed with an inner light.

**Hello, Squidward** the Ancient One heard in his own mind, the heavy thud of the lemur's thoughts crashing through his defenses.

**I was asking you a few questions and you were rude enough to die** the lemur's thoughts were like hammer blows on his mind.

The lemur put the tube back in its mouth, then held up a long sharp steel blade.

**not that that will save you** the lemur's thoughts mocked him.

The memories flooded back.

The Ancient One began screaming as the lemur exhaled smoke until all that was visible of its face were gunmetal gray eyes.