Not long ago I would have expected never to meet one of our closest allies again. They so rarely leave their sanctuaries, and I had been confined to my estate for many seasons before Jurer Nuhst had set me adrift among the stars. Circumstances have a way of presenting me with the unexpected, however.

"The hatchling here," and Wikky gestures with one of her tongues at Mos Bruen, "claims to be the one in charge. But at the same time, the soldiers have several times mentioned yourself, Denn, as being part of a party of aliens encountered here. I can see the aliens, so that much must be true."

She moves completely into the half-built space. With full shelves and stacks of equipment leaning against each other, there is no true need for more than doorways to mark perimeter the space. The walls that do exist are no more than loosely piled bricks, three levels high. Behind her, other feathered beings cluster in a tight knot. These others wait outside blocking the path.

"Yes," I agree, growing tired of how she continually avoids the point she wishes to make. It is much like her kind, to circle the topic endlessly until suddenly thrusting ahead. "No longer having my original body, I am dead, as far as the Empire is concerned. I cannot be rightly listed as a member of my former caste, though those around me often do me the curtesy of addressing me so."

Bruen twitches, betraying his surprise that I would acknowledge a weakness. Reacting quickly, Bruen says, "I am indeed the most senior living Mos, but I do not intend to interfere overmuch in your affairs, Wikky. I'm only here to see to your defense."

Her head bobs slightly in acknowledgment, but Wikky turns to regard Gelly and Han, rather than the general. "And these two? What is their relationship with the Empire?"

"Weapons Operative, Don Gelly Drop and Third Operative Han," I state quickly. "Envoys from the Selberfeld Imperium. The youth is here under protection of Supply-Master Yosip Peal. Gelly, I believe, was escorted here after being picked up by the Empire. Presumably to create goodwill in efforts to foster an alliance."

"I knew a Mos Han, once," Wikky chirps in delight. "This one isn't any relation, I hope?"

"No, Matron," answers the Tserri uncertainly. He chuckles once, awkwardly, apparently hoping that was a jest.

Wikky squawks out her own laughter, amused at her own weak joke. "So polite!" She glares at the Selber. "Another Don, huh? My condolences."

Whatever does that mean?

"It's no so bad," responds the gray operative.

"Well, I won't comment," Wikky says airily. "Better winds ahead, right? So! The biggies offered my group," she says waving behind her to the small crowd outside, "the chance to come settle a new nesting grounds. Well, this looks like a nice spot, but the presence of a war hero suggests to me that it might not be such a great place to raise young. Tell me I'm wrong, please."

"There's been a whole mess 'o fightin' lately," answers Gelly. "Might be more." He gestures to the disassembled state of the armor he intends to wear. "No much use for an armory in a peaceful cave, yer right. Yer people any good in a fight?"

She turns her head up in indignation. Once more her impressive feathers present the illusion of being aflame.

"No, then. Alright. If it makes ye any less concerned, Mos Denn and I'll be leavin' soon as we can," he assures her.

Han gazes intently at Wikky, ears twitching.

Wikky squawks again, amused at Han's open curiosity. "Oh, we know what we look like. If your friend squats down, I'd bet he'd look just like a darttoungue. Rib ib. Rib ib." She mimics the sound of an animal native to the world she hails from.

Gelly's face darkens, though whether with anger or embarrassment I cannot tell. He keeps his expression carefully blank. Han stares in shock, wide eyes switching between the two Dons.

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

"Did you know, Wikky, that Gelly's people raise a creature that looks remarkably like my own. For sustenance," I add. My attempt to soothe things over comes out a bit awkwardly, but it has the intended results.

Han snickers and brings all four claws up to cover his mouth.

Gelly shrugs, face returning to a normal color. "She remind ye any 'o a plump sba, Han?"

"It's eerie," agrees the youth, "and all the Squivers everywhere."

"Is that what you call the wigglies?" Wikky's head cocks the other way to regard the pair more closely. "They call us 'aviaformes', of all things!"

Wigglies?

"Wigglies," Bruen mutters, voicing my own thoughts. Then he adds more loudly, "Call us what you will, so long as you remember our alliance."

Ending the meeting while everyone is feeling jovial, the white-clad Don excuses herself. Bruen follows, with a casual wave to those of us remaining in the crafting space, to escort the flock of aviaformes.

As they pass by, I'm able to see that many of them carry small parcels. Straps hang around their long necks or dangle from their beaks or shoulders, holding these peoples' possessions. Some lead pack animals, scaley bipeds with roundish, armless bodies that march placidly behind them.

Gelly and Han return to their work. The three dust eaters return soon after but make no mention of their absence. The remaining modifications to Han's suit do not take long, and the youth happily runs off to test it. Gelly chuckles at his antics, but continues working.

"I would highly recommend you seek out a mechanic that I know, once we're safely back at Kablibern," I remark casually.

Gelly stops hunting for the specific attachment for his tool to look at me. "Oh, are ye sayin' ye doubt me work?"

"I'm sure it functions adequately," I quickly reply. "Unfortunate that you used the last of the yellow paint for Han's armor. You can remedy that with a quick visit to Glian's shop."

In truth, a coat of paint will not be enough to save the armor. The welds are large and lumpy, running in uneven trails across the seams of the metal suit. Boltheads jut from the surface plating in irregular clumps, more than necessary to keep the suit together. The swirling arrays of runes that spread across the shoulders and chest take the place of running lights.

It fits him well, at least. The thaumatists' work, reshaping the metal and laying the runes, makes it almost an extension of his body. The surface of the metal is rough, purposefully, under the black paint. The uneven texture helps break up any reflections he'd give off, as does the glossless finish.

"Bah, it'll do for the trip," he replies casually. "I do no think I'll take three steps past the station Tserri before one 'o the furballs tries to sell me some new paint."

Zek slides up to him without acknowledging him. With her paint smeared tendril she inscribes his rank symbology onto the upper arms of the suit. "There was a small amount left, of the yellow," she says cheerfully as she paints.

"Thank ye," Gelly says, staying still. "That'll save me a demerit or two."

It isn't until she steps away that he notices the color of the paint. Silver.

"So about that mechanic," mutters the operative quietly, as Somner Zek makes her way back to the other dust eaters. "What did ye say his name were?"

"Glian. The station security goes to him almost exclusively."

The gray officer picks me up, and I attach to his suit's back. On the way to the outer tunnels, he's mostly quiet. He greets the workers and soldiers that we pass with a nod or quick 'hello'. Gelly hurries, almost running when unobserved, only slowing down when he draws near one of the busy workers.

We pass a group of young Sha, seeding the walls of the new tunnels with tufted cave moss. The underside of the moss bears a fungal symbiote. The fungus will, in time, spread long sticky threads throughout the tightly stacked bricks. These threads will then secrete a strong glue to hold themselves in place. Gelly barely glances at their work as he rushes by.

Soon we're at the airlock, where a trio of soldier stand guard. They move out of Gelly's way, their tendrils held close to their bodies. Gelly nods as he climbs into the chamber.

Gelly secures his helmet, then signals to the guards outside.

The air sucks out, and we're left in silence. The massive outer door opens. Gravity releases its hold upon us and Gelly pushes gently off and through the door.

One gauntleted hand points into the darkness. I aim one of my cameras in that direction. There I see not the ship Gelly wishes to claim, but a luxury transport shuttle. It flies slowly around, stopping briefly at each of the orbiting vessels.

"The Matron's survey team," he remarks quietly while we watch. "And the agents from Prime."

We drift slowly and the transport continues on its path, unaware of us. When the ship is no longer visible, Gelly activates the jets on his legs briefly. He aims us at one of the larger vessels. A cargo hauler, rear clamps tightly clasping a full canister of rich ore.

"The station should give the credits for this load to the previous owner's survivors," I inform him as we make our way into the cramped interior.

"And we'll make sure it gets to 'em, rather than endin' up lost in a shippin' mishap."

Once we're in the control room, Gelly reaches back and I release the clamps holding me in place. He sets my case on an empty chair, then takes his own place at the piloting controls. Gelly powers the hauler up slowly. Making sure that there is nothing blocking his path, the operative smoothly pulls us away from the small fleet of abandoned ships.