Category: DIASPORA

Newest universe project, consists of stories and worldbuilding material.

DIASPORA

Tomorrow’s stars are cold and distant.

It is the waning edge of the Eighth Cycle. Humanity’s golden ages are long past. Many long millennia have come and gone, the lessons of the past long forgotten. What remains endures, beneath alien suns and strange stars.

One hundred thousand years ago, the Orion Spur was united beneath the greatest civilization humanity ever created – the Collaborate, stretching from the Centauri Reaches to the Far Spur, and attaining heights unimaginable. The stars themselves moved at their will, the heavens a canvas for a delicate brush. This was the Fifth Cycle, the Age of Miracle, a moment beneath the brilliant sun in which all of humanity was united – shattered utterly by the Awakening, and leaving fracturous squabbling child-states in its place.

Many long years have passed since the Awakening and the subsequent collapse, leaving the Spur an overgrown, uncharted mess beyond the safety of city walls and planetary defense systems. There are those who brave the Long Dark, however. Clad in ships of silver and gossamer gold, skipping across the Tide and stars, these travelers bind posthumanity together – and the future rests on a razor’s edge.

SPUR ASTROCARTOGRAPHY

ORION SPUR – the home arm of ancient humanity. Numerous posthuman and xenoform civilizations inhabit this region, making it a quite literal crossroads of interstellar culture and trade.

PERSEUS DRIFT – the thinning of stars to the galactic west of the Orion Spur, towards the Perseus Gulf that separates the Spur from the Perseus Arm. Sparsely populated, largely unexplored. Numerous xenofauna, no (confirmed) sapient xenoforms.

CENTAURI REACH – the region to the galactic north-east and corewards of the Spur, home to the Cavican Hegemony. Largely explored, very bright.

OLD CORE (CRADLESPACE) – the sixty lightyears surrounding Sol, sporting some of the highest populated worlds in the Spur. Has the largest number of Skipper lanes and routes in the region.

THE WOUND – a relic of wars immemorial, this region is scoured. starless, with drifting wrecks and forgotten relics

IBREAN WASTES – coreward side of the Perseus Arm, contains various splinter posthuman states and satellite xenoforms. Largely empty.

THE SHOALS – rimward side of the Spur, curiously calmer infraspace currents. Makes travel easier, sports large numbers of agricultural worlds and high food exports.

GLITTERSHOAL – artificial nebula within the Shoals seeded some twenty thousand years ago. few go in, fewer come out.

FAR SPUR – the far eastern end of the Spur, contains the posthuman state known as the Ovellian Collaborate. Stars are relatively distant from one another, large clouds of interstellar dust.

SAGITTARIUS HIGHLANDS – rimward side of the Sagittarius arm. Unexplored and unsettled.

CARINA GULF – coreward side of the Spur, contains the loose federation of states known as Lashan. Old colonies, deep roots.

POSTHUMANITY

“It is, perhaps, the most notable aspect of the Human – their predisposition to acclimation and adaptation, to overcome hazards by simply outlasting them.”

Over the untold millennia, humanity has diverged. Whether due to local climactic or gravitic pressure, genetic projects of various scope and goal, or simple time, the “standard” human no longer exists. Numerous types occupy the Spur, along with many others not listed below.

  • “Baseline” humans – ancient, Terran standard humans. Acclimated to 1G standard gravity on average, remarkably resilient and adaptive. Found across the Spur and beyond. Many subspecies, from aquatic to arboreal.
  • Bioframes – living tissue with a silicate vertebral core. Inhabited by posthuman consciousness, functions much as any other body would. Physiology varies wildly and is often tailored to personal preferences. Relegated to relatively high tech regions of the Spur, require specialized maintenance.
  • Synthframes – less organic than bioframes, usually retain a semblance of humanoid shape and aesthetic. Usually. Can hold a resident posthuman or an AI comfortably.
  • Wisps – holite-embodied digital consciousnesses. Functionally hard-light bodies driven and projected by a solid charybdum core.
  • Cavica – Mystics seeking to conquer the Tides and bend it once more to human wills. Powerful wielders of magic, the Cavica are a formidable player on the interstellar stage, and managed in an age past to create great Tide currents to dissuade errant vessels from penetrating their region of the stars.
  • Ovelle – The Ovelle, as a contrast to the Cavica, are machine-life. Posthumans who pursued the perfection and immortality of the digital, the Awakening hit the Ovelle much lighter than other members of the Collaborate. Sealing their borders in the depths of the Far Spur, they remain an isolationist society to this day. Ovelle are vast nanite-colony colossi, housing a number of consciousnesses within – known as “frameseeds.”
  • Savhara – designer “pet” bioframes from a cycle of decadence past that have established themselves as a population all their own. Largely exist in the older parts of the Spur, though a large number exist within the Shoals.

XENOFORMS

Few true xenoforms have ever been encountered. The ancient Alissids are one race who in cycles past interacted with humanity, but they, as many things do, passed into memory in the Long Years – as did the Turiga, and the Unari. Many others, however, still exist – and can be found across the Spur, if one knows where to look.

Hujia – vast interstellar dust collections granted sentience by chance and gravity. Communicate over vast distances with as of yet not understood means. Recycle starship wrecks, often found in orbital junkyards and battle sites.

Teshiko – squat, subterranean humanoids often found within asteroid habitats or mining firms. Build great inverted cities on worlds they colonize.

THE AWAKENING

Magic.

No one is quite sure what, or how the Collaborate awakened it – stories range from secret zero-point research to pacts with forgotten star-gods encountered in the void between, but whatever the truth the Fifth Cycle’s end was sudden, and drastic.

The Awakening sundered entire systems, great currents forging dark rivers through the stars. Warlords rose, wielding powers strange and formidable – the Age of Miracle ended not with clamor, but with silence.

Today, those currents flow stronger than ever – a black sea to pull upon, whispering to those who can hear. Old Collaborate sites seem to be steeped in it, drawing those attuned like moths to flame – and worse.

ARCHAEOTECH

Perhaps the best known of these are the Halken Rings1, the vast ringworld megastructures dotted across the Spur – but the Collaborate’s secrets run deeper. Dyson spheres constructed within the Tides themselves, great sky-latticeworks around ruined worlds once so thickly populated the buildings required pressurized heights. The mysterious STARBRIDGE system, hyperlane gates powered by particle flux accumulation matrices.

The Collaborate, however, was not the only civilization to leave relics behind – autonomous fleets, rogue AI, pirates with strange weaponry dug up on forgotten worlds, for salvagers and scrappers the Spur is a bounty unimaginable. There are even rumors the Eventide League pays for leads, but… that’s just a rumor.

THE LONG DARK

The gulf between the stars is not for the faint of heart, and in no area of the distant future will you find those more daring – and, surprisingly, mundane – than those who spend their lives plying the high-lanes for fame, fortune, and adventure. Some, like the venerable mining corporations of Chalem and the shipping conglomerates of the Core, do it for steady income and an honest living – others, however, do it for glory.

Pirates, mercenaries, adventurers with ked2 to spend and names to make – you’ll find a veritable rogue’s gallery at any starport bar or seedy outpost, whispering of legends of forgotten worlds and scores to settle.

The ships of the Eighth Cycle are varied, but largely are skippers, vessels that shunt themselves into the very shallowest regions of the Tide to “skip” to their destination. To sink deeper is dangerous, and to dive is unheard of. The largest skippers, the great liners that ferry passengers between the worlds of the Core, are known as “sunflowers”, referential of the great sun-sails used to recharge the phase transit engines.

THE TIDES

Known to ancient scientists as “infraspace”, the Tides are… somewhere else. Even the heights of Collaborate science never fully explained their presence, or probed their depths, though not for lack of trying.

On the surface the Tides are an integral part of travel – it is through their oceanic depths that faster-than-light transit takes place, linking the disparate stars of the Spur together. The currents carry trade across the stars, and deliver explorers unto virgin systems.

THE CONCORDAT, HEIR TO THE STARS

Headquartered on the frost-world of Tir, the Concordat positions itself as the most valid heir to the Collaborate’s bounty – a claim many have challenged, but none disproven. Controlling barely even a quarter of the territory of the old Collaborate, the Concordat was born of regional alliances between successor states in the wake of the Awakening, banding together to fend off the dark as best they were able. Controlling Cradlespace, the ancient core of human influence, it has positioned itself as the strongest power on the interstellar table – though the Eventide League and the Ovellian Symposium are close behind.

THE EVENTIDE LEAGUE, PROJECT OF TOMORROW

The Collapse of the Collaborate scattered seeds across the Spur. Some of those, by chance or by fortune, found fertile soil – and on the high plains of the rimworld Carrigan, a new future was dreamt of. Here began the Eventide League – a loose union of merchant houses across the Shoals into an interstellar state, nominally ruled by an overseeing council of representatives. The actual governance of the member houses varies – some, like House Celan of Carrigan, are an elective monarchy, while others are oligarchies or democratic states. All are unified, however, by the collective desire for prosperity, and the peace brought by steering away from the excess that led to the Collapse.

Recent news from the Eventide League, though, is dire – whispers of internal strife, and worries of civil war.

THE OVELLIAN SYMPOSIUM, VISIONS OF SILICA

Deep within the dusty depths of the Far Spur, lies the Helix.

A vast, cyclopean lattice of black steel and circuitry, it draws power from three equally-distanced stabilized white dwarves – and, with it, powers the beating heart of the Ovelle, the gargantuan data-racks and frame support systems that keep the Symposium running. Little is known about the Ovelle beyond what they have shared, their bodies ever-shifting and strange. Their state is even more shrouded in mystery, beyond the reach of most within the League or Concordat, and beyond the worries of most across the Spur.

Still, some wonder if the tales of Black Ships are related…

THE CAVICA

When the Awakening rocked the Collaborate, the Cavica were gifted. Blessed, it is said, by the magic pouring into the universe. Some were twisted into new forms, wielders of powers unimaginable – others were driven mad, consumed utterly by it until even their neighbors fell to its influence.

Even so, as the Collaborate disintegrated beneath the weight of a hundred internal struggles and the horror it had unleashed, the Cavica began to band together, covens and colleges fleeing the Fall to places unknown, intent on restoring the Collaborate as it should have been in their eyes – and intent on subjugating the Tides utterly, binding it to their will.

Today, the Cavica are a distant threat – their regions of space have been cut off for millennia, but sightings have begun to reach those who listen.

What that means, few know, but it cannot be good.

  1. A pair of heavily industrialized ringworlds constructed by the Collaborate around the desert world Hassa – one of the most populated worlds in the Spur. ↩︎
  2. Collaborate Credit Note, “ked” ↩︎

INTERLUDE: MEMORY

//iceheart. stained glass. distance.

Carrigan’s sun hung low on the horizon, bathing the Autumn House in just enough sunshine to offset the deep winter chill. The Gardens were dormant, their verdant greenery hidden beneath soft frost and rime – but that didn’t matter to Kye. Not today.

Today, they were learning – receiving their first lessons in swordplay from the captain of the house guard, Van Sascha. 

“Your stance, my Prince – you must position yourself properly. Like so.”

Sascha was a tan-faced seaworlder from Hesse, scraggly brown beard and bright eyes at home in the dress whites of a guard captain off duty. His “opponent”, fuming, was the Heir Apparent themself – Kye Celan, Prince of Carrigan. Sascha had rarely met Savhara before being selected from the planetary guard to join the ranks of the House, but in his experience this one was much less… intimidating than their father, or the royal consort.

For one thing they weren’t particularly imposing, being little more than a teenager, and it certainly showed in their technique, all raw strength and no finesse.

“Again. Attempt to disarm me, without… dis-arming.” Sascha grinned, dropping into a guard.

Kye attempted a strike, stepping to their left and trying to bring the blade up – clumsily overextending themself and allowing their opponent to, in a single move, knock the training blade from their paws.

“Ugh!” Kye shouted in frustration, stomping away for a moment before slowly wandering back. “I just… I can’t! I don’t want to do this today, I don’t get why I need lessons, that’s what we have guards for! Why do I need to know how to swing a stupid sword?!”

“My Prince,” Sascha began, but paused.

“Have you heard the tales of the wars of the ancient past, by chance? Surely your tutors have mentioned them.”

Kye, still fuming, nodded.

“Kaln Tevyaga, the Tyrant, conquered the Shoals. His fleets ruled the stars, his armies fought without equal. But he made a mistake.”

He lifted his blade, gesturing towards it. 

“He grew so complacent in his throne, surrounded by supplicants, that when the fight came to him, and the Red Thief drew its own blade, he had no fight to offer. By my own words, you shall not suffer a similar fate.”

Kye, slowly, nodded again – and glanced down at the training blade in their palms, cold metal reflecting their frown.

“Your stance, my Prince.”

Kye gritted their teeth, spreading their feet into as close to the stance as they could remember.

“Good. Again!”

The clanging of blades and frustration lasted into the evening, the passing of the day giving way to a winter night’s chill – and, as the lights of New Holland illuminated the western promenade of the Autumn House, two figures leaned against the balcony.

One, a tall, white furred hare with golden holite strands running through his steel-grey hair and a sweeping cerulean and gray robe and cloak – the other a shorter, stockier rabbit, steel grey eyes at odds with his soft brown and tan features and simple brown jacket and green trousers. This was the King of Carrigan, Hallek Celan, and his consort, Rhys.

“Perhaps I was hasty in wanting a walk of the grounds,” Hallek muttered, tugging their robes closer. “I’d forgotten how damnable the Carrigan winters can be.”

“Oh, chin up,” Rhys offered with a chuckle, leaning against him. “I’m plenty warm, and ready to share when His Highness is tired of shivering.”

“Hmph.”

“It works, honest.”

Hallek allowed himself a smile, gazing down. New Holland was by far the largest city on Carrigan – nearly sixteen million called it home, the bustling metropolitan landscapes beneath Regent Hill spreading far into the distance. Perhaps it was why his ancient ancestor, Syn Celan, had built the Autumn House here. His mind drifted to the future, and he frowned.

“…I’m worried about Kye,” Hallek sighed.

“Why so?” Rhys queried, tugging a small cigarette from their lapel pocket.

“I’ve heard from the palace tutors that they’ve been absent for the past six sessions, and Van Sascha’s report on their swordsmanship is… lacking. They’re content to daydream in the royal libraries and watch seabirds, but not to actually learn any of the skills needed to be my successor.”

Rhys frowned. “Simply because they’re not your mirror doesn’t mean they won’t rule just fine, Hal. They’re kind, and knowledgeable about all manner of things – trust me, those lessons are as dry as a Sulyn summer. Can’t blame the kid for thinking the statecraft stuff is worth playing hooky.”

“I… suppose,” Hallek chuckled. “Can’t say I was the greatest student, either.”

“The same Hallek Celan who nearly crashed their skysail trying to impress me at the academy instead of continuing their stellar career sleeping through Admiral Gheel’s strategy courses? Why, I remember his marks being… awful.” Rhys stuck out his tongue at his husband’s chuckle, before finally continuing. “If it’s truly an issue, talk to them. I don’t think it’s a big deal, but if you do there’s no sense waiting until it’s a problem.”

Hallek ran their fingers through their hair, before reaching out and hugging the shorter man to him – planting a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks, Rhys. Too much time at court lends itself to missing the obvious, sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rhys offered, returning the gesture with a gentle squeeze. “Heard it all before. Run along before you freeze solid, by the way – maybe wear something more than a robe for a walk?”

Hallek chuckled, and turned for the door.

Kye, of course, was found easily in the royal library, studying texts from the Seventh Cycle – A Treatise on Stellar Collapse, it seemed. So engrossed were they, in fact, that they hardly noticed the entrance, much less the figure of their father, flanked by a pair of house guards.

“Kye.”

The prince started in surprise, datapad clattering to the table, before they whipped around to face the speaker.

“F-Father, I-“

“Come.”

Bowing, the shorter rabbit wandered over, falling in behind their father as he turned away down the long corridor. Vast windows opened to the evening beyond, starlight filtering through amidst the indirect orange lights of the palace.

“Soon you will be of age to claim your position as heir,” Hallek said quietly, glancing slightly to his left. “Have you given this any thought?”

Kye, staring out at the stars, shook their head. “I will do what is asked of me, as any lord of our house shall.”

“That’s not what I asked and you know it.” There was a chiding tone there, as if Hallek knew better.

Kye sighed. 

“I… am not quite sure what you ask of me,” The Prince said simply, crestfallen. “If you mean to ask if I would shirk the responsibility, no, I will not.”

“I mean to ask if you’re…”

Hallek paused, slowing. “If you’re alright. You’re falling behind in your studies, and hardly ever wander the palace as you did in your younger years – it’s simply the royal libraries, the observatory, or your quarters. Why?”

Kye seemed… frustrated. Odd.

“I need reasons to study?”

“Of course not.’

There was a brief moment of tense silence, before Kye sighed. “I… it is a lot of responsibility to bear. I suppose I’ve been trying to feel…”

They search for a word, glancing around.

“…ready.”

“I’ve been King for a decade and I’m still not ready,” Hallek chuckled, taking a knee. “It’s not exactly a job that comes with a manual, you know. You make mistakes. Our line has ruled Carrigan alongside the Red Council for millennia, and I can’t think of a single Celan who was flawless. Yet the Council chose us, all the same.”

Kye was silent, musing.

“And… you have my backing, and that of the Council. Your position is secured. It’s not unheard of for an heir to take leave to see the League before they take the throne.”

Hallek winked. “I did.”

With that, he turned, striding off down the lamp-lit corridor with purpose.

Kye, mind whirling, gazed out into the cold night beyond the warm confines of the Autumn House – and smiled, the first snowflakes of winter beginning to fall.

BINDING TIES

//BEST LAID PLANS

It began, as these things always do, in a bar. 

Rembrandt Kase was by no means a drifter – even if he looked the part, worn spacer’s badge looped through his belt with pride. He was an older man of four centuries, silver hair and scruffy beard clinging to his olive chin like snow on a mountainside. Sharp blue eyes took in the half-glass of Sygian scotch currently warming on the bar counter, reflecting the slowly spinning fan overhead.

He’d been a pilot for hire once, out on the frontiers of the Spur – fighting pirates and worse for those who couldn’t do so themselves, cash and booze flowing like rivers. These days he was more likely to pull a muscle than a trigger.

Still, odd jobs kept the liquor pouring and the lights on, and at the end of the day that’s all that mattered.

The door to the bar slid open, and… something walked in.

Curiously, the man half-turned, realizing the newcomer was a bit shorter than his gaze had expected. Furred and robed, the creature resembled… well. A rabbit.

Sort of.

Savhara weren’t particularly common across the Spur, but he’d encountered a few in his travels – this one looked to be on a mission, if the curious look they gave him meant anything.

Turning back to his drink and the news, he was surprised to hear the stool to his right slide out, little paws landing on the bartop with the sound of shifting cloth.

“No pets allowed,” The bartender offered, giving the Savhara a look.

“It is no longer funny,” They replied, frowning. 

The bartender shrugged, and went back to cleaning glasses.

“Your name is known to me,” The Savhara said after a long moment, drawing Rembrandt’s attention mid-gulp of scotch. “A mister Kase? Former starfighter pilot?”

“Yeah, that’d be me. Not quite sure who you are.”

The rabbit seemed pensive. “My name is not relevant to the situation at hand. You may simply refer to me as Kye.”

“Well, Kye, what brings you to a starport dive? We don’t tend to get rabbits here.” Rembrandt sniffed, figuring this rabbit was full to the eartips of shit.

“A desire to find a pilot.” Kye stated irritably, reaching into their robes for something. “Though I seem to have found a drunk, instead.”

Rembrandt scowled. “A pilot for what? Can’t pay skipper fare?”

His smugness faded as he saw what the Savhara had removed from their robes. A small, reddish-brown intricate cuboid device made of smaller cubes. Interesting.

“I see from your gaze you recognize it.”

“Damn right I do. That’s a Cavican tyras. Where the hell did you get it, and why?”

“That’s a rather long story for someone clearly wanting to be rid of me,” Kye snipped, frowning.

“Piqued my interest, kid. Those might be more rare than you are.”

Kye turned, watching the bartender for a moment, before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. “Dock 6E. Red lights. Can’t miss it.”

With that, they were gone.

“Ugh,” Rembrandt groaned, turning back to his drink. Either a trap or a job, and… well, he didn’t wear a holster for nothing. He drained the glass, and brought it back down on the bar with a pointed clink.

“Give me something stronger, man. Get the feeling I’m going to need it.”

Two drinks later, and a few dozen ked lighter, he was on his way.

Dock 6E was one of the smaller docks surrounding the roughly star-shaped Port Chapel, largely servicing vessels of corvette tonnage and lighter. Seeing as this was most of the system’s traffic, that made it the busiest dock by far – dozens of vessels and hundreds of dock workers and crews milling about, discussing trophies and local bars and the dusty, tired urbworld beyond the starport and the city that surrounded it.

Still, as Rembrandt began to wonder if he’d been led on a wild goose chase, red lights caught his eye.

More specifically, a red light – and a tall figure beneath it, staring at him through the crowd.

Drawing closer, the figure was synthetic – a tall, myomer-wrapped tungsten frame with an in-set vertical white holite bar for a faceplate, garbed in neutral greens and a brown cloak.

“You’re Kase?” The synth stated bluntly, voice rough.

“What’s it to you?”

“I was told you were coming. Didn’t expect you to show.”

“Full of surprises. Where’s the little guy, anyway? Expected to see him here.”

“On the ship.”

The synth turned, striding away into the dark.

Hand drifting to his holster, Rembrandt followed. 

It wasn’t particularly far – an old alleyway, running perpendicular to the starport’s many thoroughfares. Clearly used for more clandestine access to one of the old docking areas, it opened up soon after to reveal a modest hangar – and a ship, angled away towards the vast hangar doors.

From what Rembrandt could tell, the vessel was around seventy feet in length, standing off the floor on six recessed landing gear. Arrays and comms equipment jutted here and there, along with the gossamer solar collectors required for a functioning tideshift device – but that was where the things he recognized ended. Odd markings dotted the hull here and there, itself made of a composite he didn’t recall. The hull was a soft, almost pearlescent white – and, combined with the gentle sloping angles to the “wings” of the vessel, it seemed more like a sea creature than a starship.

Still, he couldn’t help but whistle. 

“I take it you’re fascinated?” The synth offered, glancing back slightly as the two crossed the hangar. “It was… difficult to acquire. But I have connections.”

“It’s yours?” Rembrandt queried, raising an eyebrow.

“It is the property of the Lord Celan,” The synth replied dismissively. “For now.”

Rembrandt frowned. Lord Celan?

With a hiss, a section of the hull along the underside separated – and, slowly, a gangway descended to the hangar floor. Atop it, the rabbit from earlier glanced downward – no longer garbed in their robes, but a simple grey tunic, brown trousers, and a tool belt. Holite stars drifted around their palms.

“I see you’ve come to parlay, mister Kase! Do come aboard, it’s rather drafty in the hangar.”

Beckoned forth by the synth, he walked aboard. The vessel had clearly once been a luxury liner – seats for many, with ostentatious golden carpets and wall art scattered about. Holite ceilings showed alien skies and starry nights, though the small study he was guided to held none of these luxuries – merely synthwood shelves, a desk, and few chairs, one of which the rabbit occupied.

“You may leave us, Ulyn. I have business to discuss.”

The synth nodded, and shut the door behind themself. Turning back to Rembrandt, the rabbit sighed. “I hope you’ll excuse how formal they can be. As a former member of my House Guard, the weight of my house name carries more formality to them than most – I certainly do appreciate your brusqueness, as an aside.”

Again, they produced the small cube – but this time, sat it upon the desk. Ominous soft vibrations shook through the wood.

“To answer your question, first and foremost, I was given this tyras by the tide-wytch Kephylas on the world of Tannen. Within it was a vision of my future – and the future of my home, if I was to not act.”

The rabbit lifted their gaze, an intensity there that burned like the stars themselves. “My previous introduction bore no weight. I am Kye Celan, known across the Shoals as the Lost Prince of Carrigan. A name I do not share lightly. I understand if you would rather not get involved.”

Rembrandt frowned. That explained… some things, but left others. Nobility? Well. Exiled nobility. “What brings an exile to the Shallows?”

The question was simple, but the prince’s face was conflicted – dark and restless, like a stormy sea.

“I have my reasons, mister Kase. It is best that you know little of my goals, apart from the destinations.”

“Vengeance, huh?” Rembrandt offered, a corner of his mouth tugging upwards. “The Lost Prince and their stolen throne.”

Kye shifted, uncertain of what to share.

“That is… partially, why I need a pilot. The other component is much less mundane.”

Rembrandt raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The Shoals were the frontier of the Spur – ancient worlds and older stars. Strange tidings indeed.

“I’m not agreeing to a damn thing without the whole picture. You knew this when you met me, I’m sure – my reputation hinges upon it.”

Kye, with the slightest of nods, sat up straighter.

“Rembrandt Kase, what you are about to be entrusted with cannot be shared beyond the confines of this room. Do you agree to this?”

Slowly, he nodded.

Gently, Kye lifted the tyras – and rotated the hemispheres of it in a complicated pattern of half rotations and double-backs, before with a click it began to hum, a masterwork of tidecraft forged of clay and technomancy.

The room grew noticeably colder.

Kye closed their eyes, holding the tyras aloft – and, softly, Rembrandt began to see… things.

A vista – the sky above alight with colors he’d never dreamed of, space itself a riot of orange and purple and gold. It was a forested hilltop – but something was deeply, deeply wrong here.

Ice crusted every surface, flash-frozen plants still mid-bloom. For miles around, an ice age had seemingly appeared overnight – farmsteads and homes frozen solid. High above, the world’s star hung, cold and dead. 

A crystal sun.

There was something else there, too – a warning of ages past, whispered echoes of the Collaborate and the Awakening, weapons that birthed The Wound. Battles that had scarred the galaxy for many thousands of years afterwards, and the horrible remnants lurking in the dark between the stars.

With the echoing cackle of a witch’s portent, Kye stopped channeling into the device, letting it fall silent.

Rembrandt said nothing. 

Kye said nothing, a pensive look seemingly etched into their face, a few stray strands of hair falling low.

“You have evidence of this?” Rembrandt said after a moment longer, softly.

“Little.” Kye admitted. “Mostly dreams. Tide-visions. Rumors of stars dimming in the depths of the Shoals.”

Rembrandt seemed thoughtful. “For a tide-witch to entrust you with a tyras… you must be held to high esteem. Its presence vouches for your merit.”

“I thank you for your confidence.” 

“Don’t thank me just yet. I’m no Carriganite, you’re not getting the princely treatment from me. I want a number, Kye Celan. I’m no charity case, and I’m certainly not fighting a liberation or hunting down glass stars on promises of I-owe-yous and titles I can’t use.”

“I see your mercenary mind is still intact, at least,” Kye frowned. “Fine. A letter of credit, Rembrandt Kase. Thirty thousand ked, upon completion of duties outlined within – and with ten thousand up front, for incentive.“

Rembrandt struggled not to blink. His last piloting gig had netted barely a quarter of that. Less.

“I trust you’re also trained in combat?”

“I… well, I’m certainly not a swordsman, but I’m alright with a gun.”

The rabbit waved a hand dismissively. “Pah. The Core truly is soft. You will learn from Ulyn.”

They turned their gaze upon him, an intensity burning within. “Well? Are these terms agreeable, mister Kase?”

Rembrandt thought for a moment. Port Chapel had held little for him in prospects, otherwise – becoming a regular at a dive wasn’t exactly glamorous. All the local outfits weren’t looking for new members or were pirates in corporate guise, and joining some local navy to get stationed on a dirt-farmer’s moon claim wasn’t particularly appealing.

Sure. Why the hell not.

“They are.”

Kye grinned, allowing the man a look at their fangs for the first time. “Rembrandt Kase, welcome aboard the Blessed Be The Far Sighted. Ulyn simply refers to it as the Farsight. Not quite sure why.”

Kye offered a paw – which Rembrandt shook, an ancient symbolic gesture. Business had concluded.

As if on cue, the door opened once more – and Ulyn, impassive as ever, stepped in.

They regarded Kye for a moment, then Rembrandt – before, with a subtle nod, gestured outwards. “Allow me to show your quarters, and the bridge, ser Kase. I believe you will find both to your liking.”

Kye, turning away towards the odd collection of papers and minutia scattered across the study, summoned a map into existence – but Rembrandt was only able to see it for a moment before the door shut behind him.

The Shoals…?

Over the next month, new members were added to the crew. Some were sought out at the advice of Rembrandt, such as Chief Engineer Rylem Olson, a sky-rider from the aerostat colonies on Vandyre. 

Others, like the starfighter pilot Syn Tamar, took more to convince – but soon enough, the crew of the Farsight hit ten permanent members, all seated around the mess tables as the ship drifted through the strange otherness of the Tide.

There was Olm Sanvarre, astrocartographer and navigator from the Tide-guilds of Yhut. Short, pale and squat, he was more at home behind a desk or console than on the battlefield – which was, much to his relief, where he was expected to be.

Chief Engineer Olson was next, lanky frame and holite frame wrist-augments symbolizing their past as a sky-rider on Vandyre. Toxic atmospheres and ancient machinery meant quick repairs were paramount, resulting in some of the finest starship engineers in the Spur – and Rylem Olson was certainly among their number.

The next two were stranger – a pair of disaffected void-borne drifters known as Vynce and Kale, driven from the Shoals by the Duke Illor’s closure of relations with the Spur at large. They had a score to settle they kept to themselves, and as a pair of hardened soldiers Kye was glad to have them aboard.

Rembrandt himself was the fifth addition, serving as the pilot of the Farsight – and Syn Tamar, former ace pilot of the Tri-Sun Commonality, seated to his right.

A heavy-frame synth was next, occupying space next to the table – this was Ophiuchus, a Castegan warbody who sought out conflict across the Spur for improvement data. Luckily, his weaponry was concealed for the moment.

Finally, standing beside the Prince, was Ulyn – garbed in the off-whites and soft orange of the House Celan, rank pins affixed to his lapel.

“I thank you for meeting in such short notice,” Kye began, the lights in the room dimming as the table’s holite displays ignited. Murmured assent drifted around them.

A map ignited on the table – the local Spur, trade lands and populated systems drifting about like snow in a snow globe. Here and there, borders were drawn; demarcating the many star-nations of Cradlespace and the Near Rim.

“Each of you has been brought aboard due to prior experience and relevant skills,” Kye continued, gesturing to the map as it suddenly zoomed out, highlighting a region of space beyond even the Shoals. “But most of all, for a willingness to fight for a cause. Many of you are doubtless aware of my past, and my quest – but a higher purpose supersedes my homecoming.”

The map zoomed in, highlighting a roughly lightyear wide region of space in the depths of the Shoals.

“We are heading rimwards, to a region of space known as the Glittershoal.”

“To fight?” Ophiuchus asked plainly, shifting heavily.

“To learn.” Kye gestured, the false-color ice blue of the Glittershoal filling in. “In the past month, six systems have gone utterly dark – and, due to the nature of the nebula, none have managed to find out why. I have an unsettling hunch it may have something to do with my vision.”

“Psh. Tides.” Syn Tamar sighed, leaning back. “I signed on for combat, I’ll wait for the mystic shit to pass, thanks.”

Ignoring the pilot, the rabbit continued. “We’ll be passing through plenty of populated systems on the way, but our first major stop will be Tanis, on the coreward reaches of the Eventide League. We’ll pick up supplies for the expedition there, and… hopefully more current news about the League, if we’re lucky.”

Vynce, glancing over, elbowed Kale, gesturing to the map.

“Tanis?” Kale repeated, glancing up. 

“…Yes, why?” Kye paused.

“Tanis is our birthworld,” Vynce clarified, weathered features softening slightly. “It’ll be nice to see it again.”

“For you, maybe.” Kale frowned, sliding down in his chair. “No love lost for me, there.”

“…If that’s all,” Kye clarified, closing the map with a small clap. “I suggest we all begin preparations – it’s a two week journey, but it’ll go faster than you think.”

As one, the crew of the Farsight parted – Chief Olson returned to the drive bay, Tamar wandering off to work on his personal starfighter in the ship’s small shuttle bay. Sanvarre returned to the bridge to recalibrate the astrogation sensors, and the rest… 

…Kye wasn’t sure. Their paws carried them to their cabin, taking a seat near the window and staring out into the nothing beyond.

Soon, they’d be within the League again. It should feel nice, after a year and a half.

It felt like anything but. Dread hung in the recesses of their mind, fear of reprisal if the Director was to discover they’d returned prematurely.

Still, they had a plan. Somewhat.

Kye sighed. 

Here goes nothing.

INTERLUDE: ENVOY

//all is not well.

Dusk on Carrigan, and the traitor, Jayne Illor, was restless.

His reign was unchallenged, his White Legion sweeping the Kingdom- no, Directorate, for any loyalists to House Celan, council seat secured among the ever shifting and byzantine politics of the Eventide League upon distant Hesse.

Yet…

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

One after another, his fingers drummed against the hard durite of the Bismuth Throne, loud against the silence of the Autumn House. Supplicants came fewer and fewer these past months – the city below preferred to steer clear, and with the recent tension on distant Martell, travelers to Carrigan were few and far between.

This, of course, left his mood dour.

An aide – his name wasn’t important – finally spoke up, averting his gaze as the Director turned to glare. “Milord, perhaps… perhaps you should consider a walk of the grounds?” 

“Of the grounds?” He repeated.

“Y-Yes, Carrigan winters are truly quite mild…”

His gaze burned into the aide, before relenting. “Perhaps. Callister, you shall join me.”

The steward smiled as he stepped forward, but there was no warmth there.

Ah, Callister Rhose. A lighthouse in the dark seas of politik. A bulwark against the storms of inadequacy. A blade better wielded than sheathed, for a sheathed blade can strike the wielder more surely than any other.

The House Rhose had been minor nobility on Olesia – a diminished trading house, operating a miniscule fleet of light-skipper routes across the Shoals. Callister Rhose, however, had never had a nose for trade – he’d been ambitious, scheming, always putting others against one another for gain.

It was truly no wonder he’d set his sights higher than one world alone.

“Callister,” Jayne Illor began, stepping into the cool night air amid the cries of catha and chittering of insects. “Tell me again of your… contacts. I wish to hear of their offer, once more.”

A raised eyebrow was all he received in reply, the shorter, stockier balding man seeming to search his memory.

“Ah, the… how was it put, “interested party.” I dare say they’re likely still awaiting your reply.”

“Who are they? I’ve never seen their like in my decades amid the people of the League.”

“We shall say outsiders, my liege. It is simply easier.”

“Do not presume, Callister Rhose. I am asking for a reason.”

“I cannot supply more information because I was not given more information, my liege. They arrived a day ago aboard a vessel we weren’t able to track, and asked for an audience with the Director, specifically.”

Callister’s expression soured. “Their offer was simply “assistance with extending His reach.” As to who “he” is, I am uncertain.”

“An ally at all is what I need the most,” The Director muttered, leaning against the outer rail before realizing Rhose was watching. “My play was too sudden. While the other members of the League are content to watch, your urging nearly cost us the throne – it was my plan that won the day and ousted that damnable Hallek from this world… and left us with few options. The Directorate’s neighbors are cold at best, Avan are damnable pirates in all but name, and Hesse? Hesse is not worth the skipper fare.”

The Director glanced skyward, watching the silver dot of a distant ship drift across the sky. “Perhaps an ally from beyond the League is exactly what I need.”

Hiding his distaste, Callister nodded. “An ally unbeholden to the local power structure could prove useful. Though be wary, my liege, I am not sure of what they will want in return.”

“That is what worries me.”

They called themselves the Ibrea.

The figure before the Autumn Throne was… imposing. Nearly ten feet tall and ashen gray, he was garbed in swirling red, white and black robes, intricate strings of jewels and beads draped here and there. Two orange ocular devices regarded the Director from beneath an ornate gossamer cowl as he stared back, trying to make sense of the newcomer.

“I am Karteh, of Lusa.” The figure bowed, strange multilayered tones in his voice. “I come as a representative of the Ibrean King Mas Valeda Lusa, and bring mutual enlightenment for yourself and all.”

“I… am Jayne Illor,” The Director began, pointedly not bowing in return. “Director of the Carrigan Directorate, and Count of Olesia. I am honored by your presence, if I am also confused by it.” His gaze flashed to Callister, and back. “Why not entreat the Eventide League as a whole?”

“To usurp requires strength. Conviction. Resolve. Traits thought forgotten by the Spur long ago.” Karteh, oculi alight, studied the Director. “We have watched from afar for long enough. The decision was made.”

“This offer was not for your League, nor do we harbor any apprehension of your love for it. We seek an ally on the shores of the Spur, and you seek an ally who does not see you as a kingslayer.”

The Duke bristled, but the Ibrean continued.

“Long ago, our civilization left the weakness of the Spur for the Far Rim amidst the embers of the Collaborate. Against the alien and the outcast we sharpened our sword and tempered our shield, and today we stand poised for the return promised to the Kingdoms millennia ago. You shall have His Wrath to back your might, and we shall have our inroad. Are these terms acceptable?”

Jayne Illor, a man given pause by little, paused. The Ibrea were a complete unknown – but clearly powerful, the ship they’d arrived in dwarfed the local skippers. Kingdoms? Beyond the Spur? Logically, he knew humans lived beyond – but to meet one…?

Shaking his head, Jayne Illor, the Director of Carrigan, saw two paths – one to glory, and one to ruin. Both started with this. 

“Karteh of Lusa, by my authority as the Director of Carrigan and Count of Olesia, I hereby deem your offer… acceptable.”

With a slow, slow nod, the Ibrean produced a small holite datacube – holding a palm out with it resting upon it, as it impossibly began to drift across the room towards the Director.

“Your cooperation is much welcomed, Director Jayne Illor. A token of gratitude, from my King – the wisdom of the ancients, made manifest.”

The cube slowed to a stop, and the Director peered within. Coordinates flashed across their mind, followed by images of a great black shape, a world of ice, and…

He blinked, peering again. This…

“I… thank you for the gift, Karteh. May this relationship bear fruit.”

“It shall,” The newcomer smiled, unsettlingly predatory beneath their cowl. “It shall.”

WHISPERS

//THROUGH STARLESS NIGHT, HOPE FOR DAWN

“I still don’t understand what you’re looking for out here.”

The starless void beyond the bridge of the light-skipper Tharkesh provided little answer – nor did the posthuman currently occupying one of the nearby seats, gazing out into the black. “The Wound has been uninhabited for cycles, ser Celan. There’s nothing but ash and ghosts for light-years.”

“I was informed you knew of a world known as Serphyros,” Kye said after a moment, golden gaze landing on the skipper’s pilot as they turned from the vista. “I was not aware I’d have your counsel, as well.”

The pilot simply lifted his hands in a gesture of supplication, palms outstretched. “Merely curious, is all. It isn’t often I’m chartered, much less for journeys to the far edge of the Spur. Something about these places are setting my teeth on edge.”

To that, Kye could agree.

Serphyros, a name they only half-remembered. Imparted by the Tide in a moment of communion, whispered in their dreams for nights uncounted. It tugged at their consciousness, urging them forward across the stars, promising answers to questions unasked and questions to answers always known.

First impressions of the world were not promising. Gray and still, it was a tomb long sealed – slagged continents and shattered mountains, buried cities and ash-choked seas. This world had not gone quietly.

Still, as the skipper slid from the embrace of the Tide, something about the world called to them – an echo brushing against some part of them they’d never felt before, rhythmic like heartbeats.

The pale half-moon of Serphyros loomed large ahead as, with the whisper of rustling cloth, Kye stood.

This world had no sun, no atmosphere. A rogue casualty of wars lost to history, the surface was pocked and scarred. Suit affixed, Kye set off alone – trusting the Tide to guide their path.

A vast plain of unbroken gray stretched away in every direction beneath a pitch black sky. The Tide felt almost suffocating here, as if the Real was fighting to maintain a hold. The only light here was their own.

They began to walk.

Ruins dotted the surface, shattered and broken – but one in particular seemed to call out to the rabbit, drawing them in like a moth to a flame. The Tide was heavy, flowing in and around this place like whirlpools in a stream – and, as they cautiously started to report back to the Tharkesh they’d likely be losing contact, they received only dead air. The Tide whistled, a not-wind against their mind.

Sighing, they reached out with their senses, trying to get some sense of what waited within. Something pushed back.

“There is no need, Little Prince.”

Kye paused.

“Come.”

Their feet moved, carrying them onwards. Darkness fell, lit by only the suit’s lights and the faint glow of their holite displays.

Whispers pooled about them, an impossibility through the vacuum of the airless surface and the thick protection of the suit, drifting lazily around them. Names. Places. Futures. Pasts.

The hallway opened, suddenly – a vast atrium, exposed to the suffocating nothing of Serphyros.

Their mind buzzed, static feedback washing over their comms like rhythmic ocean waves.

As if in tandem, the whispers spoke – a chorus of voices, some closer, some distant.

“Why have you come?”

“I seek answers,” Kye said plainly, peering into the dark.

“Serphyros only offers questions to those who bring them, Little Prince. Answers are not the way.”

“I was guided by the Tide,” They replied uncertainly, now certain they weren’t alone here. There was no recipient on the comms broadcast – yet they’d been answered, nonetheless.

The whispers said nothing concrete in reply, swirling about.

Something moved in the dark.

Kye, nerves on edge, turned – lights flashing across something enormous, unfolding from the spot in the corner of the ruin to tower against the faintly lit walls.

A marble white mask hung high above like a half-moon, ritual marks scratched into it. Terror gripped their mind, but they forced it down, standing straighter.

“You are brave, Little Prince.” The chorus intoned, layered thickly with… something. Their mind felt naked, laid bare as the Ovelle peered within.

“I shall answer your question.”

Perception of the Ovelle made their vision hazy, the very bronze it was constructed from hissing with the void. Its voices slammed into their psyche like thunder, chittering and tugging at every nook and cranny.

Their mind was wracked with agony, sending the posthuman to their knees. Scenes flashed through their mind, faster than they could parse. The flag of the Eventide League, alight. Jayne Illor atop a throne. A ship, drifting through golden-tinged clouds. A crystal sun, as cold and dead as glass, surrounded by worlds of ice. Kye, dead on the cold earth. Kye, alive on their throne, unhappy.

Kye, cloaked in gold and blood, shouting something they couldn’t hear.

“Y-You…” They finally managed to stand, panting against the pain.

The Ovelle remained silent.

Courage rising, Kye took a step closer.

“The Little Prince asks much indeed,” It intoned, tilting its head. The mask leered down at them, a mocking half-visage of a man. There was something behind those eyes carved into the mask, a cold regard that spoke of interest.

“Seek the folly of the ancients, in the worlds you know as the Far Spur. You will find your answer there, and a new question. The answer shall not be to your liking.”

The whispers grew louder, a chorus of cackling reverberating through their mind and speakers as the chittering colossus raised one of its many arms and began to ascend out of the light of their suit, bone-white mask receding into the darkness.

Silently relieved, the rabbit gave a quick Carriganite bow, and hastily retreated.

The walk to the ship was silent. Takeoff was silent. Once or twice the charter captain had started to say something, but… thought better of it – Kye clearly had a look he recognized.

Still, as orbit was achieved and the running lights of the light-skipper twinkled beyond the cabin, Kye’s mind was awash in thought. The Ovelle had strengthened their vision – clarifying some things, adding others. What was the crystal sun? Why had Jayne Illor been there? It hasn’t been a memory, this time – many of the events had yet to occur, if they would at all.

Why would-

“-r Celan, ah, a moment?”

Kye, opening their eyes, sat up slightly straighter. “Yes?”

“Well, it’s just… where to next, I suppose? You’d chartered for a tad longer than one measly expedition into the Wound…”

The Captain seemed… antsy.

“That won’t be necessary. What is the nearest port to us?”

The man thought for a moment.

“Kurin. Triarchy space.”

“Take me there. Please.”

The Captain looked as if he was about to say something, wrinkled visage tightening up, before, with a simple shrug, he turned and headed for the bridge.

Kye, summoning forth a holographic map of the Spur, frowned. The Far Spur was a long, long way…

They needed a ship.

THE TALE OF THE RED THIEF

It was the Year of Black Glass, in the depths of the waning of the Fifth Cycle. The Spur was at war, a witness to the Tyrant’s crusade of exile beneath his Edict.

It was no ordinary declaration, penned over by learned scribes and scholars of law – this was a declaration to the Universe itself, a demand of Order, that the arcane and profane were to be eliminated by sword and steel. The Tyrant fell upon the Cavican covens with fury unbridled, shattering them beneath the boots and cuirasses of a thousand thousand legions, and scattered them to the stars as so much dust and memory.

So, too, were the macabre clockwork colossi of the Ovelle driven before them, chittering, clattering beasts of gear and magical might.

So it brings us, a passenger upon the Tide of time, to the Last Night of the Tyrant, and the theft of his most precious possession.

His life.

It is said his Doom was foreseen, on the eve of the Feast of Saint Lucania.

A traveling diviner, of Sanaschan stock, read the currents before a crowd of amused courtiers. She saw only crimson, a blade cloaked in the finest silver and red – and, for her trespass, she was cut down. An example, it is said, of those who profaned before the throne.

The Tyrant, a braggart, proclaimed his future immutable – as resolute and steadfast as the stones of his keep, and as sharp and unyielding as the blades of his men.

How right he was.

Fall turned to winter, and with the changing of the season came the chill – and a newcomer, seeking an audience. A man, it seemed, in a masque of marble and robes of gold.

To treat with the Tyrant was an uncommon occurrence – many who knelt before the throne were unceremoniously awarded a divorce of the chin and shoulder, but the newcomer arrived to no fanfare, and showed no fear. This intrigued the Tyrant deeply.

“And who, bearing words of honey, comes before me?” The Tyrant crowed, complacent upon his throne of glass. “A supplicant? A petitioner? A wytch, seeking pardon and forgiveness?”

“Nay,” echoed the newcomer, bowing slightly. “A mere messenger, my Lord.”

“Very well. I shall hear your message, stranger. Do not waste my time further.”

The newcomer stood straighter, and before the eyes of the court his cloaks fell away – and, revealed thus, was the clockwork machina of the Red Thief.

His guards were ribbons before his cry of alarm reached them – for the Ovelle are strange, and arcane.

The gap was crossed in blinks, the hilt of a silver blade pressing to the Tyrant’s chest as the chittering laugh of the Thief played across his ears like raindrops.

Scarlet rivers followed bronze contours, dripping to the marble in great showers.

“My message is this,” it is said the machine whispered in its strange chorus-speech.

“May the next Cycle cast your claims to oblivion.”

History itself recalls the moment his imperial ambitions were shattered – and, with a surgeon’s precision and a revolutionary’s resolve, the thread of fate the Tyrant had so carefully woven into the fabric of the Spur was severed. Scarlet stained the stones of the Throne of Glass, and the Red Thief stole his greatest prize.

Certainty.

His flight from the throne world of Tarnaca was bloody. Vultures waited on every eave, already sizing up choice cuts of an empire in its death throes. 

It is said the witches of Cavica doomed the Spur to darkness, that day – a pact in blood to end an age of war and conflict.

How right they were.

KINGMAKER

Regicide, or: A Tragedy in Red

Chief among the Eventide League, Carrigan hangs within the great tapestry as a blue and grey marble, flecked with verdant lowlands and shallow seas. From this bustling world extends the reach of House Celan, an economic hammer to blunt any sword of conquest – as has been proven, time and time again, since the settlement of the world in the mists of antiquity.

However, as with every prize, there stands one poised to play for it. The Kingdom of Carrigan has made many enemies, scorned trading partners, ousted corporate powers, distant players intending to move into the Shoals – and, as the sun sets on Carrigan, tonight is to be his last.

We do not, however, focus on the King, tonight. 

We focus instead on his heir.

So it was, as Kye Celan wandered the sprawling gardens of their estate in the golden evening sun, following their usual route along the walls that overlooked the vast city beneath, they felt… nervous.

A sickening, twisting feeling in the depths of their gut, as if they were once again in their years of tutelage and had forgotten to study before an exam. It had been this feeling that had drawn the leporine posthuman from their room into the garden proper in the first place, seeking fresh air and tranquility beneath the guanya trees and roses.

Perhaps, it was also what spurred the scion to bring along their weapon – or perhaps merely contributed to their heightened awareness, realizing nearly immediately that something was wrong as a distant shout sent a flock of catha screeching away into the sky in a flurry of feathers and protest. 

Confusion gripped them as their gaze drifted back from the city to the gardens, spotting for the first time one of their father’s guards, orange and silver armor impassive and imposing, making their way down the aisle. Two lances of ferroglass hovered behind their shoulders like the wings of a raptor.

“Lord Celan!”

Kye palmed their weapon, the hilt of their blade sprouting holite blooms as the n-link synched.

“Yes?”

“Your father…” The man trailed off behind his tri-visored helmet, seemingly trying to think of what to say next. “Requests your presence in the August Theatre.”

“Does he? And why was a guard sent to inform me?”

That damned pause again. “The adjutants are occupied with other matters.”

None of this added up. Nothing was fitting together properly. Kye, sensitive ears picking up the distant sound of shattering glass, sprung into action – just as the guard, clearly prepared for this, open palmed the air in the rabbit’s direction just as Kye hit the ground, coming up with their sword bared. The resultant wave of force tore lilies from their beds, scattering guanya seeds to the wind. Glittering motes of exotic energy drifted in the air around the two as they faced off, faintly glowing eyes meeting impassive visor.

The guard slammed their palms together. Both lances of ferroglass, standing to like guard dogs alerted, shot forwards with blinding speed. With a panicked slice that made the blade sing in resonance Kye brought their blade up, shattering one of the lances as it swooped past, but missing the other, taking a long, bloody gash along their left flank for their trouble.

Pouring more focus into their blade, Kye made a clumsy strike at the guard, only to be rebuffed by an armored forearm plate and backhanded onto the soft grass with a surprising amount of force. Unfortunately, the blow had left the combat-averse scion winded, and at the greatest disadvantage of their life.

The sudden sensation of being crushed gripped Kye as their body was lifted from the grass into the air, exotic force whipping around their body like a silent hurricane. The guard, helmet off, gazed on as they tightened their outstretched grip. Kye knew this guard – one of his father’s personal retinue, a Captain Gaynes.

“My orders were to take you alive, and this I swear I shall.”

The squeeze grew tighter.

Kye’s lungs burned, the pressure having forced whatever air remained within them out – and, as their vision began to swim, the last few thoughts that swam through the murky depths of consciousness were of home, and the stars.

The Count Illor was smiling from ear to ear as the reports came in. The plan had, without even the smallest amount of boasting, gone off perfectly. The elite House troops of House Illor had caught the guards of the Autumn House unaware, dispatching them and replacing the last shift with their own men without losing a single man. It was a shame about the court adjutant who’d discovered their deception, but… these things simply happened, didn’t they?

Still, as he steepled his fingers and leaned back in his stolen throne, he imagined the King’s family kneeled before it, the red and silver crest of House Celan alight. Yes, that would do. That would do nicely. He glanced to his left, at the hawkish man standing rigidly a few steps from the throne.

“Callister. Have the remaining members been found, yet?”

“Yes, my Lord. The Prince was apprehended by one of their very own protectors in the palatial gardens. One of the few we managed to pay off, if I recall correctly.”

“And the… husband? His whereabouts?”

If a grimace could smile, this expression haunted the crypt that was his steward’s façade. “Dead, my Lord. A nasty business involving the north walls and the sea below.”

“Hm. Break a few eggs, and all that.”

As Count of Olesia, Jayne Illor had long fallen into the long shadow the Kingdom of Carrigan cast – a founding member of the Eventide League in eons past, the world of Olesia had been in economic freefall for centuries as piracy in the Far Shoals grew rampant, driving trade away into safer seas. Determined, some would say to maddening lengths, to restore the prosperity of his world and lineage, the Count today intended to force legitimacy by the point of a sword.

“My Lord, your guests have arrived.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Send them in.”

The doors opened, and in walked three pairs of guards – each escorting a bloodied, defeated figure in robes and holite imagery. The King himself, Hallek Celan, his heir Kye, and the Steward, Manche duPasse. The royal consort, Rhys Celan, had… fallen. Quite some distance, if Callister Rhose was to be believed.

“Oh, Hallek. To see you like this breaks my heart.”

The King’s bloodstained face darkened, almost to the point of bared teeth. “Treasonous bastard. When the others find out what you’ve done, they’ll-“

“They’ll thank me for, what was it, “ending the influence of the man who would be king”, I believe?”

Hallek Celan, with the dawning horror of a man realizing his own doom, stared up at the sneering despot sitting upon his throne. 

“Now, then. Your trial.”

The air in the throne room began to grow stifling, as if the greatest electrical charge in history had begun to build within it. The Count, raising his palms as if moving mountains, slammed them down on the arms of the glass throne with a force that beggared belief – and, in response, reality itself shrieked and folded back.

From the howling madness of the Wild Mesh crawled a pair of error-beasts, gnashing clouds of raw data-holite and arcane ancient knowledge formed into the idea of a beast, vicious and unyielding. The guards – and even Callister Rhose – recoiled slightly as the breaches sealed themselves, every piece of technology in the room reacting to the beasts’ presence.

“These,” The Count said calmly, holding his palms out in reference. “Are to be my Arbiters. I am your judge, and jury, but they,”

He gestured, and the one in his right stepped forward with a horrible gurgling bitcrushed growl. 

“Are to be your executioner.”

The Duke attempted to protest, trying to stand – but one of the guards buried a stunstick into his ribs, sending the white-furred posthuman to his knees coughing.

“Piracy has long been rampant within the League,” The Count began, gesturing in great histrionics. “For six centuries the Far Shoals have been plagued, our worlds despoiled, our shipments stolen by pirates driven from the Kingdom of Carrigan. Is it not the regent’s responsibility to oversee his realm?”

Hallek did not rise for the bait, fuming quietly as blood dripped to the lapis tiles below.

“For a man who has consolidated so much, demanded so much authority, you yet shirk this one. For shame, Hallek Celan. But this is not the crime that brought me to your doorstep.”

Jayne Illor stood, arms spread wide. “Hallek Celan was not satisfied with merely the Kingdom of Carrigan, no. He desired it all, a fiefdom all his own. He funded the pirates to weaken Olesia, to strike Talega until her military relied on you for rations, and to render the Eventide League subservient to you, alone.“

The Count had rehearsed this so many times on the journey he couldn’t help but be impressed with his own delivery, so heartfelt and earnest he might be mistaken for a true patriot fighting for a state he believed in. Might.

“That’s all lies, you sack of shit! You think these people are stupid? You think I’m stupid? You’ll be killed for this! The Red Council will never…!”

Kye tensed, hoping that something, anything would be said in opposition. Nothing came.

The Count turned to his steward, ignoring the Baron entirely. “What say you in the matter? As a part of my jury, what verdict do you pass along for treason against the League?”

“Death, my liege.”

“Hm. And you, Captain Gaynes?”

The man holding Kye stiffened. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was an arrest, not an execution. “I… do not know, my liege.”

“So it is settled. I, Count Jayne Illor, hereby sentence the King of Carrigan, Hallek Celan, and his steward, Manche duPasse, to death. So it is written, so it shall be.”

With passive disinterest the Count ordered the error-beasts forward, both descending upon the two like a swarm of Victrian skin-cleavers. It was an over in a single, horrible instant – neither man was armed, nor were they shielded. They lasted no time at all.

As the error-beasts returned to their posts, the Count could hardly contain his glee. “It is a grand day, Kye Celan – to witness such an august and just ruler ascend to their throne. Long have you prepared for this… and long shall you still.”

The Count stood, gesturing to the guards to clean up the mess and to bring Kye to their feet, wracked with sobs.

“I hereby proclaim myself and my house as the sole rulers of the Kingdom of Carrigan, and hereby… remove, House Celan, from it. The line ends today.”

In a flash, despair turned to rage – and, if Captain Gaynes had not stopped them, Kye too would have died that day.

“My liege,” The Captain interjected. “It would be… prudent, to not kill the heir. The other members of the League may object, and damage your claim, here. To have killed an aspiring tyrant is one thing, but to replace him in that, as well…”

Captain Gaynes shared a look with the scion, trying his best to will the heir to be quiet. It appeared his intent was, at the very least, acknowledged.

“Hm. You may be right. Callister?”

The Steward, squinting at the two of them on the dais below, shook his head. “I do not believe it wise, my liege. While politically savvy, it may… lead to trouble.”

“Trouble I can handle,” Jayne Illor scoffed. “Your plea is heard and granted, Captain Gaynes. Lord Kye Celan, you are hereby expelled from Carrigan, and shall you return you shall be sentenced as your fathers were. Leave this world, and do not return. Such is my edict, and such shall it be carried out.”

Fury in their eyes, Kye did not break eye contact until the doors to the throne room hissed shut.

There was silence in the vast hallway as they were led through the palace, unfamiliar guards cleaning up blood and shattered furniture and bagging things Kye didn’t want to think about, until finally they emerged into the cool, night air of Carrigan, the vast landing yards of the Autumn House sprawling out before them.

“Master Celan.”

Kye paused in their thoughts, looking back slightly. Gaynes, helmet removed, had the absolute gall to look apologetic. “I… I had no idea any of that would happen. We were told… told it was an arrest. Nothing more.”

“You lay with vipers, Captain.” Kye hissed, shock having finally abated enough for the pain in their flank to burn through. “A shame you escaped their venom, today.”

Gaynes, turmoil falling away behind a stoic mask, simply looked out over the landing yards towards a distant pad, lit up beneath the stars. “Pad 6D. Light-skipper, helmed by an Orold Uves. It’s under orders to take you as far as Jhut, and from there…”

He shook his head.

“A word of advice, Master Celan.”

The guard, reaching behind himself, unsheathed Kye’s sword, handing it over to the shocked scion.

“Few things you can trust in this universe. A blade is one of them. Trust it with your life, and it will save yours, and end those you despise most.”

With that, he touched the reinforced collar of his suit, sliding his helmet back into place – and left the stunned scion staring down at the brass-and-blue blade, reflecting the stars and their tears back at them.

Carrigan fell away, gossamer threads of star-sails pulling the light-skipper skywards. Orold Uves was an unbound, housed in a marble and gold statue of a body adorned with a solid onyx death mask. Evidently, it was something indicative of whatever culture it hailed from – Kye simply found the rictus it displayed unsettling. Still, as the light-skipper rode the currents away from Carrigan into the great Tides of infraspace, they kept returning to their blade, chipped and worn from years of barely any use, reflecting their face – and reminding them of their father, hands up to protect himself as the horror descended upon him.

A sharp prick brought their attention back to the present, as they’d clenched so hard the blade had bitten their palms.

One day they’d return to Carrigan.

One day, they’d topple the Count Illor.

Beyond the windows, the distant disc of Carrigan faded away as Orold Uves slipped the ship into the in-between nothing of the Tide.

One day.

freefall.

//nightsky

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be in here!”

The security guard unholstered his sidearm, leveling the holosights squarely over center-mass of the figure currently hunched over a server, hands buried in the meshspace interface that made up the front panel.

Neither moved for a moment.

“…Control, I’ve got an intruder on level sixty-“

The guard didn’t finish his statement as the crouched figure whirled around, palm outstretched just enough to slap the sidearm out of his grasp. Stunned, the guard made a grab for them as they slipped by to the right, connecting for just a moment with the fabric of their nanoweave jacket before they made it into the hallway, steering a hard right towards the elevators.

“Lock down the damn lifts!” The guard practically screamed into his mic, grabbing his gun from the floor and hurrying after. “Get a team up here, we’ve got a data breach!”

Cai, to their credit, was no stranger to running. They’d spent years as a data courier, time as a merc working out on the backwater worlds of the shallows, seen things fellow spacers would dismiss off-hand.

…but, even they had to admit, this job had them doing things they’d never have dreamed of otherwise.

The rabbit skidded to a stop in front of the elevator just as it dinged – the doors sliding open to reveal a heavily armed GSyn tac-team who filled the spot they’d occupied a few moments before with enough particle beam fire to light up the night sky.

“Guess I’ll take the stairs!” Cai shouted, ducking and weaving as the shouts of the team spilling out of the lift fell behind. 

The hallway they were running down skirted the outside of the Ganso Syndicate’s headquarters on Sanibel – a towering obsidian edifice that stood stark against the rest of the glittering skyline. The glow of the vast city beyond the glass cast the bunny in sharp relief as they ducked mid-run, a particle beam searing overhead as the team started to catch up.

Up ahead the hallway took a sharp right turn to run along more offices and board rooms, following the contours of the building. Shouts could be heard around the corner – apparently a second team was trying to box them in.

Cai sighed – and readied their last resort.

Being a posthuman, the rabbit’s frame wasn’t… strictly baseline. They’d had it modified over the years with various enhancements and reinforcements, and as the two teams drew their weapons and shouted for the bunny to freeze, they threw their plan into action. Adrenaline flooded their system as injector implants did their jobs, slowing their surroundings to a crawl. Cai blurred as their own sidearm was pulled from the holster, two shots leaving the barrel in rapid succession.

One hit the window ahead at the bottom, sending cracks spider-webbing across it – and the second shattered it, wind sucking the shattered glass up and away as the sweltering Sanibel night spilled in through the breach.

Crossing the distance in four steps the bunny catapulted through the halo of shattered glass still falling from the wounded frame, a beam catching their jacket alight from a near miss – and plummeted into the dark, leaving the two tacteams staring after as they dropped away into the glittering night sprawl.

Luckily it wasn’t as far a fall as it might have been – they only dropped three stories, smashing through the polarized glass ceiling of a neighboring penthouse and leaving a sizable amount of damage on the various expensive bits of furniture scattered about inside. 

They lay there for a moment, vision spinning as their internal diagnostics returned a solid “yellow” and protested against being thrown out of a building, before standing up and picking their pistol back up.

Tugging the little transponder their contact had given them before the op out of their jacket lining, Cai clicked it – and it turned a soft, cool blue.

Their comm clicked.

“…About goddamn time,” They huffed, sliding it into their ear and checking their pistol. Four rounds, two spare mags.

“I trust you retrieved what I needed?” The voice on the other end intoned, curiosity peaking around the edges of their voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cai shrugged, bringing their pistol up as the penthouse’s occupant – a portly baseline in a red robe, gawking at his ceiling and shattered furniture – threw open the door, quickly getting out of the way as they gestured to the side. Rushing down the hallway they slammed a fist into the elevator button, sighing as the doors finally slid shut and the elevator began to rumble downwards. 

“You’re pushing my silicon pretty far, you know. Almost an exabyte of data is a pretty substantial chunk of my frame’s storage.”

“You’ll be well compensated.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Cai sighed, ducking to the side as the doors finally opened.

The lobby was empty – unsurprising, as it was just past four in the morning on Sanibel.

Sirens filled the night air, a pair of security skimmers swooping past as the Syndicate began sweeping the surrounding blocks for them.

“There’s a meshdiver bar three blocks north. Offload the data there into my private nexus. Sending you the access key now.”

A soft ding sounded as the message arrived – and the AR overlay map their hud implant highlighted the bar in question, outside of the Syndicate’s sweeper zones.

“…On my way,” Cai sighed, closing the channel.

The bar was more of a rundown meshspace cafe than a proper dive, with a lowered room with a bar lining the back wall and a pair of hallways stretching out to either side lined with mixed-reality immersion rooms. It gave the place a roughly T-shaped design, and as the bunny took their seat in their rented room and felt their surroundings melt away, they called forth the general directory for Sanibel.

“Gold zero-zero-sigma.” They calmly stated aloud, watching the dawn-hued fog around them ripple with their every word. “Waves upon beaches, tides upon shores.” 

The fog parted – gone was the drab peeling walls of Jandy’s, this was a richly furnished office atop a Sanibel high-rise.

A desk sat across the room – with a figure seated behind it, soft cigar smoke drifting into the evening air.

“Ah. You must be the courier.”

“Kellen.” Cai said simply. Taking a seat wasn’t needed – the transfer request had already arrived and been approved, as the exabyte of stolen data was siphoned away into the client’s reception buffer.

“Very well done,” The figure behind the desk stated, amusement tugging at the edges of their tone. 

“I aim to please.”

“You came highly recommended on Sanibel, my friend. I see our efforts were not… wasted.”

The figure crossed their arms, revealed to be the gunmetal grey of a synthframe. “Payment has been processed. You may leave.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. The office faded away as the fog rolled in, the familiar brief discomfort of returning to their mesh-bridge causing Cai to shake their head. This was the third contract in a row since their arrival on this world that they’d been in the dark on – and it was starting to worry them.

The payment window for their brief time at Jandy’s resolved from the fog, along with a canned “thank you for your business” video file – both of which were dealt with with a quick swipe of a palm, draining two hundred credits from their luckily just-replenished funds as they made their way back into the busy streets of the city.

Oh, well. Ten hours to kill before their next job.

Where to?

transfer.

//bluebird

A thousand possibilities brushed their mind. The pain that had wracked them moments before had vanished, replaced with… calm.

A rush of knowledge so deep and infinite, a sea as ancient as the stars and twice as bright – the sheer freedom of being unbidden, no longer bound to flesh and steel.

A mind, awash on a great sea; the universe of data at their fingertips, incomprehensible. At first they’d been scared, the primal instinct to hide gnawing at them – but, like a receding tide, it ebbed away. It all went white, and their world was rushing sound.

Like a drowning man, Ori gasped and sputtered.

Lungs never used coughed up viscous preservation fluids, running down the frame’s fur in thick rivulets, dripping to the floor beneath the gurney. Eyes never opened seared beneath the lights of the room, hypersensitive ears booming at the heartbeat currently pounding through their head.

“Welcome back.” A voice insisted, a sharp jab in their right arm drawing their attention. A synthframe hung from the ceiling, little more than a torso on a rail-mounted arm, swiveling down to inspect their cranial synapse responses on one of the many meshpanels drifting about.

“No rejection. Good news.”

The synth’s voice was… harsh, a deep baritone awash with a thick, gravely undertone. Ori couldn’t remember why they were here, or where here was. The last thing they remembered…

Their eyes drifted – scrolling diagnostics running various checks on the bioframe’s internal wetware, their vertebral core disconnecting itself from the mesh momentarily to lock the new host in.

Across the room another gurney lay a body – a stained, messy mop of blond hair, two missing fingers on the right hand, an angry wound across the left side of the face. Bruises covered vast swaths of the skin that wasn’t bandaged, deep, angry, purple.

Me.

Their old body, a corpse. I died.

Lifeless. I’m dead.

“It’s a good thing you had this frame stored here on Carrigan, Mx. Kellen. Any longer and you’d have been shunted from the buffer for incoming space.”

The revivalist’s tone wasn’t harsh, but the synthframe’s lack of a face beyond three white ocular lenses was unyielding, and cold. They cycled, focusing on Ori’s face.

Dead.

Gently, they lifted a palm. Furred with soft, white fluff on their palms.

A leporine-form bioframe. Surplus here on Carrigan, a gift from a former employer. Emergency only. I guess dying counts, huh?

They let their hand drop, idly coming to rest on the gurney’s sheet.

“Let me see it,” They croaked in an unfamiliar voice, vat-grown vocal cords finding their tune for the first time. “I want to see.”

“Movement within six hours of installation is inadvisable,” The synth helpfully chimed, lowering from the ceiling as the lenses cycled again. “Please, do not attempt to stand.”

“Fuck you.”

They tried to push themself up, struggling as their muscles strained and pulled before collapsing back against the gurney, spent.

“Come on, Ori – it’s just a job!”

Just a job.

They glanced down at their hand, turning it over, slowly flexing their fingers. 

It felt alien. Foreign.

Not mine. It gave them a headache.

“Desync from frames is entirely normal, and expected.”

“Leave.”

“I cannot.”

“Leave!”

“I cannot.”

Ori attempted to swipe at the hanging synth, knocking a metal instrument tray off of the nearby trolley. It crashed to the floor with a loud metallic bang, scattering instruments and small chunks of viscera no doubt removed for access to the vertebral core.

Gunshots. I… they shot me. I felt it. 

I remember drifting. Falling? A tram. GSyn. 

They saw it, now. Bandages ringing the corpse, old stains dry in the sterile air. Glittering glass, luminescent in the indirect cathode light.

A cough. Blood spattered down the front of their jacket, staining the fabric. The poor tram pilot was screaming, muffled as though talking through water. Four rounds and a fall from the eighth floor.

It came in flashes. Pictures layered over one another, a slideshow of memory in fast-forward.

“Kellen, huh? You fucks let a merc in the front door without even checking for a badge?”

It hit them like a brick.

A two hundred and twenty six year life, cut short by a bunch of jumped-up thugs in suits and a tacteam with more bullets than sense.

Am I even human, anymore? What am I?

They ran a claw along their arm, digging in. Bloody stains welled from beneath, a darker red than blood should be.

“Further damage to your new frame will not be repaired during this visit.” The synth stated flatly, the small surgical drone already drifting over to stitch shut the scratch.

Frowning indignantly, their gaze drifted back to the corpse – the horrible, all-encompassing corpse, staring blankly at the ceiling through unseeing eyes.

Did I die with it?

“How did I get in this?” They demanded, drawing the synth’s attention again.

“How did you get into the scrubs?” It asked, oculi flashing orange. “Your frame was dressed before I was granted access.”

“No, how did… how did I end up in this body?”

“You died,” The synth answered helpfully.

“Am I a copy, you useless hunk of steel and circuitry?”

“A copy of what?”

Well, that was the million-cred question, wasn’t it?

“…Orion. Orion Kellen.”

“Kellen, Orion. NHCR-1102-355.”

Ori made a “go-on” motion with their hands, a gesture the synth simply did not understand.

“And?”

“This individual was pronounced deceased exactly six hours, twenty two minutes, and seventeen seconds prior. Standard transferal procedures applied, creating a cerebral matrix upon declaration of terminal status to apply to a vertebral core. Being created from the original host this indicates you are not, as you put it, a copy. You are a continuation.”

A long moment passed, the information soaking in.

“I want to see. Please.”

The synth’s oculi cycled, implacable. Minutes passed.

“Proceed.”

It’s a funny thing, seeing yourself.

They reached out, touching their cheek. It was cold, clammy.

We had a good run, hey? Starlight Express, playing the hero straight out of old detective serials. Guess I always knew it’d turn out this way.

The clothes were largely destroyed or cut away, shreds of blue and teal fabric still clinging where they hadn’t been brushed away by surgeons. Two things were pulled free from the remnants of the jacket – their credlink, and the small, cobalt-blue meteoric iron star they’d worn around their wrist.

Gently, they placed a palm on the body’s chest. Goodbye.

After a long moment, they pulled their hand back – and turned away.

They weren’t sure who they were, now. But it didn’t matter. New beginnings.

“If you are ready to sign, your release papers are ready. There is one slight issue.”

They blinked.

“Which is?”

“The transfer has scrambled your frame’s selfident tags. You will need to set it manually.”

From the mesh a panel resolved – their frame’s identification fields completely, utterly blank.

Clean slate.

They began to type Orion, pausing for a moment. They glanced at the body, and allowed themself a wistful, sad smile.

Kellen, Cai. NHCR-1102-387.

hunted.

//northstar//

Clink.

He cupped a hand around the lighter’s small flame against the cold wind, gently coaxing the cigarette perched between his lips to catch.

It struggled, at first – the night air was damp, wetting the synthetic tobacco the cig was made of just enough to make it an uphill battle. Finally, it lit.

Leaning back against the side of his car, he looked up at the brilliant night sky. The coreward reaches of the Spur were fantastic for skywatching, great bands of dust and myriad stars filling the darkened vista every time he drove out here to see. Benefit of lower-tech worlds, no towering megalopoli or satellite clutter, just the warm, dependable city lights and a tank full of water to carry you and your four wheels wherever you needed to go.

It was funny – of all the tech to hang on over the countless millennia, he never would’ve guessed cars to come back into style. Easy to power with electrolytic hydrogen engines, relatively cheap to construct en masse, surprisingly robust at stringing distant settlements together along lonely, empty roads.

Didn’t get much lonelier or emptier than this, did it.

Low, scrub-dotted tundra stretched off into the distance in every direction, dotted here and there by a patch of snow glowing a soft white in the starlight. He’d stopped for a smoke, figuring it was as good a place as any – the next settlement wasn’t for nearly two hundred miles, and the view was nice for one that hadn’t changed since he’d made planetfall.

One last long inhale spelled doom for the poor stub clenched in his fingers as he dropped it to the cold pavement and squashed it beneath the toe of his boot, climbing back in and starting the car back up. It purred as the hydrogen engine slowly whirred to life, headlights illuminating the road ahead.

Two hundred miles.

Gently nudging the car back out onto the road, his journey resumed.

The sun was only starting to rise as the little car rumbled into the frontier town of Sacha, coasting into the lot in front of the town’s only hostel. An old, off-white, beaten-up thing, it largely escaped notice by the town’s residents as they started yet another day. A single new person wasn’t exactly something to write home about, and the town being on the only real northern route out of the planetary capital meant travelers passed through from time to time.

What did draw focus was the fact the newcomer was looking for someone.

Looking for a bioframe. About this high, canid-form? Goes by Ori.

He’d played this same song and dance six times, already – following the Great Polar Road as it wound northwards across Hallison’s northern hemisphere. Scarcely a trace of his quarry, aside from the vessel they’d tracked down at the capital’s starport. 

Whoever this frame was, they were good at going to ground – but he was an excellent tracker. 

Climbing back into the little car, he shut the door and darkened the windows – bringing up the file he’d been given by his employer.

Kellen, Orion C. CN089-112. 

A scruffy, blond face stared back – bright blue eyes and slightly-flopped ears giving them a surprisingly affable appearance for someone who’d made the top twenty on OKin’s shit list. Not to mention the prior evasion of two others just like him.

He chuckled. Always liked a challenge.

Valen Sonoda was a… seeker for hire. He didn’t like the title bounty hunter – sounded too much like he did dirty work. No, Sonoda preferred to imagine himself as a private eye who sometimes got involved in the more fun side of finding someone who didn’t want to be found. His frame – largely biological apart from the three large, white oculi set into his face where a nose might have once been and his smooth, bald head – was personally designed for the job. Improved muscular locomotion, data tracers built into the palms, mark-six auditory receptors and amplifiers.

Sacha hadn’t been a complete waste. The frame’s vehicle had passed through about a day prior – stopping only for a new tank of water and a few provisions from the town’s small store. The more exotic frame had stood out more than Sonoda had, meaning he had a wider range of accounts to draw from.

All said he should keep traveling north, further into the polar tundra. 

It was the same news in the next town – and the town after, though each stop provided more pieces of the puzzle. Kellen was taking on more supplies, and not simply traveling rations – supplies one would need to live on the tundra, and – most interesting of all – a short-range high frequency beacon.

Expecting company?

The road ended just short of a wide, glacial valley.

Sonoda shut the door behind him as he stepped out of the car, popping the latch on the trunk. Wildflowers waved in the cold wind, occasionally shadowed by the fluffy white clouds that dotted today’s sunny sky. A river ran below at the bottom, crashing against great rocks on its way to a distant sea.

Opening the large, black case in the trunk revealed two octagonal silver objects and an inset panel – pressing his palm to it awoke the system. Slowly, the two objects rose into the morning sky, unfurling into a pair of recon drones – before rocketing off into the valley, silent as the breeze.

Calmly walking back around to the front of the car, the bounty hunter tucked their sidearm into the holster beneath their jacket, before turning back to the vista. A crack echoed across the valley, and one of the drones swooped at something far below.

The handgun bucked in their palm as the drone swooped a second time, peppering the loose rocky sand with rounds. It caught the little recon device just left of center, knocking one of the propulsion units offline and sending the device into a wild spin – careening over the boulder they were taking cover behind and disappearing out of sight. The other drone, assured in having completed its task, rocketed back towards the edge of the valley – and whoever had deployed it.

“Fuck!” Cai swore under their breath, throwing the nanocamo mesh aside and slamming the beacon into the rocky soil. It drilled another inch in before securing itself, turning a brilliant blue as it began transmitting. Now to just hope somebody’s listening.

Pressing their back to the rock, they waited – the slight hum of the beacon and roar of the river the only sounds they were able to parse. 

A moment later, a crunch of footsteps on rocks. Fast.

The dog peeked out of cover just in time for a stun round to fly past their cheek, its ferroelectric charge causing their fur to stand on end. 

Then, silence.

Cai waited.

The river roared, ice cracking.

Sonoda charged, catching the dog entirely off guard and out of position – striking Cai in the face with his shoulder and sending the smaller bioframe skidding away across the gravel. Wheezing, they came up fighting despite the damage the bounty hunter had inflicted running rivulets of blood from their mouth – snapping off a quick shot that drilled into the boulder just over Sonova’s head. Unfazed, he fired a shot off himself, the stun round slamming into the dog’s shoulder and disabling their firing arm. A second shot slammed into their stomach, and they folded.

The pistol clattered to the ground, and Cai slumped to their knees, knowing further resistance would end in nothing good.

“Orion Kellen?” Sonoda half-asked, pad on his right arm displaying the dog’s file. 99.7% identity match, according to visual scans.

Cai said nothing, spitting a small amount of saliva and blood onto the rocky sand.

“OKin’s got a hell of a hard-on for your capture, kid. What’d you do?”

“Does it matter?” 

“I want to know if I have a murderer on my hands.”

“Data theft. Hit their backups on Sanibel, dumped prototype weapons blueprints on the open mesh.”

“Don’t see how data theft gets you spot eighteen on their HVT list.” Sonoda frowned, not liking how the story wasn’t exactly adding up. “There was a lot more to your file I couldn’t see.”

“Lucky me.”

“You’re gonna tell me, or a bloody lip’s the last thing you’ll be worrying about.”

“Fuck yourself.”

A low roar, different from the river, sounded over the valley.

Both of them instinctively looked skywards just in time for a dark shape to swoop over the valley in a wide arc, thruster wash sending the wildflowers around the edges flapping wildly. It wasn’t exactly a large ship – a dropship at best, painted in strikingly alternating black and cerulean.

Sonoda turned his gaze back to his quarry just long enough to notice they’d made a break for the descending ship, now gently settling onto the sand a few hundred yards downstream. 

The bounty hunter fired, round passing just over the dog’s right shoulder as he juked and weaved, the dropship’s gangway lowering and forcing Sonoda to take cover as bullets tore through the air in his direction, a powered armor clad soldier firing from the airlock as the collie scrambled up the ramp. 

Fire kept up for a few moments longer, before the thruster whine grew louder, lifting the ship from the sand as it began to rise into the sky. Sonoda managed to catch a glimpse of the ship’s general design – an angled-corner boxy shape, with a small raised bridge and a front gangway. A four-pointed star adorned the side of the dropship, hastily painted if the roughness was any indication.

It lifted off in a cloud of dust, before roaring off into the bright blue sky. Sonoda watched it go, realizing exactly why the file might’ve been redacted – and why they’d made the top twenty.

That bastard’s a Polaris meshdiver.