U.S.C. SAVVAL - The path of the ooze.

[Welsh Halfwit]

I'm not going to be posting this as frequently as usual. I'm not writing it as fast as usual(!)

Right back when I began all these stories, they took place on a giant explorer ship called the Fauntleroy. A Human called Mark Reynolds was the experimental Captain. Henry Postlethwaite was the Security Chief.

Anyhow...

ONE.

Hawthorne Plebar considered that she’d had better days. Ever since she’d arrived, under escort, at Talvary Communal station with the product Savra had ‘gifted’ her, things had been a bit of a flap. Doctors and Scientists stationed on the… well, station had asked her question after question that she’d barely been able to answer in more than generic terms. She could tell that the gel bonded DNA together like a zipper at the genetic level and the wider the biological gap, the more time it took. It released medication along the way to keep its subject alive and in pain whilst it did its work. Everyone was excited and everyone wanted to know where she’d gotten it and that had gone up the chain from Henry Postlethwaite, sector Commander, to those… somewhat above him. Which was why she was now standing in the holographic meeting room, where her image was being beamed trillions of miles across space via subspace relays to a meeting room that was being beamed right back at her. She stood in the ‘centre’ of the room, with desks arranged in a semicircle around in front of her. People of immense rank sat behind the desks, watching her intently as she ran her way through the briefing yet again for the Council’s benefit.


The Wolf in front of her bristled. He was a newcomer to the board, signifying the growing power of the Wolven in the Council status. <“You are saying this gel can affect any combination of species,”> he queried, <“and we have no way of stopping it?”>

“Nothing yet,” Hawthorne replied, resisting the urge to lift herself up onto tiptoes and back down as she kept her hands behind her back. “We know about it now so we can start unravelling it…”

<“Which may take years,”> the Wolven delegate snapped sharply.

<“Agreed,”> the Human delegate added. Hawthorne noted he was one of the distinguished elderly type Humans, wearing an old fleet Admiral’s Uniform as though to show her he understood the pressures of command as well as being close to a diplomat. It still fitted him. <“We clearly need more information on this. It’s stated this comes from Lappara,”> he queried, leading to an immediate protest from the female Lappinean sat to his left.

<“My government has NOTHING to do with this, Councillor Reynolds,”> she protested.

<“I appreciate that, Councillor Charla,”> the Human advised, trying to smooth down the issue, <“but it does appear to be that the routes lead to Laparra. It would seem we need to investigate the situation there.”>

<“That would involve alerting more people – a LOT more people – to the situation, Councillor.”>

<“Knowledge would get out,”> the Wolven remarked, getting his point across by the simple exponent of talking louder than the Celican next to him who’d been wanting to say something. The vixen just glowered at him as he smirked slightly. <“We need to keep the secret as best we can.”>

<“How do we do that whilst needing to investigate,”> Charla asked.

“We could start with what we have,” Henry Postlethwaite said from behind Hawthorne, making her jump as he walked through the ‘back wall’ and into the projection circle to join her, walking carefully with the aid of a stick due to his age. She’d forgotten he was there and noted that he and the Admiral seemed to know each other from the familial greeting they gave each other, Henry even going so far as to address him by ‘Captain’ before correcting himself.

<“Oh,”> the Human replied, <“||I’ll always be Captain to you, Chief.”>

Henry inclined his head. “Of course. What I was saying is that, if we wish to keep this amongst as few people as possible, we should make use of what we have. An IOC investigator can be assigned with minimal operational insight for the initial period, to investigate the plant for irregularities before the Savval gets there with full information.”

Hawthorne nodded. “Yes, I can…” An ear drooped. “Pardon me, sir?” She looked at him curiously.

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” Henry said, twisting to look her in the eye. “You have a ship full of scientists who have a head start on analysing this stuff. Any scientific explanation the quarry comes up with might be best deciphered by a scientist.”

“Does it have to be me,” she asked hopefully. “I’m more into the general medical…”

“You’ll still do,” Henry told her.

<“Aren’t we supposed to have a say, Chief,”> Councillor Reynolds asked from wherever he was transmitting from.

Henry tilted his Mican head slightly. “Usually after I make the operational decision but, I suppose… “Would you like to assign another ship to take this gunk to our analysis works on Raicasta? They could be here in a week..?”

The Wolf snorted a laugh. <“I can see why he rates you highly, Postlethwaite. No delay is acceptable. I just hope a Lieutenant Commander is up to the job.”>

“I won’t let you down,” Hawthorne protested, feeling offended suddenly. Was her competence being called into question? “We have facilities to keep the ointment safe in transport...”

<“I’m sure you’ll try not to let us down,”> the Wolf interrupted, overtalking the Celican again. <“But your ship is lightly armed. Can it put up a fight?”>

“Yes,” Postlethwaite asserted. “Plus the Fallir will be with her as escort. And she’s a combat clipper.”

<“I’d much prefer the Rodomont...”> the Wolf started.

<“...or the Loper!”> The Celican put in, talking over the Wolven and earning herself a dark glare from the larger Canid. She responded with a sly grin.

“With the rise in conflict between the Pirate clans I need those ships here. Especially if you can’t find any more ships for me…”

<“We’re looking at freeing up a number of patrol ships in the budget,”> the Mican delegate, who’d been silent up to now, put in. <“Fawren 14’s. About a half dozen of them.”>

Hawthorne wondered how that purchase had gone, considering Fawren was, pretty much, owned by the Mican Government. Decent ships, though.

“They’d be appreciated,” Henry stated, Hawthorne getting the instinct that he’d prefer much better but knew he wouldn’t get them.


Discussions continued for half an hour more before the meeting broke up and eighty percent of the assemblage fizzed out of existence. Henry waited until they’d gone before he turned to Hawthorne. “Get the contaminant to Raicasta. Then, before you go to Lappara to assist..?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to make a pick up on Raitche...”

[Harry Johnathan]

The Ooze is a really great concept and I’m glad you’re exploring it further, you’re really good when it comes to writing politics and inner struggles... also your title instantly made me think of the second TMNT movie and now I’m being haunted by childhood trauma that was Vanilla Ice.

[Amazee Dayzee]

This sounds like it will be a really great story! Can't wait to read more of it!

[Welsh Halfwit]

TWO

In something of a daze, Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne Plebar stepped back onto what she had the pleasure to call a bridge. She looked a little bewildered and atwittered as she took up he seat behind the helm officer, Ensign Cheel. Her first Officer, Lieutenant Denver sat at the scanning station to the left of the small bridge and turned towards his Captain and spoke, his Malamute larynx sounding like honey fried vegetables to her ears, which she thought was an absurd simile. “Are we headed for Caldera for staff rotation,” he asked gently, having guessed from her face that the planned trip wasn’t on the cards any more.

Hawthorne shook her head as she cleared the cobweb in her brain. “Huh? Uh, no… We have a mission, Colin,” she continued, still wondering where the Malamutian had picked up a Human name from. She’d asked him a few times but he’d changed the subject every time. There was some sort of secret there, she was sure of it. “To do with the goop.”

Denver rolled his eyes in his grey and white face and showed a trio of his teeth as he pulled the lip back slightly. “Where are we taking it?”

Hawthorne still looked a little shocked but knew the Packrat Cheel was listening in without turning her head. “Uh, we’re taking it to Laparra,” she said hesitantly, before forcing a small grin onto her face. “Via Raitche,” she added.

With a panicked shout, Cheel spun around in the chair. “We can’t be going to Raitche,” she protested. “You know about…” The Ensign fell quiet, glancing between Hawthorne and Colin. “Uh…”

“That charge against you,” Denver finished sweetly. “The financial crime legislation against your family? I know about the exclusion order keeping you from Raitchian space but that’s not valid when travelling on official duty on a Council ship. So you’re safe.”

Cheel put her brain to work, wheeling through the prospects. “Permission to book teleporter time when we’re there, Captain? Uh, receive only?”

Now it was Hawthorne’s time to roll eyes. “We only have so much storage room, Chayla,” she warned. “Plot a course. When the Fallir gets here, we’ll be departing.”


Ten minutes later, the Captain lay back on the bed in her personal room and adjusted the vid screen so it was looking down at her as her tanfur face reclined on the pillow and waited for the connection to come through. It took a moment but a grey and white Lappinean on a white background appeared. <“Good morning, love,”> Hawthorne’s mate said pleasantly. She sighed in contentment as she saw his face again. <“What’s the reason for the call? We’re seeing eachother to...”> He paused as he guessed the reason. <“Something come up,”> he guessed.

“I’m afraid so, Dale,” she admitted. “We’re on a priority case, headed for the core systems. Don’t know when we’ll be back but it won’t be for a little while.”

<“And they’re sending the Savval,”> Dale asked, drawing an amused scowl from Hawthorne, who’d kept her maiden name for service use when she’d married him on Caldera three years ago.

“Hey,” she protested, “don’t underestimate this little ship!” She lifted herself up onto an elbow. “Or her Captain.” She sighed and closed her eyes for a second. “I’m sorry, love. I wanted to see you too. I’ll keep my loins intact for you… Was that someone sputtering on their drink,” she asked, cocking her ear towards the sound.

<“Just my assistant, Morton.”>

“Well, tell him to stop thinking about my loins,” Hawthorne snapped with mock indignation. She’d have put her hands on her hips if she hadn’t been using her elbows to support herself on the bed.

<“Well, with loins like yours how can I NOT think about them when you mention them continually,”> the off screen figure called out.

Hawthorne chuckled at the Mican’s outburst. “Love you too, Star,” she told him. “But my loins belong to Dale!”

<“I’m really glad I didn’t take this call in a meeting,”> Dale said, removing the palm of his hand from his face. <“I suppose this is what I get for marrying the best – and sexiest… stop pretend gagging, Star… captain in the sector?”>

“I’ll tell Aldair you said that,” Hawthorne kissed her hand as Dale did and put it up to the screen to meet his before the screen went dark. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, matching him saying something roughly the same.


Engineering was exactly where she’d left it and Engineer Eckersley was exactly as frazzled as the last time she’d seen her as she finished patching up the holes knocked into the ship by the pirate clan attack of two days back. The Human had needed to admit she couldn’t have patched it all up so quickly without the engineering team from the Station but Hawthorne knew her underling well…

“I’d have gotten it done much quicker without this other lot under my feet,” she complained, slapping her hands onto her dungarees. “But I suppose I’d have been trying to do another job at the same time too,” she added, at a much lower volume that the Captains ears were close enough to hear. She took out a piece of cloth and wiped the sheen of sweat and grime off on it. No wonder Humans had an odd scent, Hawthorne thought for the seven thousandth and eighty third time (to her amused and possibly fanciful recollection). “Yeah, I’ll go for a shower if you insist…”

“Ten hours working under the main drive and turning bolts,” Hawthorne joked. “Yeah, I’d say a shower is good. And clothes incineration?”

“Hey, these are my lucky clothes,” Eckersley protested.

“I know. No acid holes. You told me. But at least get them washed? You have the machine. How’s the engine?”

“Purring like a Feline in a brothel,” Eckersley remarked. “Do I take it you’ve got some milage coming up?”

Hawthorne nodded. “Almost imminently. “A quick tour of the home systems and back home in time for Lunch. Or Sanctamas. Whichever comes later.”

The Human straightened up. Hawthorne noted that several hours at ninety degree heat had stained her pale complection red. As she talked. She must, Hawthorne reckoned, be feeling the burn. There was that stubbornness again. “Great,” she said, “I’ll order some parts we can’t easily get out here! Where we heading?”

“Raitche, Lappara and sickbay to get that sunburn dealt with. Red’s a good colour for Celicans; not so good for Humans. Melanoma’s and all.” She escorted the reluctant chief to the medical bay before the escort clipper Fallir pulled in with a friendly Collian face aboard.

[Amazee Dayzee]

That was definitely a very quick next chapter that you posted as you usually post one per day! I don't mind because I really like your stories. I like what is going on in this chapter also!

[Welsh Halfwit]

THREE

Ensign Piebauld stood ready in the tight teleport control booth, looking at an empty send/receive pad as Commander Plebar stood to one side and waited for the arrival of a Collian she almost thought of as a friend, despite never having met him. Her Cousin Aldair had extolled the virtues of the stoic Canine who claimed not to have a sense of humour but had supplied ‘roulette’ Jellybeans to a senior officers party – five red hots amongst the pack – and dared Sarina Raven to go bungee jumping with him over the Chasm of Seddon whilst Hawle knew he had an anti-gravity belt on under his jacket. He’d always say he was the best second Officer he could have hoped for, although he’d started calling him second equal recently. “Is he ready,” Hawthorne asked the Brockian.

“He’s not sig… Oh, wait, now he has.” Piebauld tapped the console and the room filled with the low level hum that always crinkled the Lappinean ear. The pad filled with white and Orange light as the process of stealing a form from a thousand miles away, splitting it into energy, making it travel along an energy beam to the receiving point and reassembling it in exact order took place. Both operator and Commander had done it hundreds of times. What neither knew is the other always took a second to check their fingers, toes and tails worked correctly after arrival.


As, probably, did the Collian figure now assembling in the light blue shirt and off colour jacket that spoke to professionalism with a little hint of the uniform lunacy of Hawle’s command. He stepped off the three person dias and offered a hand and a tight smile. “Captain Plebar,” he said in introduction.

She stepped forward and took the hand. “Captain Grovan. Oh, I know you’re not a Captain over here but afford me the privilege of returning your greeting? I’ve heard so much about you I almost feel you should be a Captain.” She saw he was looking at her quizzically. “I have a cousin in the sector,” she explained. “Practically a brother some days. Commands a certain Frigate?”

His puzzlement broke into an expression of surprise. “Ah. Of course. Well, is he why I’ve been asked to escort you?”

Hawthorne cringed slightly. “No,” she insisted, “I think it’s because you were closest…”


It wasn’t so much a conference room as a closet with a table on it but, small as it was, there was room for a computer on it, that could be turned around so people sat around it could see what was on the screen without ricking their necks and Grovan looked the files over as Hawthorne sat, looking innocent and preparing for the response she knew was going to come. To give Grovan credit, it didn’t come for at least five minutes as he tried to take things in. “So what exactly does this thing do,” he asked reluctantly.

“It creates pure biologic hybrids,” she said, saying the words easily now, through the continual practice of the last few days. “It seals together DNA at the submolecular level to heal wounds quickly but it acts on the DNA in the wound. If it only finds one set it repairs using that as the model. If it finds two…”

“It bonds them together,” Grovan finished. She’d known he’d get it. Aldair always said he was smart and intelligent, even if he’d often added unimaginative. “And it doesn’t kill the patient?”

“Nope. It releases pain killers and endorphins and other suppressants as it works.” She slapped the table. “It’s pretty much the perfect gel,” she admitted. “Except for the obvious downside, of course. The possibility of genetic extermination of entire races is a bit of a downside.”

Grovan chuckled. The slight bout of humour reminded him of someone else. “And this is what the Pirate Clans are at war over?”

“Part of it. I understand it’s at parlay or stalemate or treaty right now, whatever they call it.” She shrugged. “But we have to get this to the biolabs and find out who’s making that stuff.”

“In that case,” Grovan stated, turning the computer back towards her, “I have one question left.”

“Aye?”

Grovan lapped down the water he’d ordered from the replication system. “Why,” he asked, “are we going to Raitche first?”

Hawthorne smirked slightly. “Got to make a pick up,” was all she said.


The rain was coming down in smears today as they cleaned out the gunk from weather control and Hayley Rogan’s bubble car had troubles keeping going as the Packrat made her way to the office from the local coffee shop. Normally she’d have walked but no-one was walking today as getting the grime out of your fur was a seven shower job at the best of times. Her cagoule had managed to keep it all off her for the short trip to and from the car to the shop and she’d remembered the seat cover so she’d not have to replace it. She looked up as she approached the new underground parking structure. This weather was due to clear up in the next few minutes, to be washed away by an hour of sparkly fresh water with an agent that dealt with the contaminents in the sludge. It was why they’d had warning. It was why there were seventeen homeless in the holding area, fifteen in the local police shops and over fifty in the local high class hotels. People could look through them on the street but didn’t want them actively poisoned. So the city council had voted to shoulder the burden and the cost and pocket the votes won for their compassion.


Once inside, she parked up and exited the car with drinks for all. Bubble Coffees, Mad blends, Lattes, a Tarkailian Tea… She took hold of the serving tray with one hand and kicked the car door closed before remembering she’d left her standing trouser leg in the way and having to balance the tray on one hand to open the door again.

Stronger hands took the tray off her hand and she almost overbalanced as she scrabbled around to stop the tray falling. She eventually stopped herself and managed to shut the car door without falling over. She turned to look into the chest of her boss, Charlton Haas. “Heya, boss,” she told the Norveggan, “got fed up of waiting?”

“Figured you’d have trouble with the in fashion,” he replied, indicating the wide bottomed trousers. “Didn’t want to explain losing an Agent to a trouser related injury. Mine the Cinnamon and Pegin seed Hayley?”

“You know it.”

“Good. Martin does a good job. Come on,” he said, walking towards the lifts, “some sector commander’s calling us in ten.”

[Amazee Dayzee]

I like the way that this chapter has come out! As always I am up for anything that has mentions of Hawle in it!

[Welsh Halfwit]

FOUR

“Who’d have thought one barrel of chemicals could do this much harm,” Grovan said, examining the sealed container in conjunction with Hawthorne and Professor Durness, the Mican head of the sciences department on the Savval. He stepped away from the container and it shiffed back into the wall safe storage area at Durness’s command.

“Herr,” the Mican breathed, in that odd way that had almost become a meme behind her back, “you wouldn’t say that if you’d touched it, Commander, heh? That stuff can reshape the universe if if gets into the wrong hands, heh? Or, even, the right hands? Herr, we need to know how it works and we need to know who’s creating it. We can be pretty sure it’s the makers, heh? But we’ve got links. Analysis, heh? Whoever it is created it based it on some works of people in the past. Marwick, Kzolomin, Virrik. It looks like the continuation of their work, heh?” She directed a pointer towards Grovan’s long muzzle. “And THAT’S a clue?”

Feeling the diminutive scientist was prompting him for a prompt, Grovan decided to comply as the best way to getting an answer as he shifted his shoulders slightly inside his jacket. “Why is that a clue?”

Durness moved away, her hands behind her back, before turning her head around. “Herr, everything Virrik did is classified. Redacted, heh? And most of the work of Marwick is the same. Seems people don’t like when scientists go insane.”

“So how do you know about their work,” Groal asked as she returned to walking towards the door.

“I worked with them,” Durness replied, finding herself at the door. “Before they went mad, of course, heh? Wonder what drove them over the edge? Lunchtime.” So saying, she darted out of view.


Grovan’s ear twitched. “Are you sure she’s sane,” he asked.

“Most days of the week,” Hawthorne sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t get me started on the ‘herrs’ and ‘hehs’. She’s an excellent scientist, though. Doctor Quella deals with the medical side.”

“Quella,” Groal asked lightly. “A female name, I take it?”

“Of course,” Hawthorne said humorously, leading the way towards the door. “Don’t worry though,” she added coyly, “I do have males on the ship.” She quirked an eyeridge. “They’re very useful.”

Grovan snorted. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Suppose you did,” she replied as the bridge put in an appearance over her comm. To enable Grovan to listen, Hawthorne used the wall communicator to respond. “What’s going on, Colin,” she asked.

<“We’re picking up a distress call,”> the Malamute said in honey tones. <“The Chimera out of Caldera. Reports she’s broken down and is asking for assistance. Shall we divert?”>

“Yes, I…” Hawthorne stopped as Grovan put his hand across. “One moment.”

“Let someone else take it,” he advised. “We’re on an important mission and there are those who would like us to fail in it.”

“But…”

“There are other ships around,” Grovan stressed. “We don’t know anything about this ship but we do know people know Council ships are moving this stuff. Send a tight beam transmission to Talvery, giving their position. We can’t take the risk, Commander.”

She slumped internally. She knew he had a point. It was why they weren’t using transponders right now. Trying to fly ‘under the radar’ to avoid pirates. And these could be pirares. But… “It doesn’t feel right,” she sighed. “There could be people in trouble…”

“They’ll live,” Grovan stressed. “And it’ll never seem right.”

Another sigh from Hawthorne as her right ear dipped at the tip. “Do as Commander Grovan advises, Colin,” she told the comm. “Keep us on course. I’ll be up there now.”

<“Acknowledged,”> Lieutenant Denver told her before ending the conversation.

“I always say ‘up there’ too,” Grovan advised with a grin.

“Always the way in shows, isn’t it,” she agreed as they got to the teleport booth for Grovan to return to his ship.


She slipped into her chair on the bridge with a glass of vegetable juice that she sipped from as she examined the back of Cheel’s head. Was she wearing silver furlights in stripes? Hmm. “Anything more on that ship,” she asked.

The Malamute turned to talk directly to her, still making her a bit gooey with his voice. She thanked the stars she was properly mated or she’d have made some serious advances on a junior Officer and complicated both their careers. “Nothing much since the distress call. Which is still going on, by the way. I sent message to Talvary. I’m sure they’ll send someone out.”

“Right,” Hawthorne opined, using her armrest computer to pull up details of the ship. She was out of Caldera, it seemed, and a chartered freighter with limited passenger carrying capabilities. Her last registered listing had her travelling from Persimma to Pandera and… “Colin,” Hawthorne asked, “would you say our current location was on the route between Persimma and Caldera?”

He chuckled and Cheel took the chance to chip into the conversation. “Only if they ‘it a worm’ole, Cap’n,” she said, making Hawthorne bite back a comment as to how he of the melodious voice now sounded like he’d grown up as a wharfrat on the sea side of the line. “Totally opp’site direction otherwise.”

“I’d figured that, First Officer Cheel,” Hawthorne told her, “did anyone think to check?”

“I would have told you if you’d told us to divert,” Denver told her coolly, not letting on if he was telling the truth about knowing or not. “But I know you like finding things out for yourself.”

“Per’aps our shadow can go deal with ‘em,” Cheel put in, attracting their attention.

“Our what?” Hawthore asked, suddenly appearing at the helm’s side. Her drink wavered and wobbled but stayed intact.

Cheel pointed to her screen where something that looked like any other part of the screen did things that looked normal. “System says it’s a sensor echo but we’ve not ‘ad it before. ‘S a ship mirr’rin’ our moves, I’m sure’ve it… There!” She jabbed as something showed on the far edge of the scanning sensors for a second as she adjusted course manually and the ship position changed fractionally.

“I’m not convinced,” Hawthorne said, before relenting. “But keep an eye on it, yeah?” She patted the Raitchian on the shoulder “And let’s power up the weapons. Just in case...

[Amazee Dayzee]

I really did enjoy the way this chapter has went! I hope NOBODY falls in the stuff though.

[Welsh Halfwit]

The chapter I wrote today was really done off the cuff. I didn't plot it. And Durness explains a key piece of how the gel works...

[Amazee Dayzee]

It is safe to say at this point I enjoy ANYTHING that you write! It all is so interesting and keeps me hanging on the edge of my seat!

[Harry Johnathan]

I really did enjoy the way this chapter has went! I hope NOBODY falls in the stuff though.

[Welsh Halfwit]

You must be Jokering (Sorry)

FIVE

The two ships cruised closer to the line, staying in visual contact to avoid losing each other and Hawthorne considered this was the closest she’d been to home in years as the border to the ‘patch’ loomed. Beyond lay Mican Space and she had to put aside all the silly ideas that space would be imminently filled with ships as soon as they crossed the border. It was still going to be sparsely populated to start with, the colonies few and far between. Harvantia was the closest colony, wasn’t it? And there was that asteroid field in front of them…

“Keep us out of that asteroid field, Ray,” she told Cheel.

“Other than plough right into it,” the Raitchian replied casually. “Right you are, Captain. I much prefer it if you remember I’m a Chauffeur.”

Hawthorne leaned over towards her Ensign. “Mind explaining,” she asked chattily, what with them being the only two on the bridge right now.

“You tell me where to drive,” Cheel replied amiably. “You can even tell me what speed. But then you sit back and let me do the driving.” She adjusted their path around the asteroids before putting her hands behind her head. “It’s what I’m good at.”

“Well,” Hawthorne conceded, “you’re certainly not good at inter personal relations. And I’m no old lady,” she said, tightening her tone slightly. “I’m the Captain of a starship… Itty bitty though it be, and I have the right to interfere wherever I like! Now,” she added, anything on our shadow?”

Cheel grimaced and adjusted her stretch to make it look as though she’d always planned the move to put her hands back on her console to tap buttons and icons. “Still there,” she admitted, matter-of-factly. “And the distress call’s stopped.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Hawthorne grumbled as her first and the weapons officer returned to the bridge from lunch break. “Keep an eye on them,” she said, clapping Cheel on her shoulder.

“Aye, Cap’n,” Cheel replied, keeping her thoughts of back seat drivers to herself now the others were back.


Grovan sat in his command chair and thought himself thankful to be back. The ship was the same size but, whereas the Savval had science and medical bays, the Fallir had one combined room for both and had added security and stores in the other bays. They also had the upgraded photon beam weapons and a torpedo launcher for offensive purposes along with better sensors. “Is she going to stop admiring the scenery and go,” he grumped, waiting on her to take the lead as was his due as escort.

“Crossing the barrier, sir,” the Celican first, Lieutenant Mitchuma, replied, sliding his body into his chair after lunch. “It often gives the civilian types a moment of wonder.”

“I tell you again, Kallan,” Grovan grumbled, knowing the recorded history of his first in the Celican military and militias, “no U.S.C. Officer is a civilian. Even if they are from the sciences division.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs, right over left. “Plus I’ve never known that family to do anything the normal way. How’s that ship in distress?”

“Remarkably silent,” Mitchuma answered, checking the combined communications and weapons station he usually occupied.

“Anything moving on sensors,” Grovan asked his helm officer, a Brockian called Stikes.

The Brockian moved leisurely about the board to check on things. “Just that sensor ghost the Savval reported,” he admitted. “It’s definitely something. Although not as interesting as the other thing.”

Grovan kept his tone low and flat. “What ‘other thing’?”

“Kept an ear on transmissions whilst the Commando was stalking a Souffle,” he remarked caustically, “Got summat right as he came in. The Jenner went to check on that ship in distress? She reported in. Nothing there when they got there and trails heading towards the border.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this earlier?”

The Brockian shrugged and yawned. “I told you,” he put in, “I just heard it.”

“Right. Signal The Savval.”


“Thanks, Fallir,” Hawthorne replied, after the message had been passed, “time to stop wool gathering. Let’s head over.” She clicked off the comm and spoke again, knowing Cheel was listening. “Re-engage course,” she ordered, “velocity three. Let’s keep ahead of whatever that is.”

“We’re on the hop,” Cheel remarked, engaging the course and putting the ship into high drive, streaking the stars around them so the distant ones left streaks of colour past the windows, turning the nominal black into a multicolour hue effect around them as gravity dampers prevented the crew from having their bones and flesh crushed against the rear bulkheads. As it was, Hawthorne’s drink barely wobbled so she finished it off and headed to the replication station to disintegrate the safety glass. It wasn’t so much spills that had the smart officers on ships concerned about food and drink on the bridge or near important stations, it was the fact that containers tended to smash when dropped and, in a panic, nothing helped less than cuts from crockery. She wondered how her cousin would pass the time as she moved back to her seat, engaged the restraints, and looked up some of the crews latest research on her computer, paying particular interest in the research into Plotrick Syndrome Doctor Quella had filed following their encounter with a sufferer last week. They’d transferred the patient but the Savval’s medical systems were the equivalent of most major colonial hospitals and they had some of the best researchers and… Hawthorne could think of a dozen reasons to read it but there was a far more prevalent one. She was nosey and knew someone who’d suffered from it. It looked like Quella had ideas about chromosomal reconstruction that, if she had to swear to it, this gel could probably…

“Uh, oh,” Chell said, drawing her from her reverie and attracting Denver’s attention as well.

“I don’t like ‘uh, oh’s,” Hawthorne prompted. “They usually end up in trouble. What’s the ‘uh, oh’, trouble?”

“Got summat coming in diagonal to our current route, Cap’n,” the Water Rat told her. “Looks like it wants to intercept us. No transponder.”

“You know it’s after us?” She looked at the readings. It looked like a comet but… A Comet travelling at high velocity? “OK, I’ll notify the Fallir we’re altering course. To see if it changes. Denver? Get Lieutenant Flass and scour the ship. See if a locator’s been slipped on board.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Malamute responded, standing up as Hawthorne sent the message to Grovan. Then she sounded the yellow alert.

[Amazee Dayzee]

This was a very nice chapter that you put up! It definitely makes me even more intrigued in where this is going!

[Harry Johnathan]

“We’re on the hop,” Cheel remarked, engaging the course and putting the ship into high drive, streaking the stars around them so the distant ones left streaks of colour past the windows, turning the nominal black into a multicolour hue effect around them as gravity dampers prevented the crew from having their bones and flesh crushed against the rear bulkheads.

I always loved it when old sci-fi movies did more colorful stuff with space. (I.E the original Planet of the Apes, the ending explosion from Alien and Star Trek: the Motion Picture).

[Amazee Dayzee]

I'm sure that Welshy has more plans to surprise us all! He always does do it with his stories!

[Welsh Halfwit]

SIX

Things moved quietly on Lapparra, where Agent Straw turned his attention to the latest list of financial records from the soft warrant they’d applied for the finances of the scientists at MutaraChem, the local name for the people making the Callimura longevity drug as that had been what Sector Chief Postlethwaite had asked for. Of course, he was the Sector Chief of a different sector but, frankly, a sector chief was still a sector chief and you either accepted their order or they relayed it directly through your actual sector chief. Which, of course, they’d do anyway but you were working it before the sector chief got in contact. Which still set his ears atwitter. The Lopan started on the financials of a Technician called Kabley and her wife. The soft warrant was one used, in Lappinean law, to act as a precursor to a deeper warrant when there was suspicion that someone in an organisation had done something illegal but it wasn’t necessarily known who. So a judge could order the banks to turn over the most recent statement from bank head office – and ONLY the most recent – for examination. And they’d gotten the bank records from MutaraChem, who were under a legal review which was often run twice a year. Sometimes more. Usually fewer. And only big companies. There was little point running them on corner shops. Straw put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. It was time for coffee. He pushed himself out of bed and padded to his kitchen to unseal the instant stuff and find the note from Sarah, his – heh – straw coloured mate, that she’d be late back from Chess tonight and there was a quiche in the fridge. He slipped that to the back of his mind and used a tea spoon to put the granules in his mug before putting it under the instant hot tap and filling it with near boiling water that smelled of the coffee spices before he added a little milk to it from the double sealed bottle at the top of the fridge. With a little Canine deep in his family history, he was able to take things like lactose and meat – although he wasn’t fond of the taste – but he didn’t know if his daughter could yet and wasn’t anxious to find out before the ten year old medical tests. So he sealed it up again and padded back to bed with his beverage and a Gingalla cookie.


Lieutenant Flass would be the head of security if the Savval had had enough crew to warrant someone actually possessing that rank. As it was, the Mican was merely the highest ranking of the four in the department on the ship and was often the one Denver worked with when he wanted things done. Right now she was with the Malamute as they ran scanners over some of the areas repaired in the days they’d spent at Talvary. She’d asked what they were looking for but it had become obvious that Colin didn’t actually know for certain, he just felt it had to be some sort of transmitter. “Aha,” she said as her scanner locked in on something that was putting out twice the power it should be. She opened up the panel that controlled the vid system for the quarters they were in and glanced at a small device that shouldn’t be there. She was fairly sure most of the people on the ship wouldn’t be able to identify what she was looking at so she tried to impress Colin with her knowledge. “Look at that,” she breathed, “a Datikalla VIX power shunt.” She reached in and disconnected it even as Denver held out a hand in warning. Nothing happened. “They’re not destructive, Colin,” she advised, tossing the thing in her hand after extracting it. “It redirects power and sends out a signal on the channel we use for vid TV reception. Someone from station maintenance must have slipped it aboard. These were Crewman Gollik’s room.”

“Hmm,” Denver assented. “Currently on Micanna, giving birth.”

“And shifting out. Room was to be reassigned at rotation. So it’s empty.” She set the scanner to pick up biologic traces.


Security Chief Aster trotted to keep up with the fierce faced ancient Mican as he strode through the walkways on Talvary Communal station as her own team of officers kept up with her. Postlethwaite wasn’t even really using his cane right now as he led them down to the maintenance bay, where several workers were maintaining the fighters in the bay. He stepped in through the door after it opened and headed across as several of the workers turned towards them in confusion and concern as his eyes locked on to a Feline halfway across. “Engineer Swarna,” he snapped, “you’re accompanying us. Now.”

“Wh… what’s it about,” he stammered.

“You want me to tell them all about it,” Henry warned, standing in front of the Feline.

The Cat evidently decided he didn’t want to tell the others about it as he lashed out instead, hoping to catch Henry a good one. Instead the Mican leaned back so the wild swipe missed, then swung his cane to crack down on the exposed ulna. Then he reversed the swing to swipe the ambulatory assistance device across the crewman’s face before Aster shot the prey with a stun blast, buckling his knees and dropping him to the floor.

Henry turned to Aster. “Left that a bit late, didn’t you?”

“If you will insist on doing my job, sir,” she admonished as two of her people moved to pick the wanted up. Since the Savval had reported in their suspicions a few hours ago, they’d been looking into how the potential enemies could know of the route the ship was taking. They’d worked out a transmitter had been slipped aboard and started examining the maintenance logs and only Swarna had been alone for more than a minute at a time, a theory confirmed by tag logs indicating the comm locations of everyone. So they’d been on the way down when the Savval had called to confirm things anyway. A little bit of luck there, she thought. Otherwise they’d have had no proof. She gestured towards the door. “To the brig with him,” she ordered.


“How are they still closing on us,” Hawthorne asked rhetorically, feeling the need to let Cheel explain as the Raitchian so often wanted to. “We’ve disabled the transmitter.”

“Yeah,” the helm officer replied, keeping her eyes on her console, “but they got close enough they’ve a clear’r view. We ain’t a dot t’them now,” she advised, telling Hawthorne what she already knew, “we’s a block. Even at best speed.”

“Can we hold 3.5 much longer,” the Captain asked, genuinely interested this time.

“Prob’ly,” Cheel advised, tapping a few buttons, “but they’ll still be closin’. They’ll ‘it us a few ‘ours ‘fore we get help. Oh, an’ our shadow’s getting’ fast’r too.”

“Wonderful,” Hawthorne grumped. “Well, if we can’t run, can we hide somewhere?”

“Nope. No moons with ship sized craters or convenient nebulas that scramble sensors or asteroid fields with rocks spinning unbelievably fast in tight areas.”

Despite the situation, Hawthorne laughed slightly. “Any other cliches you want to mention,” she asked.

“I forgot the plasma storms. Sorry.”

“Right,” Hawthorne said, losing the grin. “So the options are run, hide or fight and we can’t do either of the first two.” She straightened up in the chair. “I’ll call the Fallir. You sound the battle stations,” she added as Denver got back onto the bridge. “Fight it is.”

[Amazee Dayzee]

This was a really awesome chapter that you posted! The work you out into it is as impeccable as always!

[Welsh Halfwit]

The 'shadow' strikes...

SEVEN

“Right,” Grovan said tersely, looking at Hawthorne on the screen, “if you’re right, and it’s time to fight, I’m in the lead now. The Savval will stow in behind the Fallir. Our shields and weapons are superior to yours so we’re best to lead this fight. No arguing on that point, please.”

<“Wasn’t going to,”> Hawthorne replied. <“I’m not much of a one for combat. You’re better suited, as you say. We’ve sent a message ahead to see if the Micans can send a ship. Cheel says they’ll intercept us in about ten minutes at this speed.”>

“I could go for that,” Stikes admitted quietly.

Grovan looked down at him with a slight scowl that failed to convey itself across the video link. “My helm concurs. Bring your ship to our starboard and remain forty degrees under us.”

<“Confirmed,”> Hawthorne replied, <“Savval out.”>

Grovan watched her eye flick down to her side as she checked for the right icon to disconnect. He’d had to do the same so often in the early days but he knew how to do it without looking now. Indeed, he did it to clear the channel now as Mitchuma reported the medical ship was doing as ordered. “I didn’t order, Mitchuma. I can’t. She’s the same rank as I am. And she’s in charge of this operation. I advised in an authoritative way. And she listened.”

“She’s got some smarts then, this scientist Officer. Even if she DID broadcast our location when we’re on a secret mission.”

“The mission fails if we die, Kallan. You never got on with the scientists in the Celican Army, I take it?”

“They generally never advanced with the fleet, Skip. Where we’d fight the Wolves, the Rigonians and whoever else attacked our colonies, they’d stay behind, about two or three lines back behind troops, ships and defence platforms and do dishonourable things to win the fights.”

Grovan pricked his ears up. Something Mitchuma had just said was odd. Off, even. What was it that..? Oh, yes. “The Ri..?”

“The incoming’s not incoming any more,” Stikes interrupted, “they’re here!”

Fifty thousand kilometres from the two small vessels, a ship burst into normal space and letched towards its targets. Dark grey in colour against the veil of space, she ran hot with power, plated sections adding to her armour as emitter ports spoke of phased energy weaponry that pointed forward, although both Council Captains could guess it had secondary strips across the top based, as it was, on Raitchian technology. It was putting out a jamming signal that cut off any transmissions, including those between the Council ships as it advanced, smaller ships launching from her rear.

“Launch Starlancers,” Grovan instructed, looking at the fifteen or so coming towards them, leading the whale of a heavy cruiser in. “And hope Plebar has some of her own.” The sensors indicated the five Starlancer 10’s stored on the Fallir had launched, soon to be joined by the three from the Savval. “Are those 8’s,” he asked in surprise. Hawthorne hadn’t shown him the fighter bays in his tour and, being as she was a scientist, he’d not expected her to. Now he wished he had. He’d been a fighter spotter once, getting pictures of himself next to as many classes of fighters as he could. The eight’s had been taken off front line duties a few years back. Being as they weren’t museum pieces, they were a class he’d never gotten a picture with. “Shields up,” he ordered, Mitchuma carrying out the instruction as he readied the weapons.


“Gunnar,” Hawthorne told her improbably named weapons officer, “raise our shields and prepare the weapons.”

“Such as we got,” the feline replied, wondering what he’d done to get himself assigned to a career killer of a ship like this. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered about the subject. In truth, he wondered about it at least once a day and three times on his day off. But he complied and hoped he’d survive to get to a fighting ship as the fighting began, the cruiser slamming shots hard against the Fallir’s shielding.

“Help the fighters protect the Fallir,” Hawthorne decided. “Take shots at the main enemy where we can.”

“Aye,” Gunnar grunted. At least her order made sense.

Hawthorne turned to her first. “Denver, analyse that power output. It seemed high for a ship that class.”

“Confirmed,” the Malamute replied. “They’ve been armed with Lapan munitions A-3’s according to that power signiture. They’re drawing power direct from their power reactor. It gives them a power boost,” he added as the ship rocked.

“...At the expense of their shield power,” Hawthorne continued as Cheel put in evasion plan Plebar three without actually asking for permission. She tapped the comm. “Plebar to Durness.”

<“Hurr,”> the Mican breathed from her lab, <“Ship’s rocking.”>

“Yes, we’re in combat. Professor, ship to ship comms are out. I need them back.” She held on as an enemy fighter targetted the bridge with fire, only to be intercepted by one of her eights and the fighter hull ruptured in a brief flash of ignited oxygen. “Soon as, please.” She closed the link.


A shot skimmed the Fallir’s shields and Grovan saw it slap the Savval’s shielding. He’d expected her to try and get away whilst he held the ship up. It hadn’t been anything he’d felt right suggesting, of course, but she wasn’t a fighting ship like his so why ..? He gripped the arm rests as the ship shook again and his fighters tangled with theirs and he reacted with surprise as the Savval’s limited weaponry splashed out on the enemy shielding. They weren’t going to penetrate a cruisers shielding with their weapons. She must… He almost fell out of his chair as his ship rocked hard. “Shields down to forty -seven percent,” Mitchuma called over the rattling in the ship and Grovan’s skull.

“From three shots,” Grovan remarked with alarm. “What kind of weapons are they…” He stopped and guessed. “Target the same spot the Savval’s doing! They’ve powered up their weapons so their shields can’t be as strong! The pair of us might be able to punch through!”


“They got the message,” Denver noted as the ship rocked, a fighter getting too close before it was detonated by one of Grovan’s fighters. “About time too,” he added. “Shields at thirty percent.”

Hawthorne worked fast on her console. “Compensating,” she added bitterly, moving power from everywhere she could to communications and shields. On the screen, she saw a small explosion on the cruisers hull.

“Sensors are back,” Denver told her. “We must have hit that transmitter. She’s showing damaged but her shields are only down thirty percent. And that mystery ship we were picking up?” Incongruously, he chuckled as another shot reduced shield power to ten percent. “I have some news about that…”


Fifty thousand kilometres from the conflict, a new ship exploded into normal space and closed in, its ugly, squat, frame evoking its power and intent as it launched fighters…


The U.S.C. Rodomont had arrived.

[Harry Johnathan]

Grovan looked down at him with a slight scowl that failed to convey itself across the video link. “My helm concurs. Bring your ship to our starboard and remain forty degrees under us.”

Glad to see that videocalls in the future still have terrible image quality.

[Amazee Dayzee]

This was such a very nice chapter you updated the story with! Really wonderful work Welshy!

[Welsh Halfwit]

EIGHT

Captain Postain watched the combat going on as he closed, at best speed, into the combat. Xarra sat in her first officer seat with Bartleby on the helm implementing Postain seven on command as the fighters swept from the rear launch bay and advanced faster than they did. “Let’s get this Clansship off their backs in a permanent way. Tell Jak to get ready.”

“Aye,” Xarra replied, before coming Jak. “They’re looking to escape,” she said, indicating the screen whilst her finger hovered over the ‘open channel’ button.

“We’d better not let them, then,” the Rottian remarked as she made the call. “Rotham,” he instructed, “Target their engines. These people aren’t allowed to escape.”

“Aye,” the gunner replied, firing the powerful quad cannons as the target tried to turn away from them. The smaller ships added their power, such as it was, to drop the cruisers shields faster and Postain quietly fumed that they weren’t leaving this to him. Then again, he supposed, for security they hadn’t been told of his part.


Postlethwaite was always worried about clan spies on Talvary station, despite his best efforts. There was always someone who could be blackmailed or bribed into their service and they were getting craftier. A threat here, a payment to a Raitchian account there… And there were only so many times Appleby could scan every single person on the station so, occasionally, traps were set. The Council Command knew the Ultimma Clan had taken possession of a cruiser class vessel from Raitchian sources as IOC on that planet had told them of it a month or so back. A roughly experimental one that had to be taken off the board lest it tip the balance in the patch. But they had kept it hidden. A ‘carrot’ had been needed and they’d guessed the clan would be desperate for the gel and they’d only have one chance to get it. Postlethwaite had guessed they’d send it after the ships if they were a tempting enough target. Two clipper ships, naturally. With them following at a close enough distance to intercept if need be. The reports about the ‘freighter’ and the Jenner’s report that there wasn’t one had prompted him to accelerate and the report that the Savval had, somehow, worked out they weren’t a sensor ghost had annoyed Bartleby, who’d assured him that…


… Enough time for reverie, Postain told himself as the cruiser scrammed weapons fire across the shield screen from one of her energy strip weapons before one of… were those Starlancer eights? Well, one of them hit the strips power generator plating, buckling it until it cracked and blew out, killing the strip. He’d have to compliment the fighter pilot. It had got in as they’d dropped the shielding to fire out. A pinpoint manoeuvre that more modern ‘Lancers wouldn’t contemplate as the onboard computer would warn against it. The fighter was buzzing around the fuselage now, jinking between the anti fighter weaponry and generally being quite impressive, if a little insane as they took down several shield generators before pulling up and away through a hole in the shielding that Postain immediately had targetted. The cannons fired, tearing a large chunk from the unprotected hull, spilling metal, electrics and organics from the hole as the ship fired back, the Fallir ducking under at the last minute as two of her fighters bloomed bitterly and blinked out as the Savval came up under the Rodomont and fired to disable with precise shots into the damage At least the little ship was staying out of the way of those main guns, Postain supposed as the cruisers’ engines’ glow faded. “Maldak,” he instructed, “tell the Fallir and the Savval to get their fighters back on board. Send a ‘surrender’ message to that ship and tell the Bellaphron to get here.”

“Aye,” the Communications Quokkan replied, before getting on with his duties in the order given.


Hawthorne relaxed into her chair. This was a bit unexpected but welcome and she activated her commset when they were behind the Rodomont’s shields. “Fighters return to the garage,” she ordered, knowing they’d only do so when not in trouble. The Fallir was doing likewise to her ship, she noticed, letting the battleship deal out the damage.

“Bit convenient,” Denver stated, “the Rodomont showing up like that.”

“Convenient my scaly tail,” Cheel grumbled. “We were the dangling corn in the trap.”

Hawthorne felt Cheel had a point here. After all, she’d been told the Rodomont was ‘unavailable’ for this mission and, yet, right when they needed her, here she was. She was going to have polite words and impolite thoughts about Postlethwaite soon. Her cousin had said the Mican would show you all the tricks you wanted and few of the tricks he knew and he’d been right. Still, she supposed she should be grateful. She was grateful she wasn’t on that cruiser right now as another powerful shot ripped into her fuselage.


With that last breaking the camel’s back, the surrender message came in and the cruiser dropped her shielding – what remained of it – and powered down her weapons. Postain breathed out and ordered a cease fire, with the proviso that weapons stayed charged. He commed security himself. “Yarkin,” he told the Feline down the ship somewhat, “are your teams at all the teleport rooms?”

<“We are,”> she confirmed.

“Good. Maldak,” he added, “tell the teleport controllers to proceed as planned.”

“Aye,” Maldak replied and the operators began teleporting captives from the enemy ship according to pre-planned tactics, negating any weapons in transit for safety and accidentally blinding a Canine with bionic eyes. They’d have to keep them in the storage bays for now, until the Bellaphron got there. The old girl would seal them in unused quarters before taking them to a penal colony. He gave no thought to how many would try to take a deal like his Fighter Trainer had. Still, now he needed to talk to…

“Sir,” Maldak interrupted his train of thought, “the Savval is calling us.”

“Link in the Fallir and put her on screen,” he replied and the image of a Lappinean who reminded him of some other Lappinean he knew in the Command ranks appeared. “Is your ship in good condition, Commander,” he asked, genuinely concerned.

<“I fancy we wouldn’t have been if you’d not wandered by, Captain,”> she said, her face a picture of stylised innocence that tinted slightly as she turned her head slightly. <“If you WERE just wandering by, of course?”>

“It was a tactical plan, Commander. Further instructions from Postlethwaite. It’s not that we don’t think your Security Officer can handle it but we’d like to be sure so we’re sending someone to you on temporary posting. Hadrian Jak’ll be with you shortly.”

<“Tell him to keep his antlers down,”> Hawthorne advised, deciding she might as well accept it.


After the call, Hawthorne sat back again and turned to Denver. “Make up a cabin for a Cervidian, Colin,” she ordered shortly before the comm beeped. Grovan was requesting permission to come aboard. Hawthorne allowed her brow to pucker. He was bringing a vidcam?

[Amazee Dayzee]

Ah. So we now have Postain making an appearance here. I hope this mean a certain rabbit who gets covered in messes will be next. Great chapter!

[Welsh Halfwit]

In which Xarra is indulged.

NINE

Hawthorne looked out at the edge of the Kibanna cluster and considered that, compared to the past, this bout of violence was exceedingly minor indeed. Practically a flick of the ear compared. It had, once, been the border between Raitchian and Lappinean space – or part of it, anyway – which was why the Celicans had decided to take it and drive a wedge between the two races so they could launch attacks on either side. So they’d inflicted one of the largest defeats in the history of Raitchian history on the defenders of Raconva’s world, as it was then called. The Lappineans, unwilling to be flanked thus, sent off a task force to educate the Celicans as to their folly, leading to tens of thousands of deaths as the Lappineans took the world and the Raitchians stopped re-inforcements getting to the cluster from the Feline and Celican forces. Neither the Lappineans or the Raitchians could long divert their efforts from the front line to hold it and the Felines chose to try and take the world and the cluster when they considered it weak. Which led to THEIR greatest defeat as they found out, to their cost, that the Raitchians had ceded the sector to their Mican allies and they’d sent the first, fourteenth and twenty-third fleet to establish control so far from the Mican empire so they could strike at the Celicans the same way the Orange furs had been striking at them through Feline territory.


It was all a mess in those days, Hawthorne thought, until the Canines and, to a lesser extent, the Brockians had managed to broker peace amongst the stars with their idea of a ‘Council’. And other races had joined up as soon as they realised the bigger empires weren’t reducing colonies to ashes any more. They weren’t fond of it happening again.


A member of one of the ‘other races’ was currently feeling cramped in a corridor as an annoyed Mican showed him to his room. “It’s not my idea, Lieutenant,” Hadrian said, trying not to flex his cyber antlers too much in these environments. “They just want someone to back you up, is all.”

Flass spun around. “But you’re not ‘backing me up,’ are you,” she asked with a fierceness that had him step back a pace. “You’re supplanting me! A ‘deputy Security Chief’ outranks a Security Officer.”

“Only in the case of this mission, I assure you. Once it’s done, I’m gone. With new ideas from you,” he added, hoping to smooth things over.

“Hope you’re gone soon,” she grumbled.

“So do I,” Hadrian agreed as he ducked through a doorway. “I have a wife aboard ship. And she says she’ll be in season in a month or so.”

Despite herself and her mood, Flass found she had to ask. “Been a while?”

“About four years,” Hadrian grumbled as they got to what passed for his room. Hadrian was reasonably sure his living room on the Rodomont was bigger than his entire cabin here. It was a singles ‘studio’ cabin with a sofa bed, a small combi replication system/vidscreen and what looked like a toilet next to a cupboard that was, actually, the shower.

“There’s about room for your bag,” Flass said, allowing the flicker of a smile across her face as she saw the expression on his. Being the one to allocate rooms, she’d made sure her unexpected (and unwanted) guest had been allocated the smallest cabin currently available. It had been easy. After all, she’d had to make reservations earlier for the IOC agents she knew were coming so he’d have to lump it, wouldn’t he?

“So, tell me about this gel,” Hadrian asked, sitting down on the faintly padded sofa.

Flass shrugged and considered her words as she stepped around the room, her tail almost flicking into his face in a purely accidental way. Well, probably accidental. She stopped and faced her new senior – but not superior – officer. “It’s a gene splicer, according to the smarter people on board. It can create hybrids just by encountering two genetic materials in a wound. Which it then heals together like one of those energy bonders the Docs use. T|he evidence we have – supplied by a Pirate called Savra – indicates it’s a hundred percent effective and keeps the victim alive and in good health. Unparalleled capability to harm or to heal. And we’ve got the only barrel of it we know of on board.”

Hadrian sucked air through his teeth and decided he was wanting a hazmat suit if he went anywhere near the thing. Which he was going to have to do as he was supposed to be the protection officer for it.

“Y’gettin’” worried,” Flass said, looking above his head. “Yer antler’s are about to hit the ceiling.”

Hadrian knew she was being sarcastic as there was good few feet still between tip and top but he got the meaning and brought the liquid metal back down to manageable size as Flass took his comm and reprogrammed it for the Savval as Hawthorne set the ship underway again, heading towards the nebula and Raitchian space beyond.


Captain Postain watched the pair of little ships go as the Rodomont remained, vulture like, over the damaged but serviceable enemy ship. He reckoned a repair crew could get it up and running again, given a month and a repair crew at a space station. But, of course, before that would be allowed to happen, the owners would comment that they were grateful for the Council having ‘found’ their ‘stolen’ property and reclaim it to assess whatever findings they could make from the recording facilities and, perhaps, arrange for it to be ‘stolen’ again. It had happened before. Indeed, he recalled, it had happened to Xarra, who’d muttered ‘Nightsky’ at least three times in the last half hour. So he’d decided to give her a little ‘gift’ in honour of her first command. “Helm,” he ordered, “take us back five thousand kilometres.”

“Um, aye,” Bartleby commented, a little unsure about why she was just doing full reverse when Postain never retreated. But it was still his ship and it was his order so she made the crippled ship get smaller in the viewer until she got to the ordered distance.

“Companies get pirates to ‘steal’ these ships so they can assess them in actual combat conditions,” Postain told the crew. “When we capture them, they get the results back. That’s not the case from now on. Xarra?”

The Mican flicked her head towards the Rottian. “Sir?”

“Send the message. Give the order,” he growled. “Destroy that ship.”

Xarra nodded. “Weapons, target their reactor. Fire.”

[Amazee Dayzee]

I knew there was a reason that I made Elena a Canine. Its because they were smart enough to come up with the council to avoid everybody blowing everybody else up. Nice chapter!

[Welsh Halfwit]

TEN

Hawthorne had come to a rapid decision about this Mican sat across the small table from her, wearing the regalia of a sector subcommander in the Mican Militia, complete with the silver star of a Senior Captain. She’d decided she didn’t like him much. He was officious and slightly condescending, possibly reliving Mican importance in wars of the past in his attitude. Plus he wouldn’t stop emphasising the ‘Lieutenant’ in ‘Lieutenant Commander’, most of the time forgetting the ‘commander’ entirely. It was just their luck he’d been on manoeuvres on his flagship close enough to detect the firefight. And he leaned over the desk to try and emphasise things. “Look at it from my side of things, Lieutenant,” he smarmed, trying to ingratiate himself under her defences. “Two Council vessels are travelling on the quiet through my space and only reveal themselves during a pitched battle that ends with a destroyed vessel. Now, I think you can see that I need to know what’s going on here. You’re obviously on a mission and we have a right to know what’s going on.”

“Of course you do,” Hawthorne conceded, “and I have an absolute right not to tell you. Really. It’s not like I’m that interested in keeping this from you…”

“Then you can tell me off the record.”

“I’m a scientist by trade, sir. I know that nothing official is ever ‘off the record’. I’m completely on the record about not being allowed to tell you anything save this. You don’t want to know. If you insist, you can contact sector Chief Postlethwaite…”

The Mican sat straight and put his hands on the table. “But I don’t WANT to go through Sector Chief Postlethwaite. I’m asking the Officer here, now. And I’m expecting a little inter agency co-operation!”

Now Hawthorne had a few things figured out so she crossed her arms. “On a classified matter? Would you expect one of your Officers to divulge such information to me if I demanded it of them? With absolute respect, sir, I think you’d have them thrown out of service as soon as you found out. As of now, I am TELLING you that the only way you are going to find out anything about what’s going on is to contact Sector Chief Postlethwaite and ask it of him. At which point he will tell you who told HIM to authorise the mission. And then you’ll realise,” she said, leaning across the table with a sly grin that didn’t counter the butterflies in her stomach, “why I say you don’t want to know.”

“Then,” The Admiral snarled, standing up, “I WILL contact your master, Lieutenant. And, until that’s done, I will exercise right fourteen seventeen in the article of rights and have your ships searched for contraband.”

Now Hawthorne stood. “I wouldn’t do that. It won’t end well. For anyone.”

“So you’re carrying something hazardous.”

“Anything can be hazardous, SIR. Even information.”

“I’ll see myself out.” The Admiral left the tight room and found Officer Flass outside, looking to escort the peeved Official back to the teleport booth.


Inside the meeting room, Hawthorne sagged and reached for a bucket. She groaned heavily, prompting a response from the computer terminals blank screen. <“You alright Commander,”> Grovan asked from his own ship.

“I think I want to throw up,” she replied.

<“For my money you handled that rather well. I think Admiral Sandowne’s used to people not arguing with him. As your cousin might say...”>

“Oog…”

<“...’the worst commanders never hear ‘no’.’”>

Hawthorne looked up, her hands still on the table. “When did he say that?”

<“Just after meeting a Feline Militia Admiral on Pangalla. And Admiral’s aren’t the be all and end all. If they were, he’d have known you’d have a line open to me so I could listen in.”>

“Didn’t even occur to him… Excuse me a moment,” she continued, muting the transmission and grabbing the bucket quickly.


Minika crossed her legs as she sat on Dalmar Hayke’s desk and attempted to keep the Russellian from working for the third time this week. “You going to miss us whilst we’re gone,” the Lappinean said, tickling him under the muzzle with a finger.

He moved the hand to one side and tried to concentrate on the latest crime reports on the computer but she was wearing shorts and her legs were kinda distracting and… well… “I’ll miss you,” he replied. “I’ll miss the innuendo, the charm, the line of besotted Raitchians at the copier room door every day…”

Minika laughed politely, her tan throat fur glistening in a moment of honest humour and kissed him platonically. “You can admit it, Dal. It’ll be boring around here without us.”

“I hear Hayley’s already researching the best eating establishments for her price range.”

Now Minika looked horrified. She put a hand to her chest. “On HER price range?” She shook her head. “No, no, no, no! I’m not putting up with Lettuce burgers and CeemaSalad from a Greased up roadway service station! I still know people. Restaurants all the way.”

“She’ll never accept being in debt to you.”

Minika slipped off the desk to her feet a few seconds before Squad leader Charlton Hass came around the corner. “Dal,” she said casually, “whoever said she’d get to taste things for free?”

“Words you regret coming in on for a hundred,” Charlton commented, slapping a package down on Minika’s desk. “Gift for you from Nolly’s ‘contact’. Read at your leisure. I already have.”

Minika picked up the envelope and was about to open it when she had a sudden thought. She should ask after the Marshan. “How’s she getting on with the Honey trap?”

Charlton regarded the – potentially – reforming Pirate with curiosity. Was she really concerned or just playing another game? “She’s doing fine. And those tips you gave her seem to have worked to ease her way in.”

“Good.” She opened the file. “O.K.,” she asked, “who told this guy I was going to Lappara? And who’s Milos Krishkan?”

[Amazee Dayzee]

I am liking the style of this story! Nice work!

[Welsh Halfwit]

ELEVEN

“As Nebula’s go,” Cheel said, looking at the purple and grey tinged space around them as they travelled through at best speed, “I’ve cert’ly seen worse. But why are we travelling through it an’ not ‘round it?”

“We need to recalibrate the sensors after the battle,” Denver told her, keeping her attention on him with the sleekness of his tone. “A nebula’s a pretty good area of space for that. And it’s still on our way so our ‘escort’ out there sees we’re not deviating.”

Cheel switched the view to the escort Denver had been talking about. Not the Fallir, fifteen hundred kilometres to starboard (and thirty degrees down but no-one ever mentions that) but the Mican cruiser the Admiral was in charge of. It wasn’t of the same scale as the ship they’d just engaged but it had back up close by. Cheel could see them on the far end of the sensors – provided they weren’t ghosts caused by energy bolts slamming into the system and bletching things up. But that was what the sensor checks were for. And it gave the engineering team time to make repairs. She thought of that now as Raskal, the Raitchian biologist who’d taken engineering extension courses, pulled his head out of a wall panel off to her left. She clicked a button as he looked expectantly at her. The console buttons lit up. “Yeah, night time mode’s working, Rask.”

The Norveggan sighed and put his tool away. He’d been hoping for more essential maintenance but he supposed doing the minor jobs meant the real engineers could do the imp…

“Oh,” Cheel remarked, “and the second port side thruster’s back on-line too. Must have been a combined fault. You got it.”

Raskall’s face brightened and he trotted off the bridge for his next stop.

“I didn’t know there was a problem with that thruster, Chayla,” Denver said.

Cheel spun her seat around in a complete circle, grabbing her console to stop herself spinning further. “There isn’t, sir,” she told him honestly. “He just seemed so down at being wasted on such a small repair. Figured it’d cheer him. Was right.”

“Cheel, why does your accent change from time to time?”

“Council don’ like colloquialisms,” she replied in her natural tones. “Fink it ‘ind’rs translat’rs. So,” she said, flattening the accent, “they find it easier to understand when I talk all posh, like. Then again,” she said, slipping into a decent impression of Professor Durness, “accent’s have always been easy for me, herr?”

Denver chuckled. He supposed that was a given. He’d heard her do the trick one or two… or seventeen… times before. “Not bad. But the herr goes at the start of her sentences. It’s ‘heh’ at the end.”

“I’ll watch that, heh,” Cheel replied, turning back to her front.


Hawthorne looked out at the nebula and wondered what scale of disaster had caused something like this in the eons past. Odds were it was a supernova millions of years ago that thrust the hundreds of gases and myriads of dusts out from its core and surrounding planets across near enough light years. Here the gases hung together by the slimmest of gravities in a veil so thin she could see the stars glinting through the effect.

“Herr,” Professor Durness said, approaching her left shoulder, “the cores’ at 156,219, minus 40 she said. Seventeen million kilometres and closing, heh.”

“It coming towards us or us to it,” Hawthorne asked blithely. Right at this moment, she was beginning to suspect everything and anything was out to stop them, no matter how absurd. So she was trying to sound humorous about the silliest.

“Herr, depends how badly Cheel drives, heh.” She wandered away, indicating that Hawthorne should follow her, past the two assistants in the main scientific bay, to the console Durness was using. “I’ve used the processing centre to do a deep probe of the information the Pirate gave, including this video his Doctor – if such a word can be used for a psychopath – took of the internal changes.” She pulled up an internal image of blood flowing and tapped the screen. “I don’t know why I did that, heh,” she confessed, “you can’t see it with the eye. But the analyser picked up something. I think I’ve found out how this thing travels.” She pulled up a chemical composition. “The make up of a white blood cell,” she explained. “Our bodies defences against infection and viruses and everything else. Varies from species to species but it has the same base line in everything, heh? It’s why we have generalized medicine and don’t need full medbays for every species.”

Hawthorne nodded. “This is a Wolf one,” she noted.

“Herr, yes. And these ones,” she continued, tapping the ones on the screen, “have been infected by the gel. They’ve been altered by what they find in the wound and, then…”

“...They think the rest of the body’s infected and they attack the entire body.”

“Have infection, will travel, hmm? And, with the number of defence cells that rushed to the wound and then have the ability to subdue and change all the cells they come across? And the new infected cells join their number...”

“Instant hybrid.” Hawthorne looked to the ceiling. “At least now we know how it travels. Might come in handy in developing a cure. Because we’ll need one if this stuff is to be of any use.”

Durness looked at Hawthorne with alarm for a moment before relaxing her face. “Hurr, it’s capable of healing nearly any wound faster than any technology we have,” she nodded. “Of course they’re going to want to use it, heh?”

Genie’s out of the bottle, Sarah,” Hawthorne said simply. "We’re just looking to funnel it in the correct direction.” She looked at the window again as the pink tinge began to weaken and fade outside. “Soon be through,” she said, taking the second console to check on all the sensor logs. “Looks like everything checks with the Mican reports over the last thirty years. All the Hydrogen, Zanarium and Nitrogen where it’s supposed to be. The amount of Duranium in sector 5 is elevated. Quite a bit, actually. Mind you, that could just be the better sensors we’ve got than they had.” She stood up and put the computer back to its sciences setting. “Duranium doesn’t necessarily mean a fleet, does it?”

“Suppose not, heh. Could be fragments across a wide area.”

“And we can’t go take a look. SO best ignore it and file it with Raitche when we get there.” She tapped the comm. “Plebar to Cheel. Soon as we’re clear, set the course to Raitche and up to velocity three. Show the Admiral a clean pair of legs.”

<“Tying in the Fallir,”> the Raitchian replied. <“Then it’s as you say, Cap’n. An’ it’s ‘eels, not legs.”> The link cut out.

“Keep at it,” Hawthorne told Durness as she left the room.

[Amazee Dayzee]

This chapter was totally insane! I would just love to know what goes on in that head of yours. LOL

[Welsh Halfwit]

Well I figured an explanation - at least in part - as to how the thing worked was needed.

[Amazee Dayzee]

Indeed it did and you explained it really well! Looking forward for more!

[Welsh Halfwit]

TWELVE

“I still don’t understand why they want you to do this,” Flass protested as Jak set up a desk in the storage bay where the gel was being kept. “It’s not as though I’m incapable of guarding a barrel!”

Hadrian shifted his shoulders in mirth as the side of his muzzle twisted up slightly. “It’s not anything like that, I assure you.” He looked around for a chair and, finding none, enquired if there was one to be had. Flass pointed him over to the large replication device and he ordered himself one and pushed it over to the table. “It’s an added security precaution is all.” He sat himself down on the chair. “You’ve seen people are serious about getting this stuff, yeah? Pirates, zealots and lunatics with cash amongst so many others. And they’ve got an idea who has it right now. What’s one of the best ways to make sure they get it?”

Flass unfolded an arm and pointed the palm of her hand towards him. “Usually by bribing a guard…” She flipped her face into hostile mode. “But, if command think anyone on this ship…”

“They don’t believe that,” Jak assured her, although he’d heard nothing from Postlethwaite either way. “But, with something as serious as this, they decided not to take any risk. So they parachuted a random in – me – because, if only one or two people even know I’m involved, how would they bribe me? All I have is safe on the Rodomont. My entire family. And it’s known the only promotion I want is aboard that ship.”

“Zealots?”

“There’s always zealots. There’s a group on Marsinnia that thinks all violence in the Council regions would end if we were all like each other. Imagine what they’d do if they managed to get their hands or other digits on that thing?”

“True. True. I’m still insulted,” the Mican stormed.

“As you have a right to be. Can you tell me about ship’s crew?”


The Mican ship was still with them, Hawthorne thought as they passed through the sliver of space that race currently owned as an enclave. She wasn’t exactly sure why. There wasn’t anything out here that needed them to act as escort, was there? She really needed some intelligence in the area but security had never been her thing. She’d report things later. As it was they were about an hour from the border and she couldn’t help but notice the cruiser hadn’t ‘called ahead’ to make sure the Raitchians knew they were coming. Had Postlethwaite told them of the secrecy of the mission or were they worried about the Raitchians knowing THEY were there? “Denver,” she asked conversationally, “what class of ship is that cruiser anyhow?”


Aboard the Fallir, Grovan had had that same thought several hours ago and had consulted his digital guidebooks to discover it was a Fawren ‘Cassiopian’ Class ship, exclusive to the Mican military and one of their most modern ships, equipped with ablative armour and anti-gravity atmosphere drives. Not the sort of thing found in obscure Militia forces. He had thought about telling Plebar but he had to assume the cruiser would be listening in to any conversations between the two ships. It was like having a parent chaperoning a first date, the way it was looming over them. Officious wasn’t quite the word for it. “Michumma,” he ordered lightly, “can you do some passive scans of our escort? See what they say?”

The Celican turned towards him. “I’ve been doing that for the last seventeen minutes,” he replied. “I knew you’d ask sooner or later. It felt like doing something.”

“And what do you have,” Grovan replied, tensing his tone a little against what was bordering on insolence.

“Judging from our scans, there’s about two hundred on that ship, sir. That’s more than militia numbers.”

“Hmm,” Grovan nodded, “that’s military. Sector Command didn’t notify us of any Military exercises in the area, did they?”

“Not that I heard but this is outside our usual sector. It’s quite likely that, as a Mican on Mican exercise, they simply didn’t inform us.”

“Shipping routes were adjusted in the region, sir,” Stikes put in from the helm.

“Pardon?”

Stikes turned to a side console he’d been using and tapped a few buttons. “Couple of months ago, companies were advised to avoid the nebula as there was a multi-world militia exercise going on in there. The advice hasn’t been rescinded. Seems it’s caught in the red tape.”

Grovan snorted. “That’s some thick tape. Two whole months for an exercise?”

“Before anyone considers investigating,” Mitchumma pointed out, “I would like to advise that, although we’re not currently looking down the barrel? Their weapons are on fifty percent power right now. It may not be wise to engage.”

“Figured you’d want a fight,” Stikes said, before Grovan could stop him.

“Celicans are perfect hunters,” Mitchumma replied. “But we know that, as lone prey, it’s not wise to turn and engage a pack of Wolves. It ends messily and not for the pack.”

“Agreed,” Grovan told him tersely. “But we take the inititive now, as they’ve allowed us.” He loomed over Stike’s left shoulder. “Tell the Raitchians we’re coming, would you? Direct beam to Raitche IOC as they know we’re coming. Get them to send out a ship to meet us.” He waved a hand. “Just a.. escort, eh?”


At the bottom of a sharp incline on Lappara, a figure moved, doing its best to pull itself away from the wreckage of its vehicle, that had left the road some thirty feet or so further up. The barrier there was bent and out of shape and only the fact the restraints had worked had stopped them going straight through the front screen when it had hit the ledge. As it was, they barely had strength to move following the crash. A broken leg and a punctured lung weren’t helping the matter as he pulled himself along. He had the feeling someone was up there, on the road, looking for him as his car teetered on the brink of the abyss, its forward motion only temporarily aborted by the ledge. His comm was shattered into the back of his hand, useless to him now. Now he was dead. Now he had to be dead. Now MutaraChem had killed him, obviously.


His figure stayed close to the cliff as his car fell.

[Amazee Dayzee]

Wonder who was the stiff that was in the car? Well he is right since we wasn't dead then but is dead NOW. Great chapter!

[Welsh Halfwit]

No, no. He's still alive. Right now...

[Amazee Dayzee]

But it looks like he has suffered a lot of nasty injuries though. He might be alive for now but if he doesn't get help soon he won't be for long...

[Welsh Halfwit]

THIRTEEN

“Have you checked the room for recording devices,” Grovan asked Hawthorne as they sat in the miniature conference room. With a half hour to go before reaching Raitchian space the Mican cruiser had given them a longer lead in space, hanging back some quarter of a million kilometres but still on watch, making sure the two Council ships left quickly.

Hawthorne uncrossed her legs, putting both down to the floor before responding. “Before you came in, yes. So you were safe to ask that question. You getting the same feeling about our ‘helping hand’ out there?”

“I’m getting the feeling I’ll feel safer when we’re in Raitchian space, facing Raitchian vessels.” He chuckled. “And I’ve never said that before!”

“Hmm,” Hawthorne responded, “I have to agree. Which is why I’ll never say that to Cheel. She’d be so offended.”

“I don’t, of course, mean Raitchians aboard our ships,” Grovan added quickly. “They’re trustworthy.”

Now Hawthorne outright laughed.

“All right, all right…” Grovan grinned, inclined his head and waved it away. “There’s no way to win really.”

Hawthorne sighed. “I know.” She pulled up the schematics and scans again. “What do you think’s going on,” she asked.

“Things beyond our paygrade. Council doesn’t have enough ships out here and it certainly looks like there’d be enough minerals detected in your scans for a small fleet of ships.” He looked at her carefully. “From what I’ve seen on intelligence reports, the Mican Commander of the joint local militias – note that word? Joint? Meaning that, although all the Mican militias protecting their colonies here are, officially, separate they have a union at the top? A union of ten. One Admiral and nine Vice Admirals – of whom we’ve met one – that he appoints. Anyhow, this Admiral Darlington’s something of an expansionist. Forever urging Mican expansion. They sent him out here to get rid of him.”

“They have a huge military complex,” Hawthorne agreed.

“Not quite how some Humans might put it,” Grovan counselled.



Milos Krishkan, Hayley found, was a real name from the past. As in there was a file on him from his days as a student protestor at Raiche when he’d doused a Mican Ambassador with Honey in protest at the free purchase scam the Ambassador’s son had carried out on Raionna. He’d done his time and graduated as a microbiologist three years late but still near the top of his class. With Raicarra caring less about things like laws than they did about things like profits, he’d been taken into their ranks without much restraint and put in a research group that was completely redacted from the official record and, thankfully, provided by Nolly’s ‘friend’. It really hadn’t got her much further in that respect, though, as looking up ‘Deyton Marwick’ brought up the closest thing to a frozen screen as she’d ever seen without actually being one. But this Raitchian Packer had worked with him for the best part of a decade before the fall of Raicarra, when he’d left Raitchian space for the Lapparan systems. Someone was talking to her. Her attention was needing to wander.

“Raitche to Rogan,” Solomon said again. “You in, Hayley?”

“Hmm?” Hayley looked up into the face of the little crossbreed magician. “Oh, just getting as many details as I can before the Savval arrives, Sol. What’s up?”

“Charlton says you should know the Fallir – which is coming with the Savval, in case you didn’t know – put in a bit of an odd request a couple of hours back.”

Now Hayley was intrigued and propped her head up on a hand. “Oh?”

“Yeah. The escort asked him to send an escort to meet them at the Raitchian border. Boss had a word with the Captain of the U.S.C. MacCrimmon and she’s swung by. She’s just reported in that the pair are en route – and being shadowed by a Mican cruiser.”

Hayley tutted. “Bit unusual. But, then again, we didn’t exactly tell them we were coming, did we?” She stood up, leaning on her desk. “So they getting here soon,” she asked.

“In about thirteen hours,” Solomon replied before producing a small flute of flowers from his sleeve for Hayley’s amusement. “Enough time for my show tonight then?”

Hayley rolled her eyes. “Why did they have to get attacked,” she questioned, as though going to the small show at the local ‘magic’ club was the worst thing that could have happened to her. “They could have been here by this evening.” She took the small offering, dropped it in her coffee cup as a vase and added a little bottled water.


A floor down, and in a private room, Minika kissed off the copier boy and bade him leave whilst she got things back in order. Once he’d left the room, the Lappinean shut the door and locked it with a key she’d copied a few months ago. She had a few minutes and a shielded vidcom system down here that she only used when she received a certain piece of junk mail as she’d picked up on her mails earlier. It was something she needed to do privately and she waited until the distorted figure appeared on the screen before she spoke in a low tone. “I seem to remember telling you I didn’t want anything to do with you,” she told the figure.

<“What you want is less important than what we want, Minika,”> the voice hissed – or was it the speakers and he was speaking normally? <“There is a threat to your life, Girl.”>

She chuckled bitterly. “I don’t know if you’ve followed my life but I’m a probationary IOC agent on Raitche! There’s always a threat to my life.”

<“We’re being serious. The Agent attached to the case on Lappara has vanished from sight,”> the voice said. <“He’s believed to be dead.”>

Minika took it from that that there was some question to that. Of course, considering who she was talking to there was always some question in everything he said. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be careful then, won’t I? I’ll see you soon.” She turned the link off and shut things down to leave the room.


Charlton was leaning against the wall as she lreturned to the main floor. The senior Raitchian watched her carefully. “Anything interesting to tell,” he asked curiously.

“We’re down one agent on Lappara,” she replied. “Told him I didn’t want anything do with them, didn’t I?”

[Amazee Dayzee]

I really did enjoy the way that this chapter came out! You are so very talented!

[Welsh Halfwit]

FOURTEEN

Hawthorne was somewhat glad to see the U.S.C. MacCrimmon on the edge of Raitchian space as the Mican ‘escort’ decided to drop back entirely and pretend she’d never even been there as soon as they’d detected the Frigate. A cruiser like that could handle two clippers with ease but adding a frigate would have made it more of an equal match and Hawthorne had thought the Mican had no real interest in an equal fight. She’d consulted with Grovan and they’d agreed that the MacCrimmon could take their scans on board and take the information to intelligence. It wasn’t their concern, despite being a distinct concern in general. They had their own concerns to concern them. How many concerns was that, Hawthorne wondered. Probably too many for an innocent Officer like her. The Fallir fell in at the rear, directing the Savval to take the middle of the pack as the trio turned and headed for Raitche.


“I don’t think anyone’s saying this gel… or ooze if you’re looking to be silly,” Doctor Quella told her assistants, passing a glance at a Tortoiseshell Feline to the left of the group, “doesn’t have significant potential for medical procedures but any good medical officer knows that we act entirely for the patients good and at their direction.” The Quollan helped herself to the bite of a sandwich before continuing. “It can save a patient, yeah,” she added, spitting crumbs, “but there’s untold dangers to science gone wild. For safe usage, you’d need to make sure there was no foreign DNA in the wound OR on the device you use to apply the gel. Don’t forget, there’s genetic material in everything, not just everyone. Even sufficiently advanced bacteria might be enough. Not that we’ve seen any sign of that yet but the examination of this stuff has barely begun. We’ve barely scratched the surface of the drum in which the goop is… Whose sandwich is this anyhow?” A canine held up his hand. “Should have guessed. Parsanmeat.” She scowled slightly. “Never know how you stand the stuff.” She handed him the bitten sandwich without apology. He’d not expected one. This wasn’t the first time she’d picked up someone elses’ replicated sandwich and eaten it. He suspected she was teaching a lesson or something. Or she really was absent minded. “Anyhow,” she continued, “It can be a medical boon when used correctly.” She gestured to the pictures of the ‘victim’ provided by the Pirate. “Does this look like it was used correctly?” She looked at their faces, clearly unable to hear the replies they weren’t giving. “The correct answer is ‘no, Doctor Quella’ by the way.”

“No, Doctor Quella,” the group said in unison, some of them even meaning it.

“Right. So. Debate over,” she delared imperiously, turning away from the group and getting back to her examination of the biological compounds they’d taken from Micanna as regards the Dropsy outbreak. It was still an unknown as to exactly what caused it as there were so many possible factors and had dropped off over the last hundred years or so as medications to control and shorten its lifespan had taken effect. So the Micanna outbreak had come as a system shock. These samples were stored in a secure box consisting of toughened glass and steel protected by a biologic filter force field and accessed only by robotic hands and sensors.


And Flass never wanted to be in one of those boxes again. She’d had a day inside a larger scale one when exposed to a contaminant on Yova once and the Mican still hadn’t forgiven Quella for her lack of fine control of the arms. A year on and she could still feel the bruises under the fur. Now, though, she was fed up for a different reason. She plopped the padd down in front of Hadrian. “I’m not happy about doing this,” she stated.

“I’ve never known you happy,” the Cervidian replied, picking the padd up and examining the notes he’d asked her for. “But I needed your thoughts on your people, Kina. The fastest way to get to know them, you know.”

“The fastest way to get to know them is to talk to them, sir,” she replied, making the ‘sir’ sound anything but complimentary.

Hadrian stood and examined one of the containers in the bay. “It’s easy to lie to the face of someone who doesn’t know you,” he advised. “To change a few facts and alter a few figures. But you’ve known them some time, Kina. You’ve developed your own thoughts on them.”

She put her hands on her hips and the tail swished with irritation at this person using her given name without asking. This SENIOR person, she reminded herself. “And what makes you think I can be trusted?”

Hadrian looked at her with amusement. “You want to be a suspect? And it’s Chief Yarkin’s files, by the way.” He pointed a bone tipped finger her way. “She keeps files on security personnel on other ships in case they want a transfer to the Rodomont. You’re one of the ones in her ‘allow’ pile.”

Flass brightened up and almost stopped her tail in enthusiasm. “Really,” she asked.

“I’m not known for lying.. Honestly, I’m terrible at it.”


Chell was getting a little excited as they neared Raitche. Some years back, her family had done some moderately dodgy deals that had gotten five of them incarcerated for fifteen years and the rest of them expelled from Raitchian space but some of the physical profits had never, to the best of her knowledge, been recovered and she knew the exact location. She’d been the one watching the teleport station when her father had programmed the co-ordinates in and she’d committed them to memory. She knew them almost as well as she knew her own name. Plus the co-ordinates were on the bookmark she was using on the ancient paperback pot boiler she was using to improve her grasp of the Mican language. Technically it was more risqué than erotic but, with the number of words she had to spell out slowly and reread, it had spilled into the latter on several occasions. Not that she minded. She just needed a word with Piebauld in teleport control. It wasn’t a crime, was it? The criminals were in the clink. She was just reclaiming family heirlooms. Family heirlooms that none of the free family had ever seen before but theirs none the less. No matter what the insurance might say. She clapped the book shut and swung herself off her bed, tossing the book onto it as she put her boots on. She sat on the bed and tapped ‘tea’ into her replication machine so it would run at random from the thirty-seven varieties of black tea she’d programmed into it.


She almost drank it but was surprised when the ship shook violently, spilling it onto her shirt. She swore abruptly and loudly but chose running to the bridge to replace her replacement to be more important than changing.


“What happened,” she called as she got there.

“The MacCrimmon just hit a stealth mine,” Denver replied as the night time helm officer got out of her way so she could take over. “She’s engines are down.”

“And we’re likely in a field of invisible mines,” Hawthorne added.

[Amazee Dayzee]

Uh-oh. Something tells me that being stuck in a field of invisible mines is NOT gonna go well. I can see fatal damage happening to the ship. Hope nobody dies!

[Welsh Halfwit]

FIFTEEN

From outside, the twenty minutes seemed to pass in a staccato pause, things barely moving as the engine lights of the MacCrimmon sputtered and sparked. And the other two ships just hung in space.


Inside the ships, of course, things were going at a rapid pace. Decisions had been made and utilised. The Fallir and Savval had sent medical and engineering squads over to the crippled ship as the Fallir took up a defensive stance and the Savval worked to find them a way out of this.

“Hurr,” Durness breathed as they got the type 18 probe ready for launch. “This should do it, heh?”

Hadrian Jak, who’d been in the bay when the workers had come in for the probe and had followed them to the launch bay, leaned over to Flass. “Do what, exactly?”

She shrugged. “I’m not a brain. I don’t know.”

“It will go out around ten thousand kilometres,” the scientist said, “and put out a small scale magnetic field roughly equivalent to that of a small starship, heh? We already know how many of them are here, thanks to their own energy output being detectable when you know what you’re looking for but absolute accurate plotting is impossible and, as soon as we fire off our magnificent energy weapons… heh,” she gestured wildly, imitating an explosion. “Bchew!”

Hadrian looked a little non plussed. He figured she meant that the mines would automatically home on the biggest energy source. The emanation point of the energy fire. “Can’t we make it travel further?”

“Hurr, if we make it travel further, it won’t be a strong enough field to attract the mines closest to us. It’s no good creating a safe zone if you die getting to it. Heh.”

“And we can’t raise shields as they’re a massive energy draw,” Flass put in, getting on the same line as the others.

“Now you know why we hate magnetic stealth mines. The question is ‘who laid it’, heh?”


That was a question Grovan was looking into. He’d linked into the shipping manifests to see what had been out here in the last few days whilst Mitchumma did his best with passive scans to pick up any tell tale trails through space. “At least we can be pretty sure they don’t have transmitter capabilities,” he mused. “If they had, we’d probably have company by now. Got records indicating a Lappinean freighter was the last to come through here. A… Larrinas Tech Colt class travelling from Corrobie to Lapas. About fifteen hours back? What do you have, Mitchumma?”

“Eye strain,” the Celican complained. “Definitely the energy signature of a Colt heavy freighter though.” He thumped the panel in frustration. “Why would the hoppers lay mines here? It makes no sense!”

“We’ve been travelling in a fairly straight line for two days now, Kallan,” Grovan reminded him, “and someone laid a small scale minefield directly between us and Raitche. Doesn’t take a genius to work out why these mines are here.”

“Great,” Mitchumma complained.


He couldn’t move. Never mind that, he thought, he couldn’t see. His brain hurt. His head hurt. Oh, never mind, his everything hurt. His nose was working, though. Well, probably. He could smell his own blood and sawdust and coffee… coffee, he thought. “uuurh,” he said wittily, wondering if he could sit up. Because he seemed to be lying on a mattress with sheets over him. Or was it a duvet? No, just sheets. A voice swam through the void to his ears.

“Back with us, are you,” said a voice that crackled like burning grease. He heard the male walk towards him with an odd tapping sound accentuating every second step. “I wouldn’t try removing the bandages yet,” the voice told him. “You passed out face up, looking at the sun. They’ve worked to repair the retinal damage but they want to give it an hour or so to recover.” A dry chuckle. “They weren’t sure you’d make it, you know? A broken leg, a fractured arm, two ribs…”

“Are…” he gasped, his throat still dry. “Are… you a Doc...doctor?”

Another chuckle. “Oh, no, dear boy. I’m a professional visitor these days,” he said, his voice crinkling again. Straw had the feeling the visitor was old and… Ooh, that was his name, wasn’t it! Straw! Kellan Straw? Yeah! Good. So he had his name. Now, what was the other one saying? “In your case, of course, it was more personal. I, um, came across you, you see? I travel by where you had your accident? Went off the road,” he added, phrasing it as a question. “I caught a glimpse of you on the ledge and summoned assistance.” He laughed a short laugh. “I could hardly get down there myself, you see..? Oh, my apologies. Of course you don’t.” Straw heard the sound of the older person sitting in the chair. Something was beeping and there was something attached to his left arm. Oh, sensors. Faint sounds came to him from further away. People breathing. Walking, talking. Chatting The smells of a hospital. He asked where he was but didn’t know the name the name when the eldster said it. He asked the other’s name. “Oh, call me Keldar,” he replied.

“W...why..?”

“Because my parents did.”

“I mean… why did I go off… road?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the investigators will tell you when they’re through?”


The probe fired from the srtarboard lauch tube and whistled silently through the void, travelling quickly on the screens as Cheel counted down the seconds until the magnetic field turned on. The probe slowed notably to complete the effect of drawing the mines in from all around it, creating what amounted to a hole in a carefully placed net.

“Gunnar,” Hawthorne said, holding her breath slightly. “Maximum spread on the weapons. Synchronise with the other ships and fire when ready…”


“Are you still here, Mister George,” a female voice said in the darkness. Straw guessed she wasn’t talking to him, a fact emphasised by the fact that the older Lappinean – at least he supposed it was a Lappinean – answered and said that Mister Straw was awake and he supposed he could go now. Get something to eat whilst the nurse did her duties. He got up and left, that tap tapping accentuating his walk again.


A few minutes later, whilst the nurse was cooing and checking him over, Kellan remembered he’d not taken any identification with him on the trip. And he’d not said his name either. So how..?