Date Point: 17y5m4d AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Ian Wilde
Wilde learned three things that afternoon.
First, never play rugby with Hoeff. Short he might be, but he was quick, relentless, insanely strong, and absolutely willing to use his heft and low center of gravity to ruin a man’s day.
He didn’t quite manage to put Ferd in his place—he was still a reasonably normal-shaped human being, after all—but there was definitely a look of respect between the two tanky juggernauts. The rest of the Ten’Gewek had learned a painful lesson or two as well. In rugby, skill counted just as much as muscle power, and Hoeff had a heaping big pile of both.
Second, nothing summoned the Lads quicker than someone playing ball somewhere in a field. Seriously, there was almost a cartoonish rumbling in the distance, followed by something that was less a sport and more a good-natured battle, with unstoppable human forces of destruction running straight into the fact that Ten’gewek had no fewer than five dextrous limbs to mess with them, and the fact that a Gaoian on four-paw could flow like water through the ruckus and hit a handy thirty miles an hour without trying. Hell, the only reason they were even going that slow was to maintain their endurance; at a sprint they could apparently go much faster. Which was just…
But even still…holy hell could the Lads ever run! Warhorse and Righteous were both so fast they could keep the pressure on the Gaoians, and close-in they were a perilous threat to anyone, speedster or hulkmonkey alike. The cavemonkeys had found worthy, humbling opponents in the HEAT. Not even Ferd was a match for the Beef Bros.
Wilde had heard that Daar played on occasion, too. Somehow he couldn’t imagine the giant murderbear holding back for anyone, not even for friends. That would be a game to watch…
There wasn’t really such a thing as refereeing that sort of game. Really, they weren’t playing rugby at that point. It was basically an anarchic version of Gravball, without the grav.
The third thing came later on.
The Lads were great, really. But there was only so much great that a man could take before he started to feel… well, like he wanted the sympathy and playful attempts to buck him up to stop for a bit so he could just process. Not mope, he wasn’t the kind of man to listlessly flop around bemoaning his ill fortune, but he’d pretty much had his fill of positive energy.
“I think I’ll just take a load off, lads.”
“…You sure? Aww…”
Sometimes it was hard to remember that Warhorse was a stone-cold killer, because there was so much puppy in that man’s makeup. When he wasn’t being a titan of the battlefield or achieving shit that nobody else could, he was just a big, floppy, goofy, eager, fun, happy guy. You could literally get him bounce-off-the-furniture excited the same way you might hype your dog when you walk in the front door.
And you could make him crestfallen the exact same way, too.
“Yeah, mate. I’m just a mortal man, you know. You lads keep playing, though. I think Ferd over there thinks he’s hot stuff…”
Dangling the possibility of violent roughhousing with a Sufficiently Durable Friend was usually a pretty good way to redirect his–and therefore the HEAT’s–energies, too. Most of them were a lot like him, too…
Just. Like. Puppies.
Not all of them, though. The team did have some adults. Firth, who gave him a knowing nod, a grin, and followed the puppy-stampede. Titan, who yawned and stretched then went to grab some hydration for himself and the others…
And one more, who made himself known as a shadow next to Wilde once all the rest had thundered off over the horizon.
“Hello, Regaari. What can I do for you?”
Wilde felt a bit uneasy next to Regaari. Gaoians often had a strongly canid, somewhat indistinguishable look, but even beyond the wild white mohawk atop his head, something about Regaari was striking; Wilde was no gaoian, but Regaari was undeniably handsome, and that translated across species. He was tall too, at least next to Wilde, and while he wasn’t brutish or broad, his heavy neck sloped down to strong shoulders, which were matched to a lean and impressively athletic body. It seemed a ridiculous comparison, but to Wilde’s mind, Regaari was put together something like a bodybuilding greyhound.
“Oh, I was thinking you could do with a pessimist’s company for a change.” He sat down to WIlde’s left, the good eye side, and made a resigned noise when the park bench creaked.
Wilde chuckled. “Too many tacos, mate?”
“Too much Warhorse. I swear he thinks there’s no value at all to being sleek and slim.”
Regaari was HEAT after all, and that lanky build of his did a good job of discreetly carrying what was evidently quite a lot of muscle under that long, silky fur.
“Oh, I don’t know, it seems to work for you. You don’t look half as big as you sound.”
“I fought back. Perhaps unsuccessfully…”
“Or half-heartedly?
“…Never tell Warhorse.” Regaari chittered and looked down—Gaoians had proportionally longer torsos, so while sitting he practically towered over Wilde—gave him a friendly sort of expression, and pierced him with an inescapable gaze. “Anyway, you obviously have a lot on your mind…”
No hiding from him. Nor, really, any wanting to. It’d be nice to actually talk things out properly rather than just bask in sunshine and games for a while.
Wilde sighed, and got on with it. “My future, mostly. They haven’t started the retirement board yet, but…”
“They will.” Regaari duck-nodded. “How do you think the team will get on without you?”
“I think they’ll be fine. Hoeff’s…well, he’s OG JETS, and he trained us, and he’s got Ferd’s respect too…”
“Not an easy thing to secure, from my understanding.”
“No. They’ll be fine, that part I’m pretty sure of.”
Regaari sniffed discreetly toward Wilde’s face. “I understand the prognosis wasn’t good.”
“No. I’ll likely be blind in my right eye forever.”
“That’s a tough break.”
“Could be a lot worse, really.”
“Could be. But I bet you’d still rather have both eyes.”
“Yeah.”
Regaari just duck-nodded again and let him have a little comfortable silence, which Wilde appreciated. He did scoot a little closer, which was Gaoian body language for friendship and support. He didn’t get too close though, for which Wilde was grateful.
He also tinkered with his paw while he waited. Cleaned some mud off it or something. Everyone knew the story of how he’d lost the original, literally clawing at a Hunter Alpha’s face back on Capitol Station. That had been the HEAT’s blooding, and a costly one. The guys who’d been there had come home knowing they had a lot of improving to do.
Still. Considering his own situation, Wilde was suddenly more curious than ever why Regaari had kept the artificial limb.
May as well satisfy his curiosity. “Can I ask why you never had them grow a replacement?”
Regaari looked down at the metal and hard plastic of his mechanical paw. He wiggled his digits, and balled his paw closed into a fist; the motion didn’t seem to come quite naturally to him, but it did make his already substantial forearm bulge noticeably. He moved his prosthetic through its motions for a long while, ears forward-facing as he listened. There was a very faint mechanical noise to it. He eventually chitter-sighed to himself, as if he was confronting an old, painful tale.
“I probably should have. The injury originally required Openpaw to amputate my entire forearm.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Hunters have nasty mouths, filled with nasty bacteria and nasty, slow-acting venoms. Not even Earthling antibiotics were enough. And the venoms, of course…”
“Right.”
“But to answer your question…I am not quite sure. I had my forearm regrown as the prosthetic wasn’t keeping up with my training. After the third upgrade, I’d had enough.”
Wilde felt like he was stuck on repeat. “Really?”
“Indeed. It’s surprising just what biology can do if you really push it. I think that’s true even outside us Deathworlders, if only the others would try. As to my paw? Well…”
He considered it again, briefly. “I think part of me wants to say I keep it because there’s things it can do that a living hand cannot. This is true, of course. I’ve got all sorts of small tools and secrets hidden away inside. And…yes, before you say anything…”
“I wasn’t going to, I swear.”
Regaari sniffed toward him. “…Thank you. So yes, it does that too. But I don’t think any of those are what actually drives my decision, because there are downsides. It needs a lot of maintenance, I must replace it every so often to avoid cumulative mechanical stress… A normal paw heals itself, grows stronger over time, and that’s especially true for someone in my position, training as I do. Its sensory input is muted, so I find myself using my living paw far more than I used to, just to enjoy the sensations…”
“So other than some Inspector Gadget tricks, it’s pretty shite.”
“…Mmm… A sidegrade, let’s say. I’m going to need to look up this Inspector Gadget reference, aren’t I?”
“Yeah. I’m surprised you’ve not heard that one before…”
Regaari shrugged, sorta. “They already named me Dexter. Anyway… The real reason I keep it is sentiment.”
“…Sentiment.”
“Yes. It’s a good reminder of what I was. Small. Naive. Weak, and kept that way by forces I had no idea existed in the first place. You know how fast I can run.”
“…Yes?”
“Years ago now, maybe… about two and a half years after First Contact for your people, when it wasn’t safe to be a human out in the galaxy, I had the mission of escorting and protecting then-Sister Shoo. We had her in a disguise. Quite a good one, if I say so myself. She learned the language right down to Mother Ayma’s accent, practiced Gaoian mannerisms, wore a mask to disguise the shape of her face, and robes to cover an ’embarrassing skin condition…’ She was very convincing. But there’s no such thing as a flawless disguise, of course.”
He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his paw’s matte black surface. “Somebody saw through it. A Corti, I think his name was Astim. Particularly intelligent and ruthless even by Corti standards. He arranged to lure me away to the far side of the station, and I didn’t notice the trap until too late. I was… hopelessly compromised. Nothing like I am now. I thought I was one of the sharpest claws in the galaxy…”
He chittered and shook his head. “I was a dullard. So stupid and so hopelessly brainwashed that it didn’t even occur to me that I could run on four-paw. The thought never crossed my mind at all! I ran all the way back to the ship on two-paw, slower than you can jog. Can you imagine?”
“I really can’t,” Wilde said.
Regaari sighed, heavily. “My slowness got an innocent young Sister killed. I won’t go into the details but… well, you know how we are. You can imagine the shame attached to that thought.” He flexed the paw again and finally looked Wilde in the eye. “But we were all that weak. Every one of us. Our entire society was controlled, nudged, encouraged down the comfortable paths, guided away from greatness…none of us escaped it. Not even Cousin Daar. He wasn’t always the titan he is today.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
“It’s true. He was still immensely strong, still a towering broad-shouldered brownfur. Even then his endurance was well beyond anyone’s…but he was lanky. Clumsy, at least compared to his current magnificence. Nothing like as strong or as quick or as capable as he is now, as he was always meant to be. Or as he will be over the coming years. He has much catch-up left to do.”
The idea that Daar was only getting started was…alarming, and Wilde felt he had to object to the premise. “I’m not sure I can…I mean, how could they hold you back that much?”
“Whispers over centuries add up, and all the evidence you’ll need for their effectiveness can be seen in how my people have changed over the last fifteen years. We’re now so much more than we were, even after the War. That we were held back by a whisper campaign we couldn’t even detect, one that was being waged inside our very brains is…”
Regaari growled to himself. There was hate there, Wilde realized suddenly. Strong hate.
And not only toward the Hierarchy.
He took a cleansing breath, glanced at his paw again, and continued. “In any case, nowhere was this suppression of our potential more evident than in creatures like My Father. The Hierarchy’s agents of influence had been nudging him towards a simple laborer’s life since he was born. I think some of them must have understood his terrible potential. Thank the Unseen he was never implanted! And thank the Loremaster of his Clan, and everyone else who kindled his interest in Stoneback’s ancient histories. Where would we be if he hadn’t been interested in that? If he hadn’t become a Master of War, despite everything?”
Wilde understood. “And where would we all be, if you hadn’t lost your paw?”
“Precisely. The chain of events that stemmed from that interaction are mind-boggling. I met Warhorse, then the most impressive being I had ever met. We became friends and eventually Cousins in the gaoian sense. From that friendship, our species formed its military partnership, which flowered into the HEAT. My Champion took notice and conspired to place Daar in the HEAT’s path. Our species began to understand what being a Deathworlder truly meant. Under that joint program, My Father’s true potential was finally unlocked as it had been in the rest of us, and not a moment too soon; if we had not unleashed a being like him, in exactly the right place and at exactly the right time, my entire people would have been destroyed. That victory drew the attention of the Corti, who now understand the threat…”
“And the Ten’Gewek, the exposure of the Hierarchy…”
“The causality is…humbling. I am not easily humbled, Wilde. All the beings who can are my close friends and teammates, none of whom would be what they are if I hadn’t lost my paw. Nor would I be here—nor would my people still exist, most likely—if a short, heroic young tank of a man from a backwater planet hadn’t saved my life, and shown me the meaning of strength.”
Wilde didn’t have…that was a lot, all at once. There was only one thing he could say.
“…Fuck.”
Regaari chittered almost desperately. “Indeed. So: would a living paw be better? …Yes. In every way. It would certainly be less expensive…”
Wilde touched his eyepatch. “I think I understand.”
Regaari duck-nodded. “I’m never getting rid of it. Ever. It’s too important. Just putting it on a shelf won’t do. I need to remember, every time I look down, every time I touch something, every time I extend my claws, my failure needs to be right there, literally in the palm of my hand. Never again.”
He flicked an ear and gave Wilde a sympathetic look. “Of course… your mission was a success. And on that note…are you hungry?”
“I suppose, yeah? That’s a sudden change.”
“Were you aware Ninja Taco has a secret menu for the SOR? Warhorse helped write it. Nothing from it counts against our meal plans!!”
Wilde couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh. “Christ…yeah. Okay. I’m hungry. Don’t you wanna keep playing, though?”
Regaari looked back at the rugby-themed brawl that hadn’t ever really stopped. There was a small crowd now, cheering them on. “Of course, but I have a much more important use of my time, just now.”
“…Oh?”
Regaari chittered and stood. He gave Wilde a playful, or perhaps playfully predatory look, like only Gaoians could manage. “Oh yes,” he said. “You and I have your career options to discuss…”
Date Point: 17y5m1w AV
Diplomatic starship Rich Plains, Origin system, the Corti Directorate
Ambassador Sir Patrick Knight
Another day, another alien sky below him and another meeting of the Dominion Security Council. What little glamor had once belonged to representing humanity on the Rich Plains’ polished stone floor had gone rather dusty over the months. All the drama was in the past, a new status quo had been reached, and business was proceeding well.
At least the ship’s staff had learned to tone down the volume of comestibles on offer to something one man could eat. And they were getting rather good at delivering something that was pleasing to the human palate, too. It was amazing what a talented alien chef could do with tofu.
Though, Sir Patrick would have contemplated minor acts of treason for a proper breakfast of bacon and eggs.
Today’s agenda was a review of galactic communications infrastructure. It had been… temperamental of late. For reasons obscure and arcane beyond Sir Patrick’s understanding, the devastation wrought on Dataspace and the Hierarchy was having some kind of collateral effect on the infosphere. Not a big problem for the human race, but there were major interstellar trading conglomerates and national interests that depended on steady, reliable communication.
The Corti, allegedly, might be able to innoculate the infosphere against any future such disruption, hence the Rich Plains’ presence in orbit above their homeworld.
The Directorate’s representative was, however, being characteristically reticent.
“We view Dataspace as an ongoing concern. Our College of Information Sciences has…reconsidered much of our previous advancement. We are now in favor of more primitive packet relay systems such as the Humans and Gao favor.”
Sir Patrick had learned some time ago to not take umbrage at the word “primitive.” If he’d objected to every single instance of it, he’d have tripled how long the council’s deliberations took. He just made a note to point out that it would be best to reach out the extant experts in such ‘primitive’ solutions and sat back to listen patiently.
It was a dry discussion. A dull day in the making… at least until his personal security stepped forward to whisper in his ear.
“Sir, a ship of an unknown design just arrived.”
He turned his head. “Unknown design?”
“Yes sir. It, uh… it landed in the OmoAru delegation’s hangar.”
Sir Patrick looked around. Similar whispered conversations were playing out all around the chamber. Ambassador Furfeg was glowing brightly in an interesting medley of aqua and yellow, a sure sign of confusion and nerves. The Rrrrtk representative’s head turned slowly toward the entrance, the Mjrnhrm delegate’s wings were thrumming agitatedly… every corner of the chamber was a picture of shock and bewilderment.
“…They’re extinct, aren’t they?”
“Not quite, sir. Otherwise the council wouldn’t have reserved a spot for… them…”
There was commotion near the entrance. The doors were thrown open, scurrying staff got out of the way…
And a trio of creatures like leopard geckos with dreadlocked manes and large bat-like ears stepped forward into the chamber.
Sir Patrick had seen footage of the surviving OmoAru on their homeworld, the ones that still cared enough to actually grow a little food and eat every now and then. They were dopey, slow, blissful creatures, so high on the droud nanotech in their brains that just mustering the presence of mind to feed themselves came as an afterthought. They stumbled vaguely through existence like a commune of self-neglecting hippies, doing the absolute bare minimum to not die and then finding somewhere sunny to sit down and watch interesting patterns in the rubble of their disintegrating cities.
Not these three. The three who entered still had that slight curve to the mouth that looked like a perpetual smile to human eyes, but they considered the room carefully, taking in the view. One of them stared at Sir Patrick for a good long while. Another did the same to Father Sheeyo.
The one at the front twitched his tail back and forth a couple of times, and then strode over to his species’ long-neglected spot in the circle and, politely, indicated to the speaker that he wished to speak.
The speaker, an elderly Rrrtk, coughed a sotto voce utterance like somebody squeezing a bag of aquarium gravel, then leaned forward to his microphone.
“The Security Council recognizes the representative from the OmoAru Remnant,” he said. The translator gave him a cautious, formal inflection.
The newcomers bowed to him slightly, then took their moment in the spotlight. The leader simply surveyed the chamber a moment longer, looked at the deathworlders again for a moment, then turned to address the Corti delegate.
“I apologize for interrupting,” he said. The translator rendered him with a soft, youthful, cultured voice, but Sir Patrick could hear the liquid syllables of his real language behind it, rippling up and down in the way his throat inflated slightly. “And we apologize for our long absence. We had expected it to be longer still… But it seems that the galaxy has changed.”
He turned to look at Sir Patrick again. Sir Patrick had once heard the OmoAru described as jovial, from the Corti perspective. Maybe they were. But there wasn’t a whole lot of joking in those wide, intense eyes. Just keen interest in the force that had resurrected them, fuelled by a bottomless ambition and fury.
He gave the alien a shallow nod of his head. It was returned, and the OmoAru delegate turned his gaze away, returning it to the chair and the council. But there was no doubt who he was really talking to.
“We are here,” he said, “To take our place once again.”