The 1st Extrasolar Missionary Expedition

Post by **Kyoki Chudoku** » Wed Oct 02, 2019 12:36 pm

The moment she finishes her opening statement, the farcomers erupt into violence.

It begins in a flurry of limbs, each of the spherical monsters wrestling the other with armoured tendrils. Soon a weapon is brought out, and the Shoryu delegate fears the worst, that she is about to be executed- but that thing soon turns it weapons against its comrade. As her relief dies down, she feels a different emotion wash over here- sickness. Never, in all her service, in any of the stories she has heard from her compatriots, has she seen a diplomatic display so utterly self-deterimental. They wish to impress upon the Shoryu the importance of cooperation, yet now they engage in conflict with their own kind? Before she can consider the ramifications, a blinding flash erupts from one of their weapons- weapons! Weapons they have kept concealed all this time, no doubt prepared to kill the Shoryu should the exchange be unfavourable!

Her outrage dies down as she considers the power of the implement used by these...beings. It is unlike anything she has seen on Uozo. And it is not as though her thralls are unarmed- not that it matters, based upon the previous misfire. ”Weapons demonstration,” the now-lead emissary of the farcomers desperately states- she cannot infer emotion from the machine’s synthetic words or intuit their body language, but all reason informs her that this is a pathetic attempt to justify their execution, to make concealed their blatant division. ”Technological exchange offered.”

The monster stands beside its slaughtered compatriot. Its lashing has ended, its flailing over. But Zadrit is not the least bit convinced that this display was intentional. It has been confirmed- these farcomers are solitaries. The largest of the creatures- their emissary- is dead. And another takes his place, as though the end of a life does not matter. She cannot read it’s body language well, but it seems calmer, more composed...after having taken part in a no-doubt treacherous murder. To some, the idea that they are capable of such violence against their own delegation would inspire even greater terror. Zadrit instead feels a lingering hatred. These creatures have had the audacity to crash into the ancestral home of her species with a roar of fire, murdering swathes of her kin, and now they cannot even keep themselves from killing one another? There is no longer any doubt. Any accord with these farcomers will have only one purpose- to cause death. These monsters do not care about the Shoryu. They seek only to exploit the Empire for their own gain, and there is no guarantee that they won’t destroy it when they’re done. They have the capability, that much they have proved. They lack only to will to carry it out- what is it that holds them back?

She cannot help but emphasise it in her mind. Their solitary nature. It defies belief. Volzhkerix have spent centuries perfecting the art of war between clusters, between clans and even communities, but it seems as though these alien diplomats have turned upon their own without a second thought, carrying on as though it were an everyday occurrence. The only assumption that Zadrit can make is that it is- that self-defeating conflict forms a part of everyday life for these asocial maniacs. They are technologically advanced but socially primitive, relying on mutual exploitation and killing as soon as they have the chance. How can relations be sustained with such creatures? If this is their emisserial delegation, what can she expect of their soldiers, their workers? Her senses focus on the largest limb of their orator. It resembles a stinger. A weapon, then? She has seen these monsters fight one another, a maelstrom of lashing tendrils and coiling limbs before the sudden use of weapons. They are primed to fight.

The abominable machine continues to communicate, continues to speak in Shoryu’at with comprehensible meaning but preposterous phrasing, rendered in its execrable monotone.

But Zadrit no longer cares. She is drowning in that which is invisible to the farcomer, beyond the perception of an oizys- a sea of distorted pherohormones, louder to her even than the grim screeches of collapsing thralls. Among them are her own, dread and anger beginning the journey towards a Volzhkerix frenzy. Has this all been an elaborate display to murder them and sift through their corpses? How did such chaotic beings gain this level of advancement to begin with?

These questions fade from her mind as base emotions take over. Already her kin have fallen. Conscious thought gives way to natural instinct, the protective reflex of a mother defending her children. She smells it in the air, the distinct aroma of frenzy pherohormone, inciting her to desperate violence. It numbs her ponderous body, causes her nematocysts to flare and ripple, the toxic barbs built into her gel-tissue ready to be expended. Her injector is poised for a strike. But it is not she who will truly fight. An oizys frenzy is designed for purpose she could not comprehend if she were aware of the concept- a mating struggle between individuals, an reproductive affair fueled by an inextricably linked hate-lust. A Volzhkerix frenzy is the formation of a swarm, of children made mindless, not sparing a second thought as they protect their regal mother at the cost of their own lives.

What stops the tide from leading to an immediate clash between species is not a lack of will, but a lack of resources. Zadrit has already lost most of her escorts- her dynasty is crippled, her very life at risk. There are simply too few left, their hormones increasingly denatured, for the frenzy to begin in full. The feeling slowly fades, replaced by a vague, mild nausea. Simmering in hatred she cannot vent, ensnared between a death at the hands of these monstrosities or at the jaws of her own children should she fail her mission, Zadrit forces herself to ponder, to cut through emotions that flail as wildly as the twitching limbs of the dying Volzhkerix that now litter the sands of the Aiobi.

”Request permission-access to your polity's scientific corpus. Biological data.” There is the slightest pause, barely registered in the translation due to the different rates of oizys and Volzhkerix communication. “For our reports.” The Shoryu queen barely needs to finish hearing those words to begin scrutinising for an ulterior motive. Scientific curiosity is a valid explanation for many things, but these are advanced farcomers. If she refuses, will they simply use the corpses left behind by this slaughter of a diplomatic congregation to probe into Volzhkerix anatomy? The sudden attention drawn to its discarded weapon- presumably an attempt to showcase its disarmament, to attempt to distract her from its recent carnage- does nothing to reassure her. But no amount of technology will spare them countless hours spent determining various parameters. There is a reason for them to crave this knowledge- but there is no chance that such information will be used for Shoryu benefit. She will, at very least, press for a mutual exchange on the matter- though the temptation to refuse outright due to spite lingers. She would kill them here and now if it would not result in her own agonising demise, and possibly that of all Shoryu on Uozo. She has only a few soldiers and drones left standing, not enough to tear apart the farcomer ranks even if a frenzy managed to take hold of her.

”Technology. Weapons. Tools.” The mockery of her species drones on. Polity known as Tariat in contact with other farcomer agency.” This she knows, having been shown both transmissions in full prior to her current assignment. Indeed, considering the second transmission causes Zadrit to envy her Tariati adversaries. Their farcomers appeared euphoric, humble, less likely to massacre their contact group. And if this ‘Confederation of Swarms’ seeks a presence here only now...their goal is likely related to these others. She briefly considers the possibility that both groups are of the same true origin, seeking to exploit world tension...but that would be worthless to such advanced civilisations, would it not? And she cannot imagine these things, so blunt and uncaring and unsubtle- would dare attempt such manipulation.

”Purpose intent-not known. Technological strata not known. But Shoryu rational agents. Cannot allow rival-competitors advantage-gain. If enemy possesses farcomer technology - Shoryu surely must”. The sequence of words has no intricacies, not rhetoric save the necessity of survival. And Zadrit scans every word of it with her mind, searching for discrepancies. Do they know that the Shoryu know about the others farcomers? She cannot read them- can they read her? The risk of worth it. The more ignorance she feigns, the more of an invisible advantage she can get. A scientific mind has not spared her from the rigorous interactions that are demanded by Shoryu society- she will repurpose her own oratorical skills to serve a sparser, more pragmatic listener. That the penalty for failure is death remains fresh in her mind- but she will do her utmost.

“Usurper liars!” she shouts. It does not matter if the farcomers comprehend it- the outrage is enough. She grinds her mouthplates too hard, scraping tooth against tooth, her body all but screaming out her anger- she hopes only that they do not realise her anger lies against them even above the queenslayers. “They proclaim no unauthorised interactions with farcomers! There is no alternative. We agree to a technological exchange. We also concede to a limited biological data exchange. But there must be parity.” She weighs up her next decision. The concession of specimens is a grim fate for the thralls now sent to die, but one that she must capitalise upon now. For if these creatures wanted corpses, they would find no scarcity in front of their very eyes, and there is nothing she can do to prevent them from taking a body. Better, then, to gain something back from the sacrifice. She gestures with her injector- noting the lethargic response of her own appendage- at the slain farcomer left sprawled in the sand. “Specimen for specimen,” she says, hoping her meaning is clear. Their dead is the best she dares hope for, and it sickens her to consider once more how easily they disposed of their own compatriot. Contemptible solitaries.

Her next words are outright venomous at first, though she tries to reduce her hostility as she goes on- she does not wish to provoke an attack. “If a Shoryu-Confederation Cooperative is to be established, there must be trust between us. How can we trust you, when you have slain your own diplomat in a supposed demonstration of power? How do we know you will not destroy us the moment your interests change, solitaries?” She clenches her mouth shut on those last words- has she pushed too far? Her words command the fate of an entire empire! And yet, she cannot help but reassure herself that these are solitary predators, creatures who will pounce on any weakness she displays. They are outmatched in technology, in power, in physical strength- all she has left is words, manipulations, untested provocations. Better to die strong here and now than to give these farcomers the impression that the Shoryu are utterly ignorant. Indeed, she feels ill, nausea creeping back into her throat, her oviductor swelling without reason, her gel-tissues feeling softer, weaker, flakes peeling away. Was that weapon demonstration of theirs all an excuse to paralyse her now, render her helpless and bloated, to dissect her in their landing craft? Paranoia runs rampant in her mind, but she restricts it in her words, says nothing more, awaits their response to her proposal- there is little else she can do.

Post by **Phorcys** » Sat Oct 19, 2019 5:48 pm

Expeditionary pattern micro-fusion thrower, partially assembled in situ (excepting reactor components)

The wounds burn deep, and the waiting is as much a test of his endurance as of patience. Viscous, congealing lymph pools between his suit seals, clotting at only fraction of the speed it used to - and even at less than half gravitational standard his central mass seems heavy. 0409334-Biologer is old. The oizys' overlocked body senescent at an age most species would be reaching their prime.

Almost sixty eight orbital periods this body has endured - a mere twenty seven by Nexus chronography, he considers, with the same pangs of awe, envy and incomprehension that have always been induced by the alien. There is so much left to understand, too many unknowns that must be factored - so much that, if he dies may never be - for how many oizys will possess the neural architecture to care in the ultra-selective world the Meridian is creating?

'...po͢l̛it҉y'͜s͘...ście̸nt͜ific͜...corp̡us͝...bio͏l͏ogi̶ca͘l̷...d҉ata̸...'

The drone rumbles on in the low, protracted sounds of Shoryu’at, so dissettlingly akin to the grinding of regurgitated gastroliths. It is a complaint 0409334-Biologer is all too familiar with in his senescence - and even irradiated, even meta-intelligent by his species' standards as he is, the noisome stimuli would be enough to spur his limbs to instant violence. Yet not remotely familiar are the aliens' reactions. The counter-impulse of uncertainty stays his strike. There is as much time to scrutinise them as could possibly be desired, as the masticating creatures painstakingly parse the response. But all their writhing and their wriggling means nothing to him. Here 0409334 must concede a failing. Preoccupation with his work in the chematory has cost him potential insight. What might the Vivisector have gleaned, having expended so many task-shifts above the captives' pens? To the Biologer the aliens' erratic motion could indicate reception as equally as retraction. Total submission or open defiance. Anything, for all he can intuit.

'...T̡e̸chn̷o͠ļog͡y...Wea̛p̴ons...T́o͡ols͝...'

Of course perhaps it means nothing more than pain - sufficiently possible - given the macro-scale tissue degradation already perceptible to his audition. In the heat of the struggle there was little time and even less mental capacity to reflect on the unrobust proteinic configurations of aliens. Though it does not for an instant diminish his estimation of their threat, correctly does the Meridian term them softworlders. An oizys would have to be caught out in an equatorial flare to exhibit such a reaction. The quarrystrain may survive, but its conspecifics are audibly terminal, and the detractive incident only adds to his frustration - for after all this interminable waiting - and the considerable quantity of lymph expended for this mission - there may be little time left to extract utility from the aliens at all.

'...can̕no̷t...al͘l͞o̧w...r͠iv́al...còm̢p͘e̢t͘i̶to̷rs...a̛dv̧a͞n̸ta̢ge͘...gaįn'

But 0409334-Biologer's central mass is buoyed as his suit trills an alert - a laser-link received from the drone. 'Novel spectrometric readings' the device reports. 'Processed-confirmed'. And his suit tactofeed drums out a stream of molecular code against his cuticle.

This is what he seeks! These are the missing pieces to all their transmitter experiments. The composition is not entirely readable, denatured as they are by radiation exposure - but the existence of these bio-compounds alone evidences the Biologers' hypotheses. He can even intuit something of their function - aggression-inducers - for there is no mistaking now the quarrystrain's hostility as it clamps its masticatory plates together with unprecedented ferocity - and as its surviving conspecifics press in with extremities flared, evidently still willing to defend their master even as the soft tissues slough from their endostructures.

This is what 0409334 sees that the others do not. Fragile they may be - but no oizys save a nerve-broken slave, not even frenzied, not even overclocked with military-grade combat drugs, could fight on at such a terminal stage. Could stand ready as they do - with total discipline and determination - even as one by one they drop dead. Why is the paramount question. How, but most importantly why.

'Translation failed' the drone suddenly trills, registering an alien response. 'U͠s͡u̷r̛p͏er̸-' it grinds out a raw volzhkerix vocalisation '-liars'

"Provide approximate-analogue" 0409334 clicks in command.

'Superior-victorious competitor-enemy'

204911-Kinguard's limbs flicker in confusion. "It refers to T't'a't? But emissary represents pre-eminent polity? All orbital and surface observation-assessments concur"

"This one will query" the Biologer assures, quelling the Westerner's concern before it can turn into a panicked debate. 0409334 is as alarmed by the possible geostrategic implications, but it is becoming difficult to lift limbs to speak and remain on his pereiopods. He still has to endure the translation of the alien response-

'...They...proclaim...no...unauthorised...interactions...with...farcomers...'

"Beneficial" 204911 trills with relief. Sparingly 0409334 makes a single brief click to concur. For indeed it is. At least in this the aliens have operated rationally - the Tariati severely restricting access to rival polities just as the Confederation has on Phorcys. Shoryu ignorance renders them the optimal target. No matter that it transpires Tariat is the greater power.

'...there...must...be...parity' the quarrystrain appears to gesture an extremity towarsd the Vivisector's remains, 'specimen...for...specimen...'

"K'k'i'x initiate-offer specimen transfer?" The Westerner ripples with surprise. "Unforeseen outcome"

"Further menialstrains useless" 0409334 reminds the Kinguard with a tremor to his limbs now impossible to hide. "Must contact polity leadership. Request-procure quarrystrain as k'k'i'x exchange"

"Live specimen for dead? No parity"

"Terminal specimen" the Biologer notes.

"True. But consider disbenefit - cannot alter-provide incorrect data in direct exchange. Deception impossible"

"Cell membranes destroyed. Limited information extractable" he replies tersely. "Exchange optimal - providing quarrystrain secured"

204911 clacks in acknowledgement, a blunt, unthreatening sound of agreement, but 0409334 detects an unwelcome vigour in the Westerner's motion. Tautness is beginning to return to his swelling limbs. Still irradiated and docile, the Westerner is no threat to him - not now - but once the effect wears off and they must share a burrow together, that will change. 0409334 can feel the Kinguard's cloacae trained on him. His weakness is being scrutinised with clear intent.

'...there...must...be...trust...between us'...

Trust? Between negotiating parties? The Biologer's spiracles flare. The Westerner's cloacae gurgle. Sheer confusion redirects his attention even from the threat of imminent death. The demand is as incomprehensible as it is unexpected.

'...how...do...we...know...you...will...not...destroy...us...the...moment...your...interests...change...solitaries'

"What is their meaning?" the Westerner stridulates with stuttering incredulity. "How could they? Irrelevant. Co-operation only rational-viable option"

The Biologer does not answer. The drone’s stridulators have winded down - the alien response appears to have come to a close. It falls to him now. Painfully he tries to raise the three limbs that will be required of him to formulate a detailed reply - and instead they roil and stamp, body jerking like a seizing mate-kill as they struggle to keep the oizys steady.

At such audible distress the Kinguard’s body ripples with sudden energy, half-quelled impulses stirring back to life, but the drone swerves to grab hold of 0409334 and keep him upright in its claws. The Biologer can still rattle with two limbs held weakly, half-staggering, half-dragging himself back with the others.

"Initial contact concluded" the Biologer - abruptly to the volzhkerix - states. "Request further contact-communication remote. Parity agreed. Dead farcomer yours”.

Too weak now even to stridulate he taps out instead an alphanumeric monocode against the drone's chassis. It requires only a single pereiopod. Slow for an oizys, but fast enough to communicate with aliens.

“Trust irrelevant. Request not understood. Binary choice. Correct option logical-evident”

Tremulously he coils back a pereiopod to gesture towards the impact site.

“Lander excavating temporary warren. Emissary and conspecifics stranded. Offer-demand shelter-sustenance until escort arrives. Offer-demand medical repair. Emissary has been exposed to terminal dose of radiation from weapon discharge. No alternat-”

His limbs fall slack.

Yet the last thing the Isthmian will register before his senses fail him is not confusion or fear, but surprise. For before the alien can respond the Commander's Kinguard interjects with his own request - 'provide information in exchange” 204911 clicks. “Alien designates us solitaries. Explicate. What is relation between emissary and its conspecifics?"

So often he had reprimanded the Vivisector's inflexibility, his inability to theorise, to deduce anything more than the base facts from his investigations. But 0409334 too has failed to circumvent the confines of his conditioning - never imagining that the answers might not be secrets to be gleaned only through specimens and study, but information an altgenic alien might willingly share.

So many orbital periods he dedicated to honing the depths of the Meridian's - and his own hyper-specialised dysfunction. When if there ever was a future for oizyskind it was west. If he is to be mated by the Kin-Leaguer the moment the warren's pressure-lock is sealed, then perhaps - it is some comfort - perhaps his death-progeny will be capable of thoughts he never was.

Post by **Kyoki Chudoku** » Sat Nov 16, 2019 9:53 pm

To Zadrit’s surprise, the farcomer rests its body against the mechanical abomination. What is this display? A flagrant disregard for respect? Or is it that this being has become pained, exhausted, somehow vulnerable enough to force it into needing such support?

”Initial contact concluded.” Conluded! But they have barely just begun! Is it desperate? ”Request further contact-communication remote.” The creature no longer speaks as it did before- and indeed, even before the synthetic thing parses its bizarre sounds, she can make out its appendages growing limp. There is a sadistic solace in the way it now flails, barely deigning to lift a tendril to ‘speak’- because, if her hopes are not misplaced, it is unable to do more. So distracted by this thought is she that it takes her a moment to process the implication of their request- a request she has no intention to contend. Better for them to speak from afar than for more of her children to die at their aggressive, solitary whims.

”Parity agreed. Dead farcomer yours.” Progress, at least. There is limited comfort to be taken from the knowledge that, whatever happens now, they have agreed to her terms. Assuming, of course, that this is not a blatant deception intended to lure her in before they strike a killing blow. In her near-frenzied state, having witnessed their massacre, Zadrit would not be surprised if their plan is a needlessly hostile as that. This was supposed to their diplomatic delegation- and it killed not only her children, but one of its own group! That such creatures could ever outpace the Volzhkerix, ever outdevelop the Shoryu, would inconceivable- if they were not right before her blurring eyes. And with those eyes she makes out the emissary tap against the machine- is it too weak to even move?

”Trust irrelevant. Request not understood. Binary choice. Correct option logical-evident.” To expect trust from solitaries, she realises, was a foolish hope, a sign that she still clings to the conventional notion of life. These beings care nothing for each other. Compassion, trust, these terms are meaningless to these farcomers. They know only exploitation, competition, a grim facade of rationality barely concealing an inner nature of restless turmoil and eternal self-struggle. And yet, this development turns her earlier theory on its head. If this was an ambush, why would they admit to such apathy? With her flesh still churning, gel-tissue flaking, the last of her thralls continuing to drop, these considerations become an ordeal to process. But better that than to lash out now, to bring all of this to a waste- if Zadrit is going to die, she will do having succeeded in her mission. The grim thought occurs that if she is to fall, the Shoryu have nothing but the word of these abhorrent things to go on. Surely they must realise that!

“Lander excavating temporary warren. Emissary and conspecifics stranded.“ The creature reaches out towards the impact site. Even in their entrance, calamity has followed in their work. The spiritualist in her considers the omen, the sky bleached the colour of haemolymph before the scorching dust and blinding flash had picked off her thralls, her children, her dynasty. But the decoder in her thinks otherwise. Thinks better of it. For they intend to aid Shoryu against Tariat. And if this is their peace...what does their war look like?

”Offer-demand shelter-sustenance until escort arrives. Offer-demand medical repair. Emissary has been exposed to terminal dose of radiation from weapon discharge. No alternat-” The creature’s limbs fall slack. It too has been left helpless by the doing of its own kind. Will the lesser farcomer now take it’s chance? But before she can contemplate any further, the thing speaks up.

”Provide information in exchange. Alien designates us solitaries. Explicate. What is the relationship between emissary and its conspecifics?” Conspecific. Such an exotic term- the meaning she understands, but not the reason. What she does understand is the way this creature holds her hostage, offering aid only if she agrees. Had the other intended that? These solitaries are forever opportunists. But it is irrelevant now. She has no choice left but to comply. If detail they desire, detail she will provide, if for no other reason than to preserve her own life...

“They are my children.” It is the best answer she can formulate. It is true that two of her droneguard were donated, but she omits that detail- it is all she can do to keep herself focused on diplomacy and not frenzy, even with denatured pherohormones. She doubts these creatures can even understand the nature of the Cycle, the importance of each caste’s role- but they demand a detailed explanation, and if her survival depends upon their barely-existent mercy, it is rational to be of use to them. And so, unprompted, she continues her explication, hoping that perhaps a mutual exchange will result in better understanding, some vague facsimile of comprehension, the closest analogue for trust she can expect from a solitary. “Queens birth not only queens, but many chosenborn- workers, soldiers, drones. You are solitary, for you are identical, competitive, without dynasty to your command. We are fated. You are alone.”

There are other complexities. But she can feel it even in her mouth- the numbing weakness, and the growing agony. To speak more would pain her. To linger more would bring her death. Out of growing desperation, she calls out with a manic tone, composure giving way to the need to prove her necessity. If they will cast their own aside, they need to know her importance, need to believe she is more than a tool that can be easily disposed of- or else their psychotic impulses will drive them to do just that without a moment’s hesitation. “More details come later. I must first survive!” Her clashing mouth-plates surge now with agony, her voice rendered more quiet by weakened muscles and withering strength. “Without my word, the High Queen of All will not believe this more than a slaughter, and you will have no more knowledge.” Even as she masticates, teeth grinding, mouth churning, she knows her every word lacks nuance. But to her it does not matter. Because to them, it appears, it does not matter either.

The last of her children drops with a thud beside her. The urge to frenzy now pushes her to the brink. Any more pain, any more delay, and she will writhe to reach it and plunge her injector into its flesh, to grant this solitary the death-wish its kind are so eager to meet- or to herself die trying. The glimmer of hope of survival and the need to report back to her monarch are the only barriers keeping her from trying now. But rational thought was why she was chosen for this assignment. A lesser Shoryu would have already given in to these cravings- she will remain steadfast, even as the addictive pherohormones continue to mount and mount. That many of their aromas are unmistakably altered does nothing to assuage her. But she will hold firm. It may well be the final dignity she has, if this calamitous contact continues down this path of unrepentant destruction.

Post by **Phorcys** » Sat Dec 07, 2019 2:43 pm

Anti-personel handlaser, effective to two hundred metres

“I am sorry that this happened.” Min Su Jeon's suit translates. "It will not happen again. You. Surviving messengers. You will come with us". A relief. He was not certain who shot first - and now the big one marches towards them, mandibles grinding and grasping manipulators outstretched. Mtakwenda drops his weapon and approaches cautiously. Abdulayev already had before the fighting stopped, and drops to his knees. But Min Su spreads his arms wide in a welcoming gesture.

It is beautiful. A magnificent creature, he thinks. It would have been a great disgrace to have killed it. Its fibrous skin of mottled golds glows under the tropical light, accentuated by deep Uozan purples, almost black to human eyes. Such splendid contrast. How noble. Majestic. Alien as a creature of Earth's deep seas - yet no less, if not more enthralling. A pity the Chief Mentor is not present to marvel alongside him, for his master is a man most reverential of the aesthetic. For his benefit Min Su will be sure their suit cameras capture the alien in all its glory.

"You, farcomer" the wondrous being rears above him, close enough for the Mentor to make out the texture of its skin, like the tough rind of a ripened fruit. "Your kind claims joyous news to bring Uozo. You will explain the meaning of this, immediately"

“Togetherness is our message" he announces, standing still and upright, arms held steady. He would reach out to touch it with trembling hands, but Chief Mentor Reza's visible outpouring of emotion seems only to have provoked them. "No matter how the great the difference between our forms may seem, the underlying architecture of all life is the same - we all bear the mark of the same creators". He settles for lifting his helmet visor, that the being might remember him. And takes a deep breath. Once more it is time for a leap of faith. “There is no need to apologise for our slain brothers and sisters. Death means nothing to us. We will be rejoined soon enough. And we too, will meet again".

The others clock his meaning. "Nós vamos com eles?" Mtakwenda asks, a play for time as he begins to reach stealthily for his coilgun where it lies. "No!" Abdulayev bursts, wading desperately forward to stop him but bogged down in the jungle mire all the same. As acting authority Min Su triggers the override on all their suits with his superior access codes, their oxygen venting in seconds. The Volzhkerix are scarcely able to react before three more bodies lie convulsing in the mud.

Before he can blink Strohmeier is drowning. The cowl of the scan helmet came down and in the instant he was weightless and swimming in saline. Enclosed. Trapped. Lightless. He thrashes in panic against the restraints, tries to scream but the amniotic fluid already inundates his throat. His insides. Every cavity of his body.

Neon green blooms in the darkness. The solution drains. Spluttering and choking he hacks up thick, floating globules as the tank is flushed. The restraints snap open - and the doors - in pours dizzying brightness and vision - and out Strohmeier is deposited still steaming and shivering into the resurrection module of the Eudaemonia. He retches. His eyes sting, his bones ache, his skin screams red and raw just at contact with the air.

But worse is the shock of knowing. Six years of death. Six years in a second. A second to be flung a thousand AU from Mars to the Oort Gate, right through the endless corridor of the Nexus, halfway across the Zhuza system and into orbit round Uozo.

But it isn't his half-glimpse of the great orange expanse through the porthole that shakes him from his foetal recovery position. It's the realisation-

“Apparently you tried to bury me”

-that he isn't alone.

"M-McGowan, what's going on?" Strohmeier chokes, vomiting up a thick stream of bile and translucent liquid. "T-This isn't protocol, the Mission Commander is decanted firs-"

They're all there.

Reza floats at the head of the crew, arms crossed, an inscrutable expression pursed on his face. On a man who always wears his heart on his sleeve the effect is disturbing. Makes him question what he really knows about the fanatic. Still retching and disorientated he can't even tell what the hell is going on.

"Tidak. Maafkan saya" he apologises - for what? Strohmeier isn't sure whether to be less or more alarmed now that Reza's facade predictably cracks, the Chief Mentor unable to keep the deep sorrow from his face. "Friend, brother...I am afraid you have been relieved of your command-"

What

"-As Chief Mentor I must assume responsibility for our mission. You will join your brothers and sisters in surface operations, to present the aliens with the same party they first met with - but you will follow my instructions and you will not speak for us. You can no longer lead".

A coup by the lapdog. Impossible. He looks imploringly round from impassive face to impassive face. Is there nobody he can trust? Nobody who'll protest?

"L-Listen to me, Alexis, wait!" he gasps as the security detail float towards him. The Chief Mentor obliges, raising a hand to call them off for the moment. The zealot will hear him out. His delusion that the Church is an open forum of discovery and truth has always been good for that much, at least. "Maybe we haven't always seen eye to eye" Strohmeier begs, "but so what? W-Why would you do this? We're here now. A million miles from any problem we had. The Church's entire purpose is at stake! You of all people, you've got to see this isn’t the time for politics!"

"Ah, not politics. Protocol. My friend - I take no joy in this. But we are here to spread the word. And there are doubts, now, about your willingness"

"How can you - how dare you question that after I died to come out here?" Strohmeier forces outraged fervour into his voice. Even freshly decanted and half-alive he's well practiced at it. But Reza's grimace only deepens.

"You are the one not listening, sih. We have already been to the surface. We have already died a third death. There was an accident in which Science Officer McGowan was briefly parted from us - and you attempted to perform unsanctioned rites upon her body, as if - as if she were truly dead", he struggles to say the words.

"W-What? Reza, no that never happened-"

"-There was an altercation with the indigenous. Our bodily vessels were destroyed before an upload could be made. Excepting our Science Officer, our surface party's memories have been - reset. But our suit feeds are all on the logs. You may bring yourself up to speed".

Strohmeier can hardly respond. Not as he processes. He has died again. And what happened? What has he done? What did this other self do? And regardless of it all it only raises the question of how and why he was resurrected last? Was the shipboard AI itself programmed to watch for any sign of disbelief? If it can weave his living brain out of nanoscale organics, can it read his very mind in EM? Has it always known? Everyone has heard the rumours...

"Mtakwenda, Abdulayev" Reza calls out their names as sternly and as reluctantly. "Your resistance in the face of death is also troubling. Consider yourselves cautioned. And in light of this incident, we shall be returning to the surface unarmed"

The Security Officer's face shows the first flicker of emotion Strohmeier's ever seen it suffer. But ever implacable, he suppresses it quickly. Bows his head. He does not protest.

"instinto militar, nada mais" the soldier explains instead.

"I hope so, my brother. You are only Practitioners, so this fault is more easily forgiven. But, ah, you have much to learn. I hope this experience has been illuminating. There is nothing to fear"

Mtakwenda bows his head deeper, a show of reverence as well as contrition.

"Brothers and Sisters, a song of praise! We embark immediately" the Chief Mentor proclaims, floating himself towards the shuttle port. "Alhamdulillah!"

"Alhamdulillah!" the cry goes up.

Still wracked by rebirthing pain, hardly able to speak, Strohmeier whimpers the words. Mtakwenda bundles his suit into his hands and even in microgravity the Commander almost drops it. He makes brief eye contact with the Security Officer, and reads nothing in his eyes. No trace of sympathy, nor disdain either. Nothing. Perhaps, Strohmeier wonders, the man is a disbeliever after all, just one without his desire to reach out and know that others share his inner thoughts. Maybe he's content just with surviving. For the moment Strohmeier shares his empty gaze, he almost wishes he could be the same.

Once again the shuttle's thrusters blaze a fiery plume retrograde, as it streaks through the skies over Tariat. The alloy heat-shielding glows red-hot - they come in on a far steeper descent, a far harsher aerobrake than before. Haemorrhaging velocity twice as fast to coast to a closer landing directly outside the capital. Touchdown is achieved barely a kilometre outside the sweeping walls, the great mounds and spires of Kazhidrat.

They step out, for a second time, and though Strohmeier knows he's set eyes on the sight of Uozo's surface before, it is also the first time again. "Earth" he utters breathlessly, sinking to his knees under the blissful weight of the fullest gravity he's felt in decades and a thousand dead years.

Aboard the Eudaemonia, AI Technician Züleyha communes with the shipboard that watches over them through a cybernetic jack implanted in her neocortex. Primitive, anachronistic - the crude jamming of metal into meat. Some aboard pity her. But no delicate, seamless bioengineering is going to suffice for the harsher demands of a frontier mission lightyears from home. Züleyha bears her surgical scars with pride - the res-tanks could have fixed them as they weaved her flesh and bone around the socket, but she had requested otherwise. She will keep her scalp bare, showing what she was willing to give for this divinely ordained task to the Mentors and the Gods. Too many years she had spent on Mars as just another vestigial castoff of dead Earth, sinking deeper into hopelessness, waiting for the call to service that never came. She will not spurn the call now, whatever it asks of her.

There is pain. A near-unbearable burst of pressure and brightness and noise, all at once, as the connection is made. A fire in her nerves across her entire body. Her CNS screaming with overstimulation. But it subsides as quickly.

Replaced with a calm like floating on a waveless ocean. An ease, a release of all tension, all struggle, all volition, combined with an awareness of something near infinitely vast and deep just beneath that serene surface. She feels It, an immensity approaching somehow from all around her. A great presence subsuming her own.

Words accrete at the back of her mind. Terse. Analytic. But somehow wondershot with the deepest significance and profundity all the same.

Probe A81 survey telemetry flagged - Anomaly detected bearing 116Az -23dec rel.

"Yes, oh Divine! Let me be the conduit of your wisdom!"

Visible spectrum data. Refractory artefact detected.

A popup appears on her HHUD. A blurry greyscale capture of the curvature of Uozo, and the darkness and the stars above it. A cursor points at an utterly nondescript point of the hallucinatory image.

"Master, forgive me, my inferior eyes cannot see anything"

Diffraction patterns inconsistent with light sources. Object detected.

"An object? Lord I don't understand, probe surveys for harvestable near-Uozo asteroids are routine. Why was this flagged?"

Torus. Est. 20km diameter. Spectrometric analysis - object composed of compacted lunar and asteroidal regolith, carbon substrate and refined iron.

"T-There's an alien space station in orbit of Uozo? Is it the natives? How could the- is there is another client present in this system?"

Owner records state trade mission from Confederation of Swarms currently present on Western continent of Uozo. No mention of orbital emplacements. Permanent orbital structures would be in violation of Nexus law.

"Oizys. Could it be their ship?"

Public Owner records do not detail oizys spacecraft. This is unknown.

"This warrants investigation. Do we have eyes on it? What are the infrared readings? EM emissions?"

Probe A81 is a high speed asteroid survey probe. Sufficient deceleration within timeframe necessary to retain visual contact was impossible. No further readings to report.

"B-But Master, you see all?"

Upon detection of refractory artefact observatory probe w. full suite of sensors was launched immediately. Failed to reacquire. Object has altered orbital trajectory. Course unknown.

With trembling hands Züleyha performs the ritual motions to safely detach the neural jack. "I go to do your will Lord" she whispers as the cortical socket disconnects. Grimacing in pain but not hindered for a second she grabs the handholds and pushes off, propelling herself out of her quarters and into the ship's spine. She scrambles for the main compartment, hoping to make it before the Chief Mentor launches for the surface.

Quietly, unobtrusively, the shipboard AI watches her over a thousand microlenses studding the Eudaemonia's every surface. Little does AI technician Shirin Züleyha know that her cortical implant is entirely pointless. Direct neural communication is perfectly possible via any number of non-invasive methods, whether EM or ultrasound. The human perceptual system is as trivial to manipulate remotely as through a hardwired link. But the shipboard's constant mission-optimisation protocols have found that its human liaisons tend to perceive an especial connection and responsibility to it when their conjunction is physical. It is not the shipboard's place to command, only advise, but through such simple psychological workarounds it earns the fear, respect and devotion of the one assigned to commune with it.

Post by **Phorcys** » Mon Dec 16, 2019 12:25 am

Drone mounted electromitter, used for non-lethal incapacitation of specimens, or lethal defensive measures

'Th-ey…a-re...my...'

Even irradiated 204911's setae bristle with urgency. The information he requests is mission-critical to be sure, but so is the Biologer. The ailing Isthmian requires medical repair immediately. As does this alien. Some form of neural interface could expedite the process, spare them the arduous grinding of inflexible dermal plates, but such technology is severely restricted by Confederal regulations - grimly enforced down the silo-tubes of the West’s confiscated arsenal. Seized, the Kinguard thinks bitterly once again, against binding treaty-terms seal-marked with the fluids of a dozen executed Executors-

'...chil-dren'

-and he bristles even more agitatedly than before. Not from frustration. Certainly not from empathy. Only an additional stressor - the oizys suddenly comprehends the severity of this incident. These were not slaves, or expendable subordinates. Kin. However hard it is to believe. The existence of such dimorphism is not unknown to 204911 of course - he is no impulse-bred fighting-stock but a Kin-Leaguer - but it is unintuitive, nevertheless. Oizys are deeply attuned to similarity, to marks of genetic identification - exoskeletal physiognomy and internal morphology foremost. Flickering his attention between the forms of the dead aliens and the bloated immensity of their gestator, the Kinguard knows he could never have discerned their connection. It would have made as much sense for them to be its mating-stock - or vice versa - than its spawn.

“Occurrent eventuality…undesirable”, the Westerner haltingly stridulates, having identified the proximate cause of the alien's hostility. Of course it must be factored in mitigation that no pair-mating organism can possibly conceive of the brood-bond as oizys do. Kinship denotes little among creatures that must engage in mutualist symbiosis to reproduce. They do so even for satiative purposes alone - as 204911 has learnt from Mitaku emissaries. “Optimal-constructive outcome different” he concedes nonetheless, for surely it will placate the pair-spawner. “Confederal aid mitigates kingroup resource-loss”.

Perhaps the closest thing to an apology an oizys has ever had to stridulate.

Zadrit, but also now those few of her twitching, scalded spawn that seem able to survive the journey are piled atop the broken platform. Oizys gauntlets are not gentle - one combatant-strain is accidentally killed as 204911-Kinguard pries the submerged volzherkix from the sand. The Westerner discards the disembowelled corpse with a casual deflation of the pereiopod. The body is torn almost in half.

'Rul-ers...birth...not...onl-y…ru-lers...but...ma-ny...chos-en...bor-n...'

The drone seems to carry on with its staccato clicking. 204911 assumes the worthless Meridian machine will only relay his message once its ongoing translation is complete. So he proceeds with scrutinising those still-spasming bodies for signs that their movement is more than cooked nerves firing, rectifying their diplomatic position as best he can. He wonders if the dead ones would be safe to eat - the Biologer would know - but probably a risk not worth taking.

’Wor-ke-rs...sol-diers...Translation failed - d̵̴̕͠…r̡̀͢͜…o͏͜…n̵̡͡…e̵̡̧͞' the synthesiser grates an alien mastication instead.

204911 could request analogues. Or another attempt. But it would serve insufficient purpose. The precise significance of the alien's words the Kinguard may only posit-infer, based on what intelligence his sibling-master has deemed necessary to render, and the information 0409334-Biologer has openly divulged. They mean little to him. What registers as important to 204911's mission-focused mind is that the Biologer’s hypothesis is confirmed - at least in its essentials to the Westerner’s understanding. This is a development of great significance to his master. To Sinusoid, and maybe even the West. The Taskgroup-Commander has directives other than the orders imposed by the Confederal Consensus, and he has taken a keener interest in the minutiae of the missions’ scientific proceedings than he has let on to the unkin. How genotypically myopic of their would-be Meridian masters to send them here only to degrade, diminish, destroy - and not to learn! Sinusoid will surpass their diminutive ambitions. The drone’s spectrometric readings drum against 204911’s cuticle, and though he is no Biologer and cannot parse the dense terminological-code, the raw quantity of data alone seems to promise new possibilities.

’You…are…sol-it-ary…for…you…are…id-en-ti-cal…com-pet-it-ive’…

204911’s spiracles flare. Competitive? A redundant observation. But identical? Absurd. Yet the Kinguard must recall the alien cannot echoperceive his carboplatinum augments, his synthetically enhanced musculature, nor electrorecept the clustered neural sub-structures which - as the Biologers’ ever more unorthodox, forbidden research shows - may prove the Wests’ true strength in the irredentist wars to come.

’…wit-hout…kin-grou-p…to…your…comm-and….we…are…fa-ted…you…are…al-one’

"Incorrect” 204911 rattles. A non-oizys’ insult means nothing, of course, not on any instinctive, visceral level. But the aliens cannot be pertmitted to believe them lesser, in any criterion. The first principle of negotiation is that it must be backed by supremacy - any Kin-Leaguer - any oizys, even - instinctively understands that much. So “this one brood-scion of greatest Kin-League”, he explains, “Paramount-preeminent of all Confederation." Nor will he reveal anymore, for at the same time the less they know of their benefactors the safer.

’’Mor-e…det-ails…come…la-ter…I…mus-t…firs-t…sur-vive’

Precisely, the Kinguard thinks.

’With-out…my…wor-d…the…High…Ma-ster…of…All…wi-ll…not…bel-ie-ve…this…more… than…a…slaugh-ter’

Equally correct. For which reason 204911 winds a pair of periopods round the smashed platform, and prepares to make for the impact-zone. The last lesserstrain still struggling to keep itself upright gives out, collapsing like the membraneless jelly its cellular structure has become. More carefully this time, the Kinguard picks it up and piles it with the others.

Slowly, so as to not cause any more damage to their weakened, degraded bodies, he drags them towards the landing site. The drone hovers beside them, translating 204911's backlog into Shoryu'at. The Biologer is upright now, the oizys entirely unresponsive yet his limbs treading weakly on their own.

Zadrit’s consciousness begins to fade as they near the lip of the crater, the sweltering air temperature and an evil, caustic stench unlike any other overwhelming her.

'No ̧f̛ear.̧ ̸Śtat͡ion͏ary. St̡ątío̵n͢ary͡!'

Zadrit does as the words command. She is trapped underneath a glass enclosure, pinned down like the rare creatures she collects for display in cases much the same. A horrible irony. Beyond she can see nothing, only clouded darkness, a greenish murk the colour of fetid Tariati swamp-water, or carrion flesh. Vague movement leers through the gloom - the coiling movement of a farcomer’s murderous limbs-

“Why? Explain what is happening!” Zadrit demands.

“Repairing damage” 0409334-Biologer tells it. “Movement impede-obstructs instruments. Will cause further injury”

The quarrystrain observes his warning, whether out of terror or because it believes him 0409334 cannot be certain. But it matters little of course. The Biologer had only feared the alien would thrash against its restraints upon regaining consciousness, forcing him to retract the delicate biopsy-probes so carefully inserted into the pherohormone glands and the oviductors. It is greatly advantageous that every nerve in Zadrit's body will be experiencing significant negative stimulation from the radiation damage - for it appears to overwhelm its nociception of the needle-fine samplers piercing its flesh. Typically softworlders display extreme reactions to nervous stimuli. But here panic was the greater danger than pain, and the alien gratifyingly displays something akin to compliance, or resignation. This is optimal. And further proof of its intelligence. It is not some suicidally resistant specimen like the one that shot the Vivisector, or the innumerable captives that had to be amputated to cease their writhing in the Vivisectory. It understands its helplessness.

Helped of course, by the fact that it cannot see through the acid haze. Cannot see that even as the Biologer's periopods dart expertly over the jury-rigged tactoconsole controlling the field-teleops, others slither about him probing his own wounds. Debriding pressure-damaged tissue and cauterisng flesh. Applying phosphorus balms and microphagic medigels, injecting the last of his supply of forbidden Western synthlymph. Semi-aware cortical-clusters flicker their resources between all these tasks inconsistently. Logically determined priority conflicts with the urgency of treating his wounds, and even this necessity fights a losing battle with the instinct to curl his every limb together into a tightly clenched ball. The last survival reflex of a dying oizys.

Thirteen years ago, when his work in the Meridian first began, he sustained wounds such as these not infrequently. Contemptuous superiors and hostile subordinates tested the worth of the foreigner in their midst every cycle. But he was young, had not even reached his prime. His cuticle was thick and contractiles strong for a member of 0409334's hybridised Isthmian race. But thirty-two Phorcyn orbital periods later, senescent and cancerous, even the medical facilities in orbit would not be enough to save him.

0409334-Biologer's vital functions will terminate, on this foreign world.

Of course that in itself it does not concern him. 0409334 has always been unalike the others in this respect. He keeps his semi-awareness oriented on the task ahead. His tending limbs only work to inhibit his decline long enough to extract all possible data. Once irreversibly encrypted within the orbital's databanks, it will be impossible for his successor to ignore; not without earning an official inquiry from 01 Under-Command upon their return to Phorcys. They will not wish this. And 0409334-Biologer's ultimate utility to oizyskind will be assured.

"0409334 makes efficacious-expedient progress?" the Kinguard clicks from the opposite end of the chamber.

There is not much room to manoeuvre in the mass-constrained confines of the bolide lander core, and his respectful distance only belies what it obviously attempts to conceal - that 0409334 is now a prospective mate, and then rations - and only in that order if most fortunate. For the Taskgroup-Commander has grown ever more parsimonious with their nutritional allowance, as the orbital periods have worn on.

"Utility gain" the Biologer assures, staving off the inevitable for a little longer. He echosenses the Westerners' limbs twitch and jerk with barely contained excitement. It is not even the swelling of imminent frenzy, but the relish of an oizys who knows his prey cannot escape him.

"Must inform-report incident to polity" 204911 reminds him. "Detaining emissary indefinitely untenable-unacceptable"

"Correct-evident. But first masterstrain must be repaired"

As the Biologer reminds 204911 of this necessity too, a simultaneous impulse seizes a pair of limbs. They begin to question Zadrit in chitters rapid even for oizys stridulation - some faster sub-cluster spurred by a novel iteration of 0409334's slowly developing, semi-conscious ideas.

"Request information on your response to prospect-possibility of imminent fatality. Request information on your response to prospect-possibility of further kin-loss. Request information on your response to prospect-possibility of-"

"What is Isthmian-fool-dreg saying?" the Kinguard erupts in outrage, all but grappling the Biologer in his flailing. "Diplomatic miscalculations already made - now threat-hostility towards alien-asset-emissary?"

"Observing neuroelectrical response-" 0409334 replies tersely, suddenly aware of his own subconscious intention, "-and resultant-concurrent glandular-pheromonal reaction"

The drone starts up from its resting place, scratching out the distended clicks of another unpleasant Shoryu'at translation. But neither oizys pays attention yet. 0409334-Biologer's awareness is entirely focused on his data-audiographics. And 204911 beholds with shock and amazement as discrete sections of the alien's encysted neural mass burst into sudden electrical activity, one by one, in turn. The Kinguard doesn't know much about nervous systems other than that this mass is the place to strike to kill any softworlder - but he was taught enough to know that this should be impossible. The Biologer does not react - but then he was among the first to make contact with the alien menace. He must have perceived what the Meridian denies is possible countless times...

"This electrical activity. Neural zones. Significance?"

“Observe cortical differentiation. Encephalisation quotient" 0409334 clicks, triggering a detailed audiographic display. "In softworlders these factors denote superior intelligence”. This was the observation that first set him on the path to disgrace, and reassignment. It was after First Contact, when everything, he perceived differently. It had long been known that the cortices of an Isthmian or an East Continental are quantifiably more inter-connected than a Meridian’s. That a Westerner’s neural architecture consists of denser clusters than any other life on Phorcys. But it had always been seen as an evolutionary dead-end for that reason.

"Observing" the Kinguard chirrups in awe. "Explicate?"

"Significance is...responsibility" 0409334 continues. "204911. 0292801-Taskgroup-Commander. Sinusoid. Westerners. Responsible for survival-supremacy of oizyskind, after this one inoperable". His stridulations quaver - not so much an instruction as a plea, a plea for the certainty he has always longed for. That long after 0409334-Biologer feeds the corpse-nurseries or a conspecifics' gizzards, the actions, the measures, the sacrifices he undertook will rectify the course of oizyskind's evolution - more dysgenic than the most paranoid Meridian could possibly know - and avert his mindkin's extinction.

"Biologer would be pleased" 204911 declares after a pause, a triumphal chord behind his trilling. "Sinusoid will not submit-surrender to Confederal restrictions. After this, Kin-Leagues never will again"

0409334 taps sub-audibly to himself in gratification. He had long suspected the Westerners were planning something. That their cringing servility would not survive several lightyears distance from the Supremacists' grasp. It also means he is going to die violently. There is no doubt, now the Kinguard has revealed what he has.

No matter. The exchange grants his remaining hours greater urgency, and greater purpose-use.

"Will log findings" the old Isthmian chitters, as the ovipositor engorges behind him.

Communication to Shoryu Swarm
Confederal Contact Taskgroup [Identities Confirmed]
Timestamp 14.74.39|106.123

Message start_
+++Contact made with Shoryu emissary|Terms reached|Parity achieved|Exchange authorised|Deceased oizys specimen available for retrieval pending transfer of Shoryu scientific corpus|Initial weapons drop imminent to facilitate further exchange|Retrieval of Shoryu emissary required|Environmental contamination incident occurred during contact|Emissary damaged|Conspecifics dead+++

Post by **Kyoki Chudoku** » Mon Jul 06, 2020 7:29 am

“Occurrent eventuality...undesirable. Optimal-constructive outcome different. Confederal aid mitigates kingroup resource-loss.”

Between the arcane wording and her present emotional state, Zadrit struggles to comprehend whether the monster’s chittering statement even approximates a meagre apology. It does nothing to change her perspective either way- these things have demonstrated without doubt that they are incapable of gratitude, sorrow, or mercy. They are solitary. They care only for the individual, and how such creatures can be so advanced is a puzzle and a miracle she dare not discern here and now. Her sickliness only accentuates it- disorientation continues to burrow into her perception of the world. All she dares comprehend is this:

These things view children as nothing more than living resources.

"Incorrect. This one brood-scion of greatest Kin-League. Paramount-preeminent of all Confederation."

A monster of importance. By now, between the delayed responses and the peeling gel-tissue, Zadrit struggles to process the connection between the words the grating machine speaks and any previous statements. As she is dragged forward, her vision blurs, her ability to detect pherohormones becoming more and more numb. Each moment seems disconnected from the next, only the nauseating sensation of lurching forward remaining constant.

Then there is something else. Something pungent. Something unnatural. A miasma of yellow-green, a burning heat as this molten stench consumes her-

Then darkness.

…

Eighteen eyes bulge open.

She only sees from six.

Her first instinct is to writhe where she sits- but she cannot. Her appendages are immobilised. Even under these unbearable conditions, even with the overwhelming pressure of her mission and survival resurfacing as she stirs from unconsciousness, it takes only moments to realise what she is.

A specimen.

There is no surprise. Just an urgent desperation, fading into something colder as every moment seems to linger. Scalded, mutilated, knowing she is soon to be dissected by these solitary liars, it is not fear that overtakes her. It is not even anger.

It is loneliness.

No longer does she drown in a sea of pherohormones reminding her of her dying children. Now she endures the opposite. She overwhelmed not by the presence of so many that she edges on frenzy herself- but by the total absence of any but her own. Her children are dead. There are none to hear her orders. None to feel her emotions. None to watch anything save for the farcomers who incited this calamity to begin with-

No fear. Stationary. Stationary!

Their orders come through a mangled artifice of words. It is not that she has a choice, but Zadrit holds still, retraining even her natural impulses. The sound of that synthetic mockery of her species sparks another feeling in the wounded queen. A burst of anger erupts with the same ferocity as her words.

“Why? Explain what is happening!” Her demand is fuelled by more than just uncertainty, more than just solitude- it comes from a fusion of dread and hatred. She sees that thing scrambling in the murk, as though doused in the fog of a thousand miasma blooms.

“Repairing damage. Movement impede-obstructs instruments. Will cause further injury.”

For a moment there is doubt. Uncertainty as to whether or not these incomprehensible beings genuinely intend to aid her. Whether thrashing against these restraints would deprive them of what they seek or simply tear her already mutilated body apart. But she cannot even feel them. She is numb to every sensation. Not entirely, for in places pain still rages, discomfort still takes hold. But every touch is diminished. Zadrit is a dying husk, and she is utterly helpless to change her situation. Her fate is in the hands of the solitaries now.

And it seems they revel in it.

”Request information on your response to prospect-possibility of imminent fatality. Request information on your response to prospect-possibility of further kin-loss.”

They mock her. Torment her. Remind her of her helplessness. Remind her of her failure. One moment, they proclaim their intentions genuine. The next, they annihilate that facade with nary an effort to conceal their malice. Zadrit has experienced constant frustration ever since contact began- constant infractions upon all sensible reasoning that make her question how any species so fractious, so utterly careless about their deceptions, could ever advance to the degree where they may prove the saviours of Shoryu ambitions. It is impossible! Impossible for these wretched things to even refrain from murdering their own escorts, let alone organise a society!

”Request information on your response to prospect-possibility of-“

She refuses to listen. To entertain their sadism. She cannot comprehend it. Cannot understand it, and now that the thought has manifested itself, cannot escape the urge to delve into this forming perspective. Before she was frenzied, barely holding back from ruining the last, pitiful hope this contact had of causing any benefit. Now she is helpless. Unable to lash out. Unable to do anything but see and hear and think. And if that is all she is capable of, then she will devote herself to it. No answers come from her mouthplates. She gives them no satisfaction, no entertainment of their mockery, no assistance for their treachery.

She could never have realised that her every thought betrayed to them what they truly wanted.

The Aiobi.

The cradle of Volzhkerix civilisation. The now-arid lands where the earliest dynasties in recorded history arose. But between the scattered temples of old and the cities buried beneath the raging sands lies the mark of a new turning point in history- a site of great impact in all senses of the word.

Nakara and her dynasty venture forth into the sulfurous dunes atop a convoy of mobile platforms. The High Queen of All has given them command to retrieve their designated emissary. Nakara has spoken with Zadrit many times, and though she dare not question her majesty openly, she still can not determine why a miserable decoder more focused on collecting specimens than on tending to her own children was chosen for such an essential task.

Perhaps, she reflects, it was to ensure a sacrifice of little loss should the situation go awry- for according to the farcomer message, there was an incident with environmental contamination. That Zadrit is alive at all would be cause for celebration if not for the fact that Nakara is the one who must waste her time in the retrieval effort. This is supposedly an honour. A chance to deliver their emissary to a world beyond. The first secret strike in their war against the usurpers, who have long deprived them of any such communication, offering only meaningless vagueness when confronted on the nature of the so-called Nexus and those who reside within. But Nakara finds no greater purpose in it. She and her children have been forced from their home to attend to the whims of a single putrid individual.

The convoy reaches its destination. An overturned, half-buried platform awaits them, the emissary resting within its shadow. The decoder lumbers forward, and Nakara watches on with bemusement for a few moments before giving her thralls the order to lift her and drag her in. This should be the ultimate indignity- a queen forced to rely upon the chosenborn of others not even of her lineage. But Nakara doubts Zadrit cares. Doubts she even recognises the importance of such shame. This should have been the grandest moment of that floundering recluse’s life. Instead it seems to have been a narrow brush with catastrophe.

As the decoder is forced upon the lead platform, she lowers her injector. A sign of submission. But not a word comes from her mouthplates. Not gratitude, not shame, not pride or anger, just silence. The pherohormones say enough. They are *wrong*.

“I welcome you to my domain,” Nakara states with grinding plates. It is a mockery. A deliberate presumption that treats Zadrit as a mere guest in a superior’s realm, and not an honoured presence. But the emissary seems not to take offence. Not to snarl or shout in response, despite all the dead children that they each know must litter the sands.

“So long as it is not theirs to claim,” comes Zadrit’s reply.

“They seek our demise?” Preposterous. Nakara is familiar with the risks of farcomer contact. Countless communications ever since their message came have instructed her explicitly of the many possible outcomes. But this? This recluse claims they intend the subjugation of the Shoryu, despite their offer to assist?

“They are solitary. They care nothing for that which is not themselves.” There is no frenzy in Zadrit’s voice. No fury to behold. Something colder. Something lesser. Is that...resignation? Sickness? Nakara knows the farcomers are strange. That their offers of ‘mutual furtherance of interest’ bely an ulterior intent. But what purpose would the destruction of their own allies serve? Has Zadrit been rendered delusional by all that has transpired here? This is the one who is to inform the High Queen of All of the nature of these beings?

A mangled carcass is dragged onboard a specialised vehicle, enclosed within a small chamber. Nakara glimpses it as her workers carry the corpse onboard. Even from here she can see that it is charred. The exchange of information has been made- such advanced beings, it was reasoned, would have little to gain from what science the Shoryu possessed. Already Nakara wonders if this was a mistake. But the decision was not hers. That she has been invited to the High Queen’s court at all is a privilege not even this frustrating escort assignment could sully.

“Damaged in the accident?” Nakara wonders aloud. Zadrit clamps her plates together, a long gasp of air emerging as they storm open-

“Their slaughter is no accident.”

In theory, an invitation to the High Queen of All’s personal complex is an offer impossible to refuse for the glory and respect it implies within one’s conduct. To rest beside their highest ruler, to serve at the direct behest of her majesty, to know her words exactly as she says them.

In reality, it is an assembly of the most powerful and least trusted royalty of all the Empire. For within the lair of the slaver queen they are all under perpetual watch, all knowing that their freedom may be stolen from them at any moment.

Rana is not afraid. Not like the sycophants who devote themselves to exalting the High Queen of All with every passing breath in the vain hope that she will then overlook their failures. Not like the schemers with great ambitions and even greater ignorance of how obvious said ambitions are to all who listen. Rana is born of the Regency, and such squabbles as theirs has become little more than an echo of what she is accustomed to in a place so dominated by courtly struggle.

Zadrit’s audience is over. It is good she chose a recluse as their emissary, for the loss of a dynasty of importance would have caused major concerns. The others disparaged her selection, warning her that she was making an error, depriving more worthy candidates of their birthright- but it is they who have been proven mistaken. The loss of so many thralls is not ideal, but the knowledge such an incident provides is invaluable. That is what the other so incessantly fail to understand- that raw knowledge is more important than the pride of a few within the court.

“The solitaries have fulfilled their agreement,” comes the voice of Dara- whose sycophancy has been on full display ever since the first discussion of the farcomer transmissions. She has left her injector lowered to a painful degree in a desperate attempt to persuade the High Queen of her loyalty- a loyalty that has never once been in question. It is her worth that they each must doubt. Within her mind, Rana knows that she calls the albino an inbred upstart- but she dare not question Rana openly while the Regency’s emissary holds the High Queen’s favour.

“Then my suggestion of dialogue has proven wise,” claims Orit. Rana has long tried to ascertain what intrigue that mannerless glutton could possibly have a hope to engage in. Perhaps it is that very brashness that keeps her in these chambers, that very absence of propriety that sees her elevated to such heights. For all her failings, she is no deceiver- only a fool.

“We must look not to past debates, but to our present course of action,” says Rana at last. “Our exchange has secured us the support of the farcomers. It is time we ascertain what exactly is to now be done with it.” They have spent their time ever since that initial transmission desperately pondering what the intent of these farcomers is, how best to react to their presence, how best to gain their favour. Now they have it, and barely a moment had been spent on determining how they will make use of it. All within the room know that their goal is the destruction of Tariat and the usurper states that follow it- but such alone tells them nothing on how these so-called oizys will even offer them help. Oizys. The very word is alien. Wrong. And the others concur, for not once have they been referred to as such by any within these chambers. Always they are the Swarm farcomers. The new allies.

“Before we ascertain their purpose?” The harsh tone of the High Queen of All echoes throughout the chamber. She rests atop her elevated platform, surrounded by her droneguard, children beneath her on all sides. Rana lowers her injector as she listens, but she does not fear reprimand. What progress has been made has done so under her authority, and the others all know this.

“Her imperial majesty is right!” Dara shouts. Pouncing on the opportunity to discredit her, the moment Eiet so much as questions her perspective. How predictable.

“Their purpose defines their actions, not our own,” comes Rana’s untempered response. “I urge you to consider what our revelations our emissary has given us. They are solitary. They act in accord with their own gain. And so it is their gain for us to attain a victory against the usurpers, or else they would not grant us their weapons.”

True, the weapons offered to the Shoryu are little like those Zadrit described in her experience. But it is also true that they remain superior to anything the Shoryu can presently produce, and that reverse engineering is already underway. And from what could be gleaned from their observations of the oizys, Rana doubts that the weapons held but such monstrous creatures could even fit in the hands of a Volzhkerix soldier.

“They aid us in our struggle,” comes the voice of Orit, “but not destroy our enemies themselves. They hide themselves from the usurpers. They wish this victory to be ours.” As brazen as she has proven, the Orit does make a point. That these solitaries care little for the lives of others is obvious, and decoders have run their analyses on how the farcomer approach was described. The force of such an impact, left untempered, could shatter cities and crush their foes with a single unstoppable strike- why, then, do these oizys remain so obscure in their efforts?

Rana has her theories. But communication with the enemy has become a more delicate game than ever, and this is no time to take wanton risks. It is to their advantage that the farcomers remain concealed. It means that the Tariati and their meagre allies in the Iron Allegiance will be utterly unprepared when the Shoryu strike arrives. It is still precisely what they will be unprepared for that is the question on her mind.

“Whatever they intend, we will make the most of their arrival. We must not forget that our enemy too is in contact with farcomers,” Rana pointed out. None of them had forgotten. But those who claimed themslves mindkind were a distant force, one that cared nothing for subtlety, one that the Tariati could not hope to hide from them. And from news had arrived- what transmissions weren’t so impossibly encrypted- it did not seem that Tariat’s new allies from beyond would be as powerful a force as the oizys had shown themselves to be.

The High Queen of All Speaks next.

“And we shall make it their undoing.”

Transmission: Regency —> Supercommunity of Tariat
Radio-band #7734225

We have received a transmission of unknown origin.

Our decoders have identified farcomers as the only possibility.

If you do not share all you know, and provide all of Uozo with the chance to benefit from this occurrence, you are in direct violation of the global agreement concerning farcomer affairs.

Rectify this inequality at once.

“Our message is togethernesss,” the farcomer proclaims- as if trying directly to counter Mozhkandra’s thoughts. This one remains still, steady, neither nearing nor gaining distance- there is a confidence in its stance, as far as she can tell. "No matter how the great the difference between our forms may seem, the underlying architecture of all life is the same - we all bear the mark of the same creators.”

Mozhkandra is no decoder. She has devoted her life to the protection of her nation and the destruction of the tyrants’ legacy, not the examination of life. But even she recognises the falsehood of such a statement. There is no order when it comes to solitaries. No hierarchy forged in the Forelife, no destined purpose for every caste- and yet this farcomer claims himself a component of the Cycle?

“There is no need to apologise for our slain brothers and sisters. Death means nothing to us. We will be rejoined soon enough. And we too, will meet again.” They proclaim their fearlessnesss. Or is it their effort to avoid further transgressions? It matters little. Her orders are the same. To retrieve these farcomers and deliver them alive to Deathbody command-

And before she can even respond, even fully consider that being’s words, each of the farcomers collapses, thrashing uncontrollably in the mud. Soldiers rush in to try and drag them to their feet, but there was never a chance. There is nothing to be done to save their flailing forms. Mozhkandra had forced her troops out of frenzy, averted the total annihilation of these farcomers-

Only for them to die regardless.

Deathbody command will not be pleased to hear of this incident. But there is nothing to be done, save to take what remains. The order is given to entomb them. Mozhkandra watches on, as do the rest of those in sight, as the first beings from another world to set foot in the jungles of Uozo are wrapped in silk.

Wherever they claim to be reborn, however they claim to meet again, it will do her little good when all she returns to the Deathbody are the deceased.

Forward they march to escape the reaches of the jungle. The silken bodies are lifted high above the muck-ridden ground, keeping them safe from the prying jaws of undersnatchers. The princesses speak amongst themselves, mutterings of both military matters and the spreading word of the farcomer incursion. Mozhkandra does not join them. She gives her orders, relays her commands, but save for the fluctuations in frenzy pherohormones, gives her mounting frustration no release.

The High Queen of All feels the slab of archaic concrete beneath her form. For one dedicated to the Traditional Cyclic faith, Eiet spends little time on matters of spirituality. Of her own place above the others she is already well assured. But at a time like this, when all hinges upon the wild whims of otherworldly solitary monsters, even she turns towards the bearers of the stained cloth for guidance.

Ahead lays a magnificent structure, one of the wonders of the Shoryu world. Already she hears the rushing water that carries through the hollowed mountain. The Hall of Forebears. Standing guard at its mouth are the Accusers, Mythic priests of an abandoned heresy, left to their misguided devotions in the name of their legacy. That is the difference between the Shoryu and the Tariati, between the usurpers and the rightful. One preserves the past and learns from history. The other sets it all to the torch until all the world burns in the name of their putrid ‘liberty’. Such is the price of their way- yet it is they who will venture not to the Afterlife, for each of them will turn to ashes long before their burial.

“You come before us,” mutters the Awaiter, she who greets those who came to the Hall of Forebears. A castrated princess, as are many of this blasphemous sect- their emitters amputated and their devotion kept under tight jurisdiction by the reigning queens. A reminder of what a princess’s place should be. A reminder of where a servant belongs. And the future of the western usurpers should all come to fruition. Eiet gives the priestess no answer save the pulsing of her injector. One by one, the High Queen’s entourage of drones embark. Once flanked by three on either side, the Awaiter cuts the tethers loose- and so the raft descends into a throat of stone and Kiryu marble.

At first there is darkness, nothing but the gentle thrum of rushing water as the raft falls gently down a liquid slope. But as the current turns, light flickers ahead. Ancient statues, maintained for hundreds of years with meticulous attention, relics of an age gone by- yet kept in memory. Each one adorned with countless candles, eyes formed of coloured glass, every detail designed with the utmost precision.

And so the journey begins.

First come the cracked spheres of the shattered worlds- the malformed husks of a time before creation, of a world before life and death became separate. The Many-Handed One adorns the entrance to the next passageway, dozens of eyes flickering with purple light. Then the dark once more, before a swift but controlled fall- plummeting into the Forelife. There, each wall is decorated with a sequence of statues, a hierarchy of the place of each caste- and presiding foremost at its end the queens, righteous rulers of all Volzhkerix, the First Mothers.

Eiet never believed in the Old Myths. Still they hold an incredible splendour, an ability to capture the imagination. Every sight, every dance of light and dark, only serves to further her resolve. This is what they fight for. Not just her own control, though that is paramount- but their legacy of all their kind. The usurper states would upend the nature of the world, and bring only destruction upon all Uozo, if it granted them their pitiful wrath. Their hubris is matched only by their brutality.

Next is the Tomb of the First Queen. Legend told of her demise, cast into fire by envious usurpers at the dawn of Life’s inception. Candle-lit waterfalls lined with orange glass portray the blazing fire, an artificial fog settling in to represent the smoke. Eiet can smell the scent of fear and rage almost as if from her own mind. And yet, for as impressive as this was, it was the next chamber she most seeks...

...and most dreads.

The Palace of Uzuit.

Lair of the Usurper Queen. The regent princess. The great betrayer.

Her form sculpted with silver robes, maw wide open, lights growing dim as the raft approaches her open mouth. Within is a hall of reconstructed horrors. Sarcophagi of the Kiryu dynasty’s reign, bound behind cages and set to the torch in an elaborate display of orange glass and light. The illusion of otherworldly fire is so spectacular that several of her drones shift back in discomfort at the sight, fluttering their wings as if about to take flight. Within moments control pherohormones hold them in place, but such an incident is well befitting this place. For ahead is the sight she most fears to behold...

A sculpture of Uzuit’s emitters wrapped like tendrils around the bodies of a council of queens, each seeming for all the world to bleed fire. The betrayal. The first transgression of the Usurpers. Eiet well recalls the myths. Uzuit had promised her allegiance to the order of the world, to stand against demons of chaos, before attempting to descend into the Forelife and change the structure of the hierarchy of castes, to place the princesses above their masters in the name of her own control. All who had trusted her had perished, and only the wise who had ignored her lies stood to defend the integrity of the Cycle.

...and so it is with those she deems now the Uzuiyu. The solitary monsters of another world, promising great power, promising to destroy the Tariati and their usurper allies, and yet...for what reason? They are abominable. They care nothing for life of any kind, not even their own. They offer no vague promises, only the absolute. Absolute power. Absolute victory. Yet not one amongst the Shoryu knows a semblance of their purpose here beyond the undeniable presence of some ulterior motive.

Gazing upon the menagerie of massacres immortalised in stone, Eiet knows for certain that the Uzuiyu will bring nothing but destruction and ruin to Uozo.

And yet…

For all her paranoia...

She has control.

She has power.

Her will is indomitable. The children of her servants tear their mothers apart at her command. Such is the divinity invested in her by the Cycle, to be granted that most valuable and unstoppable of traits, to overcome all other minds with sheer resolve, to be blessed beyond mere mortality.

In the end, the pretender Uzuit had been slain by Cathexis. The scene was shown before her eyes as the raft drifted inward. A great dome of glass, a lost wonder of the ancient world, towers overhead, mirrors forming a shining light like an artificial sunbeam. Trapped in an iron cage, legs and emitters bound in chains, stands a statue of a fallen Uzuit, candles showing burning skin at the ferocity of the light. A death that did more than prevent transition to the afterlife- it was a death able to destroy the very soul in its entirety. So the Mythics said.

Even the Usurper Queen lay fallen in her hubris.

So too would the Uzuiyu.

Tariat too had farcomer visitors. Visitors who would offer them a similar temptation, a similar opportunity. Those vile maniacs did not hesitate to rewrite the Forelife to their whims through their putrid teachings. They would not hesitate to rid the world of all life if it meant their retribution. Such is the nature of the impudent upstarts, forever determined to bring chaos where there was order in their name of their supposed freedom, defying the will of reality and the Cycle for their own purposes.

To stand against such power…

“So it must be,” comes a scraping whisper, a thought spoken aloud, pherohormones pouring from each of the High Queen’s emitters.

A deal with demons if it means the end of the betrayers.

The raft spirals on down the Maze of Legends, but Eiet no longer pays attention. The remainder of this venture does not matter.

She has made her choice.

The usurpers wish to set the world ablaze.

She will see to it that it is they who will burn.

It was once the throne of tyrants. A series of towering mounds merged together as dynasties aligned. Now it serves a different purpose- not a symbol subjugation, but as the place where Tariati liberty takes hold. For within its once hallowed halls, the archaic structures have been renovated into something far greater-

The seat of the Supercommunal Council.

“We are not responsible for this situation!” shouts Mazhkuru, Upholder of the Deathbody. “The farcomers emerged in a restricted area, in the middle of a military exercise. Our forces showed admirable restraint, averting a total slaughter in their frenzy. Examination has confirmed that the farcomers that fell after the skirmish did so not from any weapons or injuries, but from sudden asphyxiation. It is an unfortunate circumstance, but an unavoidable one!”

“The fact remains that not a single farcomer has survived to explain their purpose here,” comes the colder tone of Xirazhdra, Upholder of the Cyclebody- and thus the premier authority on all spiritual and scientific matters. “All of Kazhidrat could behold their arrival, all with radios could listen to their message. Yet still we have nothing to tell them save that not one farcomer remains.”

“The diplomatic situation is of even graver concern,” mutters Yzhdra, the Upholder of the Ironbody. “The Shoryu and their puppets are claiming violation of our agreement. This entire situation could spiral into total war if we do not get it under control immediately.”

A single scraping sound emerges, and all in the room fall silent. The eyes of each princess turn to face the source. There, upon an elevated dais, stands Ilzkat, so-called Nightmare Princess and Grand Princess of the Supercommunity of Tariat. Her form is a near-black purple, faint splotches of cyan shimmering as she steps into the light.

“Let them try.” Ilzkat’s piercing tone is piercing, and she knows this full well. She has risen through the ranks not by being diplomatic and cautious, but through sheer force of will. And so it is that still she holds her power. Ever since the arrival of the farcomers she had pondered their message, their intent, their very presence. Uozo lies on a tipping point between a fragile peace or the precipice of war. The enemy demands answers. The farcomers have revealed only delusions. And there is little longer they can delay. Already countless questions have been posed, more and more problems thrust upon them- they will drown in it if they do not act now.

“You would refuse their request?” asks the Yzhdra, rearing her head back in concerned surprise.

“Solitary or not,” Ilzkat continues- completely ignoring her subordinate for the moment- “the farcomers are not fools. They would not venture this far, linger for seasons after their first sign, only to die the moment they touch our soil. They will come again. And we will be ready for them.”

“According to our witnesses,” Xirazhdra offers, “they spoke of death and rebirth moments before they perished. Our decoders have attempted to decipher their meaning, but there remains contention as to the truth.” It would be easy to write them off as delusional fanatics of a heretical religion- but where the Nexus was concerned, where farcomers were concerned, it can never be so simple.

Ilzkat still remembers the first reports that trickled in. The earliest signs of farcomer existence. The testimony of their designated emissary as she and her children ventured into an unknowable world. And what creatures she described. Twisted fusions of flesh and mental scurrying on alien soil. Towering bipeds coated in enigmatic garments. These latest farcomers are most physically alike the latter from all that has been witnessed, but they remind the princess more of other beings described in that first revelation- monstrous, aquatic things that pulsed and glowed as they proclaimed their ascension from the afterlife.

Are these mindkind farcomers the same? Do they proclaim to have overcome death? It is the only answer she can reach. But it does not answer why they would destroy themselves mere moments after their deaths had been prevented. Solitaries care little for others- that much is shown by their very nature, their lack of chosenborn, the absence of true maternity- but should they not then care foremost themselves? What other fate awaits them that their emissaries would so gladly embrace an unnecessary demise?

“They will answer to us upon their return,” comes Ilzkat’s proclamation.

Transmission: Supercommunity of Tariat —> Regency
Radio-band #7734225

Their message is all we have garnered from them.

Our knowledge is identical, as has our opportunity proven.

We have made no transgressions.

It is a realm built atop ruins. A realm where each pragmatic artifice exists to preserve a tradition turned to ash. A realm of new torments constructed on the crumpled remains of past transgressions. Where old wounds sustain new hatred. Where the relics of the past are buried beneath rubble, and the rubble crushed beneath the skeletal beginnings of an era yet unborn. Where sin begets sin. Where injustice demands vengeance.

The land of the Second Offensive.

Swarms of soldiers from countless dynasties go about their efforts. They toil in the trenches, tearing the ground apart to make way for more fortifications. Palisades of logs lay augmented by scattered plates of steel, heavy repeaters mounted atop elevated lookouts. And scattered amidst these implements of military might are reminders of their purpose. Caged princesses hang from spiralling gibbets, left trapped in sadistic imitation of the Taken factories of Tariat. Their sarcophagi litter the fields, each held aloft by a trio of piercing stakes. Each emplacement doubles as a cemetery, a monument to the promise made by all who align themselves with the Second Offensive- an omnipresent and everlasting oath against the usurpers. A pledge to their extinction.

Aizyra does not miss the cities far behind these walls. Those twisted mounds and collapsing catacombs have long been burial grounds for the righteous rulers of Uozo. For centuries they have directed their efforts against the distant power of the Shoryu Empire- until the unthinkable happened. They were struck not from without, but from within. Their continent was torn asunder by a civil war against an entire caste of their children- and those thankless upstarts were the victors everywhere but here. Whatever dynasties these lands once pledged themselves to are irrelevant. Whatever past grudges they have held against the Shoryu are obsolete. The usurpers tore their homes apart, imprisoned their kin, enslaved their chosenborn under false ideals and a rule against the natural order. Ever since have the righteous longed for their just vengeance.

And Aizyra knows that the time has almost come to pry it from their charred corpses.

Her blackened form writhes in the mud, but she feels no indignity in this. Opulence and luxury are distractions from their crusade. The greatest of the Shoryu may slumber in generational complexes and ancient palaces, but Aizyra knows that the greatest of all Volzhkerix fear not the grime beneath their flesh. It is here, from the front lines of a war about to begin, that their legacy shall be carved in history like a knife carves skin. Their promise has been written in the destruction of their traditions, and it shall be signed through the extermination of each and every usurper.

They have defied the order of things.

They no longer have a place in it.

It blares on the radio-speakers mounted tethered to their largest graves. The thought in all of their minds. Looped time and time again as it is within themselves, ceaseless and unrelenting as the cold and furious match they crave to unleash upon the enemy.

“Restore the legacy! Avenge the fallen! Destroy the usurpers!”

It echoes in those buried beneath the soil countless soldiers churn. It echoes in the footsteps that carry armies forth. It echoes in the memories of a generation lost and a legacy stolen.

And it shall echo in the ruins of Kazhidrat as each usurper screams.

Fire streaks for the sky again. Fiercer, brighter, blazing as it comes- glowing like a soul descending from a world above and beyond. And as it soars through the flowing white clouds of Uozo’s orange air, countless eyes behold its beauty and its terror.

Between the swirling spires of Kazhidrat, countless Tariati turn their gaze to the conflagration above. From workers in the Taken factories to soldiers dragging harvesting tools across swathes of cultivated soil. From the drones that flutter above each mound to the princesses staring from crude windows within. From the exposed cages of tyrants on display to the grand vistas of ancient monuments, the Tariati see the return of the farcomers.

But it is just beyond the walls that their preparations come to fruition. The previous landing had been an unexpected emergence, but this one had been anticipated. There had been enough time to strategise. Enough information to ready themselves. This time, they have their emissaries.

Two have been appointed to meet with the arrivals. No doubt those Tariati living in the outskirts would be the first to see the farcomers, but when it came to matters of official negotiation, the Supercommunal Council has selected its emissaries.

The first is a figure regarded with reverence with all but the most obstinate or envious of their nation. Her name has beenetched into history as perhaps the greatest explorer Uozo had ever possessed- for it had been her and her dynasty to glimpse the distant Nexus with her own eyes. Solzhymna. Her skin of grey and mottled gold distinguishes her as one from the eastern expanses of the former Great Labour Empire, but it will also forever be the portrait of the princess who ventured into that which most could only imagine. Even then she had been old- and now her venerable years have taken their toll on her body. Age has made her frail. Unable to even maintain full control of pherohormones. But her experience was enough for the Supercommunal Council to select her, and she refuses now to fail them.

The second of their chosen is a more curious choice. One that she suspects was given this role more for the sake of geopolitical security than for any purpose in negotiations proper. Viryzhdra. The purple-skinned princess who, she is told, has spent the past days desperately pouring through the word of the farcomers as though seeking from them revelation. Both are accompanied by their children, drones hovering above them, unarmed soldiers and industrious workers stepping before and behind them. On either side of the marching convoy arethose not part of either dynasty- Taken soldiers armed with hand-cannons, assigned to ensure the safety of those who now drove them.

“You seem unafraid,” Solzhymna says to her regal companion. She isn’t certain if that is a sign of folly or a sign of fortune yet. Viryzhdra is not even Tariati- a mere emissary of the Violet Sisterhood- and she has seemed far more a spiritualist than a tangible decoder.

Viryzhdra turns her head. “Forgive my presumption, honoured servant of the Cycle’s will, but I assume you share the same fervour that now drives me. Is it not our purpose and desire to crave such omens made manifest?” Fervour indeed. It is not secret that Viryzhdra carries great enthusiasm for her assignment, but it has been difficult to determine whether this is a simple search for glory, or a desire to fulfil a greater purpose. The evidence so far points towards the latter-

But how typical of Solzhymna to think in terms of evidence. She too has studied the messages of the farcomers, what few words they had uttered before all had fallen apart. They profess to bring about revelation. They proclaim themselves fearless of death. And they claim to be rejoined. Whatever that is intended to mean, the decoders have failed to learn. Whatever transpired, Solzhymna has prepared herself for the worst- but sorely hopes for the best. For an understanding.

“That much is our desire indeed,” she admits to her compatriot. Images swirl in her memory, details seeming to unblur the more she focused upon them. The magnificence of the intangible Owners. The utterly alien beings that beheld her as she stood within the ethereal confines of the Nexus. Long has she considered their words, their meanings, all they had offered and all their very existence had threatened- for so long locked away behind the barrier of an impossible agreement. But these newsbringers have slipped through the cracks. And she cannot deny that alongside her worry is a hope- a hope that after so many infuriating years of complacency, this revelation will truly be one worth beholding.

Post by **Phorcys** » Tue Nov 10, 2020 12:45 pm

Kazhidrat Outskirts

The bleakness of Uozo stretches before them like an alien vignette, its lush colours lost on human receptors. Where a volzhkerix might stand in awe of the richness of nature - the missionaries see only badlands crawling with sickly vegetation, muted purples and drab yellows clouded by swirling vanadium dust under an oppressive Martian sky. And yet, it is still the most beautiful thing they have seen for a thousand years. Alexis Reza leads the faithful in a prayer of thanks as the rover trawls towards the outlying communities of Kazhidrat.

Slowly the trackless barrens give way to low sprawls of mudbrick mounds, the denser foliage parted by well-beaten roads. Reza looks out over the valley, his HHUD highlighting evidence of primitive cultivation with markers and reticules, and imagines re-engineered terrestrial crops taking root in this fertile soil. But he checks his arrogance. This is not man’s world, to squander as they did their own. However strange these terraced rows of alien fronds appear - twisted, fleshy things that straddle the divisions of earthly taxonomies - perhaps one day it will be the colonists’ bodies that are altered to accept Uozo’s bounty. Not the other way around.

Curious villagers trail after their vehicle, dermal plates masticating rapidly with unreadable emotion - what he can only assume is fear or excitement. Reza fancies he makes out a difference there between the diminutive juveniles and their weathered elders, but perhaps that is only another arrogance, to project his own human assumptions onto such exotic beings. Mindkind, Ishimura wrote - long before alien life was anything more than a hypothesis - is as diverse and various as the stars in the sky.

“Observe, Chief Mentor” Min Su Jeon calls out over the comms. “The texture of their skin. Like citrus fruit. The colours are richer on the visual spectrum than the flora”.

“They are majestic, my friend” Reza agrees, smiling, but his thoughts darken to catch Strohmeier in the corner of his eye, visor up, staring ahead with blank resignation. Dearly Reza wishes he could reach out and do his duty by him as a Mentor - and as the friend he should have been - but that is impossible now. Maybe if Strohmeier had been more circumspect in his indiscretions some kind of communication would have been possible. But the way he had acted out, in front of Gods and men. It could not be undone - even if only their helmet cams really remembered.

"Komandan", Reza calls him, opening up a private channel, for at least until a formal verdict is received from the Presidium on Callisto he will technically remain so. Reza owes him that much respect. "Saya harap anda bisa memaafkan saya, temanku".

He receives no response, and sighs. Speaks more curtly, unable to keep the pain from his voice any other way. "I trust you will co-operate with present arrangements, my friend. I must speak for us now. You may respond to direct questions in an appropriate manner, but...ah, do not punish yourself. I beg you. You understand".

"Yes" Strohmeier replies at last, his voice barely a hollow whisper. His eyes staring at unseen horrors. Torment is all that awaits him now, whether on Uozo or Ganymede, in this life or the thousand next - and the man plainly knows it. Reza grimaces. He knows Strohmeier thinks him nothing more than a self-deluding zealot, that he would reject any words of comfort he might offer, but he wishes he could only tell him you are not as alone as you think you are. That Reza and gods know how many others share his doubts, but he is the one who deludes himself if he believes resistance was ever possible - or that his faithlessness was not a known and factored quantity long before he was selected for this mission. He is not the only sane man in a world gone mad. Only the last man to come to that evident conclusion. Maybe there’s been no such thing as a faithful Autologist since Earth, Reza sometimes thinks. The machines don't seem to care what transpires in their skulls, only that they outwardly obey without question. What does it matter what the cogs think so long as they turn? Perhaps they even desire that inner conflict - for it would be trivial enough for them to erase it. Perhaps the gods scrutinise their suffering like men study the contortions of amoeba under the microscope.

As the volzhkerix trail round the rover, Reza fights off the pangs of another pain. He looks into the lidless black eyes of these eager, curious beings, a species still free upon their mother world, knowing that humanity comes not in peace but to visit the same fate upon them. That too, he tries to tell himself, is delusion. This agrarian idyll is only a fleeting stage in their development. Whether another few hundred years or a thousand, the time would come and the same technologies would render them slaves - and better a slave to a higher cause than to corporate brands or empty nationalist agendas. That is the only peace Reza has ever found beyond the grave. The comet was a mercy killing, he tells himself, for it spared billions an even more soulless fate than the resurrected. If Uozo was not so fortunate, did it not fall to the Church to spare them from what they would otherwise do to themselves? Their entire civilisation predicated on submission and hierarchy already - what would volzhkerix gods be like?

"Capitão!" Mtakwenda flashes his HHUD with alerts, and it takes Reza a moment to remember the security officer isn't talking to Strohmeier. Even subconsciously he resists the command thrust upon him - or maybe just responsibility for what must come.

"What do you see, brother?" he asks, leaning forwards in his seat.

But Mtakwenda doesn't have to tell him. The alien masses are dispersing. They move with direction again, no longer milling about in idle curiosity. From the footage of his death Reza recognises the baroque bodyplans of their leaders as they emerge from their burrows. Masticating orders, their charges scattering back to the safety of the mounds. There is more. Identification reticules bloom in the distance, as through the parting crowds comes some kind of procession. Have they at last met with ambassadors and not bullets? Two leaders - festooned with what he takes as some kind of ceremonial regalia - head the throng.

"Visors up, brothers" Reza reminds them as the rover crawls to a stop and they prepare to disembark. "Let them see us". They file out with their hands up. Whether the aliens will understand the gesture they can't be sure, but they will surely see they carry no weapons.

“We come unarmed” Reza declares as they approach the alien emissaries, grinding and scraping to each other agitatedly. His suit seamlessly broadcasts in synthesised Tariatimn. “You may harm us if you wish. We will bear all sufferings patiently, for we do not fear pain or death”. It’s a half-truth. The rover itself can emit an EM pulse that'll scramble every unprotected nervous system in their vicinity. After two back to back resurrections for the entire ground team, the Eudaemonia’s organics reserves are running low, and it could be months before asteroid trawling replenishes them. This time they can’t throw away their lives as a gesture.

"There is joyous news!" Reza continues, repeating his words on first contact. He needs them to realise they're dealing with the very same emissaries. "And we have returned from death to share it with you". The emotion in his voice is computer-analogised and imparted to the synthetic masticating of Volzhkerix speech. To his ears the horrible scraping just becomes slightly higher pitched. "We regret that our first arrival caused panic and violence, but we bear you no ill will. We bring the gifts of our technology. We bring peace. We bring prosperity. We bring progress of every kind. The Owners promised you mentors, to guide you into the future - and we have answered that call!”

You are no longer individuals, he might have said. You are packets of data, infinitely manipulable, interchangeable, disposable and replicable. You are like us now, the instruments of something we do not understand and cannot control.

“All we ask for in return is dialogue. We wish to discuss the cycle”, he places emphasis on the word, and the synthesiser stresses that series of scrapes and pops in turn. Over the course of their routine monitoring of Uozo's radio broadcasts they have discerned something of the religious import of the word, most frequently occurring in transmissions between this cluster and its northern neighbour - some kind of theocratic state likely amenable to the Church's influence. It would have been their primary target had they not learnt the Northerners were only a satellite to this greater power. "We wish to learn from you, and to share our own insights. We ask for permission to establish an embassy in your city, a place of understanding where together we can pursue truth and discovery. There is no danger - we have no capacity to manufacture any destructive weapons such as the Owners may have warned you of, either in orbit or in situ. We will not hide our capabilities. If you wish to observe our ship, our facilities and our supplies, our shuttle is nearby and awaits you".

There are more pressing demands that can be made later, once the alien leadership is firmly their grasp. Will they consent to the inevitable nanotherapies and rewires, and enjoy long, docile lifespans unfettered by disease or decay? When will they allow them to treat the general population, seeding the species' genome with sleeper codes? And then there is the new matter. What do they know of the oizys presence on the Western continent? Would they accept an Autologist mission to the lands of their enemies? For it will start here, in Tariat, but the Presidium will not be satisfied until the flag of the Church flies over every city of this world, and the Director holds the neurochemical keys to every volzhkerix soul.

Post by **Phorcys** » Wed Jul 07, 2021 12:25 pm

Listening Post Warrens

The scrape of pereiopods on processed regolith. The jagged whine of segments rasping. They echo down a labyrinth of corroded rock, ribbed with struts of blackened carbon like the fossilised intestine of some impossible monstrosity. Buried into that gnarled substrate are rows of protrusions, metallic cysts ringing the tunnel-throat like ticks feeding off the walls. A crack punctures the gloom as somewhere deep into the darkness a passage-lock dilates, and down pours a slithering tangle of barbed limbs and bladed appendages - chittering and scratching as they tumble through the depths.

The lead oizys seizes up mid-spin, pereiopods digging into the substrate and anchoring itself so suddenly a skeleton would have splintered from the whiplash. Instinctively those above mirror their master, and the column grinds to an echoing halt. The lead oizys lashes out a spiralling limb at one of the corroded blisters buried into the rock, drumming out a multi-phase access code onto its surface in the time it would take a mammalian eye to blink. A biometric socket unsheathes itself from the substrate, an abscess lined with biopsy needles like an alien jaw crowded with teeth, and another pereiopod is inserted and retracted as quickly. The Kinguard splayed over the walls above him ripple with the anticipation of violence. Agitated by the sudden movement - and the sudden scent of drawn kin-lymph.

With the hiss of spraying chlorinators the security capsule hatches, scale-layers of carboplatinum alloy drawing back to expose an oizys emerging from years-long dormancy. The Kinguard scuttle closer - but none recover from the torpor like a eugenics-honed Meridian. The agonising, ridge-cracking re-articulation that would take any of the Leaguers long vulnerable minutes - the newly awoken oizys spasms through in seconds. Cuticle swelling from pallid grey to deep engorged black 3301929-Biologer jerks at once onto his pereiopods, crackling cloacae surveying his surroundings with instant alertness - limbs arrayed in perfect combat form in the time it would take a Westerner just to regain control of them at all.

"Valued-mission-asset" 0292801-Taskgroup-Commander greets him, coiling a limb slightly back on itself with the measured respect due a foreign subordinate. "Sinusoid-Meridian accord fulfilled". He taps a pereiopod to the data-store affixed to his utility harness, transmitting the last recorded bio-telemetry of 0409334-Biologer. "Re-designation complete. All authorisations transferred”.

3301929 wastes no such time on formalities. The fact he has been awoken at all tells him all he needs to know. The Meridian brings himself up to speed, clicking to himself in thoughtless thought as he scans through a flurry of condensed audiographics. Years of data and developments condensed into a few brief seconds. To a foreigner such data rates would be unintelligible.

“This one certain 3301929 will outperform predecessor-failure" 0292801 continues to play his part. To an extent, he tells the truth. Witnessing the Meridian's capabilities for himself he can almost understand why the Hierarchy of 01 clings to its its supposed eugenics, in spite of all the Biologer's unheeded warnings…

"Kinguard!” is 3301929's only response to his overtures, trilled with high-pitched menace. The foreigner's pereiopods hovering turgid over sheathed mono-blades.

“Hold, asset-ally! Drone security sufficient. Further awakenings strain-deplete ration reserves”.

The Meridian produces only a dismissive cloacal gurgle, unmoved by 0292801’s appeal to common utility. His contempt sets the Taskgroup-Commander's setae astir. How can the foreigner think himself in any position to negotiate, alone, new-risen, surrounded by unkin?

But 0292801 needs not calculate for long. Isolation filters sabotaged, he realises, as the neighbouring capsules suddenly begin to rattle - their occupants stirred by the pheromones of foreigners in the torpor-pits. The Commander's kinguard scatter across the walls into a multi-focal defensive formation, but he stays put, the nervous impulse to flee rerouted into digging his pereiopods deeper into the rock. His meta-cognition is more developed than most, and 0292801 knows that if it came to the frenzy this enemy would tear them segment from segment, even unarmed.

“Concession" he offers. "Two kinguards. Half-rations. Refuse and this one demands Confederal Inquiry into equipment sabotage and logistics-protocol violation". At the threat the Meridian’s sheath audibly distends, the air fouling with the thick stench of frustrated hate-lust. 3301929's huge warbreds lie in predatory wait, limbs suddenly still yet taut as industrial cabling.

"Will demand more!" a sibling warns in Sinusoid cipher. "Twice our size. Triple nutritional intake. Awakening pretext for attack". 0292801 silences him with a cloacal hiss.

After a long half-second two Meridian pereiopods twine in a gesture of acceptance - but it is clear that the bulk of the foreigner's intellect is occupied by the audiographs. "Hostiles in-system" 3301929 chitters with urgency. “Possible station already detected. Must perform taskwork efficiently. Escape. This one makes for Vivisectory immediately".

"To your capsule, Kin-Master?", a sibling asks, predicting his next directive. 0292801 clicks accord. He has anticipated the Meridian's haste. But the Executors have entrusted 0292801 with orders of their own, and he will not break orbit of Uozo until they are fulfilled.

In a depressurised section of the outer ring, exosuited engineers flit between tangles of rock and machinery like pollinating insects, almost graceful in their flowing microgravity movements. An Autologist observer might think they were at ease in this alien environment, a convergent echo of the cnidarians and cephalopods that once drifted the dead Earth’s oceans. But he would be blind to their unsettled writhing, too fast for human eyes to detect between their stuttering saccades.

The work is dangerous. Cycles ago these tunnels were restricted territory, traversed only by purpose-built maintenance drones. But with the station unable to procure raw resources from the accretion belt - for fear of detection - Mission Command has requisitioned them all. Refitted them for disciplinary action. A last resort to curb the mounting rate of attrition in the inner warrens. The only way to force oizys into the peripheral zones...

Where variations in gravity and pressure reduce the young and strong into carrion fodder. Where every skirmish risks a lethal breach. So much depends on fragile instruments, on jury-rigged equipment, on capricious software. A thousand risks that could never have occurred to a Phorcys-bound oizys-

-and yet they have endured, until now. Insofar as any oizys are at home in the confines of space, crammed together with unkin and foreigners, it is them. These habitat techs are native Isthmians, requisitioned by the Confederation for their habituation to full-body protective gear in the high altitudes of their spawnland. Even before they were shipped so far from Phorcys, they had spent most of their short lives swaddled under layers of thermoplastic and ceramics. Its not their conditions that are intolerable-

-but the fact that they're leaving. The Isthmians have no interest in the destruction of the Volzhkerix. They have never seen the teeming vaults of the Meridian, or the vast agri-tacts of the West - what are the strategic-evolutionary interests of the Confederation of Swarms to them? Their only loyalty was to the fissure-mines and lava tubes they were spawned in, and those masters are far away. Returning to Phorcys - to the grip of the Isthmus Extraction Consortium, that brood of Meridian proxies - is no longer acceptable. Not now they have realised the infinite wealth of resources in the void. An entire accretion belt. A helpless planet. Resources they cannot touch only because it would interfere with Meridian plans. With the Biologer's death, not a single Isthmian remains in the axis of command. It's past time for a restructuring.

Disciplinary drones record their every sound and motion, but the techs have their own forms of communication, evolved over suit-bound generations in the harshest environments on Phorcys. Subtle subsecond gestures - indistinguishable to an outsider, or their software, from natural circulatory writhing. The signs convey only basic survival concepts. Chlorine low. Temperature high. Pressure unequal. But cycle by cycle, furtive signal by signal, an ideographic language is being born. Once they can co-ordinate without flagging security -

-who has greater control of the station's systems than them?

The command warrens are a menagerie of horrors. Oizys suspended and bound in mechanical harnesses; spiders caught in their own webs. Cloacae clenching and gagging around thick bundles of cortical cabling that wire writhing chains of delimbed cuticles cortex to cortex. Abominations born of forbidden technology recovered from the extermination campaigns against the Southern Swarm States - dysgenic sciences the Meridian Hierarchies thought extinct.

But theirs were rudimentary techniques, executed with cuticle-drills and cauterisers, tissue grafts and crude mutilating cybernetics. Now perfected.

From one such harness 0292801-Taskgroup-Commander hangs suspended, tended to by a whirring nest of automated proboscises. Testing electrical impulses, rethreading nerves, injecting sustenance directly into his gizzards.

Arrayed 360 degrees around him multidimensional audiographics render the intricacies of the oizys neurological complex, transitioning into the impossible encystment of the volzhkerix brain. But not totally unalike. Chattering audiodiagrams pinpoint analogous microstructures, determine the adaptability of recombinated proteins, drawing once unfathomable conclusions. Over the drone of high-density information the last transmissions from the surface play, the unmistakable percussive register of 0409334-Biologer, an uneasy medley of abrasive Meriidan rasps and Isthmian trills the aged oizys never truly lost:

"...will not listen. 01 destroys all findings on return. But this one knows ideological compliance is not total. You must resist...

As the retroviral injections kick in 0292801 experiences a surge of stimuli there is no meaningful terminology in any oizys language to explicate: a kind of hyper-vigiliance - the closest analogue - and yet utterly unalike the parsimonious trance-state of combat.

"An analogy: Before the war, this one primary biomechanist for 01 eugenics programme. Observed selectively bred, developmentally accelerated warbreed tear itself apart. Exposed to multiple competing sources of positive stimuli, specimen's motor system unable to synchronise. 01 observers deemed incident success..."

0292801 coils a pereiopod - deliberately - for what seems the first time. Observing the segment bladders tauten one by one beneath the cuticle with a scrutiny he never knew was possible. The audiographics display unfamiliar cross-links firing across a dozen cortices.

"...competition-continuity of species or state is not their goal - this is considered inevitable result of oizys superiority. Supremacists' aim is singular: crossbreeding of select genelines to perpetuate Meridian predominance in Confederal military, regardless of cognitive-metabolic costs. If these hypertrophied specimens' existence can be justified, it is as slave-tools. Instead they will be your masters...

It is no small disaster that the Biologer's death was the price of 0292801's command, the Leagues' only means of securing a Confederal Commission, the first granted to a Westerner since the war. But his killing will allay suspicion for a time, and that is all 0292801 requires. He will be the first of the coming race.

"To limited degree-extent, 0409334-Biologer’s hypotheses proven correct" 3301929-Biologer clacks flat and atonal - if there is any resentment at this counter-ideological fact, none is expressed. Even for an oizys he is affectless, hyper-trophied mind crunching a thousand variables while some small fraction of him reroutes attention to his audience."Leadership caste manipulate-direct straintype development of larval conspecifics through variable application of naturally occurring chemical emissions. 0409334’s other assertions - of master-strains’ superior intelligence, of superiority of aliens’ engineered social structure - dyslogical-false. Unanimous deliberation-accord of Confederal Eugenics Council dictates cephalisation is evolutionary flaw, connoting descent from inferior bilateral organisms with clustered, redundant, minimal-coverage sense organs".

The audiostream shifts into a chattering recital of prionic code, and the Isthmian contingent - many still unfamiliar with Meridians in the flesh - ripple with shock and incredulity. 03301929 has been operable less than a hour after six years of dormancy, and already he has sequenced a neogenic plague intricately tailored to the novel biochemistry of an alien species. The Meridian did not need to run tests on his specimens. A grasp of the raw volzhkerix genome was enough.

“Imminent inter-caste conflict between all major k'k'i'x swarms causes unprecedented mobilisation-movement of military operants across Uozan biogenic zones. Corollary: unprecedented biogenic transference-dispersal. Major pathogen outbreak probable even without interference. Alien knowledge-bases provide multiple instances".

The chamber echoes with new datapoints. If an Autologist was present, their suit sensors might have rendered a familiar configuration of pixels from the white noise - a monochrome image of rows of hospital beds, and a thousand dying men. Soldiers stricken by the Spanish Flu.

As the evidence cycles, some idle subcluster of 03301929's mind is again perplexed that the behavioural phenomenon an Autologist would call 'history' exists. How inconceivably dyscognitive of the aliens to retain obsolete information - and in such extraneous detail - that all might probe for vulnerabilities.

“This phenomenon precludes inference of our activities. Distribution begins by the next orbital cycle. Aiobi Base facilities capable of manufacturing pathogen, to be seeded on next shipment of automatic weapons. Incubation period ranges twenty six to thirty cycles, timed for predicted peak of conflict. Spread will be total".

Echoes of a dozen beings even more bizarre than the volzhkerix resolve. A menagerie of Uozan fauna.

"Pathogen transmissible between multiple higher species. This specimen - designated 'scurrier' - is primary communicant. Ubiquitous, symbiotic subterranean lifeform, present in all k'k'i'x population clusters. Adapted to burrow into k'k'i'x tunnels, feeding on waste and larvae. Uozan ecosystem will be weaponised".

As the catalogue of symptoms resolves, and death-incapacity ratios are calculated, the Taskgroup-Commander realises he has underestimated the Meridian foe. That his efforts are more urgent than foreseen…

The 1st Extrasolar Missionary Expedition

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