ｅｎｇｌｉｓｈ

Tanktanica


Part I

I

I rub my eyes and scratch the tips of my ears, staring at the blinking message light on my console that seems intent on blinding me. Who is contacting me at this hour? It dawns on me that there are a hundred inhabited planets in the sky, and no telling where on the net they are. They don't have to be on this vermin infested mudball. Jeeze, it’s too early for this. I open the message while surfing three screens at once. MadLoveHandle98 is showing off a rare Nicene fertility sculpture from Nicene XII. Rare my big, booted foot. I've seen three in person and held one. This is a forgery.
My friend, Electric, is in the chat log, admonishing the bragard for his poor attempts at fabrication. I'm just about to jump in the chat as Tank_Gurrl and rip him a new one when my eyes glance back over at my message box. That's new. I stare, not believing what I am seeing. It's an image of a painting “Voyeur in Steel”, and an exceptional fake at that. Clean lines and edges, but the colors are utterly mesmerizing. Iridescent greens and oranges that shift into the UV spectrum. It takes me more than a few minutes to recognize the artist. It's a Les Obus. This is no fake. Even as a still image it is captivating; in person it would dominate any room. Whoever this messenger is, they have an honest to goodness Les Obus.
I quickly check the rest of the message. There's nothing else, just the image and an address. Diolex. I pull up a map, check the time and access my credit account, the internet troll already forgotten. Diolex was a small hub port eight systems away. Silently I curse.
Any lone female on her own has a hard time of it, Elf or not. Normally my ex partner Fury would take care of me, finding us jobs, but I have been scraping by on my own after we… parted ways. My jaw is still broken in two places from that ‘discussion’. I’ve had nothing to eat and need to be at work in four hours. I have nothing to sell. I am indebted to my employer for the foreseeable future. I have no chance of scraping together enough credits to get off this mudball. I would still need to jump three shuttles across eight backwater systems, just to reach the hubworld.
And once I arrived a week late, then what? Did I really think this mysterious stranger would just wait around? How many other art collectors have they told? Not to mention the scoundrels and cutthroats that would undoubtedly get word of this. I personally know a slimy little Vykine who had killed three men for a Sanatran broach ten times less valuable than this. A hundred times less valuable. A Les Orbus has almost no measurable value. No, there's not a chance in the universe I'll ever be able to get there in time.
The conversation in the chat room has slowed, and Elee asks me if I’m okay. Exactly what I need to not hear right now. She’s too kind for her own good; too much of a human. I sign off, throwing my tablet against the wall with a curse. I hate my life. I hate myself. I stare in the mirror, making out my appearance in my darkened hovel, outline cast by the harsh light of the monitors. I see a broken girl, her scars adding nothing to her homeliness. I see a quiet elf who likes books and history over punching and killing. I see someone with a rage problem, with no future, who would probably take too strong to drink if she could afford it. Someone who people use but never see. Someone who will never amount to anything.
In short, a loser.
I smack my face a few times, being careful of my tender jaw. I have to put that message out of my mind. It is clearly someone mocking me, showing me what I can’t have and will never achieve. I raise off the packed dirt floor, turn off my computers and walk out the door. My first shift at work is still some time off, and daybreak even further than that, but I don’t care. Its not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.

---

I work as a bodyguard for a local crime baron. His mansion is extensive, and even with guard dogs and snipers on sight, he feels better with a dedicated tank on patrol. Show of force and all that. Personally I think he just likes the feeling of control. We’re so far off the beaten path that I doubt anyone actually knows what a Battle Elf is. Yet I’ve found there’s a certain satisfaction that comes from ordering killer death machines around. It also tends to shorten one's life expectancy. I hope he realizes that.
I clock in and nod to the other guards on my way to the perimeter fence. They’re very young, like me; like everything else on this very old planet. Most don’t survive long enough to become old on a backwater world like this. I’m the oldest thing here by several hundred years, but counting for local conversion, I’m still only in my early twenties.
I stoop through the doorway, but not low enough, making sure to give my head a crack on the doorframe with a muttered curse. I’m taller than most elfs and I practically tower over humans. Species from all over seem to call this forgotten place home, but I am the only knife ear I have seen.
It's still a few hours till dawn yet. The world is quiet. Even with the floodlights around the perimeter, there is solace to be found. I stall my patrol vehicle on the backside of the estate, pulling into a grove of fruit trees and killing the engine. I can't get my mind off that painting.
The more I think about it, the weirder it gets. Someone wanted me, specifically, to know what they had. The image sent matched no known photo on the net, and no one would have found my contacts accidentally. This wasn't some drag net scammer. This was intentional.
I like mysteries. I like crime novels and whodunnit stories. I like the hidden things of the world, the little moments that make history come alive. But I don't like it when they are a potential threat to my life. I don't like being ordered to charge a ridge, I don't like darkened alleys with shady clients, and I don't like strangers sending me cryptic messages.
I am contemplating these things when I hear the distinctive click of a radio off to my right. It is a quiet night, still and placid. Nothing seems amiss. I turn my ears and do a passive sweep.
In the grove of trees, lying prone on the ground, are two humanoid individuals. They are staring at me with wide eyed trepidations, trying very hard to be very still. Dressed in the local military uniforms as they are, I conclude they are a forward unit, given they have enough surveillance equipment to spy on even the most elusive if targets. A drug lord, for instance.
I roll my 50cal their direction and watch both their faces go pale. They've been here a while, there's no telling how long they've gone unnoticed. I don't usually patrol the back part of the property.
I hear the double click from their radio and stop. They just gave the go signal for whoever is listening in on the other end. Then I begin to hear it, the steady whump whump of mechanical blades chopping the air. I never would have detected them this far out if my oversized ears hadn't been cranked to the max.
Flicking them a salute and a sly grin, I turn and drive back to the main house. The missiles are already streaking overhead. The alarms sound as the choppers appear on the horizon, opening fire. The missiles strike the house and everything explodes into flame. Just like that I’m back on a battlefield.
The hired mercenaries have all scattered and run, their contracts worthless in the face of the local government or rival kingpin. On this planet, they were essentially one in the same. The ones with more loyalty than sense stay and pay the ultimate price quickly enough. The choppers roar past me, peppering the ground around me with rounds. I have to shield my face from the ammunition ricochet and the heat of the flames. Fortunately they did not come prepared to deal with me. I scream in rage as they circle around again, but I don’t have time to mess with them.
Back at the house I don’t bother with a door. I just make my own. Inside is pure bedlam. Bodies lie scattered about, flames consuming all. The gold-plated staircase is puddling. The faux-painted ceilings are curdling. I smell Napalm, or some local variant. It’s getting too hot in here, even for me. I can't breathe, I can barely see, flipping through the spectrums.
I test what is left of the stairs, praying they will hold. They do, but just barely. Things are better on the second floor. More still on the third. People are running and screaming. They're wounded and scared, but alive. That will soon change once a second salvo arrives.
I know where I am now. I have a mission. Two doors to the right is the boss’s quarters. They take the whole southern wing. Liquid fire is oozing from the ceiling as I enter. He's not here, but I expected that. There's a panic room in the closet. I tear the doors off like they're made of candy. The boss is inside, clinging to two barely-clad women, all three are screaming.
“Oh, good. It's just you, Tanktannica. You've come to get me out?”
“You have the passcodes to the treasure vault?” I coldly survey the situation.
“I have my assets in off world accounts. We'll be fine.”
“We're going to need traveling money.”
“That… is not the worst idea.” The aging drug lord contemplates. “You know, for an elf you're actually pretty smart.”
I'm stooped low in the room already and my head is getting hot, so I decided to ignore the jab. “Let's go.”
I escort the three frightened humans across the mansion to the northern wing. Snivvling and pitiful creatures, they cower at every gunshot and missile impact. These are no warriors.
We find the outer limits if the northern wing already looked. Opportunistic vultures. Further in though is another story. Several small lock boxes are set into the walls, lining the hall leading to the main vault. It is one of these smaller ones the boss opens, pausing just long enough to hide the code from us.
“Alright. Let's get out of here.” He holds up a small bag of gold coins. There's barely enough there to buy me a meal.
“We need more than that. Open the big one.” I actually need him for this one. I can't get into the vault without the passcodes, and I can't blast my way through the door. It would take a ship’s cannon to blow your way in.
“What are you talking about? This is fine. Let's go.” He insists.
“I said, open it. I am not asking.” I raise my plasma rifle.
“What are you going to do?” He scoffs. “Shoot me?”
“No. Not you.”
An interesting fact about humans is they are comprised mostly of water. I don't know if why, maybe God's idea of some perverse joke. But this means if you can rapidly heat one to the congruous temperature, the water in their cells to turn gaseous, expanding rapidly till they literally burst.
The boss, now wearing the visceral gore of what is left of his girlfriend simply stares in disbelief. His other girlfriend begins screaming. The noise is grating to me, so I shoot her too.
“Open the vault, please. I'm not going to ask again.” I turn my cannon on him now.
“No, no, please don't.” He begins sobbing, now wearing little bits of both women. I make a circle gesture and he complies, keying the vault open. I step past the blubbering man, eager to be done with this.
Inside is more gold than I thought this planet capable of producing. Coins of silver, titanium, precious stones, they all litter the floor, heaped into piles. There's a full suit of ceremonial armor, obviously stolen. There's some expensive stuff in here, but by knowledge is limited to paintings and sculptures. The truly choice pieces are in the art. I grab a few items, two paintings, a statue, and pack one bag with gold jewelry, just for good measure.
When I turn back the boss has sealed the door behind me. Stupidly, the hinges are on this side. I’m almost tempted to sit here and wait out the invasion, but no, the looters will be here soon enough.
I don’t even need to blow anything up to escape. I simply remove the pins from the hinges and lift. Seconds later and I am outside, standing over the boss and his prone form, holding the door above my head. Truthfully it is a bit heavy even for myself, but it sure makes a stunning image.
“That was a dumb move.” I strain.
“What… what are you going to do to me?”
There comes a rumble and I can tell the floor above ours has just collapsed. I am out of time.
“To you? Nothing. You can stay here and rot for all I care.” With a heve I hurl the discus, knocking a hole in the outer wall. Outside is even more bedlam than I left it half an hour ago. “I have to go see a man about a painting.”
I leave the local drug kingpin laying there and never look back. The military seems mostly to ignore me as a sprint across the yard. I give them no reason to attack me and plenty of reasons not to follow. Within fifteen minutes I am halfway to the spaceport. I need to hock these pieces and buy my way onto a ship. This planet is so backwards they still use solid fuel booster rockets. It will take at least a week before I can get to the hubworld. But I'm going for it. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alive.
“Hang on, baby. Mamma's coming.” I whisper to my mythical Les Orbus painting. Now all I have to do is get there.


II

The bar is dimly lit, but not in the way I am used to. This is ambiance, not a broken light in disrepair. The seats are upholstered in red velvet, and a band plays gently in the background. Fury made deals and arranged meetings from Earth to Yuorst, but this is by far the fanciest place I've been.
Now that I'm back in Dominion space, there are a lot more humans. Not quite elf territory, but we're getting close. I need to be careful.
The maitre’d, a tall Lithone, leads me to a booth and then leaves once I seat myself. He didn't even take my order. I haven't eaten in over a week. Do I really look that bad off? I know I’m not pretty, but you would think he would have the common courtesy of bringing a glass of water. So here I sit, unsure of what I’m even doing here. Now the waiting begins.
Why did I come? I don't belong here. I belong on the ground, with dirt between my toes and pottery shards in my knuckles. I love history and books, and if pressed, my size makes me a halfway passable bodyguard. I am way out of my league here, and everyone around me knows it.
I take a slow and easy glance around the club. Not your average watering hole, as evident by the number of patrons this time of day. Normal dive bars and sleaze halls have people day drinking at all hours, but don't really get jumping till it's dark and out the riffraff emerge. The club, though, has a fair number of beings in it. I suppose that's part of being a hub world; beings always coming and leaving.
Some human in a skimpy blue cocktail dress is crooning to a rendition of DeSoto's Octo in D Minor, a few captivated males closer to the stage drooling away. I finish my survey. There are two heavies near the back, but they are clearly hired muscle for someone. Not anyone about to start a fight, I hope. I could take them, but I would make a mess of the club.
I continue to wait. And wait. My stomach. I'm hungry. And itchy. And anxious. None of this feels right, none of it makes sense. I have no plan. I'm used to that, but I have no backup, and that is something I don't like. So I get to see the Les Obus. Let's even say I can purchase it on the pittance I brought with me.
Then what? I have no way off world. Even if I did, I have no place to go. I had to sell my apartment just to get here. I could always steal it, I suppose. I've spent most of my life tomb raiding and killing, when I haven't been battling humans and killing. There is surprising overlap in my skill set.
The door opens, and I know instantly this is the man I've been sent to meet. Tall, silver haired, the gossamer wings if a fairy, he walks with the gait of a commander and the grace of a dacer, flowing red cape billowing behind. He's got some gray around his temples but he carries himself with such an air of confidence and superiority that I really doubt his age has ever crossed his mind. He wears the sword on his hip as an extension of himself. I have no doubt he could cut me to pieces before I could even get a shot off. A brilliant Battle Elf brand is emblazoned on his lapel, as much a weapon as the sword at his hip. He wields it with honor; I hide mine in shame. In short, he is everything I am not.
He walks straight to my table. No subterfuge, no veiled threats. He offers a curt, polite bow.
“Madam.” He smiles. A deep, rich smile designed to entice and put one at ease. A smile that never reaches his eyes. He's been practicing.
“'lo,” is all I can offer in reply. I am shy, terribly shy. I've had trouble dealing with these types. Fury used to handle all the negotiations. For decades all I had to do was sit back, keep my eyes and ears open, and look pretty. As pretty as I could look. It wasn't a bad life. I never went hungry, there was always a rotating cast of colorful characters, and I got to lay my mitts on all the antiquities and books I wanted. I only had to put up with the abuse.
Well, Fury left me in a crumpled, crying mess with my teeth in my hands one too many times. So I left a dirk in his skull. As a result, now I have to do the negotiations. But that doesn't help the shyness problem.
“Garcon!” The elf sits down across from me. I am not even a blip on his radar as the maitre’d returns. “A bottle of your finest nuevo ambrosia. And,” he eyes me for a moment. “Two plates of linguini in clam sauce. I will have mine with a red wine base.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now then.” He turns his full attention on me. “Let's get a good look at you.”
I don't like being stared at, so I stare right back. This seems to amuse him as he removes his gloves. Angorian leather. Tiny creatures no more than a finger's breadth across at their largest. He must have wiped out an entire population procuring enough hides to tailor those gloves.
The starring gets old fast, but I know enough to recognize this to be a test. So I look closer, focus on the details. He's not as polished as he lets on. The edges of his cape are tattered and frayed, while the gloves went out of style almost before I was born. He hasn't had a new wardrobe. Most of the shine is little more than wax. He is covered in more scars than high class elves usually are. One of his eyes is mismatched with the other, the healed with poor quality elven magic
He has seen better days. And suddenly I realize: I can take him. I'm bigger and stronger and younger than he is. And just as quickly as that realization dawns on me, the second follows: if he knows that I know, he'd kill me. I need to let him have the upper hand. I urge the panic back down as our meals arrive.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” My host asks. I nod, my mouth full of pasta. The ambrosia is putting me more at ease than I care for, but I don't mind. It's been a long time since I've eaten anything this decadent. “Excellent. I know the chef personally. A little one-armed midget. We were, how you might say, acquainted in the past. Sadly, he never grew that arm back.” He has hardly touched his plate. though his drink has been refilled thrice now.
“So,” I wipe away the sauce from my mouth without the least attention to etiquette. “You sent the message? You have a Les Obus?”
“Straight to business, I see. Don't you wish to know my name?” He smiled.
“No. The painting?”
He sighs, pulling a parcel from a pocket in his cape. “You young elves have no sense of presentation.”
I lay my hands on the brown paper, not wanting to believe it was real. With shakey breath and steady hand, I unwrap the priceless masterpiece.
Words fail.
He laughs at my gobsmacked state. “I assume you will need to authenticate it, of cour--”
“It's real.”
That brings him up short. “Are you sure?” I watch his eyes narrow. He leans in slightly. Another test.
“I have never been more sure of anything. Voyeur in Steel is a masterpiece, in the truest sense if the word. Observe the delicate brush strokes. Shift your your eyes through the spectrum. See how the colors dance? First in UV, then in gamma. You can only see the starfield in x-ray. It is a skill no human cannmatch. There has never been a painter like Les Obus before.”
“Nor will there be again.” He seems pleased, going back to his amber wine.
I spend a few more precious moments with the painting, ever so gently caressing it with my oversized fingers. I am a true voyeur in steel. I sigh, rewrap the painting with care, and regretfully pass it back. He seems to have forgotten about it by now.
“Mmm, no. That's yours.” He downs his glass.
“What?”
“That is yours. My gift to you.”
“I.. are… I don't know what to say. Are you sure?”
He nods curtly, as if deciding on his soup choice. “Keep it. I have more.”
“You have-- you have more?!”
“But of course. It is only a small part of my collection, and I could think of no better way to draw you out. Consider it a reward for following the, oh, what do the humans call it? The bread crumb trail.”
I stare at him, utterly speechless. “Who are you?”
“Is that really so hard to figure out? My dear child, where have you been? I am Lord Blade, first of his name, heir to house Enix, Lord of Stranglehold, Commander of the Slaughterhouse Battalion, and rightful claimant of the Battle Elf throne.”
“You… you're… You're royalty?”
“And all the lands, titles and holdings that that entails.” He seems quite pleased with himself.
“You're Blade. I read all about you. You were first in the breach of Cadmius V. You held Kaon against orbital bombardment for months until relief arrived. You faced the Mad Titan of the Rust Sea with nothing but a single sword.”
“Yes, I know. I was there.” He smiles, the memories bringing a bitter scowl to his face.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, that is very simple. I'm searching for you… Tanktanica.”
I hate that name. I've always hated that name. I didn't ask for it; it was thrust upon me along with my first fight, just as my freedom and family had been stripped away. Everyone always remembers the glories of the Terra battles and of the core worlds. No one remembers where PX409M-7 was, let alone cared. A world so backwater the most advanced species in the galaxy hadn't even bothered to name the planet. But I remember.
I will never forget the fields of fire, running scared for my life as my squad faced off against three divisions of howling human strike fighters. I still hear the screams in my ears. I will forever feel the burning sensation as my cannon overheated, but I kept on firing, my boots crushing the skeletons of my fallen brothers, and the melted husks of my enemies. I earned my name on some backwater world that night, fighting a war that didn't need to be fought. I earned that name, but I didn't have to like it.
“Don't call me that.” I look away.
“Why not? It is your name, isn't it?” Blade askes with just the faintest accent. British? It was too upper class to be American. He sounds a bit like the old human actor Hugo Weaving.
“Because I don't like it!” I snap. I know I'm riding a line here. I can't lose this painting to my stupid motor mouth.
“Very well. What shall I call you then?”
“... Tanktanica.” I whisper in defeat, thinking of nothing better. Your name is your name, for better or worse. The worst part is, I don't even remember my real name any more.
“Very well.” He smiles, bemused. “I suppose at this point you must be wondering why I lured you here.”
“The thought barely crossed my mind.” I lie. In reality, it was all I've thought of for the past week. He can apparently see through that as well. We're off to a wonderful start.
“I have been searching sorry someone. Someone very specific, with a unique set of skills. I believe you to be that someone.” He gestures his fork towards me.
I sigh, already resigned to my fate as a bruiser. “Who do you need killed?”
His laugh catches me completely off guard. It is an open and hearty laugh, filled with genuine joy; an emotion I, myself, have not experienced in quite a while. Even our waiter seems surprised.
“'Who do I need killed?’ Oh, my dear child, that is amusing. Forgive me, I have not laughed like that in quite some time. 'Who do I need killed’ indeed. If I desired the death of some poor wretch, they would already have passed from this world. Listen here, miss 'Tanktanika.” I am quite skilled and knowledgeable about a good many things. That is my job. But killing? That is my passion!
“No, what I need from you is far more special. From you I ask for something no one has ever asked for before. I need your mind. I need your skill. I know you sit up at night painting, studying, wondering why you are alone. you question if your interests are wrong, yet obsessed over ancient tomes and pottery shards all the same. You may name the twelve textile types from the pre-industrial Sarvanas, but you can't be a soldier to save your life.
“That is what I need from you. Should I require it, I could summon an army to my side, each willing to kill and die for me. But from you and you alone, I require something far more precious. I need your passion.”
His eyes draw me in. His wit and intellect captivate my attention, yes, and his voice is as smooth as polished chrome. But his eyes testify to the truth in his words. I hate killing. I just never could acquire the taste for wanton destruct. But Blade truly loves it. He isn't some thug, or soldier, or even a serial killer. No, he is an artist, mastering in the true beauty of death. And he needs me, and me alone.
In that moment, I am transported back in time. I feel a stirring in my breast I have not heard since I was a young girl, listening to Invictus’ impassioned oration in the slave mines of Kallis.
Then, as now, I feel my fate seal around me. I would follow this elf to the edges of the galaxy and beyond.
“So,” he smiles. “What say you?”
But of course, he knows my answer already. He knew it as soon as he walked in the door. Sooner even. Hell, he knew it before I ever hopped the shuttle, before I even received his message. He has been watching me for months. He has played me from the very beginning. And yet, I give him my answer all the same.
“When do we leave?”

---

III

“And this would be the Grand Hall. It is clearly much less grand since the, what we are calling, 'incident.’”
I look around, the polished stone rough and cracked. The roof is entirely missing, and there are signs of fire and blaster marks everywhere. It would have made a fine place for a desperate last stand from invading hordes. If there had been invading hordes, that is, and the humans hadn't simply bombarded the planet from orbit.
In fact, that is a trend I am noticing more and more as this tour continues. Stranglehold, I don't know if that is the name of the actual planetoid or simply this castle, suffered heavily under human orbital bombardment. There is nothing left here to speak of; nothing grows, there is no atmosphere, and my RAD sensors are climbing higher than I am normally content with. The only thing still standing on this ruinous heap of a satellite is Blade’s castle.
And what a castle it is. I have no idea who built it or how his family lineage acquired it, but at one time it would have been a beauty to behold. Carved into a small mountain and constructed of something closely resembling basalt or onyx, it comprised architectural elements from no less than seven different cultures. Three of whom were extinct long before the newest and highest parts of this structure were completed. Whoever built it had taken eons to do so.
Still, even in its current state, it managed to impress. The black polished stone on the floor had been inlaid with gold. The Jasper sounces stood cold and empty, mocked by ever-present universal track lighting. In fact, that was what I have been the least impressed by this far. Everything Blade has done to his home has been for practical purposes, not aesthetic. The alloy mesh crisscrossing the walls, the catwalks installed in the ceiling, even the lighting. They all stand out like scabs on an already wounded animal. And Blade paid it no heed. It was a strange dichotomy for someone who prided himself so much on appearance.
“And here we have the library.” He said, taking a sharp left through two ancient wooden reliefed doors that have survived remarkably well.
“You've read all these?” I fingered a few of the pages presented to me. While the room is not massive, it does contain enough floor to ceiling book cases to keep me suitably impressed. But I don't want him to know that.
“Well, not all of them.” He smiles at me before glancing around. “Some of them are in greek.”
We stand in silence for a few moments while I take in the sights. I don't mind silence; being alone never bothered me. Blade, however, is growing more agitated as our tour progresses. I don't know if he is irritated because I'm not impressed enough, or if something else is bothering him. All I knew was that I didn't want to be trapped in a small room like this with him if I could help it. I start backing slowly to the door before he turns and strides out first, his cape smacking me in the face.
The next two hallways are so dark I need to turn my headlamps on to see. The state of disrepair makes me regret that decision. It is a low slung, darkened passage. I can hear water dripping from somewhere, and I see something scurry out of the light. We are obviously in what used to be the hall of portraits. I pass generation after generation of great men, descending through the eons. The older ones are rotting in their frames. The newer ones have been deftly slashed with a knife. I can't tell who these regal rulers once were, only that they are all gone, and none are elves.
The last hall is capped by another set of double doors. They are smaller than the previous pair, but these have clearly seen recent use. The scuff marks on the floor indicate the hinges were broken but have since been repaired. Blade pauses for a sense of dramatas.
“And now, madam, the crown jewel of our tour.”
The room is much more in line with what I have been expecting this whole time. Clean, well lit, without any sign of disrepair. The stone work is closer to sand or alabaster, light and airy. The lanterns glow red. And strewn all around the room, from every culture imaginable, lay a collection of priceless artifacts.
Front and center, however, sprawled across a 8th century settee, sprawled a short farie. Naked from the waist up, in what was clearly a failed attempt at seduction, she wore Virantian glimmer shawls draped across her lithe form. While some part of me wanted to question her presence, I was more struck by the fact that her style was at least three centuries out of fashion, and she wasn't even wearing the shawls correctly. Virantian shawls went on the arms, and were worn by the male of the species. The short blade in her leg holster meant that I was in no hurry to correct her though.
“Well. Looks like you’re back, finally.” She stretches like a cat. Her voice is less melodic than it is steel on slate. But she is sincere. That had to count for something. “Oh. You brought your thing.”
“My dear, what are you doing here?” Blade takes a step forward. I find a sudden interest to the tapestry on the wall and look away
“Waiting for you, master. I prepared for your return. I had thought that perhaps you might--”
“I told you never to enter without my permission.”
“Oh course. I know. But I had thought, given the circumstances--”
“Out.”
There it was. I knew there was something off about this whole setup. The lone elf stick doesn't jive with the Lord of the castle persona. I had been expecting servants, slaves, but apparently that means a love interest. I have never felt the desire to debase myself in such a human manner, but apparently these two did. Or at least her; Blade doesn't seem to be into it.
The faire flutters her wings in frustration before glowering at me as she storms towards the doors. They seem to itch, as she doesn't seem used to them. Strange. Blade raises his hand, remembering me almost as an afterthought.
“Oh, before you go. Let me introduce the two of you. Tanktanica, meet my right hand, Mischief. You two will be sisters in arms from now on.”
I am pushing three meters on a bad day. I tower over all humans and most elves. Other girls barely come up to my chest. I'm used to it. But this one sizes me up like I'm nothing. I, in turn, stare her down. It is unlikely I will see her again with quite so much exposed and so little clothing, so I try and pick out the weak points. What I thought to be a single knife holstered turns out to be five, followed closely by a sixth. Then I spot a seventh, at the small of her back. I feel my fingers twitch. She would have more to worry about catching a cold in her state of undress than anyone doing her harm, armor or no. What becomes very clear to me very quickly is she is everything Blade is not. He has style while she wears her apathy like a shield. He is graceful, while she carries the stance of a bar fighter. He is calculating. She is just psychotic.
Still. I try and make the best of it. No sense in offending her if I'm going to be working with her.
“Hi, I'm Tanktanica.” I offer my hand.
“My, my. She's a big one, isn't she?” Mischief stares at my hand and smiles with all the malice of a cat meeting a mouse for the first time. Except I'm the mouse. “I'm sure we'll have lots of fun together.”
I'm lucky she doesn't take it off at the wrist. As it is, she turns on her high heels and marches from the room.
“Don’t believe anything he says. He lies.” She is in the second hallway before the door even shuts.
“She seems nice.” I offer to no one in particular. Blade ignores me, engrossed in a geological scan.
I begin walking the treasure room, as I have decided to call it. A little known fact about archeology; most of the studies revolve around pottery, as that is the most effective method of dating the primitives work. But I don't like pottery, I like art. I love studying it and restoring it. I'm a fair hand with a brush myself, though I am not a master painter.
There's enough art here to keep a nerd like myself entertained for months. Sculptures, paintings, a few bronze statues, Blade seems to have collected it all. A thousand different cultures from a hundred different worlds, all just piled up and collecting dust, waiting for me. No time like the present, I suppose.
I begin shifting things into piles, cleaning as I go. Many of the artifacts are in fair to midland condition, though there are a few gems here and there. I pick up a Vykine hunting mask.
“That's a Vykine terror mask from Ururos IV.” Blade says from behind me without looking up. “I was on patrol with my platoon when a group of them got the drop on us. He was the tribal chieftain, and fought with more courage than most. I rewarded him with a clean death and remembering his peoples.”
“What happened to his people?”
“I wiped them all out. But I remember them every time I look at the mask. Come look at this.” Blade gestures.
“What are we looking at?” I ask, trying my best to saunter like Mischief had. I fail spectacularly. Fortunately Blade doesn't even look up.
“You tell me.”
“Aerial photos. Class M planet. Looks like it hasn't been mechaformed yet, so my guess is it is closer to the outer rim of the arm than the inside. Plantlife, so we know it can sustain life.”
“Yes, yes. I could have a drone tell me that. Look closer.”
I glance his way. He is watching me, not the map. This is another test. He wants me to find something, yet I don't know what. Alright, I'll play his game. I turn back to the map and shift my eyesight through the spectrum. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. X-ray comes out black, gamma is gold and green. On a whim I filter through infrared. I can just make out outlines, indicating buried stones. I switch back to white light and lean in closer.
“There,” I point. “That looks to be a structure of some kind.”
Blade smiles at me, and this time I actually believe him. “Good. This is PX-4329. It consisted of a race of avians that built an empire when our ancestors were climbing out of the primordial muck, and you and I were but glints in the allspark.”
Given the state of the ruins, or lack thereof, I believe him. “So what does that have to do with us?”
“Patience.” He holds up a hand. “I have come to believe that there is an artifact buried with the remains of their temple. I want you to get it for me. The planet is abandoned, so there shouldn't be any trouble at all. Still, I want to make this as painless as possible. You, Mischief and I will perform a high altitude jump, retrieve the artifact and then return to base. How does that sound to you?”
“No issue here.” I lie. I am not a fan of heights. Or falling. Or crashing. Generally anything involving the air and my death, I am opposed to quite strongly. I'm an elf, not a faire; I can't fly like they can. But there's no need for him to know that. “You still haven't told me what we're searching for exactly.”
“I shall leave that discovery to you.” He walks me to the door. “There is a tome in the library. I have also prepared a list of files for you. They are in the database. Sparrow may grant you access.”
“Sparrow?” I ask as he opens the door for me.
There before me in the hallways stands one of the more peculiar beings I have seen all day. She is short, especially for a elf, barely coming up past my thigh. Lithe and small, I am almost tempted to call her girlish. The computer gauntlet on her right arm appears out of place. She blends in well, the steel blue and scuffed sea green if her clothes allowing her to sink away into the shadows, if it hadn't been for all those hot pink accents. She stares up at me behind and the cruelest green eyes I have ever seen.
“Tanktanica, this is Sparrow, our communications and tech expert. Sparrow? Sparrow!” He calls to her. The little female never turns her gaze from me. She must have given some kind of non verbal signal though, because Blade continues his instructions. Whatever gesture she made managed to escape me. “Sparrow, would you be good enough to see miss Tanktanika to her quarters please? Thank you. And now, my dear, this is where I leave you for the night.”
“Thank you so much. For everything. Really.” I find myself suddenly overcome with a week's worth of emotions. I begin to choke up. “I don't know what I would have do everything if you hadn't come along. I'm so grateful. I mean it.”
“Oh no, my dear, it is I who should be thanking you. For it is as I told you.” He smiles a practiced grin as he shuts the door between us, his eyes foreboding. “I expect only your best.”
I exhale a breath I didn't even know I had been holding. Blade projects such a powerful personality, it is almost difficult to be around him. I am beginning to see why Mischief is obsessed with him. I turn to say as much to Sparrow, but she's already gone, walking down the hallway. I jog after my escort.
“So, we're going to be working together then I guess?” I offer. She doesn't even look up. “Where are you from? Have you been working for Blade long?” Still no response. “Has Mischief?”
She still says nothing, but the twinkle in her eye as she glances up at me says it all. Even I, who prefer books and paintings to people, am able to tell there is more between those two girls than first appearances may suggest.
My guess would be amused hostility. Elf females experience so called “bitchiness” in a much higher percentage than their male counterparts of the population. Behavioral scientists are still trying to figure out why we are wired like that. But it has the potential to cause some serious problems; hence why most teams voluntarily limited themselves to a single female. I could only trust Blade knew what he was doing with three of us here.
We arrive at what I assume are my quarters, because they certainly aren't the library. Sparrow palms the door code for me, spins on her heels and walks off. Not as graceful or powerful as her comrades, but she is still an inspiration to see move. I truly am the odd man out with my massive, clunky body.
“Thank you!” I call after her. I don't expect a reply and I don't get one.
To call my room spartan does a disservice to the art of spaciousness. There is a leak in between two of the massive black stone blocks, with the water dripping down onto the floor. Fortunately a rubbish pile seems to be soaking most of it up. I duck entering, and the ceiling is only slightly taller than the doorway. I can stretch out my arms in any direction and touch two walls. There is a small bed on the north wall, designed for an organic a third my size, along with an accompanying writing desk. This place isn't even wired for power. I will barely get any sleep tonight.
Slowly, and with great reverence, I hang Voyeur in Steel on the wall. The colors wash over me, cleansing me like a rosary, purifying my soul. The only spot of color in my drab life, it is the center of my world, gifted to me by my benevolent patron. Sitting down on the creaky, but clearly well constructed, bed, I bring my knees to my chin and contemplate everything that has brought me to this point this far. I went from nothing, to nothing. I am still me, and nothing will fix that. I am in yet another hellhole, on yet another burnt out world. And I start to cry. Because this time, in this place, with my Les Obus shining down on me, something is different.
This time, I am no longer alone.

---

IV

“Sparrow!” Blade screams. The sound reverberates off the stone walls in the Grand Hall. I've only been here a month or so, but even I can hear the pain in his voice. And the panic. And the rage.
“Sparrow!” He bellows again. Only the fireplace crackles in response.
“Maybe she's out?” I struggle through the door. Mischief may be bleeding all over my back, but she's still surprisingly heavy.
“She's here.” Blade manages to make it to one of the columns, leaning on it heavily for support. He has several lacerations and will need to retire that cape. “Damn it all.”
I can only make it to the couch before I throw Mischief down onto it. The girl slumps over, threatening to break the wooden frame. Her eyes glass over as she flirts with unconsciousness, her mouth ajar. That arm isn't just going to heal itself this time. I know I should be more concerned, but I'm barely standing on my own.
“Not her.” She coughs at me. Well, at least we know she's alive. I turn to say as much to Blade when Sparrow appears behind me and scares me half to death. “I hate the little bitch.” Mischief may have a point I can soon relate to.
“Ah, there you are.” I notice Blade has wrapped his cape around himself. Clearly he doesn't want Sparrow to see the damage and appear in a weakened position. So why doesn't he care about me seeing him? “Take Mischief and get her stabilized. I know, you're a hacker, not a medic. I'm working on it. But right now you're the only one I can count on. It doesn't have to be perfect, just keep her alive.”
Sparrow never says a word. She simply walks over to Mischief's prone form, wraps an arm under her shoulder, and lifts in one smooth motion. Mischief's feet trail behind. The sight is so absurd I want to laugh. Instead I find myself eyeing Sparrow as she marches up the stairs with a woman twice her size in tow. Just what is the little bit made out of?
“Oh, and Sparrow,” she pauses as Blade watches her. “No modifications. Understand?”
Sparrow thinks about it. Her commanding officer of the Battle elves gives her an order, and the half pint has the nerve to stop and THINK about it? Then, she simply nods curtly and marches up the stairs, a writhing Mischief in tow.
Blade sighs and collapses, sliding down the column. I limp over to him. “You okay, boss?”
He stares up at me. “Do I look okay?”
No, he doesn't look okay. He looks tired. And old. Much older than he should. He looks like he needs to sleep for a week. The intelligence and charisma are still there, but they are buried by rage and weariness.
“You look like you need a drink.” I reply with the safest answer I can find. He chortles, so it must not have been the wrong one. “Come on. I'll get the med kit and patch you up.” I pull him to his feet.
Elven healing magic is powerful, but limited. We are not as Hardy as our human enemies. Really, we need a doctor, not a mage. As we have neither, it is up to me to do the best I can and hope our bodies heal on their own.
Five minutes later and I have half the sutures in place. My stitches were never the cleanest, but they were better than bleeding out anyways. And Blade managed to get his drink. Ever the refined gentleman, he'd even had me retrieve his goblet. Most of the savages I grew up with would have just chugged it straight from the bottle.
“Why doesn't Mischief like Sparrow?”
Blade smiles, his lips compress into a thin, hard line. “I think it is a fair bet to say that Mischief doesn't like anyone. Though, I will admit, she does hold a special contempt for Sparrow that she has for few others.”
“Mischief says Sparrow attacked her.”
“You need to learn that Mischief lies. Don’t believe everything she says.”
“What happened?”
Blade weighs his words carefully. Clearly I am not truly on the team yet, no matter what he says. “I am continually on the search for fresh, exceptional talent, as you know. For the longest time, it was just she and I. We we're the perfect duo. Then, some years back, she suggested holding a gladiatorial competition. She wanted a fight; a true fight, mind you. I required a communications and technical expert.”
“You needed a hacker.”
“Precisely. So I agreed. The rules were simple: one only had to touch me to join my team. 200 souls applied that day. I believe Mischief spared the killing blow for some 50 odd elfs.”
“She let them live?”
“Hardly. They came at her in groups of fours and fives. She simply had neither the time nor dedication to finish them all all before some crawled out of the ring.
“At the end of the day I was resolved to leave empty handed. Again. Mind you, this was our third tryouts. I was beginning to fear I had trained my apprentice too well. Then Sparrow stepped into the ring. I knew instantly she was the one.”
“How?” I finished the stitches on his chest and arms, and now sat in rapt attention at his feet.
Blade smiles, amused at my question. “You've seen her. The ring had been filled all day with opponents who look like, well, you. Sparrow was a third their size. I knew she was either exceptionally skilled, or exceptionally crazy. Luckily for me, it turns out I was right on both counts.
“She walked calmly towards me. Mischief, however, charged. That was her undoing. You see, Sparrow simply hacked into the infrastructure of the building sector. The ground rippled, and cranes, earth movers and fiber cable came spilling forth. Mischief, the perfect killing machine, was left facing a losing battle against the unkillable. She ended up bound tightly in tentacles, while Sparrow walked right past her and simply tapped me once. And that was it.”
I nodded. It all made sense. It also made me all the more cautious around Sparrow. Blade took another drink of wine.
“So, who was that human today?”
“Beamer.” The word comes out like a curse through gritted teeth. He grips the cup tighter, straining the rim.
“An old friend of yours?”
“Far from it. We are mortal enemies. The cur has my sword, and I have sworn a blood oath to retrieve it. That I do not yet possess it, is a testament to his mediocre skill, and my overwhelming graces.” He fingers the tassel on the pommel at his hip. There was nothing in the hilt, I'd seen his blade shatter against Beamer's earlier that afternoon.
“Were they expecting us?”
Blade signed. “No, that was just happenstance and extraordinarily poor luck. The fool and his band of rogues happened to be there when we'd jumped.”
The fight had been quick but far from bloodless. We were outgunned and overwhelmed at touch down. Still, Blade ordered to continue the hunt for the artifact. I was the heavy guns, but I was also the only one who had the faintest clue what to look for. I never even came close to the ruins before Blade ordered the retreat.
“My knees are still killing me.”
“Yes, I expect that it from the impact. We should get you some upgrades.”
I cover myself even though he isn't even looking in my direction. The thought of another being loose in my body fills me with dread. “But I like the way I am now.”
“As do I. But I think you'll agree you need a few tricks to keep up with us faires.”
He pets my head absentmindedly while he draws his broken sword from the scabbard. I admire him deeply. His enamor draws me near. I am like a puppy; so starved for affection even abuse feels like praise. I understand this, but my feelings remain all the same. I was the same way with Fury but not as intense. I expect this to end just as well.
“So what do we do now?”
“Now? Now you do what I pay you to do, and find me another artifact on the list. We hunt it, we find it, and we bring it back here.”
“What if your friend shows up again?”
“Beamer? What if Beamer shows up? If Beamer shows up…” Blade tosses the broken knife in the air and catches it by the blade. One quick flick of the wrist later, and it is buried to the hilt in a wood hune mantle. “I'll kill him.”

---

V

It has been six months since I arrived and have yet to decisively prove myself. I have been at this for weeks, pouring over every scroll and tome I can lay my hands on. I have read books a dozen times over and still come up with the same results. I have dug deep into the archives of the web. I have asked at back doors in alleys, at libraries, in bath houses, taverns and whorehouses from here, halfway to Earth. And yet I still have nothing to show for it. At this point I still don't even know what I'm looking for.
Okay, it's time to take a step back. I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes, trying to suppress this migraine threatening to split my head open. What exactly is it I'm looking for? Blade has given me very little intel on this matter, trusting me to figure it out on my own. Thus far I've been a disappointment to him. I don't know how much longer I can stay in his good graces if I don't deliver. The problem is I don't know what to give him.
Every search seems to revolve around a few common variables. He's looking for an ancient civilization. Old, far older than anything that I've dealt with before, rivaling the dawn of Creation. All of the civilizations are currently extinct, and have been for millennia. And they were all centered on this quadrant of the galaxy. But I still don't know why.
When you're dealing with stories this old, this far out on the outskirts, things stop being facts and start becoming myths. I have found more legends and heroes then I have actual cold, hard proof. Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way? Maybe I need to start looking at the myths as though they are facts, rather than the other way around. The problem is, it's hard to tell what is reality and what is a legend.
While I did not grow up religious, I have never been as staunchly secularist as most of the companions I've known in my life. I’ve never doubted that there was a god. He just never seemed to have a particular place in my life. And while some people still decry non-clerical and profane matters, seeing an actual god rip my home planet apart was enough to convince me.
Maybe that's the clue. Maybe that's what Blade has been looking for. After Satan showed up, everyone was in a tizzy to find the next, best super weapon to stop Satan from returning and chowing down on us all. Rumors abounded of mad scientists, and super weapons, with the power to rend planets asunder. But we are not the first to have faced Lucifer, nor can we be the first to have stopped him, or there would be nothingness. Someone must have faced him before, and found a way to stop him. Everyone seemed to have their own wild stories to follow. I never put much stock in those myself, but I was able to make a tidy profit preying on the unsuspecting fools in search of a wild goose chase. I'm not proud to have peddled my archaeological skills this way, but it kept a roof over my head.
Maybe. Maybe that's it. I start thinking harder, thinking of all the creation myths I've heard, from a hundred different civilizations. We know the universe had a beginning. It was not, and then it was. And as much as some would like to dispute that fact, it's difficult to get around. This is one of the few areas where science and religion overlap. After that things start to get a little hazy.
The Bible tell us that God created the world, the universe, and everything in it. And that Lucifer fell from Grace because he chose to challenge God, becoming Satan, the death bringer.
Our own elvish sacred texts tells of God traveling this universe, seeding this blank canvas with life. And wherever he went, Satan was not far behind, twisting and corrupting the very life that his brother took pleasure in creating.
Science tells us that one by one, ancient civilizations rose to power. And one by one, each fell. There's a definite line. A pattern that can be traced from one end of the galaxy to the other. So if there is a trail, there must also be some evidence left behind.
I Swipe through my systems and pause at an app Electric lent me. She’s a good colleague, even if she is an human. She was the only one who cared enough to help me get away from Fury before he ended up killing me. I need to write her, but I have been putting it off. I already know what she will have to say about Blade.
I open my onboard star map and a hologram of the galaxy twinkles to life before me, slowly rotating around the galactic center. Here we are, and there is Plateia. That twinkling star over there is Sol, around which Earth orbits. I've never been but I hope one day to see it for myself.
This is all well and good, but I rarely deal with the present. My interests lie in the past. With a flick of the wrist I turn the dial and the galaxy rotates backwards at an alarming rate. Spinning faster and faster in reverse, I watch the eons tick away. We're going back now. Back before the Blade and Beamer. Back before the Second Coming. To the feudal ages, to the Roman empire, and beyond. I watch Earth change from a blue-green Jewel to a burning right husk of nothing but molten rock. I watch plateia shrink in size, shrivel until it becomes the asteroid it was before we arrived. I watch galactic empires fall and rise, only to fall and rise once more. The stars change position. Some blink back into existence where they haven't been for millions of years. I slow the dial down now, slower and slower. I'm getting close.
The Avarice Dominion shrinks in size. I never knew just how much like a virus they were in those early years. There is a reason they are referred to as the Oldest Race. Avarice had once been the glistening jewel of the cosmos. In some remote parts of the galaxy, they are still worshiped as gods. In many trading centers, Avaricesa is still the Lingua Franca for the common trading tongue. I barely learned it myself. Ancient Avaricesa and modern Avaricesa had a lingual will split shortly before the First Great War. As such, documents written in Ancient Avaricesa are even more of a pain to read. But I make due.
Here we go. I pause the hologram, Letting the warm galaxy come to a complete stop. I am looking at a string of eight or nine planets, a small empire by today's standards, but at the dawn of creation it is an unprecedented feat. There's no name for the species that held these planets. It has been gone so long not even the wind remembers.
I can identify five planets that have currently been colonized. Anything on those worlds would have been discovered long ago. There are no records of any artifacts or dig sites on those worlds. Two of the other planets were destroyed between then and now. That leaves two. I need to track down what happened to them.
I put markers on the two worlds and set the timeline to play, going at much leisurely pace this time. Even so, I almost miss it. The northern most world disappears. I have to backtrack twice just to find out what happened to it and almost laughed the irony of the situation. Vanished in an instant, gobbled up by the sun it was orbiting. Anything living on the world never have even known what hit it.
That ninth world though… I check the timeline. I'm about halfway back to present and still have a trace on it. It's drifted off, much further out of its orbit than it ever should have gotten, but it's still there. Maybe that's why there's no record of it; it just lay untouched by everyone almost since its inception.
I'm further along now. It has shifted orbit to another system, trading one sun for another. It's rare, but not unheard of, and at the galactic scale I am working with, it is to be expected sooner or later. It looks like it was picked up be a rogue sun. This makes it much harder to track. My star map is at best an estimate, established by the parameters I've put into it. And while I have a lot of older materials available to me to calibrate the timeline, if there was no one tracking the star, no people writing down its moments, then I am at the mercy of guesses. Never a good place to be.
There it is. I check the clock. Last confirmed sighting of the rogue star was some 50 years ago. Not perfect, but it'll have to do. The distance though. That will be the real problem. We're going to need a ship, and even so, it is well past the range of any viable space bridge I know of. I have no idea how long it will take to get there, but I can guarantee no one is going to like the number I provide. And still, there's no promise of a dead civilization on this planet, much less whatever it is that Blade is looking for.
I could go tell him now. I could rush excitedly to tell him I found a possibility. A clue. Or, I can keep digging. I can deliver a sure fire hit. I can make him proud of me. If one is good than three is better.
I power through my migraine and get back to work. I have never suffered from pride, but I allow myself to smile, just a little.

---

VI

Laser fire cracks overhead, too close for comfort. I returned fire with my 120mm, opening up with my 50. cal just for good measure. The planets atmosphere plays havoc with my recoil. My shot goes wild, spinning me away from the action. I manage to pepper the turret with a few rounds as i spin. The human manning the station jumps left, diving away from the impending explosion that never comes. Obviously not a warrior. Good. That should make this easy.
We are two months out on our month-long exploratory mission. Given my research, I’d provided Blade with five possible locations containing the type of artifacts he desired. Never one to waste time, we prepared an expedition right away. We’d stolen a ship and set out that very night. It was supposed to be quick, easy, and most importantly, quiet.
We should have stolen a better ship. Sparrow spent most of her time repairing the engines, nav computer, flight guidance, and generally making sure we didn’t explode after every jump. The perpetual foul mood on the hawk-faced femme only darkened with each passing day.
Mischief didn’t fare much better. Our main pilot, she spent most of her time cursing the ship’s specs and fighting the controls. The beast was sluggish and inept, with no weaponry. None of these were acceptable to her. She and Sparrow fought constantly, about everything from personal space to noise levels. But mostly they squabbled about upgrades. Both of them argued with Blade about adding guns, but he curtly would not allow it. Less attention brought on ourselves, he said.
Blade, ever stoic, began to show signs of cracking. The constant bickering grated on him, and the low ceilings and cramped hallways meant he was always stooping. He and Mischief fought a lot. Sometimes he would grow frustrated and come see me, talk with me, but that would only antagonize her more. Sometimes, at night, when the power was down low and the ship was quiet, I could hear them in the ship’s single cabin they shared. They would fight, shout, and scream. Sometimes Mischief’s screams sounded entirely different, more agony and less angry. There were… other noises, too. Those nights were the worst. I didn’t get much sleep then.
For my part, I was constantly hunched over at an even more extreme angle than my commander. I hadn’t been built for space flight. Space necessitated as much compact room as possible. Only the best built human deep space cruisers would comfortably hold larger passengers on their voyages. But those were designed by the best engineers, spent decades being built in space docks, and cost trillions of credits. None of which we had. This particular ship was never intended to carry elves of my stature. So I stayed hunkered in the cargo hold I had commandeered as my quarters. It was a long and lonely ride.
The first and third planets we visited turned up nothing. Broken, dried, crispy husks of worlds, whatever had once been there had been obliterated millennia ago. The destruction of war paled in comparison to that of time. The second stop had been a dusty moon of a gas giant. We spent a week there digging. We found evidence of civilization, but no artifacts. Everyone had been glad to get back to the ship after that excursion and pick grit from our servos. Back in deep space though, I found myself wishing I was back on the moon. I think I wasn’t alone in that desire.
The fourth stop had turned out to be quite fruitful. A terra type world, we set the ship down on a grassy plain. Locating the most probable location, I dug while Blade supervised. Sparrow and Mischief sunbathed on top of the ship, calling a truce for the nonce. After only two days I began pulling out artifacts. Coins, potsherd and a few pieces of art. I handed Blade a tiny fertility carving. He examined it, and passed to to Mischief who promptly snapped it in half while looking me in the eye. I was more sad than angry; I found it charming and almost cute. It seemed a shame to destroy it without purpose.
Then, I found what we were looking for. A hundred and forty meters down, inside what I seemed assured was a burial tomb, I discovered a staff, a collection of odd, coin-like disks, and a jar containing a liquid. Passing them back up the shaft, I heard Blade exclaim his pleasure. By the time I reached the surface, the girls already had the coins scattered across the ground. Out of the fifty some-odd disks, three still contained a few drops of strange energy. They fit into the staff cleanly, but there seemed to be either not enough power left, or no way to access it. The jar all of us were afraid to open. The sc