As the glowing line on the utility cord vanished into the tank, he wondered if it would work, and if maybe he shouldn’t have had a look around before he started wrecking stuff. A crackling like microwaved tinfoil told him it was a bad idea to stick around and find out. Jumping from the tread, he pumped his arms, fleeing the scene with all haste.

  “Stop – rebel sighting, this is unit 99, target headed into the spatial anomaly.”

  That didn’t sound good. Ren flipped around; he wanted to get a good look at what he was dealing with – too many; he gave up counting. Pat’s map had seriously underestimated what he was walking into, or had it? There were a lot of dots.

  “What in the actual f. It looks like World War III out here. I guess Mitzy was right about these guys.”

  It started as a compression of sound. Ren heard the moan in the air, like a sinking ship's last cry. The shockwave was right behind it, his hair blew like crazy, and he was sent rocketing into the distance, as a shrapnel-filled detonation spread over the area. It set off a chain reaction. He hit the dirt with a thud, skidding to a halt in the grass. Sitting up, he shielded his face with his arms.

  Grass stalks flattened, his eardrums wobbled, and they leaked blood. He resisted the urge to throw up. Ears ringing, he peeked out from behind his arms, “I hope those were unmanned…” Pushing himself to his feet, Ren rubbed his chest. He hadn’t really thought this through.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, as soldiers in black body suits and tinted helmets crawled out of their vehicles – like ants swarming from a kicked hill. “I guess that’s a no –”

  Danger sense screamed at him, he flynched, unhelpfully.

  “Keep your mouth closed. Attempt the use of a skill, and we will open fire!”

  Ren looked over his shoulder, winged blackhawks? How had they snuck up on him? He pulled his finger away from his ear and frowned at the blood he saw there. He showed them his finger as if to say – hey, what gives?

  “[Bombastic Base Drop]!”

  Ren stood arms akimbo. That's a hit, baby! He frowned as his missile bounced off a windshield. He looked at his palm.

  “I really need to sleep.” He tried waving, “Yoo, I come in peace.”

  Ren looked down. Was that his imagination? The pilots called out, becoming increasingly insistent. He ignored them as he kneeled, then bent down, to place a palm in the dirt. His eyes grew wide, and he dove into a roll. The ground erupted beneath his feet, and Ren was flung into the distance for the second time in as many minutes. He rolled to a stop, spitting out a mouthful of Crystal Plains – praying to all that was good, his hoodie was intact.

  A twice-deafening roar; his bones shook, ears split, and his core sent pain radiating through his chest—a mountain blocked out the Sun, as the vatagand's crawler spines sought purchase in the air. Ren craned his neck in time to see a line cut through the blackhawks. He scrabbled in the dirt, kicking his heels, in a vain attempt to get out of the way – lest he be smashed.

  Ren’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. He looked down at his arm, and it was mostly gone. He watched in horror as his shoulder went next, “S-stop what is…[Super Anime]! I’m sorry, I’ll shut it off. Please don’t–”

  —

  “Focused fire, basic rounds.” The Great General lifted off; he needed a good look at the battlefield. Conflicting reports had him on edge, and he wanted to confirm the threat level. He glanced at his HUD readout, a steady stream of information ticked away in the corner. This is one, now where is –

  “Minimal impact, Sir. Basics ineffective. Requesting permission to–”

  “AccelArounds, fire when ready, let's make them count.

  He punched in a quick code on his wrist console, and the sleek device transformed. Panels slid over each other as rectangular fabrication chambers folded into place.

  “This one's for you, Clara. Let’s see what the MischiefBoards have to say about this!”

  He punched forward with his clenched fist, triggering the launch mechanism. Tiny missiles bearing the MaxTech symbol dropped into the air; flashing red, they formed a flying V that spiraled ahead once the last one fell.

  Gorthow's eyes locked on the focused fire, as the armada tore a hole in the creature. Tears in reality flashed into existence in a ring around a patch of open flesh, basic shells tipped with adamantium accelerated from the tears, making point-blank contact with the target. As each shell was released, reality closed behind, even as it broke the mana-sound barrier, creating a cacophony of shockwaves. Each successive hit tore into a deeper layer of the ancient flesh.

  The General's missiles used his eyes for nano-adjustments, as one by one they sank deep into pocketed flesh. After the last one hit, a ring flashed in the aether, surrounding the vatagand like clouds around a peak. Lifting into the air, the beast's maw peeed open – the soldiers of Xylos watched in perfect silence – their helmets filtered the sound.

  It worked as the monster's body was severed at the point of contact. But it wasn’t enough; two-thirds of the creature slithered into the Crystal Plains, shrieks of agony accompanying it as it dove for cover, leaving behind broken land and smoking thopters.

  “Hold your fire, do not give chase.” That was one order he knew he wouldn’t have to repeat. Landing a safe distance from gore, Gorthow retracted his visor with a few quick taps on his console. He traced the in the land as they vanished into the plains: scraps of flesh and those strange probing black needles – some of them attempting to dig – there was little blood.

  “Number Two, Casualty report and damage assessment.”

  The damage should be enough to change the rating on the info boards. He smiled as he thought about the look on Clara’s face when she noticed. Only a handful of craft were lost, by his best estimation, but it would be enough for an update.

  “Let's see what she makes of those odds…”

  He shifted his gaze back to the piled-up carnage blocking out the sun, then at the section at his feet – he could wrap a transport in it. “Send in the harvesters, there’s no danger here – damage assessment.”

  “Three transport, four panzers, and one thopter unable to fly. Salvage is recommended.”

  Gorthow slid his visor back into place. The knot in his stomach was making his head spin; the effect of such concentrated dimensional magic was overwhelming at this distance. This was as far as he would push into the Crystal Plains; any deeper and he feared the results – he had no intention of losing himself in time and space. The legends were well known. He would take this small victory – more threats yet lie on the horizon.

  A thopter beat the air overhead, as a troupe of harvesters dropped in. Soon they would be crawling all over the corpse, taking their prize piece by piece – there was much work to be done before the spoils were counted.

  “I need a drink.”

  —

  Clinging to consciousness as an overwhelming urge to vomit surged from his stomach, Ren wondered what the frag just happened. Before disappearing, he’d been motionless, and yet everything in between had been like sailing through the air at jet speeds, with nothing but his hoodie for protection, except he couldn’t recall where he’d been. Still, he’d definitely been…somewhere; it wasn’t like traveling the void.

  He shook his head, as he looked at the floor, then blinked out of the top of his vision, armored nails set into sky blue pads, “Don’t kill me, I have candy, and I’m willing to share.” It was the only thing he could think of. They probably weren’t gnomish, if their footpads were anything to go on.

  “It’s a translocation scroll, not a death seal. If I wanted you dead, I’d have trapped you in the walls…it’s cleaner that way.”

  Ren decided to keep his eyes downcast, lest he offend someone; also, he felt like he might throw up at any moment – many things were safer this way. “Well, since we’re on a first-name basis—

  He paused to cover his mouth as he gripped his stomach.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr….”

  The owner of the voice started pacing, while muttering to themselves about interstellar probabilities and planar mechanisms.

  Ren decided to interrupt their rambling; he found it was usually best not to let crazy get going.

  “I was just having a misunderstanding with a few separatists. For some reason, they brought an army, and that's not very chill, yah know? I was hoping to do another show soon, and bombs flying – nah, not for me.”

  The pacing stopped, “So you’re a fool – interesting, it's usually a fighter type, with dreams of swinging the largest sword they can get their hands on.”

  What was this dude on about? Ren allowed his eyes to move up. A labcoat complete with pocket protector, hung loosely over a large blue…he leaned sideways – turtle? He hadn’t expected that. His abductor cleared their throat, and Ren met two giant yellow orbs staring back at him through rectangular glasses – without any lenses.

  Ren grinned at the expression he saw there; it reminded him of a kid being forced to show off a new outfit they didn’t want to wear. They were indignant, as though Ren was judging them, which he was. When they pulled some kind of widget out of their breast pocket, he frowned. What he at first looked like an oversized number two pencil was in fact–

  “Like what you see. It will be the last.”

  They pointed it at him, and Ren’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. How were they even holding it? The wand just sort of rested against their hand pad as they leveled it at him. “Is that a skill? The system really does come in handy – heh. Suppose I could get a skill for a shell? Do you do anything fun with your’s…sledding or something? Is it bigger on the inside than on the outside?”

  “I am Gimblox, and you, Ren, are trouble. I don’t like trouble. So the question is, what do I do with you?” The tip, which did appear to be a kind of graphite, began to glow.

  Ren gulped, “Send me back?”

  Ren was visualizing a telephone in his mind's eye, while frantically spelling out Pat's name – he even tried to see the letters etched into the phone. He needed that communication link to work. But it was not. After not getting any response, Ren changed tracks. “Are you a friend of the separatists…I uh, think there may have been a misunderstanding between us – I hardly know them.”

  Gimblox shifted his stance, “Yes, stirring up the Xylosians, not very smart, and at your level, a single shock trooper would vaporize you with a handful of repeater rounds. I’m not surprised, it’s always the same with you people.”

  There it is again…

  “Have we met before? What do you mean – you people?”

  Ren noticed his surroundings for the first time. Neatly lined rows of white lab tables. Glass instruments of all shapes and sizes were stacked everywhere. Hoses with nozzles fitted with multi-purpose tips hung down from translucent spheres glowing with incandescent light.

  What really stood out were the wall and ceiling; it was like he was looking up from the bottom of a swimming pool. He could even see the blurry image of a murder of duskwing moving across the sky – their magnified outlines were terrifying.

  Shelves on the far side of the room drew his attention – along with their contents—jars and containers filled with parts. One so full of eyeballs that the lid was about to slide free, and a kind of sponge grew out from the opening. He saw beastkin parts mostly, and counted himself lucky – maybe he wasn’t this guy's type, or perhaps he’d be something new to try?

  “Please don’t experiment on me. I’m far more used to you alive than dead – probably.”

  Ren cursed his honesty. Why couldn’t he have been raised a more deceitful child? “Do you need help collecting more body parts, Dr. Gimblox? I know where we can find a bunch of separatists. If you just teleport me back?” Ren finished hopefully.

  Gimblox blinked behind curious eyes. He lifted his other pad to the pencil in his hand and moved it over the surface. Ren sighed. Beastkin's hands were strange. Gimblox paused, “Now hold still, I need to get a closer look.”

  Ren wasn’t big on holding still while abductors got a better look. His eyes darted around the room. Could he just dive out of here? The walls were made of water, right?

  Gimblox interrupted his thoughts with an indignant squeak, “What! Preposterous…that’s, not–”

  The lab turtle turned its beak on Ren and really looked at him. The weight of those innocent orbs made it hard for Ren to take him seriously. Gimblox shook the device at him, fiddled with it some more, and finally pointed it at Ren with a shake.

  The [Echo Runner] flinched. Nothing happened. Ren waited, and only silence. He peeked through eyes shut tight. Gimblox had started pacing again.

  Ren asked nervously, “Dr., please, I really don’t think you want to dissect me. I mean – who knows what discoveries I might lead to if I were alive. Surely, you could attach some of those instruments to me, and I could just like –”

  Ren waved a hand around the lab before pulling himself up short. What was he saying? Experiment on him, while he was still alive? This conversation wasn’t going in a direction he liked. He shut up.

  Gimblox pushed his glasses up his beak, “Dissect you…

  He looked around the room, and his eyes lingered on his sample jars. “I will do no such thing. My samples are all from the deceased or the magically – un-alive. It's a bit of a grey area, I know, but one does one's best. But you, no, I think it's the watering border for you. I’m sorry, but there’s no other choice. I can’t have a Dantian running about in this world. Such an idea is preposterous; it flies in the face of everything we’re trying to achieve here…No, I won’t stand for it.”

  Gimblox pushed his glasses up his beak. Ren gave a friendly wave and a lopsided grin. “I haven’t decided what to do with you yet. But in my terrarium, your skills won’t work. I’m in control here; not even the Child can reach us.”

  The turtlekin turned away from Ren. His movements were sluggish, and an air of depression settled around him. “It is almost time for lunch. I’ll decide what to do with you after. Don’t try anything – I’ll magically separate you, at the first sign of trouble.”

  Ren nodded, “I knew it. You want to put me in those jars. Have you ever tried yoga? I hear it can help with certain…urges.”

  Gimblox ignored him as he banged up the grated stairs. Ren watched with a fascinated curiosity. An entire school of goldfish filtered up, through the wall, bubbles streaming in their wake. Goldfish – the largest he’d ever seen – swam in all their orange glory. But these… were tattooed, and the themes were interesting. The lead fish had a heart with ‘Mom’ etched on the inside, and an arrow pierced it.

  Ren’s heart skipped a beat. He’s going to goldfish me!

  Gimblox turned to face him, and a pad shot out, making a splash. By the time Ren’s eyes traveled from the noise back to Gimblox, a flopping tail hung from his beak.

  It was the cutest threat Ren had ever faced. Gimblox chewed like a cow, as his beak worked ominously. Ren wondered if the goldfish remembered its person name? And winced as the tail vanished in a slurp.

  Another splash, and Gimblox had two tails hanging from his beak – it snapped forward, and two bulges slid down their gullet.

  Gimblox frowned, “Are you not hungry? Do you need some chips to go along with these?

  He indicated over his shoulder, to the school that, for reasons unknown to Ren, swam in lazy circles, casual as can be.

  “That's a thing your people do, if I’m not mistaken – fish n’ chips was it. The last one of you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

  This was good, conversation was good, though he ought to steer it away from eating, lest the topic of Rens' pink flesh being seared to perfection come up. “No, I uh. I’m not hungry. Thanks. So, you’ve met others like me. Can you tell me more?”

  Too obvious, you don’t talk like that.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Gimblox slouched and removed their shell, like an uncomfortable piece of clothing that had been rubbing them wrong for hours. “I suppose some information sharing is in order – until I figure out what is to be done with you. As I said, I can’t have you putting…things in danger – as your people are wont to do.”

  If this guy, you peoples me – one more time.

  Gimblox seated himself cross-legged inside the shell. The doctor looked feeble, like a tired professor with too many unruly students and not enough time.

  “Earthers are what I mean by you people. With each new arrival, you inevitably bring a storm of violence and change. You find the first princess who will have you, and breed your own army of chaos. I don’t think the island of Ragnos has ever recovered.”

  “I do music…and I haven’t been laid yet. I thought I was close. There's this orc, we’re definitely vibing. And I wanted to; there were signs. But she's no princess, that's not my style, I can assure you.”

  Gimblox blinked, adjusted his glasses, and rummaged around under his legs – looking for something in the depths of his shell – he fished out a book. It was bound in fabric and danced with shifting ink. He opened its pages and placed it in the air before him. “Let's see, this makes you the seventh. Ren [Echo Runner] level 13, possessing a Dantian–”

  Gimblox peered up at Ren at the last, as he marked in his book. Ren smiled. Gimblox adjusted their glasses, and the [Echo Runner] faded.

  “What a fool, putting a gold core in his chest. He clearly has no idea what he’s doing. He’ll be dead in a month.”

  Gimblox curled up in his shell. It was time for a nap.

  —

  She was perfect—curves in all the right places, and a smile that lit up the room. Professors often wondered if their classes would be better off if she taught them. Needless to say, school was easy for her – everything was. She excelled. But none of that really mattered. Father could buy her genetics and every comfort, but she couldn’t help feel like something was missing.

  She had the eyes of the school's most eligible bachelors – ties to conglomerat heads and even the Emperor – none of that was for her.

  Clara was just under six feet, and her golden hair bounced in thick rivulets over slender shoulders. She had a look of mischief about her, as if every step she took might lead to trouble; it was the way she carried herself – more of a challenge to would-be detractors than anything else.

  She had ideas, strange ideas, they came from DigiScrolls, ones her father had tried to warn her off of – but that she had read nonetheless. The University library had many texts, and hardly anybody read them. It’s probably what drew her to them.

  They were history, a message from the past, but all Xylosians cared about… levels.

  “Where is he? Come on – not now, not with everything happening.” She clasped her unfamiliar coveralls, worn to fit in. With minimal effort, people overlooked most things. Xylosians saw what they wanted.

  She leaned up against the soot-covered plas-crete, layers of black dust – powdered so fine it slipped between even the microscopic vulcanyzed seams of the system-provided building material – plas-crete. The material was everywhere: homes, furniture, plates, RadBikes, and even most clothing. The stuff was probably in the air.

  Where did the system get it from? It was anybody's guess. The priests would say, ‘The System acts in mysterious ways…’ Well, she didn’t buy it, and never would.

  She didn’t know as much as she wished. But Clara Gorthow knew one thing –

  “Things don’t have to be this way.” She muttered her mantra as she tried not to stare too obviously at their meeting place. It was a MarketCafe, a place to shop and sip synth, and one she dared not enter alone. Traffic was light this time of night, the occasional RadBike – probably some late-night grinder – looking for levels and a group.

  She flinched back into the shadows. Something didn’t sound right – cruisers.

  She looked around frantically for anywhere to hide, but it was too late. “Clara, fancy seeing you here? Don’t you know this isn’t a safe neighborhood– why, you might stumble on a clandestine meeting, or some shady dark market dealers, I heard there was a rebel caught here, not hours ago.”

  They know – he knew, Kent… The boy was obsessed; his father was on the board of MaxTech, so naturally, he thought he owned everything. He had the [capitals] for it. That he couldn’t have Clara made him want her all the more; it was maddening, everything she tried only made it worse – if she just gave in.

  Never!

  “What are you doing here, Kent. Does your daddy know you're cruising Haveena?”

  Kent sneered from behind his helmet. She could hear the way his hooked nose bled into his voice, “You wouldn’t dare. The General would have you stripped of [capitals] and working the pump rooms if a hint of your whereabouts got out. Everyone knows Gorthow is the Emperor's lapdog; he can’t order a cup of synth without the Leader's Blessing.”

  She dug nails into her palm, biting back a retort – it would only feed his desires.

  “Nothing to say, little miss thang. Fine, keep your secrets, but if you were waiting for someone–well, you’re going to be waiting…and waiting.” He smiled and revved his bike; the vibrations racked her ears. His lackeys joined in, and the crew rumbled away, leaving not a mark in the street as they hovered off, in a parade of chrome and matte – a trail of soot swirling in their wake.

  “Monsters. The armada should have stayed in Xylos – all the monsters are here.” She’d never actually seen a monster before. The beastiaries were dated, but she knew them as well as any Uni student.

  She jumped, “Citizen, do your part and support the X.D.C. – this cycle, ten percent of all MaxTech profits go directly toward helping a shock trooper–” It was a HoloVid of the Emperor; she was on edge, to be frightened by one.

  One more way conglomerates controlled them. Clara remembered the first time she learned HoloVids lied. She was reading a scroll on Gunner Jenson, one of her people's greatest heroes, who died at the Battle of the Scar. It was the most famous fight in all of Xylos – the final battle before Xylosians were able to reach the Ventlands. Everyone knew that Gunner stood alone, one man against a horde of sky serpents; his repeater did not miss, and his stamina did not waver. For seven days and seven nights, he fought on. When the battle grew too fierce and all hope was lost, a level up would come.

  So she’d been unable to believe it when she read Gunnderson’s own accounting. He attributed the victory to his shock squad and their selfless commitment to each other. It seemed like such a silly thing to lie about, so why do it? Why did every HoloVid portray him as a risk-taker and a lone hero? What was the purpose? It always came back to levels. Levels and [capitals] – the two were interchangeable, thanks to the Cities zone perks.

  That’s when she started asking questions and looking deeper. It had led her to meeting Leo, on a chance encounter – “Things don’t have to be this way.” Just thinking of the [Engineers] discovery made her simmer with rage. An end to the mana ceiling, people free to live their lives without the constant threat of debt hanging over them.

  “Now what am I going to do? If he’s truly gone, the City will never know.”

  She knew she was being more than a little naive; people would never believe them. The City would be flooded with HoloVids claiming Leo was a rebel and a liar, and that would be that.

  Clara hung her head and dragged her feet; it was going to be a long walk home – it didn’t matter.

  —

  ReaperDrones stalked the hallways; they always did. Dressed as any other X.D.C. soldier in a MaxTech battle suit, their movements gave them away – reapers moved with a mechanical efficiency that belied a heartbeat, they stopped and started without momentum – going zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. There was no mistaking them when they moved, truly the Emperor’s most powerful skill.

  She flashed a smile at one as she walked past, and the familiar tingle of an inspection tickled her toes. She shuddered on the inside, while keeping her pace; any sign of fear would trigger an inspection protocol, she knew.

  Once back in her room, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She was safe here: DigiScrolls lined beneath the forceportal, her disheveled bed, and a pile of discarded clothing in the corner – that sometimes doubled as a bed. This was her home now; Dad's house wasn’t safe – not since the promotion.

  She kicked off her boots and stripped out of her grey jumpsuit – tossing it into the corner. She sat down on the edge of her bed and pulled her knees to her chin. She looked down at her feet and grimaced; her toes were long and dexterous like fingers, and right now they were swollen and red from stomping around the lower layers. She plunged her fingers between them and let out a small moan of pleasure.

  “Something has to be done about Kent. He’s never going to stop.”

  There was a familiar pop, and, “Whoa, my bad. Didn’t mean to walk in on you while you were undressing. I’ll just–”

  Clara rolled to the side with a bounce and drew a repeater pistol from under her pillow. Leveling the gun at the intruder's head – she hesitated. His hair needed a comb, and what was he wearing – was that fabric? And was there…what was in his hair – it looked alive?

  “D-don’t come any closer, or I’ll sound the alarm. W-whats in your hair, is that a m-monster…” Her skin, like porcelain, lost several shades, and her head spun. Monsters could come in any size, she knew. And the smallest were often said to be the most deadly. Her finger squeezed.

  Ren heard the trigger sliding across the guard and held his hands up, “Please, some dude just portaled me here. I um, come in peace?

  Ren’s eyes crossed as he remembered her question and looked up at a hair blade. Was that–

  “Jeremy? What are you doing here, you little scamp? You were supposed to stay in the aviary with the others. What will your family say, when – if we ever get back?”

  Jeremy’s thorax flared to life, blinking rapidly in response – then he dimmed before scuttling out of sight.

  “Huh!” Her pistol discharged, striking Ren in the shoulder. He flipped over backwards, crashing into the corner. He came up moments later with a pair of underwear stuck on his head – impossibly. Clara’s eyes narrowed. That shot had been an accident, but these next would be–

  A series of sharp, efficient knocks on her door – Reaper!

  Clara looked around, eyes wild, jumped to the force-portal, dropped the field, and hucked her pistol out the opening. Still naked, she crossed the room, placing herself before a stunned Ren whose eyes bounced like balls. Clara gave a disgusted snort as she put her heel on his forehead and, with a heave, shoved him back down. She buried him with a few swipes of her foot, before delivering a sharp kick to his side – a warning.

  Spinning around, Clara yanked open the door, a smile on her face. “How can I help – oh, in the Emperor’s name. A reaper, it is my honor, Sir. How can I assist you?”

  The reaper's head made omnidirectional micro movements. Clara’s heart beat out of her chest, and she fought the urge to back away – keep your cool, beat the protocols.

  Just when she couldn’t take it any longer, the ReaperDrone stepped back, turned on a booted heel, and stalked away – but its visor never stopped watching, rotating until it faced backwards, even as it moved away – she slowly closed the door.

  Clara cleared her throat after the door clicked closed. Nothing. Her eyes narrowed, “I didn’t kick you that hard –” She remembered she’d shot him in the shoulder, and fell to her knees – flinging clothing in a mad dash to check on him, whoever he was. Blood there was – not that much.

  “I need to do laundry.”

  The boy slept. Slept. Drool ran from his lips – lips that quirked in a smile – her undergarments had slipped further down his face – somehow.

  “The little creep. I’ll bet he’s one of Kent’s lackies.”

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about him, for one thing, his hair. Most Xylosian men wore it buzzed, and his clothing, and what was he wearing on his feet…

  “I need sleep, this is too much. I don’t care anymore.”

  —

  The reclamation was taking longer than expected, and Gorthow resisted the urge to check the [capitals] in the armada’s account. Had they gained back more in mana than they’d spent on ammunition? That was a slippery slope and a line of thinking that could get his people killed. He would check later, but for now–

  “Where are you – and what is your game?” Gorthow stared at the EtchAfront like it was going to sprout legs and walk away. There was no sign of the second target; it had either found a way to mask itself or, more worryingly, assessed the armada's threat level and backed off, indicating a dangerous level of intelligence.

  “Sir, the harvesters are reporting 98% completion. The gains are well above the expected – would you like a complete–”

  Gorthow cut the air with his hand, “What are the [Engineers] saying about road construction? That terrain allows for poor maneuvering.”

  Crackling over the comms, “Sir, we don’t have any [Engineers], only [Tool Pushers]--”

  “We don’t have any – never mind, give them a MaxTech training upload, and put them to work – the class will come soon enough.”

  “Sir.”

  Gorthow deflated with a sigh, resting his chin on his chest. His eyes slid to his lower desk drawer – he needed a drink. He pulled out a mug and his bottle of Xylos, “Plas mugs are the worst. I’ll find another way to drink if it's the last thing I do.”

  He wore a sour expression as he filled the mug, he took a long pull, and dialed his daughter. This would be the last call he could make for a while.

  An image of the Emperor sprang to life as the holo came online. It was a poster in Clara’s dorm, one he’d gotten for her. It was a top seller; their Leader stood on a hill overlooking a field of rebels, like ravenous [Tool Pushers], mana-starved and pushed to the brink of madness. Coins stamped with the imperial $ floated above their heads. Gorthow smiled as he thought about Clara running a conglomerate one day. Women could do anything now, and she might be the first.

  Gorthow's smile slipped – what was taking her? “Clara honey, where are you. This will be our last call for a –”

  Golden locks bounced into the screen, as a smiling and somewhat flustered Clara finally made an appearance, “Hi Dad! Sorry to keep you waiting, I was just – erm, busy. We have a pop-up exam tomorrow, and I’ve been getting crammed –”

  Gorthow spluttered, “Getting crammed?”

  She wasn’t listening as she looked off-screen, “Hmm, what's that, Dad? Listen, can we talk tomorrow? Like I said – very busy right now.” She briefly looked back at the monitor and waved before cutting the signal.

  “--I won’t…be able to talk for a while…” He trailed off.

  He sat in silence, staring at the EtchaFront. He poured another mug.

  “Love you too, sweety.”

  —

  Hans and Petro slopped in the mud while jamming their instruments into the ground. They were typical [Tool Pushers], clad in the grey coveralls of their station. Hans, the bigger of the two, was so thick around the shoulders and neck – he actually needed help shaving. Luckily, he had Petro, his wiry counterpart. Petro had a smile that came a little too easily, and a face that blended into the crowd; his bald pate was so shiny – Hans occasionally used it to stare at his own reflection, as he was wont to do – the simple-minded fellow that he was.

  Petro, like many such [Tool Pushers], was stuck in the pump rooms and forced into the class. It was his punishment for stealing. Down in the pump rooms, he’d found a friend in Hans. It had started with theft, as most things in Petro’s life did. But after robbing Hans blind for weeks, he grew tired of the man's stupidity and took him under his arm – so to speak.

  The two found an easy partnership. Hans was the muscle and Petro the brains – a tale as old as time, really.

  A last-minute slot had opened up in the armada, after the [Engineer]’s had refused to take part in the mission, when one of their own went missing the day before. Petro saw an opportunity and went to their boss, and all but forced their way into the armada.

  “Hans, you're doing it wrong.” The big man barely acknowledged Petro as he struggled to get his StemStick to stand upright. Petro placed his hand on top of the pole's cylindrical head, interrupting Han’s grumbling. He pressed a large button with a $ on it and slowly guided the thing down until the green indicator light came on.

  Petro pointed at the $ button, “Look, see here, Hans, push the [capitals] button, ok? Straightforward, push the [capitals] button, guide it down like one of those CompanionDrones you like so much. Stop when it turns green? Got it?” Petro always had patience with him. It wasn’t that the one-time thief had any special feeling for Hans – no, never that.

  A good thief always kept muscle around, especially loyal muscle. It was true he wasn’t a thief, and Hans wasn’t technically muscle, but [Tool Pushers] had their advantages, and on a war campaign like this, opportunities would arise, of that Petro was sure.

  “What’s our job, Petro? I don’t see any pumps.” Hans struggled to get the next StemStick out of its quiver – He was currently reaching over his shoulder while circling in the muck.

  Petro sighed and placed a hand on Hans, “Put your arms up, big guy.”

  Hans followed orders without question. Petro slung his own quiver over his partner's shoulders. “Just stand there and look pretty, ok. You can be the holder. I need you for that job. You’re really good at it.”

  Hans smiled as his eyes traced movement in the sky, his attention already pulled from their task. “What is that, Petro?” He pointed to a swarm of clickbats, as they bent from the shadows up into the canopies, only to flash into the open at another location.

  A nearby soldier scoffed at the big man’s question, and Petro resisted the urge to bash their skulls in. “Monsters, Hans, they’re monsters.”

  “But why do they fly like thopters? I thought monsters were evil, Petro? Are thopters evil? Are they – are they monsters?” Hans grew three sizes smaller, as he shrank in on himself. That was the thing about Hans: he was frightened of most things. But if you backed him into a corner, or threatened his friend – well, Petro kept him around for a reason, to be sure.

  “The System built the thopters, Hans. They aren’t evil.” It wasn’t the System itself that built them, of course, but the materials and skills used were System-blessed.

  “But Petro, I thought the System made monsters, too? Is the System evil?”

  Petro gritted his teeth; he was trying, he really was, but these dialectical sessions with Hans grew tiresome. “The System created monsters for us to farm, Han’s. It is our duty. The thopters help us farm.

  Petro slapped the big man on the shoulders. “Just like you help me hold the heavy stuff. You’re excellent at that, now–”

  “Petro, do you think Roofus misses me?”

  Petro winced. This was dangerous territory. “Yes, Hans, and I’m sure our friends in the pump room are taking good care of him.”

  “Is Roofus a monster? Will they farm him?”

  “Roofus is not a monster, Hans. He’s the Soul Shell Syndicate's finest, and System blessed.”

  Hans stretched his neck, “Do you think Roofus would like a clickbat? They could be friends. Roofus loves to chase.”

  Petro pulled another StemStick, “Sure, Hans, we’ll get one before we go back, ok. We don’t have anywhere to keep one now.”

  “Get to work, you two! Stop your claptrap…”

  Petro gritted his teeth. Their time would come; he could practically smell the opportunity in the air.

  —

  Gorthow stepped into the prisoner transport; a pale yellow light fell across his face. The transport was in lockdown. His boots clicked on the alloy as he ignored the looks from the soldiers and the MedDrone's flashing face.

  He stopped in front of the captor's cell, clasping his hands behind his back, as he looked down on the pitiful creature. “There is only one thing to do with an abomination like you. The System’s logic leaves no room for…talking monsters, I don’t care what he says.

  Gorthow placed a gloved hand on the helmet clipped to his waist.

  “MedDrone, seal the prisoner in a ZipCan – harvest the body. I wan’t nothing left of this creature, but a number on a shelf. We’ll see what a few hundred years in isolation does to free its tongue.”

  Responding to the General's command, the MedDrone was already adjusting the operating table. Soldiers bustled from the corner and dragged the thing out of its cell, one on each limb. They didn’t bother with its head, pulling it across the deck, leaving a stain as they went.

  Once in place, the MedDrone waved a hand over its skull, and mechanical fingers extended from the probe housing, their triangular tips leaving a depression in Lyle's fur, as it adjusted the specimen's head.

  The MedDrone shaved away a patch of fur, and three red dots appeared on Lyle's soft flesh.

  Lights ran as it spoke in a flat, inhuman voice: “Vitals within parameters, beginning compression procedure.”

  Last Kiss – a tool any citizen of the Mire would have recognized as belonging to a Blood Fly, spun to life with a hum. Gorthow pursed his lips and made to exit; this part was… unsavory.

  —

  Ren spun for the biggest crowd ever. Beastkin and orc stretched over the hills for miles around – clapping their hands and stomping their feet. Everywhere he looked, a familiar face, his Mom, was a cranekin in the front row. His Dad, whom he’d never known, laughed from atop the shoulders of a snarling bearkin. Everyone he cared about was here, even Meen-Tra, who danced on stage in a pair of fabulous heeled sandals…

  “Wake up!”

  Ren looked around the stage. What was…

  *Shiing*

  [Echo Runner Level 20!]

  [Skill Let's Get This Party Started!]

  [Skill FYP For The Hommies Obtained!]

  The echoes of the slap and the sting in his cheek jolted Ren upright. “Ahg, bwind Um bwind–” He tried to spit out whatever was in his mouth, and failing to do so, pulled the garment off his head. He examined it between two fingers. A look of horror crossed his face as he flung them away. That's when he noticed the contrite blond arms crossed and foot tapping.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing in my room? Answers, or I’m turning you over to the ReaperDrones.”

  Ren flopped himself back, propping his arms behind his head, as he crossed his feet. “Pleasure to meet you – I’m Ren. Where am I?”

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