[b]The Anemoi![/b]

Jil stood up and quietly moved through the room. She politely tapped Dolce on the shoulder where he sat on the Captain's chair. "Excuse me," she said. "Please take a close look at your chair."

Is that? No, it couldn't be - you stand up as though stung by a scorpion. How did you not see it?

The Captain's chair is made of bones.

In the dim light of the Anemoi a terrible transformation is wrought. Every shadow, every inexplicable shape, is suddenly a corpse. The architecture of death seems to run through everything. Alcedi gasp and hands go to weapons, Hermetics rifle through pockets for charms sacred to Hades. The God of the Dead himself sits atop the discussion table, cigarette smoke pouring from his lips, suddenly immense, and all cower in his shadow.

"Since the commissioning of the Anemoi the Lantern tribes were helots to the Kaeri," Jil said, her soft voice terrible in the silence. "A warrior species must hone their skills in peacetime, and that was our purpose. Every inch of this ship is soaked in our blood. We were ambushed, brutalized, terrorized, the raw material for every mind game or martial technique our masters wished to practice."

Her voice does not quaver, her face lit by the lantern she holds above her head. It's a posture laden with meaning, an act of heroism to stand like that in [i]this[/i] place.

"And Praetor Bella saved us," she said loudly, a voice that cracked against the plastic walls of the Anemoi. "She broke a reign of shadows and cruelty, made us masters of our own house. And this is [b]our[/b] house. You would abandon the Praetor because you fear what she will do? You should fear what [i]we[/i] shall do if you turn your faces from the only soul who ever showed us kindness."

Mynx glances back at Alexa. She has the weariness of the sleepness, eyes that do not tell of understanding or acknowledgement. Whatever she wants, it's not you that she wants it from. But you don't see any of that; all you feel is a brief pat-pat against the knee as she acknowledges your presence.

"Did you hear about the Ikarani?" said Mynx, speaking with a dry throat into the silence. "The last time I worked with her she dropped a space station on a city to kill a single target. Millions dead. That's what they [i]do[/i], that's what they're like. Natural disasters and freak accidents are their tools of murder. And yet, on Salib, not a single civilian died. Who told her to care about collateral damage? Who put chains on the earthquake? Because it wasn't the Kaeri, and it wasn't the Master of Assassins."

[b]Beljani![/b]

Seven seconds and you can feel the disappointment set in. Ten seconds pass and you're just about to give up - when suddenly the edge of the egg starts to feel uncomfortably warm. You jerk your hand back just in time to avoid losing a finger - and, to your shock, that was actually something that could have happened. A crisp, sharp, laser-line has burned out of the edge of the eggshell, spectacular blue, and slashed across the workshop. It severs cables, tools, workbenches, and even the immense reinforced walls, burning through them as though they're not even there. And then, from the molten hole, a pathetic little bundle of mucky limbs flops out into the palm of your hand. It flickers - and then solid state brilliant blue light appears in the tangle, causing the membrane to sizzle away into nothing in moments and giving you a clear view of the... laser dragon?

It's a thing of glass and light, crystal prisms arranged into glittering patterns of scales. Its infant wings are projectors, flickering solid-light blue lasers coming on and off in the gaps between the digits of its wings where a membrane might be. It opens its little mouth and a tongue like a chameleon's fails to cross the distance to your fingertips and flops down on your hand.

The Hermetic is staring in what you presume is surprise, frozen halfway through reattaching one of his legs. The expression of shock deepens when the hatchling struggles to spread its wings - and in the space between the wings flickering glyphs start to appear. [i]Writing[/i]. It gives up the effort swiftly and curls up in your palm.

"This," buzzed Iskarot in awe. "Came through the Rift. It is the only organic matter confirmed to have made the trip. It has been inert for eighty five years, but it activated [i]immediately[/i] upon contact with you."