Circ

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

@Circ, is apathy online on discord?

@Nate1008

Not at the moment, no. He is probably at work.

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

@Parzivol Excellent profile and a very thorough description of the various devices assigned to the satellite. I like how you add more depth to the environment with the inclusion of MRS and its various business arms, from private to security sector business. All in all, I think this will be a great inclusion to our SGA RP and look forward to your first post. :)

Feel free to move your profile to the characters tab.

If you want, you can join our discord (although I'm not sure how long this link is good for): discord.gg/GMyga3

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

I'll be posting a character sheet momentarily for review/general viewing. I'd like to ask what level artificial intelligence has reached, though. @Ashgan @Circ

@Parzivol

Thanks for applying! Artificial intelligence is advanced, but no "singularity" moment yet or danger of skynet/matrix stuff. That said, it is able to do every day tasks better than a human being (driving, cooking, filling out forms, advanced computation). If Derelict "awakens," that will definitely change, and we will be encountering some machine super intelligence.

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

None of the candidates’ credentials impressed Mavriq, but he recognized that MOS was a place where the only free agents were essentially cast aways. Anyone who excelled in their field already possessed gainful employment through corporate contracts. Beyond society’s dregs were a handful of would-be double dippers—people who wanted to get two paychecks for just a little bit more work, a category it seemed Cass fell squarely into. Given the lack of conflicts of interest between Origin and Mercury Inc., public anyway, Mavriq was relieved someone with such a preponderance of experience was, even with some restrictions taken into account, available. Vin was another matter, but his pre-authorization with his willingness to interface directly with Derelict—assuming the implication was understood—made him a valuable, if not disposable, asset for the team.

Data slate folded in his pocket, Mavriq tapped off the microphone on the podium. Meanwhile Feurtes signaled that the interview process had finalized. In his deep brusque voice, the soldier announced, “Everyone, refer to the number you were assigned when you invited to be interviewed. Interviewees 17B, 3RK, 11O, C49 remain. All others, you are free to leave at this time, but keep in mind you may be contacted later.”

A rumble of grumbles reverberated throughout the room, but steadily settled as the mob filtered out through the automatic plexiglas door. To those who remained, he verified their credentials and handed them a folio with information on where they would meet, their schedule for the next couple of days, and so on. From where Mavriq stood, Sophia seemed somewhat relieved by the dissipation of riffraff, although of those who stood in the room she was still the best groomed and, not surprisingly, monied.

“Any questions?” Mavriq asked as he stepped out from behind the podium and watched the people review their data slates that contained a rather rudimentary mission briefing.

Just as a refresher, he pulled it up himself. Mainly it was instructions on their facilities, equipment they were to be provided, and their objective regarding Derelict. Aside from his lab on the Thunderclap, which only actual military personal were availed access to, there was a suite on MOS they would share that included an attached laboratory and storage bay, a private shuttle and hangar for passage to and from Derelict, and a mobile hover facility for use within Derelict itself.

His eyes drifted down to the stipend and he cringed, although the expression was mainly inward—mainly. Such a pittance for such dangerous work, but far more than anyone here, outside officers, hoped to amass performing slave labor for megacorps. He noted that if Cass played her cards right, she could pay off her augment in under six months, assuming the mission and she survived so long.

“If not, you’re dismissed for the time being. Take this time to gather some belongings and transport them to the new facility, go to the secure web and fill out your banking and personal information, and so forth. The usual employment schtick.”

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

Under the exposed and therefore harsh LED glare that framed the low ceiling in uniformly-arranged points, the white walled room seemed to Mavriq as stark and antiseptic, akin to laboratories or lecture halls with equipment and furniture mostly omitted. Albeit familiar, the room’s disposition was of a nature that unfortunately presaged his frequent migraines. Subconsciously, his left hand lifted and the fingertips thereof firmly massaged his temple. That fault calculated, the comfort of familiarity was still undeniable and he felt at ease in the environment. Meanwhile, the bodies—the numerous unwashed, pungent, grotesque bodies—seemed more like specimens rather than fellow humans. Secure behind a metal lectern, crudely contrived via three-dimensional printing sourced with ferrous matter from local asteroids, he remained predominantly silent as the individuals approached and pleaded their case for the large bump in credits they doubtlessly associated with being a member of his team.

Eventually, one human debris captured his momentary interest; primarily as her claims were, while outlandish, both verifiable and credible.

“Cass,” while he squinted at her file on his data slate, he repeated the Herakles native’s name, which caused a brief lull in her departure, “how do you explain your apparent lack of mental deterioration given the frequency of your exposure to the artifact?”

“Artifact?” Cass huffed.

“Derelict,” Mavriq clarified, reduced to the vulgar vernacular of Maasym Orbital Station.

“What makes you so sure I haven’t?” she scoffed, then swaggered back to her place along the wall, arms crossed, expression adrift between amused and defiant.

Mavriq raised a brow. Next to him, he suspected Feurtes chuckled, although he doubted such a lapse occurred in the man’s obvious military professionalism. Most likely it was the room’s acoustics and the noise emanated from some imbecile in a corner. Regardless, Cass’ candor and experience intrigued him, so he checked the box for preliminary approval. Meanwhile, his preassigned medical detail exhibited an aura of barely masked antipathy. His gaze lingered on her artificial white hair, planar pale visage, and adequate bosom a moment before it retreated back to his data slate. Then, in a common moment of curiosity, brought up her portfolio. Immediately he recognized her last name and associated it with the pharmaceutical giant Marrow-Geist Moleculars. Their stock ticker, MGM, was familiar enough to someone, such as himself, whose retirement was inexorably bound in the markets. The woman, Sophia, was something of a heterodox, it seemed, as her file explicitly stated that she was here in defiance of her parents’ wishes. As to her qualifications, while her academic marks were all top-tier, her experience in the field was, at best, dubious.

Interviews resumed, boredom swiftly infected him. Occasionally, he masked a yawn behind his hand, although his action was as old as civilization and obvious. He reviewed the data slate more than he glanced up and assessed the prospects. So many were liars, like the hobbled would-be tour guide who suffered from choroideremia, a madman diagnosed with clinical claustrophobia, and many others with the required experience who, unfortunately, were utterly maddened by their exposure to Derelict.

“Next,” Mavriq heard Feurtes’ baritone order without a trace of humor. Once he perfunctorily glanced at his list, Mavriq read aloud the name Vincent Marlowe. The incarnated personage was unimpressive, except for two qualities: firstly, the preliminary approval box was already checked; secondly, Vin, like Cass, heralded—however tenuously—from Herakles, or possessed a close enough approximation of a hereditary interaction with the planet, anyway. Perhaps there was something in that god-awful colony’s environment that combated the mental deterioration Derelict induced.

“How comfortable are you with human-machine intelligence interfacing?” Mavriq inquired. His voice remained expressionless, except for maybe a hint of boredom, but the question itself hefted enough weight in innuendo as to be downright presumptuous and, for some, dangerous. Enough chatter was provoked as a result of it that Feurtes interjected himself and insisted: “Decorum will be maintained throughout these interviews!”

Eventually, the noise quelled enough that Vin was availed the opportunity to answer. Meanwhile, Mavriq focused a keen eye on him. Some nervousness, definitely. And suspicious glances from others in the room. He was an unknown quantity to them, perhaps something of an anathema. Nobody wanted to be part machine, not any of these victims of fate. Yet before them stood a man who voluntarily augmented his body with insidious mechanical contraptions that went well beyond mending broken limbs and blinded eyes.

Unsolicited Invasion (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

Tamarin, South-West Asia Group

As the presentation closed, there was not the usual, albeit oft obligatory, applause. Instead, Lionel saw an abundance of skepticism as he surveyed the room. It never was easy to separate the wealthy from their riches. However, these people sat comfortably around the crumbs of their seventh course in a lavish dining hall. A warm sunset poured through the crystal walls and scattered as a rainbow upon the interior. More importantly, it was not money he requested—no material aide such as food or medical supplies. Instead, he, at Czes’ bidding, implored them to spend some of their political capital such that Earth’s government might spare Allure City its vengeance. At the very least, he hoped the opportunists amongst them would have noticed the technological sophistication evident in Allure and leverage it to their benefit.

As the projector faded and the screen behind Lionel reverted to the conch-like outline of the Tran Hung Dao Convention Center and Concert Hall, an elderly man stood, tapped his lapel, and with microphone activated said, “I believe I speak for all gathered in saying how saddened I am by the turmoil that befell our world on this day. It is indeed a day of unparalleled tragedy. What was to be an economic summit and road map to yet greater global prosperity instead has become a stark reminder of how our species remains imperiled by alien strife. If, as you claim, the event was not malicious, it matters little, for its consequences cannot be ignored. Nor can we or should we ignore and forget the hundred million of our own who are lost. As such, until we have answers—some hope, however slight, of closure, Ashok Leyland shall remain silent on the issue of a peaceful relationship with Allure City. Moreover, we are of the opinion that it may be by force alone that we can come to know the truth of what became of Earth’s own citizens.”

Unlike Lionel’s words, those of Ashok Leyland’s chairman were received with an ovation. It was very culturally appropriate a reaction—watch and then decide. From his place behind the podium at the front of the room, the Terran native frowned. Even with the promise of inaction, violence remained favored. There was no path by means of mere sophistry to impress upon these fools the worthiness of alien life, apparently, particularly when juxtaposed with a quite visceral and recent reminder of the tenuousness of their own species’ continued presence in the cosmos.

< Perfect, > Czes’ voice intruded into Lionel’s mind, < Now, repeat after me: “While disappointed, the Comte Foundation sees the wisdom in Chairman Girotra’s perspective. If we destroy the scene of the crime, we may never come to know what became of the Iberian Peninsula's people. As such, prudence demands we do what we can to keep Allure City’s infrastructure and intellectual resources intact.” >

Lionel repressed a smile. No doubt this was Czes’ plan all along.

. . .

Allure City, Xepabul District—formerly Salamanca

At its apex, a lone figure glowered through a transparent quartz pane embedded in the exoskeleton of an allophane-encrusted plastisteel tower that twisted skyward from a triangular base of quake-resistant mycelium-concrete. Similarities between the skyscraper and Shanghai’s long-derelict Zånhe Tsonshin Dasa were uncanny, although Xepabul’s dominant feature dwarfed its facsimile by almost a thousand meters. Below it was an inexplicable junkyard sprawl that raced toward the horizon in all directions, replete with broken-down spacecraft, drones, skimmers, excavators, battle bots, household appliances, and more. Then, like a distant oasis, was Xepabul’s main attraction, the Gran Circo. Tens of thousands of spectators lined up at the overwhelmed ticket booths, angry and insistent on the restoration of their precious credits. Such was, after all, their only recourse until the Stream reboot completed.

Disgusted, Fimiendel Vericlatigan X, first of his name, turned from the window and depressed his three extracranial compound lobes, flushed with fury, against his skull. Momentarily, he found relief from the world’s coarse stimuli in a plane of beatific sensory repression. Lost income from the behemoth mecha tournament was the least of his worries. From all over Allure, reports flooded into his office of escaped convicts and he, as fate and his own machinations devised, was the city’s Arch Warden.

“When I find whoever set off that EMP, I’m going to—” he began when, auspiciously, the aperture of the vid-sphere on his flat slate-topped desk projected an alert that pulsed crimson, indicative of a call he was required to take. Nonplussed, he dispatched a microdrone from a prosthetically-bound actuation filament and in his mind’s eye tracked it until it activated the receiver.

“How do you do? It’s Margaret,” the receiver intoned, although strangely there was no video feed that accompanied her voice.

“I know. Presumably your call is due to the prisoner situation that has arisen, but it is under control, I assure—” he began, but she interrupted: “No time for idle gossip, my darling Fimiendel. Please join an all-black holo-chamber meeting in approximately twenty minutes. Participation is mandatory. I have a lot of calls to make, as the meeting shall include the Elites as well as members of Parliament. You understand. Goodbye.”

There was the tell-tale click on the other end of a rotary phone being hung up, then silence.

. . .

New Roswell, Antarctica

It was finally obvious that a Val’Gara attack wasn’t imminent. Indeed, with the singular exception of Brobdingnag they already were beyond detection of in-atmosphere telescopes. And even given that, the monstrosity was far enough away to be but small speck. Much of the vanguard were already beyond the rift, he calculated.

Apollo didn’t seem particularly pleased.

How blasé.

Autun started to saunter from the chamber, then called back over his shoulder, “By the way, President Amon, I did ‘do something’—thanks to me, you are the only human who, on this auspicious occasion, remembers that he beheld the threat of extinction as it encircled your planet. No furthers riots. No further suicides, heart attacks, or rubbernecking. Hm. Now that I struggle to recall, it isn’t the first instance you and yours benefited from such blissful ignorance.”

As he spoke, flecks of white metal materialized on his tawny flesh and blue mane. It scintillated boldly, almost profanely. The accumulation was swift, and within moments the nubile archetype of youthful virility, which Earth’s alien benefactor uniquely embodied, was entombed by a modern abstractionist interpretation of the same. As from Cellini to Boccioni, the evolution was fundamentally cynical, with unblemished vigor usurped by raw utility. While nude no more, the armor augmented, rather than concealed, his unabashed maleness. If anything, it accentuated his prominent presentation of form—his inherent power. A symbol obscured by its own aura, however, for everything was suddenly much heavier—weightier. For even the hardiest of humans, it became impossible to remain upright or feel courageous in Autun’s presence. It was as though they were in the shadow of an ancient and lethal titan.

“But you’re tired, aren’t you, Apollo?” Autun, who momentarily paused and stood still, said scornfully, “Weary of knowing you’re never truly safe. Not from them—the Val’Gara. Not from anything in this vast and terrible universe. Because, in spite of being a man who surrounds himself with fanciful religious iconography, you have no faith. Not even in friends. I hoped if not your mind, perhaps your heart … well, anyway, you’re clearly someone who needs to see in order to believe.”

“What?” Apollo said, likely flabbergasted by the gloomy transition.

“Shall I destroy Allure City?” Autun wondered aloud in a sudden departure of subject, a black spear that sliced an ugly gash in the ceiling inexplicably held fast by his right gauntlet, “Or stop the tidal wave that will drown a billion souls in Europe and the Americas?”

The armor turned around and faced Apollo, a red glint in its visor.

“I warn you, once I taste blood, it is going to take more than Allure—more than the Val’Gara to slake my passion. So be prepared to point to the sky and decide which galaxy is extinguished.”

Apollo seemed genuinely appalled, but eventually insisted, “Stop the tidal wave, of course!”

At those words, the mood lightened. The Asita was gone, although whether its absence made the others in the room more or less comfortable remained in doubt. Meanwhile, Autun wore a little grin on his face and replied, “Good answer,” he said, then, after a moment, proclaimed, “It is done. Still, there is so much more fun we can have. Have you heard of Ximbic-8? No? Check Wikipedia. Well, look to the sky and you’ll understand. Don’t worry, I intend to make it easy for the average person to travel back and forth.”

. . .

Tamarin, South-West Asia Group

Adorned in gray sweatpants and a sleeveless white shirt, an offensively cheap wardrobe when Czes’ immense wealth was considered—at least it would be were Spencer not keenly aware of his lifestyle’s abusive relationship towards clothing—he pushed his thumbs in his pockets and tugged the waistband down until it was almost inappropriate. In his teeth he clutched a blade of grass, plucked from one of the seaside gardens of the adrift metropolis. Now he was a good hour into his exploration of Tamarin and the ocean a good kilometer behind and below. He could barely smell it, much less see it or hear it. Yet, throughout his upward trek, every building and boulevard was orderly, pristine, and decorated in a sea shell motif.

This city is repulsively clean, he griped, his bare feet warmed by the solar-collection cobbles that formed the pavement. Absently, he reached into a pocket and caressed his credit card and handful of bills. Where can I find a fix, dick, or tit –or anything close—for a few hours?

As if in answer to his question, an arch materialized in front of him. It was strangely viscous, fibrous, yet inviting. Encircled by its cerulean curve was a world that did not match the orderliness of Tamarin. Curious, he walked around it and gazed up the street. The mauve-hued cobbles continued unperturbed. Meanwhile, the same image of a rather alien alleyway rippled like a projection on the surface of a bézier mirror.

“Are there any portals to, uh, other worlds in, oh, whatever this frikin virginal city is named?” Spencer said, although nobody else was with him on the boulevard.

< Tamarin is the name of the city you are in, Mister Tras. As far as our records indicate, there are no portals anywhere on Earth to extrasolar civilizations. >

The signal seemed to pulse into his eyes from the contacts he wore. It was somewhat uncomfortable, but worse experiences were in fair supply and recent memory.

Frik it, he thought, then stepped through.

. . .

Allure City—City Center

While Margaret busily arranged the holo-conference, Tristan was likewise occupied. The first thing he noticed was the horrible security of the studio. Not merely the hole in the wall that Merse’s body made. Not just the hacked cameras. Downright simple things like how some short-stuff named Harold strolled on in without so much as a doorbell or elevator chime. The intruder was clearly well-adapted to chaos, because he didn’t even blink at the display of unconscious bodies.

For the while, he allowed it. Interlopers would be surveilled so long as their interference remained at a minimal. After all, it gave Earth’s government more insight into Allure City’s inner-workings. Still, he didn’t like the idea of a rescue operation denying him his charge, so he disabled elevators, stairwells, and portals then deployed a matter-stabilization net in a hundred meter sphere centered on the studio designed to prevent teleportation in or out. Finally, he assigned a grid of covert drones to defensively patrol the building’s external perimeter and keep out unwanted guests. Meanwhile, the communicator Margaret received actively monitored each and every one of her conversations, which were projected to Tethys, filtered for memetic and info-hazards, and forwarded on to New Roswell’s interrogation unit.

“Right, no bombs. Troops on the ground, anyway, don’t wanna blow em up; ya know?” he agreed.

Margaret nodded her understanding, but was already in the midst of another call.

Suddenly, Tethys reported:

>> Warning: Gravimetric shift.
>> New location: orbiting 500 kilometers above Earth.
>> Spacial anomalies present.

He sprinted to the window and looked out. In disbelief, he saw, far below, Earth—specifically an outline of Allure City with a giant hole missing from the middle. At least, that’s what it looked like when he compared it to his recollection of satellite images presented to him just prior to his assignment. About five kilometers distant, he noted the distinctive ripple of light on a transparent surface. They were contained some sort of a bubble. A thin band of light bound intermittently by a helix of caliginous metal descended into obscurity and, presumably, toward Earth’s surface.

“What did you do?” Tristan turned on Margaret and demanded. Yard stick be damned, he furiously approached and pressed the barrel of his laser pistol against her forehead.

She looked at him as though he were a crazy person. Then, as if in an effort to relieve his suspicious, Tethys interrupted:

>> Look out the opposite window, Tristan. Spacial anomalies present.

As he rushed over to satisfy Tethys’ recommendation, he knocked over a ridiculously curvy viridian bookshelf that was suspiciously bereft of books but had plenty of what, from the corner of his consciousness, appeared to be old vinyl 78s. Far away, beyond the orbit of the moon, perhaps five-hundred-thousand kilometers, was a large purple ribbon that twisted and undulated from one end of his field of vision to the other.

>> Receiving message from New Roswell:
>> - - proceed with mission.
>> - - events uncorrelated.
>> - - no threat designations active.

By this point, Margaret dared to join him at the window. Her complexion paled a bit, but otherwise she seemed strangely stoic. Then, unexpectedly, she declared: “I wasn’t aware Earth shared space with a ribbon world.”

“Right. Yeah. So, I’m going to need a list of Allure’s top scientists and technicians,” Tristan said, or more to the point read the next agenda item on his HUD, “Mind if I brew some tea while I wait?”

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

Maasym Orbital Station, colloquially called ‘Mos,’ was more colorful than Mavriq anticipated. Even so, he considered it drab compared to Fenris, his verdant and almost exclusively agrarian birth-world. It was an impression he decided was best left internalized. Still, the station’s exterior certainly surprised him. Through the shuttle’s small oval window, he had watched the habitat engulf his field of vision. As it came into focus, it presented itself almost as an asteroid due to the thick layer of rocks that enveloped it in its entirety, added, he was certain, as a cost-effective buffer against cosmic rays; a necessary public work for any long-term stellar habitat. However, a vine-like growth, still green with life, unexpectedly enmeshed and transformed the jumble of rocks into a cohesive whole.

The shuttle, guided by a tensile laser array, docked within a shadow-darkened slit in the rock cluster, the vacuum seal hissed, and he with his troupe—thus far comprised of only himself and the Warrant Officer—passed through the telescopically-elongated gangway. Another vacuum seal protected Mos’ interior then, as the heavy door slid into the adjacent walls, customs came into view.

“We’ll follow the green line,” Feurtes informed him, “it is expedited for military personnel.”

Their optic RFID signatures were scanned by the automated system as they pushed their way through the turnstile. There they entered an enclosure and a young man in fatigues approached them with a wand. “Welcome back, Feurtes,” saluted the enlisted, “Please assume the position while I make sure you don’t have any contraband.”

“And if I did?” Feurtes taunted.

“Bad time for both of us, Sir,” replied the soldier as he finished with the Warrant Officer and moved on to Mavriq, “Please empty your pockets and put your bag on the conveyor belt, Lieutenant.”

“Sure,” Mavriq said, and filled several plastic bins with items. Of course, as soon as they passed into the tunnel they set off an alarm. Feurtes stepped in and explained, “Specialized scientific equipment. He is going down into the belly of the beast to see if he can learn what it is and where it came from. There should be a manifest of the items synced to his RFID signature.”

“Please wait here while I fetch some forms,” the soldier requested, then ran off, disappeared briefly around a corner, and moments later returned with a small contraption. “Sync complete. You both need to sign the equipment authorization form. Each of you press your thumb against the bio-analysis pad and you can be on your way.”

“Sure thing, Corporal Barnes,” Feurtes answered.

That bit of theater over and done with, Mavriq collected his equipment and followed Feurtes deeper into the station. After customs was a large transportation hub with electric trains and elevators. Of course, it was somewhat difficult to pick them out: the place looked like a bazaar, with lots of flashy signs, colorful textiles, and rainbows of fabric that rippled in the artificial breeze generated by the numerous ventilation shafts. He was so taken with the scene that he was only jarred back to reality when Feurtes shellacked a young hoodlum and said, “Pickpocket! Try that again and I’ll snap your scrawny neck!”—then, as he turned to Marviq, asked—“missing anything?”

As he collected himself, Mavriq openly wondered, “Are we going to have to go through this every time?”

“No. You’ll be able to take a shuttle from the Thunderclap down to Derelict. We’re just here to assemble your team. Ah, here we are,” Feurtes gestured toward an elevator. They rushed in to the crowded space, and Feurtes selected their destination. As they waited, the cramped space became less occupied until they were the only ones present. Finally, the door opened and they stepped out into an a-frame corridor with a low ceiling and bare metal walls.

“Quite the difference,” Mavriq remarked, then followed Feurtes forward until they reached a secure door.

“Try out your security card, make sure it works,” Feurtes offered.

Mavriq did and the door slid openly silently. He entered a large room with a wide variety of people within talking quietly amongst one another. Some defiantly lubricated unlit cigarettes in their mouth, others hung back in the shadows, and a few were playing a game of jacks.

“Officer on deck,” Feurtes shouted and, with that, the atmosphere transformed to one of anxious hush.

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

Thanks for the interest, @Moskau Spieluhr!

Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder...

The lights were dim in Mavriq’s laboratory aboard the OSF-Thunderclap, one of three Apocalypse-class battleships of the Origin Stellar Fleet dispatched to monitor Derelict and associated affairs. It was a clue, oft ignored, to any who entered his domain that his mind was otherwise engaged. Reclined on a collapsible cot, conveniently built into the bulkhead, he considered the months of prior preparation for this mission even as he realized the cumulative experience of several human lifetimes was inadequate to the comprehension of what reports indicated was defunct product of alien superintelligence.

<< On approach to Maasym 4e geosynchronous orbit. >> intoned the shipwide intercom.

Mavriq stood, stretched until his shoulders popped, and drifted to the display that served as his window. In some ways, it was better than a physical aperture beyond his employment quarters, as it was readily programmable to any orientation around the ship. His long fingers danced over the interactive screen and in moments he saw the object of his mission: Maasym 4e, otherwise referred to as Derelict, at 0.73 Earth radii, glinted sanguine in the glare of Maasym’s red-tinged starlight as it emerged from orbit behind a tempestuous hyper-verge gas giant.

However well-armed the Thunderclap was, he felt rattled by the sight of the massive alien sphere and its array of towers, rifts, and surface variances. Even so, he was struck by how dead it appeared. Not a single light or indication of movement, beyond those of human origination, disrupted the tranquility of its surface. Not that it was his first sight, as first still images and shortly thereafter live footage flooded the transvacuum q-circuits within days of its discovery by the Terinhaul-Caskill Corporation’s exploratory vessel, Reind, Still, there was something different in, despite presentation on a digital screen, an observation that took place in the here and the now. As he zoomed in, soon Derelict’s orbital cloud—littered with numerous corporate habitat ships, scavenger corvettes, survey drones, and Maasym Orbital Station—sharpened to focus.

“Well, it is about time,” he judged the situation.

Moments later, his lab coat stuffed with gadgets and satchel in hand, he approached the door to his lair. Suddenly, without his prompt, it opened. A swarthy, hirsute, and broad form unexpectedly loomed before him in the form of his, for all intents and purposes, nanny. While the man’s official designation placed him in the military police, Mavriq suspected he was actually an intelligence officer.

“Lieutenant d’Agenais,” his military liaison, who appeared slightly winded and surprised to behold him in the midst of his departure, addressed him by his service rank, although, as a scientist, Mavriq held no authority in military matters, “I expect the profiles sent to your attention for analysis in anticipation of the assembly of a ground team are in order and you’re prepared to shuttle to MOS?”

“Moss?” Mavriq inquired. The man’s presence always frazzled him. As a nervous habit, his free hand unconsciously adjusted his deactivated spectral lenses. His mind, meanwhile, tried and failed to articulate the importance of the discovery of naturally-occurring flora in the region.

“Maasym Orbital Station, Lieutenant,” his liaison replied, “where we will interview the prospects.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Lead the way, Warrant Officer Feurtes,” Mavriq assented.

Post-haste, they boarded a shuttle en-route to the MOS. Meanwhile, Feurtes reviewed the profiles collated by Mavriq. He claimed it was to familiarize himself with names, faces, and technical abilities, all while he babbled about minuscule details, such as the square footage Origin leased aboard MOS and converted to a secondary laboratory for non-classified affairs. It was, presumably, where Mavriq was to spend the bulk of his time, such as was expended on Derelict discounted, with his new team.

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

Magogoe, Xanathan Proper

Clotted blood flowed sand-like through Digbo’s fingers. Cradled tightly, warmly into his broad chest was his cousin’s sun-scorched and bloated trunk. She was his boyhood playmate, forbidden puppy love, and advisor on the intricacies of courtship. Now he only identified her by the ceremonial scarification that undulated vine-like down both sides of her truncated neck and sensuously draped her shoulders. Wreckage, the remnants of her familial hut, smoldered around him, accentuated by a jumble of limbs, smashed heirlooms, and broken glass.

The rumor of reprisals was mere hours old when he, informed her village was amongst the razed, ran, apron in hand, from the produce aisle where he worked, borrowed without permission his stepfather’s Land Rover and sped north toward the arched columns of smoke that besmirched the horizon. Hours later, he found them. It was an incomprehensible and senseless massacre. These people were innocent, yet Xanathan treated them like props in a slasher film: bodies that merely existed to demonstrate the brutality and absolute authority of their regime. Totally unnecessary. Everyone understood Xanathan’s technological superiority. There was never any question that the corporation’s hold on the continent was absolute. As such, all this struck Digbo as pointless. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Words failed to articulate in his mind. Instead, he clutched her mangled corpse to his bosom, lifted his face toward the red-tinged sunset, and groaned.

. . .

Marange, Nyundo

“Much we do lose,” Ndakala agreed, “yet act we must, for if we do not our will to do so slowly perishes from a self-inflicted wound. That, too, is Gyele’s wisdom. And yet here, you—you are doing something, responsible for something, that I … I suppose matters little. We have never met, yet you see my past clearer than I. Who am I to quibble with a sorceress? It is for me to listen then choose.”

As he sat there in the soft glow of chemiluminescent cave moss, his knees hugged to his chest, he thought he saw a bemused arch of her brow. She glanced down at one of the pools, as though in deep thought. Or perhaps it was patience. A cue toward reflection. Thus, he aped her, and beheld himself in one of the pools. Half surprised that his own face that peered back at him, unexaggerated, old, and weary, he took the moment to look into his own eyes and let the emotions flow from his soul and into the water. The tumult of his mind readily calmed, he considered his life and the path that brought him to this place—to Marange. Many were his deeds, yet all felt so small with fruits difficult to see through the thick foliage of life’s minutia. Rare did he find occasion to revisit the villages and refugees whose needs he bridged to the generosity of philanthropists like Lydia Benson and advocacy groups like The Abditory, yet he imagined, on those occasions, he saw shoots bud from the germs of hope. Yet, as he sat before Ayanda, he realized that dynamic was no more and he was simply too old and weary to play a part in a war.

“Your decision?” Ayanda asked. It was as though she felt him move beyond the fork in his spiritual journey.

“Marange is not for me,” Ndakala slowly said and watched for a reaction from Ayanda. She merely nodded and he felt her acceptance. Yet, there was more, and after a pause he practically spat, “New Xanathan City is not for me. My people are not known for longevity and I wish to spend what time I have left in peace.”

. . .

Saudade, Glasslands – former Tripoli

The filthy churn of the tsunami crested at Nuberu’s ankles as he rushed, a third of the way to the radio control tower’s apex, back up the square flights of skeletal metal stairs, his plea to Ayanda unanswered—or answered too late. The Mediterranean encompassed his vision and its extent seemed limitless, but, even though the water no longer rose, he sensed its damage was far from over. Once it initially receded, the massive wave sloshed back and forth in the great basin with unimaginable hydrostatic pressure until its energy slowly, but steadily, ebbed away. Meanwhile, he was fated to wait. Day fell to night, morning imprisoned the darkness, and the cycle repeated. The rain that gathered in his plastic mug insufficient, thirst and delirium united as conjoined perils. Toxic saltwater seduced him, but he clung to hope. Then, finally, land; unimaginable destruction, toppled buildings, and bloated sea-life blighted the landscape; his ears yet rang from the clash of unleashed power; and, for whatever reason, the beam, albeit gone, still hung in his vision and drew him toward its landlance as assuredly as a fly is drawn to honey.

In the back of his mind, he felt he should have saved his last crystal token. Now, a man driven by an indelible desire, that the source of the radiance must be reached, he walked northwest.

. . .

Saudade, Glasslands – former Tunis

Disoriented, Reaex disentangled itself from the collapsed concrete beams of of the Tunis-Carthage International Airport, cycled its nanofillements, and gushed an omni-directional purge of the inundated contaminants. Urchins, plankton, and a bucket of salt further assailed the ravaged structure of what was once a grand terminal. No more were there arabesques plated in faux-gold, the large square beams, and lavish escalades; only ruin littered in a preponderance of rotten biomass. Most importantly, there was no sign of Allure City or its villainous sycophants.

“Свободен съм,” Reaex declared its freedom in its chime-like voice.

“Свободен съм!”

Then, struck by the truth of its words, the fruition of its long sought after goal, and a total loss of what to do now that its goal was achieved, it erupted in a laughter that sang, like the music of cathedral bells, and danced along the winds for miles.