Penny

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene shoved against one of the concrete beams as three other men hauled on a makeshift pulley line. There was grinding of stone on stone as the friction broke and the great block of stone began to rise, showering grit wich Rene did his best to keep from his eyes with a raised hand. There was a curious flash of dejavu as he remembered how he and Bowie had helped the farmer on New Concordia free his oxen from the rice paddy. That act of charity had saved Rene’s life now that he thought about it. What could have driven the beast into the water in the first place? He would certainly never know, nor, he supposed did it much matter. A small void opened as the beam rose revealing a sniveling young woman and a child of perhaps four years of age. Both were so coated with mud and grit that they appeared almost alien to Rene’s eyes.

“Your safe,” he declared, “can you climb through?” Above him the beam began to slowly rotate seeking the neutral point on its new found fulcrum. The woman looked up at him, her face was caked with dirt save for thin lines that tears had drawn through the grime. Unsteadily she came to her feet and passed the child through to Rene, who took the boy and passed him up to other waiting hands. The woman reached out and took his hand and began to climb through when there was a sudden shout of alarm and a twanging of parting wires. Someone shouted a warning but Rene jerked the woman free with a strength that might have dislocated her arms. She screamed in pain but cleared the area a second before the cable gave out completely and several hundred kilos crashed down. Rene spun, putting his back to the shower of concrete chips that lashed him and jumped as far clear as he was able.

“Rene?! You ok?” Tychon yelled and strong hands seized him and the girl hauling them out of the ruined house by main force.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine,” Rene assured the coral gatherer as he was unceremoniously dumped on the grass beside the ruined house. A wet cloth was shoved into his hands and he gratefully wiped his face clean. Dirt and mud caked his body and, though the temperature was moderate, he was sweating from his exertions. It was nearly mid day and the rain had stopped, though not enough for the sun to be any more than a bright spot in the grey cloud coverage.

“Here, Drink.” Tychon commanded, thrusting a canteen full of water into his hands. Rene drank greedily, allowing the cool clear filtered water to run down over his chin and onto his chest. The fifteen men who formed the ‘crew’ that Tychon was leading all looked exhausted, though Rene doubted that even a marine platoon could have worked harder than they had this morning. With the aid of the goggles they had pulled a half dozen survivors from the ruined houses using little more than the strength of their hands and a few old winches.

“That's everyone accounted for on this street,” Tychon said with a somber note in his voice. Most of the men working here were friends and associates of his, and these houses had been their homes. More than one man was morning the loss of a family member, though like Tychon had done when Damaris had been among those presumed lost they buried the pain and worry in the work. At Tycon’s suggestion Rene had given his goggles to one of the younger men so that he could scan other houses. The device was a fairly simple one and there were others aboard the Bonaventure, but they might well save lives here.

“So where next?” Rene asked. Tychon shook his head and lay a restraining hand on Rene’s shoulder as he tried to rise.

“That's it for now, you push yourself too hard and you will break, it is the wisdom of the sea,” Tychon said. They had been at if for several hours and as he looked around Rene could see that the men were mostly played out. Even he, blessed with genetic augmentation and a history of brutal physical training couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.

“Let’s go clean up, then we can see about your fluorine,” Tychon suggested, clasping Rene’s forearm and helping him to his feet.

“The seas know you have earned it.”

The seaward section of San Roayo was, paradoxically, in better condition than the more inland ares Rene had seen. The buildings here were constructed large of concrete and prefab industrial polymers that had withstood the surge of the sea better than the flimsier structures had dealt with the wind. The structures, mostly one or two story workshops or warehouses, were scuffed and battered by debris but Rene doubted they had been much to look at before the storm either. The streets were littered with seaweed and stank of rotting fish, many of which were visible among the detritus, buzzing with flies. The fish life here appeared to be four eyed with four sets of fins spaced around the body, though Rene was no naturalist to judge such things. There were people around, but few of them were on the streets, mostly they seemed to be proprietors or workers who were in the process of cleaning up the damage to their businesses, or perhaps merely preventing looters from helping themselves.

The building they were looking for was only a block back from the waterfront. Masses of barges had been driven onto the numerous docks and jetties and formed a barrier of debris and shattered timbers. Rene supposed that the boats would be refloated once the more immediate rescue work had finished. Perhaps by then help would arrive from the planetary authorities, or perhaps, with the Eastern Cross in rebellion, they people would be left to fend for themselves. Even if the Duke’s rebellion were put down tomorrow resentments like this would linger for years or decades. It irritated Rene, who, despite everything, remained a child of the aristocracy, that even an Imperial victory wouldn’t be complete.

AV-GAS, proclaimed by a large sign suspended above the doorway, was a shabby looking place. A small office was appended to a large warehouse building that seemed mostly devoted to housing a mass of pipes and tanks that were visible through tears in the metalized sheeting that served the place for walls. A large loading dock shelted what appeared to be a forklift and a pair of large trucks, both clearly damaged by the floodwater. Large portable cylinders for gas transport were scattered around in haphazard piles which Rene hoped where the result of after the fact scavenging rather than any normal habit of stowage.

The interior of the office was grimy and dark. Several chemical luminators had been stuck to the wall and an unpleasant looking bald man with tattoos on his arms brooded behind a large metal counter. The walls were covered with pornography which had been pinned up wherever calendars and tide charts didn’t already occupy. It ranged from the obscene to the unbelievable but Rene imagined that it had long ago lost its shock value for anyone who came here regularly. An ashtray filled the room with smoke for the remains of a half dozen cigarettes of a type Rene couldn’t identify. There was an automated dispensing machine, covered in bright advertising slogans, in one corner, though without power its many lights were out and it looked dead and lifeless. The proprietary was watching a broadcast on a portable screen about a meter wide that he had wired up to a portable power source. It was similar to what Julia had been using to monitor the missing persons lists when Solae and Rene had first met her, though it was of better quality and clearly less well cared for.

“Tychon,” the tattooed man grunted in a tone without much warmth. His beady eyes flicked suspiciously to Rene but he made no comment about the presence of the stranger.

“Heard your daughter had been swept out to sea,” the fellow said, placing his arms on the counter and leaning forward. Tychon smilled, unaware or simply to relieved at Damaris’ safe return to notice the cruelty with which the comment was delivered.

“Safe and sound praise the seas Vitger!” Tychon told him with a broad smile.

“But that isn’t what we are here about, we need to buy some fluorine,” Tychon explained, pointing to Rene to make the ‘we’ clear. Vitger narrowed his eyes at this pronouncement.

“I got some in the tanks, but what do you need it for? Surely you don’t have coral you need to treat?” he asked shrewdly. Rene shrugged his shoulders as if the matter was of little consequence. He drew forth a few Imperial credit chips each worth several dozen Soldaei. Rene didn’t know what the daily wage was on Panopontus but he was willing to bet that the credit chips represented a fortune. The greedy glitter in Vitgers eyes told him he was correct.

“I need about 250 litres, with a 6h or 7h delivery system,” Rene explained. Vitger nodded, picking up the chip and examining it between thumb and forefinger.

“We can work with that, how are you planning on moving it?” the merchant asked. His eyes ficked between the pair of men and his view screen and Rene frowned. Something about this was starting to make him uncomfortable.

“Thaddeus has a barge he will loan me,” Tychon said, referring to one of the men they had helped dig out of the ruins earlier in the day.

“He had his barge out for maintenance when this all happened,” Tychon explained, as though the matter were any clear to Rene. Vitger nodded though it appeared to Rene that he wasn’t really listening.

“Ok head out back and grab the dolly will you?” he directed Tychon. The boatman nodded and turned to head through a door sectioned off by hanging strips of plastic sheeting. Rene was very fast his hand went for the gun he had in his hip pocket but Vitger had been ready. WIth a yell of fear he pulled a needle stunner from behind the desk and fired a half dozen rounds in the space of a heart beat. Even so, only two of them hit Rene, one in the breast and one in the upper thigh. The crystalline metallic darts pulsed reversing polarity with the speed of a strobe light. Powerful electrical currents ripped through Rene body sending him sprawling to the floor in spastic contractions. Pure luck stopped him from biting his own tongue. Tychon spun in the doorway just in time to catch his own spray of needles and be sent twitching to the floor. Rene flooped nervelessly on the ground as the grinning Vitger came out from behind the counter. In one hand he held the stunner and in the other the vid screen. Rene had just enough time to make out a picture of himself and Solae with the words: Dangerous Rebels, Reward Offered, before Vitgers boot crashed into his head, and he knew only blackness.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla slipped silently through the porte-cochere and in to the inner keep. She found herself in a large room which must once of have been an entry hall. Holes in the ceiling, and carven arrow slits in the walls would have made this chamber a death trap for men attempting to force the inner walls. At the end of the chamber was a large door of golden oak, polished to a sheen and bound with intricately worked metal. Two figures flanked the door. One was a marble worked effigy of The Lady of the Lake. Tileans had a natural contempt for Brettonian artisanship but even Camilla had to admit that the statue was heart stoppingly beautiful. The other figure was a somber looking knight with a beard of steel grey. Camilla was unsure of how old the man was but he had a vitality and energy about him that was almost unnatural. He wore a suit of simple armor and no surcoat or livery and although he had no sword there was an axe propped against the wall that would have done a Norscan Reaver proud.

“Ah, visitors,” he said, looking up from an illuminated manuscript he had been reading. Camilla who had made no sound, looked slightly affronted that she had been noticed.

“Two of you is it?” he went on in a friendly tone and Camilla glanced behind her to see Cydric had joined her, clearly realising that stealth was a lost cause at this point.

“We have come for the sake of the quest,” Camilla declared, walking up the hall towards the old knight.

“Ah.. yes, people genuinely do,” the Knight said with a sigh.

“I am Sir Cavic,” he said with a formal bow. Camilla performed a slight curtsey, looking completely ridiculous in her vandalized red dress.

“Camilla and Cydric,” she said with deliberate lack of formality. The knight watched her approach for a moment and then put his eyes on Cydric, clearly measuring the Imperial as a worthy warrior.

“The quest is no place for a woman,” he said, his eyes traveling to the sword at her waist.

“Even one armed as you are.”

“Right because you men have been having such great luck with it?” Camilla asked innocently. Cavic paused, his mouth opening and closing for a few moments before he threw his head back and laughed.

“Well spoken m’lady,” the Knight declared.

“What do you know of this quest?” he asked assuming a more formal stance before them.

“Only that some evil lurks at the heart of the keep,” Camilla said. By now Cydric had reached her and stood by her side, watching the knight with his wolfish eyes.

“An evil, yes…” the knight said his face grim.

“Born of foul magic employed by the vain and foolish, a splinter in the festering wound that ails Aquitaine,” the knight intoned sonorously.

“So you know what it is? Cydric asked in Riekspiel, clearly following enough of the Brettonian to get by. To Camilla’s considerable surprise the knight switched to the Imperial tongue in a heartbeat, his accent sight compared to other Brettonian’s she had met.

“I do Sir Knight,” Cavic confirmed with a nod of his head.

“Well? What is it?” Camilla demanded, folding her arms beneath her breasts. Cavic looked apologetic.

“I cannot tell you, m’lady,” the Knight appologised, bowing slightly.

“Cannot, or will not?” Camilla demanded. In response the knight turned to the statue of the Lady.

“I have made a vow not to speak of it. Knowing too much might doom you, if you are not doomed already,” the knight explained.

“Myrmidia’s Tits is there something in the water that makes everyone so difficult to deal with,” Camilla complained. Cydric swallowed a laugh with an odd snorting sound.

“You Imperial’s are a direct people,” the knight remarked. Camilla didn’t choose to object to being lumped in with the Empire in this respect.

“Much of what we do is out of habit, but I assure you, in this case the facts could lead to your undoing, as they have to so many others who have known or suspected them.” Camilla shrugged her slim shoulders. The situation made less sense to her by the moment, but the longer they wasted here the further ahead of them Keffman would draw. Their slain friends could not rest easy while the wizard lived.

“Fine whatever, we are going in,” Camilla declared. The knight raised a hand in bar and Cydric’s hand went to the hilt of his sword instinctively. With a slow motion, obviously intended not to seem threatening the knight drew a golden key from his armor, hitherto suspended by a chain around his neck.

“Are you both here of your own free will?” Cavic asked formally. Cydric and Camilla both nodded.

“Enter then, the door shall not open for you while the evil resides within. The Lady be with you.” He turned and placed the key in the large ornate lock and with a whisper of long stale air the doors began to swing open onto a darkened hallway.

The Voyager

“Stars she is really banged up,” Vanderbeak declared as the Voyager swelled to fill the main monitor. The vessels hull was scared with weapons fire and charing from hits with energy weapons and blast damage. Something about it seemed wrong to Slade as his hands played over the controls. As the captain had directed he and six other crewmen including Vanderbeak who had volunteered, as much to get away from the captain, as for any real need for another officer, were aboard one of the boarding craft. The Sexy, more properly the C-EX-3, was a small all purpose cutter, useful for landing men, providing fire support to ground troops and the other ash and trash jobs that took crewmen away from the Cartagena. It had a pair of nose mounted pulse cannons, a bank of four thrusters mounted, on the tips of each of its four wings on gimbels, and a single jump capacitor in case of emergencies. The Sexy, as the number implies, was one of three such craft assigned to the Cartagena, but due to maintenance shortfalls, it was the only one currently operational.

“She’s taken alot of hits to still be in one piece like that,” Slade observed, touching the controls and gimbling the forward thrusters into a slight tangential opposition to the rearward pair. The maneuver pushed the crew into their acceleration couches as the Sexy’s nose lifted so that she flared like a swooping bird.

“Captain must be a stubborn bitch,” Vanderbeak agreed with a note of admiration in his voice. Slade opened his mouth to agree, but there was something about the damage that didn’ts sit quite right with him. Why had the captain not surrendered to the pirates earlier? Perhaps she had felt that she could run for Ceres? It was only half a million kilometers away, a mere stones throw in astronomical terms, but she must have known she couldn’t bring the ship through the atmosphere while being fired upon from a high guard. That was impossible even for a warship. Panic might have been an excuse, but if you panicked you were more likely to surrender than to risk being blown to atoms.

“Stand by to de-cel,” Slade said over the unit push as the rangefinders spun down towards intercept. He touched a series of control kicking the Sexy into alignment with the hangar bay at the aft of the vessel.

“Burning.”

The deck seemed to punch up into their feet as he fired all four thrusters in a series of syncopating bursts, bleeding off the residual acceleration without losing his heading. The small shuttle slid through the magnetic containment field no faster than a man could walk and there was a slight slap as they encountered the air inside the bay. A moment later they touched down with all the force of a feather fluttering to the ground.

“Show off,” Vanderbeak muttered as he began to unstrap himself. Slade winked at him and stood up. He was wearing a set of fleet standard body armor, segmented grey ceramic plates over a vacuum rated polymer suit. The integral air supply was mounted in the slight bulk between his shoulder blades, feeding the maneuvering jets built into the arms and legs as well as providing air to the occupant. He fixed his helmet over his head with a hiss of engaging seals and bought the HUD live with a flick of his tongue. Slade had done his rotation in zero-g operations, though he didn’t claim to be an expert. In the Fleet most long term G-heads were female, whose lower metabolic rates and muscle mass gave them an advantage where oxygen consumption was a factor.

“Do you really think you are going to need the monkey suit?” Vanderbeak asked. He, like the rest of the boarding party were dressed in grey T.R.O.Y coveralls, a far more comfortable choice. They had tactical webbing on though with the exception of the holstered pistols and the odd knife, they weren’t armed. This was a rescue operation after all and tools were likely to be more useful than weapons.

“The last thought of every poor bastard blown out an airlock has probably been ‘I wish I packed my monkey suit’ right?” Slade retorted, picking up a small sub machine gun and hanging it from an attachment point on the front of the suit, before opening the hatch to the crew compartment. Six crewmen sat on jump seats along a central isle. The looked excited and were babbling among themselves, which was understandable, this was the most exciting thing that had happened in the months since Slade had joined the crew.

“Alright,” Slade declared, his voice cutting through the babble of voices with a clear not of command.

“We know these people have been robbed by pirates. Pirates who we can’t be sure are all gone, keep your guard up and follow protocol. We will locate the captain and then give them what assistance they need to get to the ground on Ceres.” He paused for a moment uncertain of what else he should say.

“Keep your eyes open, something doesn't smell quite right,” he added at last. More than one set of eyes rolled, but they dutifully stood to allow him passed. At the end of the gangway he pulled the retractor switch and the rear facing ramp dropped under hydraulic pressure. There was a slight rush of air as the pressure differential between ship air and shuttle air equalized and then the ramp clanged down. The air in the hanger smelled like lubricant and burned engine casings, though some of that was the thruster wash from the shuttle. Crates of tools and half repaired pieces of machinery were scattered about and cables and hoses were stowed in untidy loops. There was no gravity in the bay and bolts, trash and globs of lubricant floated in the air. Slade used his magnetic boots to walk down the ramp and onto the deck. Behind him the spacers tramped down the ramp, pulling on helmets to shield their eyes.

“This is S2 to Cartagena,” Slade said, the words tripping the microwave link back to the ship.

“We are on deck, but it doesn't look like anyone came to meet us. Ill update you soonest S2 out.”

Damned to the Depths

The Witch swept toward the coast on a soldiers wind. It was a stroke of good fortune, for the winds off the desert coasts were notoriously fickle. Many a ship had been pinned up against the arid rocky coast to fight the wind for hours to keep off the rocks, or trust the dubious sandy bottom to hold a storm anchor until the winds shifted again. The great harbor of Dalib Sahara yawned before them, the natural points of stone had been expanded with vast moles of of roughly cut sandstone. Here and there the thirty foot wide arms bulged with platforms like jewels on a string. Each bulge housed a weapons platform manned by two or three bored looking guards in turbans and archaic looking chain mail lounged. Most of the weapons looked old and in poor repair, though if even a fraction of them were functional then attacking the port was a chancy proposition. Whether time, lack of interest or graft had weakened the defences didn’t really matter, the fickle winds were a better defence than man could devise.

Inside the harbor dozens of ships were anchored. Tall square rigged ships from Vrettonia, massive teak built galleons with huge lateen rigs from Punt, and the distant semi mythical trading kingdoms in Sylon’ika and Kushapti. There were a pack of corsair galleys with their banked oars and large forward mounted bombards, trader or raider depending only on how the captain calculated the odds, and how far from port they got. Smaller craft of all description moved between them, loading and unloading cargo, and peddling local goods. If the arrival of the Witch was even noticed it wasn’t visible as they swept towards the break waters. A disreputable looking galley began to pull out towards the witch. A man in ornate but dirty robes stood on the prow yelling in Arad through a bras speaking trumpet that made the words attenuated and basso.

Before Markus could speak Achmed cupped his hands and began to yell in Arad back. The conversation went back and forth for several minutes and it grew increasingly irrate as it went on. Calliope, who spoke Arad well enough to get by snickered.

“What is he saying?” Jim who was on his knees scrubbing the deck asked, looking around in eager excitement. Calliope cleared her throat.

“The price says that if this camel turd does not turn around and inform his lord and father that he has returned, that the vultures will feast on his genitals while he lives, that he will be strung up with his own guts, that his asshole will be seared with red hot…”

“I think we get the gist,” Markus said with an amused grin at Jim’s widening eyes. The steersman in the approaching galley was apparently also getting the gist and began yelling and gesticulating back over his shoulder. The disreputable little vessel turned a slow circle and shot of back towards the harbor. Achmed folded his arms in satisfaction.

“How is it that the land support so many people?” Jim asked as they swept past the breakwater. Achmed had directed them to a long wooden pier near the center of the harbor. Already men in gold chased armor with veils of chainmail and rich silk sashes had gathered. As Calliope had suspected Achmed must have been the real deal, otherwise the men gathered on the pier would function as executioners as easily as an honor guard. Jim’s question was a fair one, the hills behind the city were of sear rock and scarcely a thing grew upon them. Heat shimmered up in waves, that danced like witch fire on the air.

“There is a great spring that rises at the base of the hills, it feeds a short river that doesn't quite reach the sea, it's all diverted to canals,” Calliope explained, pointing to the green fringes where palm and date trees grew along the boulevards and greenery dotted the room.

“All of the cities of the coast have a spring like it,” Calliope went on, the attention of the crew and even Achmed focused on her as she spoke.

“Legend has it that each spring erupts from a spot where Hayashim conceived a son,” Calliope went on, oblivious to her audience.

“Do you think it’s true?” Jim asked in breathless wonder. Calliope snickered.

“I doubt it, if Hayashim was like any other priest i’ve met there would be rivers spurting out of every brothel and knocking shop from her to Poitan.” The remark bought a gale of laughter from the crew and bought a flush to Achmed’s sun burned face.

“Best keep such thoughts to yourself once we reach the shore lad,” Markus declared in a voice that was loud enough to carry to the whole crew.

“They take such things seriously in Arad Lind.”

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

It was nearly midday and the town of Tarren’s Ferry was a bustling hive of activity. Farmers and craftsmen were haggling and exchanging goods and promises. During the festival of Beltane deals would be struck and plans would be made and now the time had come to start delivering on them. Mave began to understand why Evelyn was so upset about Ali, this would be the time of year for betrothals to be properly announced and missing the day likely meant another year would pass. Evelyn was younger than Ali but she was a woman in the reckoning of the Two Rivers, she needed to marry and start a family of her own.

Mave tried to ignore the looks she got from the villagers as she went about her business. As with her previous dealings she tried not to engage in conversation, answering politely but not engaging in anything more than superficialities. She was glad she had taken the time to conceal the short sword beneath her skirts, though it slapped unpleasantly against her thigh, she didn’t want to make more of a ruckus than she already was.

As she shopped she pondered the problem of Ali. What interest could the minions of the Dark One possibly have in a farm boy from the middle of nowhere? Certainly he had strange eyes, but that alone seemed hardly enough to justify the interest. Was it possible that Ali could channel? She hadn’t probed the question too deeply but it seemed unlikely that a man of his age could be quietly concealing such a thing, or that he would be so calm in proximity to an Aes Sedai if he was. That left what? The Shadow had its own prophecies and like its own fortellings, was Ali important to them in that way? Although it was pure speculation this seemed to be the most likely answer. If that was so then the safest thing to do was to bring him to Tar Valon but that wasn’t an option right now. Not until she reached Illian and recovered whatever it was Velma Sedai had discovered there. Or he could be a Ta’veren. Even thinking the word made her vaguely uncomfortable. Was it possible that Ali was one of those rare individuals that warped the weave of the pattern? Would she even know if he were?

Thrusting aside such uncomfortable speculations she went about her business. Within an hour she had purchased a pair of horses, with saddles and saddlebags. A peddler who had been traveling through had suffered a fit of apoplexy the previous day. With no family to collect the horses it had been put up for sale by the village Mayor. Mave secured the two horses as well as some assorted pots, pans, blankets and other essentials by the simple accident of being on the spot with coined money, which could, in theory be given to any heir that showed up. They mayor seemed delighted that a solution to the problem had occurred and thanked her profusely. When he asked her where she was headed she responded that the was considering returning to Camelyn and asked about the route to Baerlon and Whitebridge. It wasn’t much of a false trail but she figured it was better than nothing.

Ali’s advice for where to shop proved to be excellent and by the time the sun was beginning to sink she rode out of the village leading a spare horse and a mule laden with food and supplies. Even with the rarity of coin the purchases all but exhausted the supply of copper she had to hand but she was comfortable that she could pass some of her Tar Valon marks if they could reach Jehannah, though that city lay many days travel south through the gap in Garren’s Wall. Mave was riding north along the road, to meet Ali and then circle the village through the woods before beginning the trek south when a voice from the woods startled her.

“Mistress Mave what an unexpected pleasure!”

Mave wheeled to find the Gleeman she had met in the village step out from behind a tree, his colorful cloak whirling in an exaggerated bow. She ground her teeth in irritation.

“Master Simon,” she said with outwards pleasantness. His horse was tethered back behind a stand of trees and he had a small campfire half built.

“A strange place to make camp,” she observed, “Tarren’s ferry is not an hours ride south, and they will have paying customers in the inn.”

The Voyager

@converge how would you prefer boarding to work? Direct docking or via smaller shuttle craft?

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

For once Rene’s sleep was untroubled by dreams. He slept in the unrelieved darkness of complete exhaustion oblivious to the universe. Genetic enhancements and brutal physical and mental conditioning could only take one so far and the exertions of the past days had pushed Rene closer to the limit than he would have admitted. Even so, he had been on Panopontus long enough that his body dutifully woke him an hour or so before dawn for stand-to. Rising, he stretched his muscles working the tight cords out of his back. Solae lay in the bed in a deep sleep, somehow as beautiful in her repose as in every other aspect of her life. For a few moments he simply watched her, drinking in the sight before finally turning and heading out of the bedroom and into the main house.

To Rene’s surprise Tychon was in the kitchen, stirring a packet of instant caffine into a mug of hot water. The other man looked up at Rene in some surprise. The Panoponti was wearing another set of heavy duty coveralls, though they were knotted around his waist revealing a white cotton undershirt.

“You’re up early,” Tychon observed, pouring a second cup of caffine without asking Rene if he wanted one.

“Habit is a powerful thing,” Rene said, accepting the lukewarm cup of liquid thankfully and taking a sip. To his surprise it appeared to be based on a protein broth rather than on water. The subversion of expectations was a little unpleasant but he supposed it made sense to combine breakfast with the stimulant drink.

“That it is,” Tychon agreed casting a companionable glance at the soldier.

“I’m up this time every morning, to check the weather normally, can't harvest coral in a storm or if it is too rough.” A light but persistent rain was falling outside, pattering off the corrugated iron roofing. Out in the yard Rene could see that the sealed path was flowing with a shallow stream of water, though judging by his hosts lack of alarm, this was nothing unusual. Large green plants with heart shaped leaves, low enough to the ground and with sufficient protection to have survived the hurricane, writhed under the rain as they shed the water.

“I’m guessing that you aren’t up to check the weather,” Tychon went on, sipping at his breakfast and arching an eyebrow.

“Not exactly,” Rene agreed but didn’t amplify the statement. Telling Tychon that he was checking the perimeter would seem paranoid at best and confirm any suspicions that they had something to hide. That probably wasn’t much of a stretch considering how they had arrived and the fact that a pair of obvious nobles were here at all.

“You aren’t going out today I take it?” Rene asked. The air was redolent with the scent of the ocean and the earthy smell of rain falling on loose soil. The alien plant life tinged the whole mixture with something vaguely resinous, different from the plant life of other world Rene had visited. It was cooler than new Concordia had been, though Rene doubted it ever got as cold as the slightly alpine region of Cappela where his family kept its estate.

“No most of the fleet is beached, driven ashore by the storm,” Tychon said. There was a tightness to his face and Rene realised the hardship that represented for people living hand to mouth. It might be months before San Roayo was able to resume its normal business. Rene wondered if his father's agents ever took that into account when they made their demands for rents and dues. He doubted it and the revelation made him feel embarrassed, an expression he covered by taking a draught of the caffeinated soup.

“You are getting ready to go out though,” Rene observed gesturing to Tychon in his obvious work attire. A pair of muddy boots stood by the door along with a webbing belt of tools. Rene didn’t recall Tychon wearing it last night but then there had been rather alot going on. The other man nodded and set his now empty cup down.

“Aye, there are still collapsed houses we are searching, though honestly….” Tychon didn’t finish the sentence, but Rene understood that by this time, days after the storm had hit, it was obvious that few survivors were expected.

“Don’t worry ill be back to take you to the fluorine warehouse in a few hours,” Tychon assured him. Rene shook his head in dismissal.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked before he had time to think it through. His head turned unconsciously towards the bedroom where Solae slumbered. Tychon smiled as though he could read Rene like a book.

“Don’t worry she will be safe here,” Tychon assured him, then he gestured towards an open closet where two outfits more or less identical to the one he wore, hung on wooden hangers. Rene hesitated a moment in indecision. He didn’t want to leave Solae alone but if she were awake he knew what she would tell him to do. After a moment he crossed and grabbed one of the sets of coveralls and changed into them drawing the zipper up over his own tan cotton shirt. Tychon wasn’t quite the same size as Rene but the garments were designed with versatility in mind. Stepping back into the guest room he transferred his pistol from his combat pants to one of the pockets on the borrowed garment and then scribbled a quick note to Solae, explaining that he was going with Tychon and would be back in a few hours. He left one of the small communicators atop the note, preset to the frequency they were using. Crossing to the sleeping marquessa he kissed her lightly on the forehead and then slipped out to join in the rescue effort.

The scale of the destruction was greater than Rene had realised. The darkness and rain of the night before had done alot to conceal the reality of the storm ravaged settlement. In the cold light of day Rene could see that few structures had escaped the destruction completely. Many roofs had been torn off by the howling winds and most houses had smashed windows or cracked masonry where they had been struck by flying debris. The streets were littered with a mixed detritus of building material and shattered trees. Here and there a wheeled vehicle was parked, mostly small trucks or other transports but few people on San Roayo seemed to own personal vehicles.

Closer to the strand the damage was worse. The buildings here were almost universally in ruins, smashed piles of synthetic sheeting and structural beams. The roads themselves, composed of crushed coral, sand and plasticized stabilizing agent were torn into chunks where water had been forced beneath them by the wind. Here and there a water main leaked with a slow gurgle, the pumps that would have made them geysers having been shut off or lost power. Tychon had spoken of the coral gathering fleets being ‘driven ashore’ earlier. Rene had assumed that he meant beached but barges more or less like the one in which they had crossed the straight lay scattered about in yards and on the street, carried up over the beach by the storm surge. Seaweed, sand, fishing nets and other refuse from the ocean marked where the waters had reached and anything much beyond that line was a hopeless ruin.

Gangs of men and women hand obviously been at work throughout the night. They formed lines beginning at the worst struck houses, carrying away rubble and debris and tossing it into large piles. Chemical lights on long poles had been thrust into the ground to provide illumination through the night and from the haggard and exhausted looks many had been at it for long hours. Here and there sat official looking vehicles, with ‘Gendarmerie’ stenciled on the sides. They were air cushioned jeeps rather than wheeled transports and Rene assumed they were what San Roayo had for police. The vehicles were universally unoccupied with the officers evidently having joined the rescue parties.

Tychon led him to where a group of men were working to clear debris from a smaller house. Several cutting bars shrieked as their diamond teeth sliced through structural beams to allow them to be carried away. The burning plastic of the cuts gave the whole thing an acrid chemical reek. Rene had been concerned with how Tychon would introduce him but he merely grunted that Rene was a friend of his from off the island and no one paid it any more attention.

“Do you think there are people still inside?” he asked Tychon as he helped shift a large slab of synthetic stone. The other man looked sombre.

“Doubtful, Madrig, that's the blond fellow over there, his wife was in the house when the storm hit, came back for some medication for her mother,” Tychon explained. Rene looked up and down the street at the devastation. Some houses were being left as they were, others were being worked on.

“We all worked crews together, those of us who have everyone accounted for…” Tychon made a sign with his hand that Rene presumed was a thanks to the universe, “we are working for those who are missing.” Rene nodded his understanding. There was nothing like an organized governmental response as yet, just neighbours helping neighbours. Even if it wasn’t actively involved in the rebellion, the government on Panopontus must have dozens of islands like San Royao to consider.

“Have you scanned for life?” Rene asked as he took a structural timber from another man. Tychon frowned as though Rene were speaking an alien language.

“How do you mean?” he asked in evident confusion. Rene reached into his satchel and drew forth a pair of the multi-function goggles he had taken from the Bonaventure and clipped them over his eyes. Judging from Tychon’s shocked look this was high technology on San Roayo. The googles were able to amplify vision in a number of spectrum but Rene clicked the dial to infrared. The world became a mass of shifting blues and greens. The rain drops slanted across the view as cool cyan streaks where as the cutting bar blades glowed white. Rene hadn’t expected to find anything, but too his shock he saw the faint outline of a warm body shaped object in one of the corners of the house, slightly below the ground level in what must have once been a basement or a crawl space.

“There!” he pointed and pulling the googles free moved over to the excavated corner. Tychon followed him wordlessly and took the goggles from his hand as Rene took the cutting bar from one of the exhausted workers. The man looked angry but was too tired to offer much in the way of protest.

“Brace these beams,” Rene ordered and made a series of triangular cuts, lifting away flooring and collapsed wall. The man Tychon had identified as Madrig rushed over, his face a mask of anger and grief, but Thycon merely held out a hand to prevent him from interfering. In a few minutes Rene had cut away enough of the flooring to reveal a middle aged woman. She was unconscious and blood was congealed on her face where she had been struck by something but her chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths.

“She is alive!” Madrig shouted and jumped into the space with another man to lift the woman free, passing her muddy form up to the men who gathered around the hole. She would need medical attention but Rene thought she would live. Tychon pressed the goggles to his face and swore.

“By the seas! These things can actually see through the rubble?!” he demanded. Madrig enfolded Rene in a hug before he could respond, tears of relief ran down his face as he thanked him effusively. Rene bore it awkwardly, his aristocratic upbringing didn’t give him much comfort with such physicality.

“It won't help if someone is already dead or if they are buried too deep….” but Tychon wasn’t listening instead he thrust the goggles back to Rene.

“Come with me, we will scan the other houses,” he declared and set off down the street towards the next gang.

“Where did you get such a device?” One of the other men asked in wonder. Rene realised too late that he might have made a mistake in revealing what to him was fairly simple technology but was obviously far ahead of what the locals had to hand. He cursed himself for having exposed Solae to additional risk, but what could he do?

“I was a crewman on a starship,” Rene said, thinking quickly, “just sort of ended up in my kit I guess.”

The Voyager

No problems 😊

The Voyager

“XO we are receiving a distress call,” the communications officer, a swarthy Gaean named Vanderbeak, reported, straightening in his chair at the sudden excitement. Slade blinked his eyes as a text crawl of the message began to scroll across his enhanced field of vision. The Cartagena shifted slightly as Slade became aware of the situation, his neural impulses tied into the ships sensors and control surfaces vial neural linkages implanted in his brachial and coracoid plexi. Lidar and microwave sensors swung onto the target in moments, the computer figuring a reciprocal to the transmission in less time than it too Vanderbreak to report it.

It had been eight months since Beckett Slade had been banished to obscurity aboard the T.R.O.Y frigate TAS Cartagena. It was not a pleasant assignment, and the fact that he had to look forward to it for the rest of his career did little to improve his enthusiasm. While he had been exonerated by the inquest into his actions on Benson, if he ever left military service he would be liable to civil prosecution on individual worlds which would effectively be a death sentence. At first he had tried to look on the posting as a chance to bring something of the Fleet’s discipline to the T.R.O.Y vessel but hs presence here was unwanted and the captain resented being saddled with him, a fact he made abundantly clear to the crew.

The sensor screen lit up with the lidar returns and the computer through up a simulation of the Voyager a compact frigate with the curving nacelle mountings common in this region of space. While such traders commonly went armed they were rarely a match for the more war like frigates that T.R.O.Y used. They must have been hit right after they came out of jumpspace, a common enough occurrence as jump points were stable and predictable and thus obvious targets for pirates.

“Should we alter course XO?” Vanderbeak asked. The ship ran on a Terran clock and this was deep into the night cycle. The only other officer on the bridge was Nakamura who was a gunner’s mate and was seated at the weapons console. Nakamura had his visor down, but Slade would have been surprised if he were viewing anything more useful than pornography on the system.

“Why aren’t they broadcasting on one of the system wide bands?” Slade asked Vanderbeak, the antennae that was transmitting to them was being manually aimed. That was an odd choice for people in distress who needed aid. Vanderbeak shrugged his shoulders.

“Pirates might have smashed up the commo, stop em’ calling for help. It's pretty standard, they probably weren’t smart enough to bust the manual systems,” the veteran said. Vanderbeak, like Slade, was on the captain’s shit list and had been banished to the night shift. He was a tall man in late middle age with blue eyes and thinning blonde hair. Slade liked him better than most of the other crew members and had trusted his experience. The registry files listed the Voyager as Frigate 02121 but held little beyond a commissioning date and an original owner. Slade had run enough checks to know that the information would be hopelessly out of date. In theory captains were required to update the registry information every time the made planet fall on a civilized world, but in practice few people really bothered.

“Mr Slade!” a voice snarled from the access hatch. Vanderbeak flinched but Slade merely turned to see the Captain, Markus Ridge, standing in the door his face twisted with anger. Ridge was a portly man in his mid forties, he might have been handsome once but age and dissipation had taken their toll. Ridge resented being saddled with Slade who he viewed as a direct insult to his own authority. It was bad luck that Ridge was up at this time, in the normal course of things the captain would be informed before altering course, though in practice Slade probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Alter course at once,” Ridge snapped stamping across the deck to take his place at the command console.

“Sir,” Slade said in a neutral voice, “we haven’t had a chance to scan for…”

“The Stars burn you Slade, you will alter course or I will toss you in the brig. Do all you navy types fuck around coveringing your asses while people are running out of oxygen, or are you just a particular coward?” the captain snarled maliciously. Obviously he wasn’t best pleased to be out of bed at this late hour and the opportunity to snap at Slade was a balm. Slade didn’t rise to the bait even though Nakamura sniggered.

“Altering course now,” Slade declared and the impulses from his nervous system translated into a slow rotation as the maneuvering jets began to fire with an impact like waves hitting the side of a rowboat. The six thrusters at the rear of the vessel modulated their output such that the sliding greasy feeling of the gravity change stabilized almost before it could be felt. Such delicate manoeuvring was a naval standard but were far beyond most pilots. Characteristically Ridge ignored the good performance of his subordinate.

“Time to intercept?” Ridge asked wearily.

“21 minutes captain, unless you want us to burn harder,” Slade said in his neutral professional voice. It seemed to irritate Ridge more than screaming or cursing would have done and the Captain shot him a scowl. Increasing the burn beyond the 1.5Gs they were currently pulling would require that general quarters be sounded and the crew strap in.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ridge said with another derisive sneer. A moment ago he had been scolding Slade for wanting to take his time and scan the ship, now he was rejecting a course which would get them there faster because it involved a little personal discomfort. If Ridge noticed the contradiction he didn’t comment.

“This is Captain Ridge of the TAS Cartagena,” Ridge declared over the commuications link.

“We are maneuvering to provide you assistance, stand by to receive boarders, ETA two one minutes. The pompous ass sound magnanimous, the very picture of a T.R.O.Y officer eager and willing to do his duty. Kissing ass took you places it turned out.

“Get a boarding party together once you unplug from that damned chair.” It was a pointless and petty gesture, Slade’s implants made him the best pilot for the Cartagena, neural interface being far superior to manual flight control but plugging in and out was unpleasant. It was true that he was the best qualified to lead a boarding party, but then he was best qualified to do most things on the slipshod vessel.

“Yes sir,” he said, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice. Well a few minutes off this tub was something to look forward to at least.

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

Mave watched Ali for long seconds, her gaze unreadable. She liked Ali and had to admit that he was a handsome man, still the fact that agents of the Shadow were seeking him for unknown reasons should have been reason enough to hold her tongue but almost in spite of herself she found herself speaking.

“I am on my way to Illian,” she said, feeling an odd sense of relief steal over her. Since Velma’s murder she hadn’t spoken to a soul about what she was going on.

“A Sister of mine,” she explained, again speaking the technical truth, “was murdered because of something she uncovered in the Tower archive. Murdered by darkfriends.” Even to Ali, she didn’t go so far as to say the Black Ajah, it was too monstrous a thing to give life to by speaking of it.

“I don’t even know what it is, but she left me a rough map, pieced together from clues she had found. Other people might be looking for it but so far as I know my sister only made one copy of the map, I hope that will be enough.”

She blew out a breath, surprised and a little chagrined at how much she had just shared. Realising her admission opened up another question she addressed it quickly.

“I come from Arad Doman originally but I didn’t walk over the Mountain’s of Mist as I implied. Darkfriends had me cornered in Caemlyn and so I used an ancient waygate to escape. I didn’t even know I was in the Two Rivers until I spoke to you.”

“As for fancying me,” she smiled wrly, “don’t they teach you proverbs about getting messed up in the affairs of Aes Sedai?”