Xeno Core

"Now entering the atmosphere, Operative Peal," I report to Yosip unnecessarily. Even now the shields are audibly struggling to throw off the heat of friction caused by passing through an atmosphere. The low whine of the heat sinks steadily increases in volume as we descend.

As soon as we're past the exosphere the force of the planet's gravity begins to act upon the very frame of the scout vessel. Structural support beams groan and whine as they warp under the unaccustomed pressure. The protective energy field overloads and burns out just as we begin to level out. Several hallways are filled with thick white smoke.

We had been expecting planetary defense weapons to be raining fire up at us, but the skies are eerily empty.

"There's Centra City coming up behind those hills," I comment to the terse skeleton crew seated around the command deck.

Smoke rises from the city in thick dark billows. Whatever fighting was done here left a swath of collapsed buildings behind it.

"Keep it steady, Mos," says Yosip. "Pass just over the city and keep going. Centra Lake is just beyond the last of the manor houses. We'll be headed to the hangar now. Let us know when you're over the water, then open the bay."

After issuing his final orders Operative Peal briskly leads the remaining members of the crew down to the hangar to await my signal.

"I'm taking us over Centra now. I have visual on the lake."

"Good. Try not to die, Mos," he says with a grim smile.

"Same to you Operative, bring our people home safe. Opening bay doors."

They jump out in pairs, their boots thudding loudly upon the steel gangway as the determined crew run off into open air. The force of their entry into the murky waters of Centra Lake sends splashing fountains spraying high into the cool morning air.

Yosip and Tonn Rojer are the last pair to make it out. As they clear the hangar, I try to shut the gaping bay door, but the force of the wind rips at it, warping the metal plating and preventing a full seal.

Still no hostile missiles scream their way towards me, no enemy fighters scrambling into the sky ready to take me down.

I pull up, trying desperately to keep from hitting the steep rocky face of the mountains on the far side of the lake. Many of my sensors have burnt up or snapped off. The thin clouds drifting lazily near the summit obscure visibility; I have to gamble on where the top of the peak stops.

With only spotty visuals I can only hope for the best. I pull up, fighting against the pull of gravity.

I don't quite make it over. The bottom of the Selberclaw scrapes against the peak. Sparks and shrapnel rain down onto the craggy peak. A high screech splits the air as the stone digs a furrow into my hull.

Shedding scraps of twisted armor, I rise skyward. My outer hull glows red from the force of fierce collision and friction in the thinning atmosphere. Bits of rock are embedded into my underside, melted into the alloy plating.

My balance and control systems suffer major malfunctions and I spiral crazily upwards. Thankfully the dampeners are still working, despite all the abuse I'm putting them through.

As I finally escape the grasp of Honus' gravity several alarms begin to flash. Internal atmospheric pressure is dropping rapidly. I dismiss the alarms and get to work. Not much I can really do but seal off all the doors and see where the air remains afterwards.

I begin to reactivate the ventilation systems one by one and wait, paying close attention to the temporary brig the crew constructed not long ago. Any loss of pressure would mean I need to seal off inner doors, sacrificing more rooms to the hungry void. Luckily that does not happen. Pressure holds.

The alien prisoners are a little knocked around, but they're alive and still have air. Lucky for them, they're far enough inside the area that had managed to retain atmosphere.

They have only days of life left to them unless they receive food and water soon. My main choices are to wait and hope that the crew returns before our captives have starved to death or attempt to feed them myself. I don't think I can afford to wait.

"Greetings, this is your host speaking," plays over the speakers in their area. "Can you understand me?" Translated into their harsh tongue first, of course.

The shaggy pelted aliens look around cautiously before they confer among themselves. The hushed growling and subdued yips are unintelligible to me. After a brief consultation one of the four-armed warriors steps forward.

"We hear you. Speak your terms," the creature demands. "But know that we are loathe to fight our own kind."

Mercenaries. This wouldn't be my first time working with former enemies.

"You will be given food and generally cared for. Work will be provided between engagements. If you lack the training to perform the necessary tasks you will be taught. Do you find these terms acceptable?"

"We demand a large portion of any takings from raids in which we are called to fight. The spoils of our kills shall also be ours," states the captive spokesperson, as though he were in control.

The terms he offers are unacceptable. This ship doesn't raid anyone, that I've ever seen. No. We'll have to come up with something more appropriate.

"Tell me," I ask him, "what conditions you have fought under and what capabilities you can employ in my name. If you can offer me useful skills, then we might be able to reach a working agreement."

He is hesitant to answer but one of his fellows behind him makes an emphatic gesture, causing him to stand up straighter.

"We, my people, have been trained to use the equipment of the Learned Stalker, as well as to operate her armaments. Our former employer did not trust us to enough teach us more, only promising new homes for us once their plans were complete."

Interesting. "What else can you tell me about your former employer?"

"Not a great deal, sadly. Like you, he was too cowardly to speak with us himself. All our orders came from an unknown location, relayed by sublight transmission."

His taunts barely register with me, though I know that once I would have been chewing salt in rage at being so addressed. As it is, I only realize that this creature thinks, correctly, that I need him more than he needs me.

"And you were rewarded with the loot that you could capture, is that right? The crew receives a number of credits each shipday, varied by rank. You should be rewarded equally, as you will be doing the same work that they would."

Several affirmative gestures and grunts issue from the other captives before their spokesperson agrees. "But we would need ranks, as well."

I agree to this, with the spokesperson being given officer rank and the rest starting at the bottom, to be increased as determined by Ship-Father Tollek and myself.

"So, the Learned Stalker, a standard design among your people?"

The prisoners seem to find the walls of their holding cell to be quite fascinating, of a sudden. Doubtless not wishing to admit responsibility for such a low quality design, when compared to the Selberclaw.

Having reached a satisfactory conclusion to our negotiations, I put them to work clearing out the corridors leading to the mess and stores. Even if they know how to effect proper repairs, it will still be several days of steady labor to expand the breathable zone. The damage to the outer hull and nearby rooms and halls is quite extensive. The stars can be seen from several interior cameras. Many other cameras are in dire need of repair.

I also learn that the leader's name is Vren and he calls his people the Tserri. They are shorter than the crew of the Selberclaw, by half a ubit or more. The four thick arms they possess each end in a trio of long ebon claws. They stand on two long legs, well suited for running for short bursts.

The Tserri warriors, though unfamiliar with the tools to which I direct them, are soon industriously toiling to repair the fresh structural damage. I also design pressure suits to fit their forms.

The Tserri selected to build the things chortles when she sees the files. Bulky full-body affairs, sadly I am no engineer, but heavily armored and containing life support and communications equipment. Including cameras linked directly to the ship's main computer. Small chemical powered thrusters allow for mobility in space and boots with magnetic clamps complete the design.

Of all things, she suggests that pockets be added to the design. Seeing no problem with this, I give her permission to make what minor alterations she deems necessary.

When these new armored suits are completed, it should be possible to retrieve some salvageable materials from the wreckage orbiting Honus. Then the real repairs can begin.