Gap Stories #20

[The Price Of The Future]

Log Date: 11/21/12768

Data Sources: Fringe Foundation Archives

Event Log: 11/21/12768

Strigidae Stealth Skipper-4: Passenger Cabin

11:38pm LPT

This is the price of the future.

The mantra echoed in his head as he stared out the window, watching as the flat clouds skimmed by, just below their cruising altitude. On a preserve world such as this, there were no city centers to pollute the night, no metropolitan spiderwebs to taint the clouds from below with a sickened, yellowish hue. The only light here was from the twin moons of Halcyon, the clean, silver glow reflected by the clouds below.

A pure place, untouched by the corruption of capitalism and industrial development.

After a time spent staring out the window, he returns his attention to data slate on the small desk before him. It was filled with numbers, as was often the case. Sometimes the numbers were in spreadsheets; sometimes they were in reports; other times they were in presentations. Sometimes they were numbers about money; sometimes they were numbers about logistics; sometimes they were numbers about experiments or research. In recent years, those numbers had increasingly been used to describe casualties.

After all, that was sometimes the price of the future.

“We’ll be beginning our descent shortly, Captain.” states the woman sitting across the passenger cabin from him, working at a desk of her own. She had the semblance of humanity, but the pristine glow of the turquoise lines on her face gave her away. Those lines ran from under her eyes, down to her jaw, along her throat, curving around to the back of her neck — and it made it very clear that she was of the Cyber persuasion. “We should arrive to Genista within the hour.”

The Captain’s lips, often drawn in a straight line, twitched for a moment. A ghost of a smile, a passing gratitude. “Thank you.” he says, resting his elbows on the armrests of his seat as he laces his fingers together. “Hopefully the visit will be a quiet one. Do we know when the last Leviathan incursion was?”

“Within the last week. There should not be another one for at least another week, though our intel indicates that the interval between Leviathan attacks has gradually been decreasing.” she answers without taking her eyes away from the screen she’s looking at. “It is the recommendation of the tactical department that we not remain in Genista more than ninety-six hours, to avoid being present during another such assay.”

Ninety-six hours, the equivalent of three days on Halcyon. “Reasonable. If they cooperate, this should be one of our quieter stops.”

Her mismatched eyes — one turquoise, one a dull silver — finally peel away from her screen to glance at him. “If they cooperate? We had this arrangement in writing. The outpost is obligated by contract to surrender what they owe us.”

“Indeed. But that contract was drawn up almost twenty years ago, and the outpost has changed hands several times since then.” The Captain’s gaze has returned to the window, watching the ethereal silver plains below them. “And you know how politicians are. They do not always honor the agreements made by their predecessors.”

Her lips draw tight, and the Captain can see the expression in the dark reflection of the window he’s staring through. He knows what it means; it is the repression of an acidic sentiment, withheld because she does not want to disturb his tranquility. She often did this, holding her opinions in check in the name of professionalism.

“You can go ahead and say it, Tacna.” he says. “We aren’t in polite company, so you needn’t censor yourself.”

“The vice of politics is not an excuse for broken promises.” Tacna states, her voice clipped. “If they do not honor the contract, there needs to be consequences.”

“There will be.” the Captain states simply. “Their compliance is optional. We will take what we are owed, regardless of whether or not they cooperate.”

She nods. “Good.” With that, her gaze returns to the screen she was studying, as if considering the matter settled.

But the Captain’s mind does not move on so quickly. “Do you think we should demand payment up front next time, Tacna?”

“It probably would’ve been wiser, yes.”

“Undoubtedly. But they insisted on this arrangement when the offer was first made.” His  recollection of this fact is pensive, as if he had been ruminating on it for a while. “They deferred the payment of their debt onto future generations. I wonder if they thought about the burden they would be placing on those that came after them.”

Tacna doesn’t say anything, but she does look up from her work screen to gaze at her Captain, knowing that he is going somewhere with this.

“I feel like we have seen that more and more often over the last twenty years.” he says, absentmindedly brushing his narrow knuckles against his jaw. “More and more nations are borrowing against the next generation to pay for themselves. Sacrificing the future to get what they want now, rather than paying now to build a better future. Why do you think they do that?” He turns his head from the window, looking now at Tacna. “Is it because their leaders don’t think they’ll be around long enough to live in the future that they’ve hollowed out?”

“You truly want my opinion?” she asks.

“I do.”

“Very well. It is my personal belief that leadership is no longer viewed as a duty to nation and a service to society. It’s a stepping stone on the path to prestige and profit. Personal enrichment is the only thing that really matters to many of these politicians, so of course they will sacrifice the future for their own benefit. They are not the ones that will have to live with the consequences of their actions.”

“Mmm. I do not like it, but I cannot deny it. There is a direct pipeline from political office to personal profiteering after one’s term has ended.” he agrees, glancing out his window once more. “We are formed by the times we live in, and Myrrdicato has known peace for over a century now. Several generations have come and gone, living their lives without knowing the price of that peace, since organizations such as the Challengers, CURSE, and the Valiant have worked to uphold their versions of an ideal galaxy. But this current war is beyond their ability to contain… and perhaps that is not a bad thing.” He lowers his laced fingers. “Perhaps it will produce a new generation that understands sacrifice; that understands service to a higher cause, a wider community. The galaxy is wanting for better leaders; perhaps this war will give it to them.”

Tacna’s brow furrows. “Is there no better way to produce good leaders? It should not take a galactic war to produce good leadership.”

“Perhaps not among Cybers. But among organics, they have a tendency to take for granted what has been freely given to them.” the Captain says, shifting a little in his seat as if trying to get comfortable. “It is often the case that they only appreciate what they have when they have had to work or sacrifice for it. If they do not have to work or sacrifice for it, they often do not understand the value of what they have been given.”

“The Foundation manages it.” Tacna points out.

The Captain smiles a little at that. “The Foundation is unique in that regard. Our method of governance is effective, but rarely to the liking of larger, less educated populations. And unlike the Collective, we are not in the business of imposing our vision of society on the rest of the galaxy. We convert by example, not by force.”

“We might be doing some systems a favor by making it a matter of force.” Tacna mutters as she returns to typing on her screen.

“Perhaps. But the Foundation has more important matters to spend their resources on. We are in the business of outliving nations, not building them.” he says as he likewise takes up his data slate once more. “It is our role to trailblaze the future, so that others may follow in the paths we have cleared for them. We show the way — they choose whether or not they will follow it.”

“They usually do, though they never want to acknowledge who they owe their advancement to.” Tacna mutters. “To often they want to reap all the benefits of our work while castigating us for the process. Hypocrites, all the way down.”

“You’re not wrong… but try to contain your misanthropy, at least for the duration of this visit. It will not be long, and we will be on our way again.” the Captain says, opening a file on his data slate. “I was looking over the briefing you prepared for me earlier. I understand the outpost’s current leader is a senior researcher by the name of Jore Ganard, currently filling the position of mayor. And the special project lead we need to speak to is this fellow by the name of Rofty?”

“Indeed. The mayor isn’t anything to worry about, but something’s off about the special project lead. The Array flagged him during analysis; it didn’t find anything concrete, but there were a lot of metrics where he was coming back as just slightly out of alignment…”

Event Log: 11/21/12768

Halcyon: the Black Moon Bar

13:02pm LPT

The Black Moon Bar was not known for being your traditional bar.

There were certain touches that it shared with other bars — low lighting, screens hung from the ceilings and walls, and a regular clientele that came to socialize or drink away their problems. But that was about where the similarities ended; where most other bars would have spaceball tournies or other championship sports on the screens, the Black Moon instead had the most recent matches from the major RTS and MOBA leagues. Other bars would pack their menus with references to certain sports, popular movies, or current celebrities; the Black Moon’s menu was peppered with subtle memes, scientific puns, or outright homages to seminal fantasy or sci-fi movies. And where the clientele of other bars often worked in more mundane or labor-intensive roles, the patronage of the Black Moon was of a decidedly more technical or scientific persuasion; and the conversation usually reflected that.

Tonight was no exception; the evening rush had come and gone, leaving behind the true regulars and those that had nothing better to do in the evening. The chatter had gone from a regular burble to a low murmur, barely louder than the commentators for the matches that were playing on the screen; it was the point of night where most people were nursing their drinks rather than ordering more. It was into this muted scene that a hangar technician for the Genista starport arrived, still in uniform as he sidled up to the counter.

“A little bit late tonight, Bursley.” the barkeep remarks as he sets down the glass he’d been drying. “The usual, or d’you need something special for the overtime?”

“I’ll take the usual.” Bursley says, clambering onto one of the stools. “Some weird stuff going down at the starport tonight, though.”

“You don’t say?” the barkeep said as he started pouring a drink. “You gonna keep teasin’ us, or are you gonna dish?”

“Late night, unscheduled arrival for a stealth cruiser.” Bursley says as he taps his bracelet to one of the payment terminals at the counter. “All black. I think it had active cloaking panels, too.”

“You don’t say.” says another patron a couple of stools down the counter. “Who’s the bigwig?”

Bursley shrugged. “Haven’t the damnedest. There was no logo or branding on the cruiser, which. Y’know. It’s a stealth cruiser, so you kind of expect that. I hung around to see who was flying in it, and eventually a couple of people stepped off. One of them was this redhead in an armored black labcoat, and he had this Cyber lady with him. She looked Synthetic, probably his secretary or something.”

The barkeep pauses at that. “A person in a black labcoat, you said?”

“Yeah — ringing any bells for you?” Bursley asks.

“Did they have… were they wearing uniforms, or anything?” the barkeep asks, turning and setting the stein on the counter, pushing it across to Bursley.

“I dunno. I only saw two of them, so I don’t know if what they were wearing was their uniform.” Bursley says, pulling out his phone. “I got some pictures of them while I was loitering around the supply crates.”

Another patron leaves his table to join the counter with Bursley. “We do some spying on the tourists again, Bursley?” he asks, taking a swig of his drink.

“Oh hush. You’d do the exact same thing if you worked in the starport.” Bursley retorts as he pulls up his photos on his phone. “Besides, I’m the one that keeps you all in the loop whenever something weird is happening. Hardly anything shows up in Genista without going through the starport first.”

“You said there was a woman that showed up with the guy?” asks the patron a couple of seats down, sipping from his drink. “Was she easy on the eyes?”

Bursley shrugs. “I mean yeah, I guess. She was dressed really sharp, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. She had a gnarly case of resting bitch face, and you know how Synthetics are. She could be six inches shorter than you and thinner than a streetlamp; she’d still pick you up and snap your spine like a toothpick.”

“I mean yeah, but we all know Gremt has always wanted a woman that will actually just kill him.” says the patron sitting beside Bursley. Gremt grins and raises his stein to toast the assertion. “C’mon, show us those photos. I wanna see what these nameless strangers look like.”

“Here they are. And before you say anything, Koman, I already know that some of them were kinda shit.” Bursley says as he sets his phone on the counter and swipes through an album of recent pictures showing what appears to be the interior of a large hangar, with a sleek black cruiser parked at one of the wall ports. “It was hard to get good shots of them; neither of them loitered after disembarking. They were both walking like they had somewhere to be.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Koman says, taking the phone and thumbing through the pictures. “Were you vibrating while you were taking these? They’re blurrier than my vision on New Year’s Eve.”

“Keep scrolling, the good ones are towards the middle.” Bursley says, finally grabbing his stein and taking a swig from it. “The other thing is that these guys weren’t on the schedule, which is why I didn’t get here until just now. We got told, last minute, to stay on past the end of shift for an unscheduled arrival.”

“An unscheduled arrival in a stealth cruiser. That’s high-level.” the barkeep says, tapping his thumb against the counter. “Did management over at the starport tell you anything else?”

Bursley snorts at that. “They can barely be assed to tell us what our schedules are. If they can’t handle something that basic, you think they’d bother telling us about a top-secret arrival?”

“Gyatt damn, bro! You didn’t tell us the Synth was in a combat plug!” Koman exclaims, zooming in on one of the pictures. “Slap me sideways and ship me to Sybione. Girl’s hotter than a fusion core running in overdrive.”

“Hol’ up, you didn’t tell me she was in a combat plug.” Gremt says, unrooting himself from his stool and relocating to the one next to Bursley. “Let’s have a look, see what we’re dealing with here.”

“I didn’t bring it up because they’re both in combat plugs.” Bursley says, rolling his eyes as Koman lays the phone flat on the counter so Gremt can look over the pictures. “You can’t really see it with the guy, because his labcoat goes to his ankles, but he’s got one on too.”

“Well, I ain’t complaining. That suit’s got a death grip on her ass.” Gremt murmurs over the rim of his stein. “That shit’s tight.”

“You ever wonder what it’s like to wear one of those things?” Koman muses, swiping back and forth between a couple of photos. “Getting a wedgie in one of those has to be brutal.”

“Aren’t they printed directly onto the pilot?” Bursley says, taking a sip from his beer. “I heard plugsuits were supposed to be like a second skin, or something.”

“I think the low-tech ones are custom-printed zip-ups. But the high-tech ones are printed directly onto the pilots, yeah.” Gremt says. “Depends on the type of plug, though. With the naked plugs, you just need your skivvies and they can print it right onto you. With the combat plugs, though, hardpoints need to be integrated into the suit so they can mount the armor plates on them, so they’ve got this special polymer lattice that’s heat-formed and molds to the shape of your body to act as the mounting points for the combat plates, and then they inlay coolant veins in the lattice before printing the actual plugsuit over it all…” He waves a hand. “It’s a whole thing, watched a documentary on it once. It’s some crazy stuff.”

“Well, can’t deny the results.” Koman murmurs, still flicking through the photos.

“Yeah, but why are they wearing combat plugs?” Bursley points out. “You only wear a plugsuit if you have something to plug into, right? You think they’re Titan pilots?”

“Could be. Doesn’t have to be, though.” Gremt shrugs. “Titan pilots aren’t the only ones that wear plugs; they’re just most known for it, because you can’t pilot a Titan without a plugsuit. But there’s other things that use plugsuits. Heavy power armor… certain types of smaller mechs… specialized strike fighters… even some mid-sized starships. Each of those can be upgraded to a plugsuit pilot control scheme. It’s expensive, though, so you usually only see gigacorps or military spec ops shelling out for that kind of refit.”

“Gosh, imagine being a plugsuit pilot for one of these things.” Koman says, scratching at his nose. “You’d always have to stay in shape. People would be able to tell the moment you put on any weight.”

“Gentlemen.” All three patrons look up to see the barkeep across the counter from them, a thick hand outheld. Koman reluctantly hands over the phone, the trio going back to sipping on their drinks while the barkeep flicks through the photos, pausing on a few of them and studying them with furrowed brow.

“So what’s your take, Okub?” Koman asks after a few moments. “You think they’re government? Or military? I didn’t think they’d be corporate, with the way they’re dressed.”

“Neither. They’re from the Fringe Foundation.” Okub says, setting down the phone and turning towards the door behind the counter. “I need to make a call.”

Bursley watches the barkeep leave without a further word. “W-wait, what’s that mean?”

“Shiiiiiit, man.” Koman says, grabbing the phone and starting to swipe through the photos again. “These guys are Fringelings?”

“Ah. Yeah, I’m seein’ it now.” Gremt grimaces, using a pinky to point at one of the sharper photos. “Black plugsuits, silver highlights. That’s the black ’n silvers. Fringe colors.”

Bursley holds his hands out as Okub disappears into the backroom. “Is anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“You never heard of the Fringe Foundation before, kid?” Koman asks, sliding the phone over to Gremt.

“No, so if someone could fill me in, that’d be great.” Bursley says, picking up his beer and taking another sip.

“They’re scientists, but they’re not the kind of scientists you wanna mess with.” Gremt says, taking the phone and swiping through the album. “They’re on the cutting edge of new technology. Emphasis on cutting.”

“Normal scientists have a code of ethics, and shit. Fringe doesn’t.” Koman explains.

“Well, they do have a code of ethics.” Gremt corrects him. “But the code basically boils down to ‘for the greater good’. So a lot of the stuff that’s forbidden, they will do, in the name of obtaining knowledge that will create a better world. If they think the ends justifies the means, or benefits the wider population, they will do it, even if it means doing heinous shit.”

“Vivisections… mutagenics… untested body mods… breeding programs… zeropoint servers… designer genetics, hybridism… precognitive surveillance… the list just goes on and on.” Koman says, taking a swig of his drink. “We can do some of those things here in the Colloquium, in a limited form, with certain guardrails. But the Fringe Foundation doesn’t do guardrails. They’re about pushing the limits, discovering new things, learning as much as they can, so they can apply it to new inventions. You know the movie archetype of the evil Marshy scientist? Fringe scientists are worse.”

“Why doesn’t the Colloquium punish them?” Bursley asks. “Isn’t there some kind of convention against those kinds of experiments? I mean, the Marshy Republic gets hit all the time with that kind of stuff. You always see in the news that some Marshy scientist or another is getting dragging in front of an ethics tribunal for taking their research project a step too far.”

“Yeah, but those are usually rogue scientists, or their institutions pretend that they weren’t aware of it.” Koman says. “Marshy institutions at least pretend like they’re trying to comply with Colloquium laws. The Fringe Foundation doesn’t even bother.”

“Well, why would they?” Gremt says, passing the phone back to Bursley. “The Foundation isn’t part of the Colloquium, so they don’t have to follow the Colloquium’s laws.”

“Mm. Good point.” Koman concedes.

“So wait, are they like… a nation?” Bursley says, taking his phone back. “The way you guys were talking about them, I thought they were a gigacorp or something.”

“I actually don’t know.” Koman says, thumbing at the corner of his mouth. “Their group is just… it’s weird. You think you can explain it, Gremt?”

“No, it is weird.” Gremt agrees. “They’re not a corporation, because they’re not out to make profit. They’re not a nation, because they’re not really tied to a planet or any particular national identity. But they do govern certain systems out on the edges of the galaxy, and they do provide security for the systems that they’re present in. They're also a military power. A very dangerous one, because they have a lot of uncommon scientific knowledge, and they like building things with that knowledge, and they like testing those things out on people that try to attack them. I think they might be the only ones that have ships that can go toe-to-toe with the wereckanan fleets.”

“Well, them and the Viralix.” Koman points out.

“The Viralix don’t count. They built starcities; they launch a fourth of a continent into space and they call it a ship. That’s on a completely different level.” Gremt says, waving off the suggestion.

“Well, there’s also the Dragine.”

“The Dragine aren’t real. Or they went extinct. Or if they do exist, they never show their faces, so they might as well not exist.”

“So let me get this straight: a bunch of scientists live out on the edge of the galaxy, and do whatever ethically questionable experiments they want to, because they can point really dangerous weapons at anyone that tells them to stop?” Bursley asks, rubbing the space above one of his eyebrows. “That doesn’t line up. I don’t believe a bunch of scientists could take control of multiple systems just because they have weird, advanced weapons.”

“It’s not just the tech, although that helps.” Okub says as he returns to the counter, closing the door behind him. “The Fringe Foundation is heavily militarized. The Colloquium has attempted to purge them in the past, multiple times, and that has turned them into what they are today. The Foundation is well-organized, and has a strong chain of command; it is separated into Divisions, each one led by a Captain, and the Captains are in turn overseen by the Board of Directors. Each Division is extremely disciplined, and most of their scientists will also be combat-trained. While the individual scientists have freedom to do and research what they want, they will march when their Captain gives an order.”

“I ain’t gonna hold you; I’ve never seen a scientist that made a good soldier.” Koman says, draining the last of his drink and pushing it back across the counter for a refill. “Most of them don’t have the stomach for it. Speaking from personal experience. Besides that, you’d hardly have enough of them to make an army.”

“It’s true, they may not be the best in direct combat. But scientists make for very creative killers.” Okub says, taking back the stein so he can fill it up. “Tell a small team of special operatives to kill an entire army, and they’ll tell you that they don’t have enough munitions. Tell a small team of Fringelings to do the same thing, and they’ll ask you how quickly it needs to be done and whether they’re allowed to use radiation or chemical warfare.”

“So why do you think the Foundation sent a couple of Fringelings here?” Gremt asks. “Is Genista in trouble?”

“It is very likely, because those aren’t just two Fringelings.” Okub says, sliding the refilled stein back to Koman. “That’s a Captain of one of the Divisions, and his Adjutant.”

The trio straighten up on their stools, studying the pictures on the phone anew. “Wait, which one’s the Captain and which one’s the Adjutant?” Koman asks.

“You’ll always know a Fringe Captain when you see him, because he’ll always be the man in the black labcoat. Or the woman, but male Captains are more common.” Okub answers, tapping the photo on the phone. “If you run into either him or the Adjutant, treat them with respect. Fringe Captains are powerful and influential; they often rule one or more systems that fall under the control of their Division. It’s on the same level as meeting the leader of a small nation.”

“Oh shit, that’s a Captain?” Koman says, leaning in over his stein to take a closer look. “I mean… yeah, I can see it. That’s a guy that knows what he’s about.”

“How do you know all this?” Bursley asks, looking up at Okub.

“I’m a barkeep. It’s my job to know things.” Okub says, turning to tend to another patron that’s stepped into the bar and is making their way to the counter. “But also, there’s a huge article about the Fringe Foundation on Chikipedia. You three should look it up and give it a read sometime.”

“Reading? This time of night? I’ll be lucky if I manage a shower before I stumble into bed.” Koman mutters, sipping from his beer. “A Fringe Captain, here in Genista… something’s going down for sure. Question is, what is it?”

“I’ve got no idea, and honestly, I’d prefer not to know.” Gremt says, taking his stein and moving back to his original barstool. “You don’t want to get tangled up in that kind of stuff, and it’s probably way above our pay grade anyhow. The only trouble I want is the trouble I’m getting paid for. Anything more than that, I’m not interested.”

“Hmm. Fair enough.” Koman concedes. “That Synth was a looker, but clickbait in a plugsuit isn’t worth that kind of heat. Good job on the pictures though, Bursley. That’s the kind of thing I don’t mind admiring from a distance.”

“I don’t plan on keeping them. I’ll probably delete most of them.” Bursley says, already starting to go through the album and prune the blurrier photos. “I’ll keep one or two, just in case someone wants to know what our visitors look like. You never know who might be interested in that kind of info.”

“Sounds like you missed your calling in espionage. You ever consider applying to the Praetorian Guard?…”

“Don’t you have to be a psion to be part of the Guard?”

“Nah, that’s a common misconception. They do favor psions, but not all spies have to read minds…”

Event Log: 11/22/12768

Genista: Centralized Command Complex

1:44am LPT

Midnight calls were always a difficult affair.

Rofty had dealt with his fair share of them over his career, so they weren’t new to him. Still, he did not enjoy them; they were hellish for the sleep schedule, they were never simple. People only placed midnight calls when there was an issue that they couldn’t fix themselves, and it couldn’t wait until the morning. And when that call is coming from the mayor of the outpost, it’s not one you can turn down, no matter what the clock says.

In fairness to the mayor, though, the call had absolutely been warranted. Rofty had picked up once he saw who was calling, but even after being told what the issue was, it would be ten minutes or so before it fully sunk in. That was about the amount of time that was needed for a recently awakened brain to really kick into gear, and once Rofty’s did, the gravity of what was happening slowly dawned on him.

There was a Fringe Captain in Genista, looking to collect on the deal that the Foundation had made with the outpost almost twenty years ago.

He had a vague awareness of the deal, since it had been a foundational element of the special research project. The Fringe Foundation, with their extensive knowledge of cloning techniques and genetic editing, had been asked to provide gestational services and a genetic cleanup of the first set of Cherriki clones for the Genista project. The project lead and the mayor at the time had negotiated the terms of the contract, and the specifics of what was being requested; and they were able to get most of what they had asked for. In return, as their payment, the Foundation forwent money and instead demanded all research and data that would result from that first set of Cherriki clones… along with six of the Cherriki zygotes that Genista had secured during the auction of Challenger assets. That data, and the zygotes, were to be collected at an unspecified date in the future, at a time of the Foundation’s choosing.

And now, that date had apparently arrived.

It was a strange thing for Rofty, because he had not been in Genista at the time that this contract was written up. He had learned about it from the previous project lead, who had learned about it from the project lead before him, who had been told about it by the original project lead. The information, and the contract, very much had the feel of something that had been agreed upon a long time ago, by people that were no longer at Genista; it almost felt like a myth, an ancient prophecy. One day, the Foundation would return to claim what was theirs — but nobody knew when that day was.

Well, now they knew.

So he’d gotten out of bed and back into work clothes, because the mayor had made it very clear that the Fringelings required immediate attention. According to Ganard, the Captain and his Adjutant were not interested in tours of the outpost, or a free stay at the upscale hotel, or a chance to meet the Genista pilots, or in anything that Genista had to offer. The only thing they wanted was what the Foundation had been promised by the contract, and they wanted it now. Not tomorrow; not first thing in the morning; they wanted it now. And while they had been very polite about it, they had also made it clear that it was not a request; it was an order.

With that in mind, Rofty had taken Genista’s monorail back to the command complex, spending most of the trip on his phone. Despite how inconvenient this all was, an opportunity was presenting itself, one that would allow him to accomplish multiple goals while reinforcing his cover. All he had to do was feed the right information to the right people, and let them act on it at the right time; easier said than done, of course, but still doable.

So he sent the texts he needed to send during his trip to the the command complex, and upon arriving, made his way straight down to the labs below. This time of night, the lower levels of the complex were essentially deserted, with all the science staff having gone home to rest. There was the night shift in the floors above, tasked with monitoring for Leviathans and raising the alarm in case there was an incursion, but they passed most nights without incident, and presumably spent most of their shift on their phones, playing games or watching Utube videos. An enviable thing to be paid for, if you didn’t mind sacrificing your social life to be a night owl.

As he was making his way to his office, he received a reply text from one of his contacts; incredulous in nature, but well-founded, considering the proposition: U want us to ambush a Fringe Captain and steal the Cherriki clones from him??? After skimming the message and considering how to phrase his response, Rofty began tapping out his answer; he could dictate his reply, but had long ago learned to keep these communications as clandestine as possible, since you never knew who might be listening just around the corner.

R: If you ambush him it should be easy, you don’t have to kill him, just knock him out and take the transport canister.

?: i don’t think u understand what ur suggesting here

R: This will make it so I don’t have to explain where the missing clones went. You steal the clones from the Fringelings when they leave, and take them back to the Exile. The Fringelings will probably come back and demand another set of zygotes, and I give them another set. I can then report to leadership that we gave the Fringelings two sets of Cherriki clones, because the first set was stolen from them. That way it doesn’t look like any of the clones disappeared out of storage on my side — it’ll look like the Fringelings lost them instead.

?: okay yeah I get that, that part makes sense

?: but ur still asking us to mug a FRINGE CAPTAIN

R: He’s not that dangerous, right? I know they’re Fringelings, but I thought Exile’s daughters would be assigned to this.

?: they are, who do you think ur txting right now

Rofty was still considering how to answer that reply when he badged open the door to his office, and he was typing out a reply as he moved through the darkened room towards his desk. The only lights on at the moment were the ones illuminating the specimen displays he kept in the room, lining the walls of his office. Some in tubes, others in glass cases, many of them showcasing what could be achieved with proficient genetic engineering — or showing the results when such projects were undertaken sloppily.

“How are the children doing, Mr. Rofty?”

The voice, low and smooth, startles Rofty so much that he jumps in the air, his phone bouncing out of his hands and clattering across the ground as he twists around. There in the corner of his office, sitting in the armchair next to a series of specimen tubes, is a man in a black labcoat. His crimson hair is neatly combed, his overall appearance is clean and well-managed; the way he’s slightly reclined in the chair, with his plugsuited fingers laced together, implies that he’s been in that spot long enough to get comfortable.

“Whu… who, who are you?” Rofty stammers, one hand reaching for the utility knife he kept clipped to his pocket, while the other fumbles back on his desk, feeling around for the security button on the underside of it.

“I apologize for startling you. I prefer to maintain a lower public profile as a matter of modesty.” the man says softly. Most of him is draped in shadow, but the display lights from the specimen tubes next to him cast portions of his face in a pale yellow hue. “My name is Captain Keterox, of the Fringe Foundation. Mayor Ganard kindly informed me that this is where we would be able to find you.”

“Did he now.” Rofty smiles through gritted teeth, giving up on reaching for the security button under his desk. “He must’ve forgotten to mention that to me.”

“Very likely. I understand it’s late at night, and people tend to forget things when they are not rested.” the Captain agrees. Only one of his green eyes is visible, with the other portion of his face covered in shadow; and Rofty can see that eye pull away from him to study the many specimens around the office. “If you don’t mind me asking again, how are the children doing?”

“The children?” Rofty repeats, shuffling forward a few steps to grab his dropped phone.

“Your current set of Cherriki clones. The ones that are piloting the Genista Titans. If memory serves correctly, they should be… mid to late teens by now?” the Captain clarifies. “I was wondering how many would survive their formative years.”

“They are… all alive. And that’s all I can say, given the sensitivity of the program.” Rofty replies carefully, pocketing his phone.

The visible portion of the Captain’s mouth curls slightly. “I believe the contract that Genista signed entitles the Foundation to that information, and more, does it not?”

Rofty takes a quick breath as the vague details of the deal return to him. “Ah. Yes, the, the data. Of course. Sorry, force of habit. We’ve had to deal with outside media recently, so I’ve gotten accustomed to declining such requests.”

“As you should. It is, after all, a sensitive program.” the Captain concurs, his single visible eye returning to Rofty. “So you are familiar with the terms of the contract, then.”

Rofty’s chest tightens as he realizes he’s been juked into confessing his awareness of the contract, albeit indirectly. “Ah— the general outline, I suppose; it’s been a while since I looked at the document…”

“We can fill you in on the details, if needed.”

“Oh, no, no, that’s fine; I know what was agreed.” Rofty says hastily. “Six totipotent zygotes—”

“Eight.”

Rofty blinks at the soft interruption. “Uh… eight?”

“Indeed. That was what was specified in the contract.”

“I could’ve sworn it was six…” Rofty says slowly.

“It was eight. The rationale was that Genista had acquired forty-eight cloned Cherriki zygotes from CURSE’s auction of Challenger assets. The Marshy Republic wanted to use those clones as elite Titan pilots. Titan squads usually consist of five Titans. Empath pilot configs require two pilots, meaning that a squad of five requires ten pilots total. You would only be able to form four squads with forty-eight pilots. So as payment for their services, the Foundation requested eight of the totipotent zygotes as payment, which would leave Genista with no leftovers when forming their squads from the Cherriki clones.” the Captain explains with a certain factuality.

Rofty licks his lips, shifting uneasily. “Really. Are you sure? I thought it was six…”

“Quite sure. I was there during the negotiations with your predecessor.” the Captain answers readily, his visible eye flicking towards the other corner of the office. “But if you still have doubts, my Adjutant has the contract on hand, if you would like to examine the payment agreement yourself.”

Following the line of the Captain’s gaze, Rofty startles when he sees a dark outline in the other corner of the office, punctured by the glow of a single turquoise iris. “Oh! Good… gracious… almighty.” he puffs, clamping a hand to his chest to calm his heart. That was the corner nearest to his office door, meaning he walked right past that person in the dark and hadn’t even noticed them. “So that’s why you kept on saying ‘we’…”

“Apologies again. My Adjutant likes to maintain a low profile as well; we are a quiet pair.”

“Yes, I… I can see that.” Rofty says, taking a deep breath. “Look, I mean no disrespect, Captain…?”

“Keterox.”

“Captain Keterox. I mean no disrespect, but it is a couple of hours past midnight.” Rofty says, motioning to the time display on the wall. “We will get you your payment, but it is going to take time. We need to prepare the proper containment solutions for the zygotes so they can be transported, and for the data on the clones, well… there is a lot of it. Sixteen, seventeen years of data. And it’s not all contained in one place; it’s spread out across multiple systems and facilities within the outpost. It’s going to take time for me to get in contact with the appropriate departments and have them duplicate and compile that data into something we can give you.”

“I understand. That information is likely dispersed by design, so consolidating it all into a single location cannot be done at the drop of a hat.” the Captain agrees. “That is why we only intend to retrieve the zygotes during this visit; I imagine it will be much easier and faster to provide that portion of the payment at the moment. The data you can send to us within the next two weeks; we have set up a secure file transfer server for that purpose, and my Adjutant can provide you with that address.”

“Oh! Oh, well… I suppose that does make things easier…” Rofty stammers.

“Indeed. We’re aware that your job is not an easy one, especially with Genista’s recent Leviathan problem. And you must be a very busy man, as a result of that.” the Captain says, rotating his laced fingers forwards a little. “How many hours do you think you will need to prepare the zygotes for transport?”

“W-well, as soon as the morning shift gets in—”

“I am afraid we cannot wait that long. Are you not able to prepare the zygotes for transport yourself?” the Captain asks, his single green eye remaining fixed on Rofty.

“No, no, I can, it’s just… I’m not very familiar with the process, and our technicians would be more efficient at it.” Rofty says quickly.

“Can you call your technicians in to assist with that, then?”

“Well, I’m not sure any of them would answer, this time of night…”

“That’s unfortunate. Thankfully, I have a few agents on standby; I can call a couple of them in to help you with prepping the zygotes for transport, in case you need an extra set of hands.” the Captain says, unlacing his fingers.

“Oh no, please, don’t trouble yourself. That’s not necessary.” Rofty says hastily. “It’s fine, really, I can prepare the zygotes for transport. It’ll take a few hours, two or three hours, I think, but I can handle it on my own. Is that— will that be fast enough?”

The Captain turns his head, more of his face falling into shadow as he looks towards his almost-invisible Adjutant. The only sign that she is meeting his gaze is by the way the turquoise glow of her eye moves in the dark; the way blue lines glow to life on her face, hinting at the contours that had remained shadowed until now. No words are exchanged, but something clearly must have been communicated, because the Captain soon speaks again. “Three hours will be sufficient. We will be waiting at the complex’s minor rear entrance. If you are unable to keep to the timetable, send someone to let us know.”

Rofty gives a quick nod. “Yes. Of course, I will let you know if it runs longer than expected.”

The Captain stands up with that, and Rofty finds himself taking an unconscious step backwards. Seated in the corner of the room, the Captain’s physical presence had not been immediately apparent; now, in standing up, Rofty realized how imposing the man was. He was tall, and the contours of the plugsuit — what little could be seen by the dim light in the office — clearly exhibited some muscle definition in the body that wore it. From what Rofty could tell, the Captain erred more on the wiry side, rather than being stocky; some of the mass in his frame undoubtedly came from the reinforced portions of his plugsuit, with the black labcoat being draped over it all. Nor was it just any labcoat — there was some thickness to it, kinetic armoring incorporated into the exterior, and with a simple but beautiful golden trim lining the cuffs and edges of the labcoat.

In short, the Captain was an monolithic presence, silently exuding a sense of discipline and a certain force of will. And while the attire spoke to the technological prowess of the Fringe Foundation, the demeanor of the man wearing it attested to the power and authority wielded by their leaders.

“We will let you to your work now.” the Captain stated. “Give the children my regards. I hear they have been working hard lately.”

With that, he turned and headed for the door, with the Adjutant turning and falling in behind him as he departed the office. The pair were soon gone from sight, moving with a surety that indicated they had been to the complex before, or at least had a firm grasp of its floor plan. Once Rofty was sure they were gone, he moved back around his desk, sinking into his chair and letting out a long-held breath. Only after his heart rate had sufficiently slowed down did he pull out his phone, and reopen the text he’d been working on, clearing his old draft and typing out a new one.

Okay, I get what you mean now, he scares the shit out of me. That being said… do you think you can take him if I tell you where he’ll be in three hours?

Event Log: 11/22/12768

Genista: Centralized Command Complex

4:32am LPT

“We got the report back from Gesper. The follow-up team was able to recover a couple of the Sentinels that had gone missing on the first team.” Tacna says, reading off her data slate. “They were able to recover the first team’s data as well, and that’s currently being analyzed aboard the Lesser of Two Evils.”

The Captain, sitting upon the stoop leading to the door next to one of the minor loading bays, rubs his thumbs together as he stares out into the faint glow of the outpost around him. Though it is night, the loading bays in the rear of the complex remain lit as a matter of dissuading mischief and loiterers. And light pollution from the rest of the outpost made it so that the night was never really dark — just a maze of light and shadows, shaped by streetlamps, buildings, and passing vehicles.

“Only a couple?” the Captain repeats softly. “I assume the other members of the first team were terminated, then.”

“Well… not as such, no.” Tacna says, flicking back through the files on her slate. “All members of the team were recovered. One was dead, two had undergone biological and psychological alteration, and the last two were recovered intact and largely their original selves, though they were shaken up. It was determined that the incursion on Gesper is not Collective in origin, although it does still appear to be invasive, and carries some similarities to Collective terrassimilation. Far less efficient, though, and probably easily contained and eradicated with an aggressive response. Some of the early indicators coming out of the data are showing results that are usually only found on Avvikerene.”

“Interesting. I have never heard of Avvikerene trying to expand beyond their home system.” the Captain muses. “Tell the Lesser of Two Evils to bring the local Monarchy government up to speed on the situation, and to provide our recommendation for containment and eradication. We can do it for them, if the war prevents them from sparing the manpower or equipment for it, but there will be a price tag attached, and we will expect operational autonomy within the quarantine zone.”

“Understood. I will relay those parameters to the Lesser of Two Evils.” Tacna says, beginning to type on her slate. Over the next couple of minutes, there is no sound besides the distant rushing of the outpost’s monorail, and the soft thumping of Tacna’s fingers over glass.

“Why do you type, Tacna?” the Captain says after listening to this for a bit.

Tacna turns her head to look at the Captain, but he has not turned his head to look back at her. “Pardon, Captain?”

“You’re able to establish a wireless connection with your slate, right?” he says, staring out into the night. “You could compose that message at the speed of thought, in a matter of seconds. But you type it out instead.”

“Oh. That.” Tacna says, as she finishes typing out the message and sends it. “I suppose I do it because it makes me look more… organic. Many Synthetics do the same thing around other organics, to better fit in.”

The Captain smiles a little to himself. “Because typing ninety words per minute with a single hand helps you fit in better… more than staring at a screen and making words magically appear on it.”

“I can compose my messages through wireless interface, if you would prefer.”

Unlacing his fingers, the Captain offers one hand backwards without looking. “Take my hand.”

Tacna’s mismatched eyes flick down to the Captain’s hand, and after a moment, she reaches out to lightly grip his hand, encased in the sleek material of his plugsuit. Still without looking, the Captain traces his thumb over Tacna’s fingers, as if mapping out their contours, turning his hand slightly here and there to press the pad of her thumb, or test how a finger might curl or extend. Eventually, he releases her hand again, still staring out into the darkness beyond the ramp of the loading bay.

“I cannot tell the difference between your hand and the hand of any other organic humanoid.” he states. “Do you feel like you fit in with organics?”

Tacna pulls her hand back to herself, folding it against her midsection. “I… there is more to it than the physical resemblance. There are behavioral nuances that make it easy to tell a Synthetic apart from an organic.”

“So you do not feel like you fit in among organics in the Division.”

“I think that is a product of my position, not my species.” Tacna says quickly. “I am regarded differently, as a Captain’s Adjutant.”

“Then why bother manually typing to try and fit in?”

Tacna opens her mouth, then closes it when she realizes she doesn’t have a ready answer. After another two seconds of processing, she speaks. “I think I do it as a courtesy, so as not to unnerve organics.”

“Mmm, Tacna. That is a lie, and we both know it.” the Captain chuckles softly. “I have known you long enough to know that you have no interest in putting strangers and randoms at ease.”

Tacna glares at the back of the Captain’s head. “Then perhaps you should stop testing my patience with abstract questions. You know how much it taxes my neural processor.”

“It is a good exercise for you. Abstract questions are the foundation of small talk.” the Captain replies. “Besides, people often lie when they perceive the need for a quick answer. They fear that taking the time to compose a cogent reply will make them look unintelligent. In that way, you may be more similar to organics than you realize.”

Tacna bristles at that. “I am not here for the approbation of others. I answer quickly because my role requires timely responses.”

“True. But sometimes you must conduct research before answering a question, correct? And in those instances, you admit what you do not know and request time to research the issue so that you can return with a well-informed answer.” the Captain points out. “Why should this process be any different with a personal question?”

“I… well… I do not need to research myself.” Tacna retorts with faint irritation. “That is silly. I know perfectly well what my own parameters and capabilities are.”

“Do you? You’re an extremely complex creature, on par with any other humanoid, organic or not.” the Captain answers. “Most such creatures do not know themselves half as well as they think they do, and some of them recognize this. Some of them do conduct research on themselves; it is called ‘introspection’ — looking inwards, the examination of the self. I myself undertake this exercise fairly frequently. Do you think that is silly?”

“N-no, of course not, Captain.” Tacna stammers. “I will… research the concept of introspection and give it some consideration. But I will admit I am not… accustomed to examining myself.”

The Captain smiles a little, still staring out into the night. “If you don’t feel qualified to examine yourself, I could examine you instead.”

The offer’s double meaning is not lost on the Adjutant. “C-Captain!” she exclaims, her cheeks flushing a faint blue as the lines on her face flicker somewhat.

“I jest, Tacna. We are consummate professionals, after all.”

Tacna mumbles something that not even the Captain can catch, and he has to glance over his shoulder to find that her gaze is studiously averted elsewhere. She seems to have developed a faint fidget, her fingers tapping rapidly over the edge of her data slate.

“Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.” the Captain asks politely.

Tacna clears her throat, raising her volume a few notches. “I do not object to the offer itself; merely the setting in which it was offered.” she clarifies, keeping her mismatched eyes studiously locked on one of the parked trucks off to the side.

“Ah, my apologies. I will make sure to extend the offer later, in a less public setting.” the Captain amends, once more gazing towards where the loading ramp fades into the dark.

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of the rear door opening, and Tacna immediately pivots on the spot. A researcher is standing there in the doorway, holding a reinforced canister and nervously glancing between the two Fringelings.

“I… I was told to bring this to the people at the rear entrance…” he stammers.

The Captain slowly pushes to his feet, rising to his full height before turning and moving towards the researcher. Taking the offered canister, he looks it over, noting the design: exterior rubberized to protect the contents, cold to the touch on account of the refrigerant circulating through it, with a convenient carry handle on one end. “Much appreciated. One final thing before you go — take this message back to Rofty: if we find that the payment has been altered, damaged, tampered, or that the data provided is incomplete, we will be returning to collect what we are owed.”

“Oh… sure. I’ll tell him.” the researcher says nervously, before retreating back into the complex and letting the door close, leaving the Fringelings in the lonely floodlights of the loading bay once more.

“You know that he was hiding something, right? The project lead, that is.” Tacna says once the door has fully closed.

“Yes, I noticed how dodgy he was while we were in his office.” the Captain says, still examining the canister as he turns back to the wide ramp leading out of the loading bay. “I didn’t think he was foolish enough to try and pull a fast one on us, but I have been wrong before. It surprises me, how many people think they can deceive us… the Foundation’s capabilities are well-established, yet they attempt it still.”

“Fools will be fools.” Tacna says, following the Captain down the stairs. “He was strangely insistent on handling the retrieval and preparation of the zygotes himself; he seemed very intent on keeping us out of the process… shall I arrange a battery of scans for the container once we are back on the skipper?”

“I believe that would be prudent.” the Captain says, letting the canister hang from one hand as Tacna matches his stride. “If there is something is amiss, better to find it sooner so we can return here more quickly.”

“I will inform the agents on the skipper to begin calibrating the onboard scanner.” Tacna says, then starts to slow down on the broad ramp leading out of the loading bay and onto the street behind the complex. The Captain notices this and likewise slows, coming to a halt as she does; she gives him a look, and in that look is communicated all that he needs to know. There is a faint whooshing somewhere off into the dark, like something heavy being swung through the air; with her sharpened sensors, she likely picked up on it before he did, but he can hear it now as well.

Tacna signals with a slight flick of her forefinger, and both she and the Captain step backwards with the same impeccable timing. A faint whistle has developed as a black stone lantern on a chain swings out of the dark on a high arc, slamming down on the spot where they’d just been and leaving a crater in the concrete ramp. Broken chips of concrete go flying all directions, and personal energy shields — unseen until now — flare around the two Fringelings. Tacna’s shield is thinner and molded to the contours of her body, while the Captain’s shield appears as a sphere centered around himself, composed of a hex grid that ripples like water when it’s struck and disperses the kinetic energy across the surface.

In both instances, the shields fade from sight almost immediately, with Tacna stomping her foot down on the black lantern and snatching up the chain to yank on it. It pulls a person off the wall of the ramp, and they fall to the slanted ground with the rush of a black cloak, landing on their feet at the same time that a pair of plasma bolts streak down from the other wall bordering the ramp. Both bolts splash harmlessly off the Captain’s shield, the thickness and flexibility of the hex grid easily dispersing the impacts, and he turns slightly towards the shadowed second aggressor. Reaching up with his free hand, he uses a finger and a thumb to twist open a cover on the chestplate of his plugsuit, releasing a brief green beam that blows a crater in the wall and sends the second attacker cartwheeling through the air, losing the plasma rifle they’d been firing.

“Distress beacon active.” Tacna states as she sprints away to meet the cloaked attacker moving towards them.

“Noted.” the Captain replies, opening a hand to catch a baton as it drops out of the sleeve of his armored labcoat. It’s a sturdy weapon, with a textured grip and a reinforced shaft, and the moment his fingers close around the handle, six fins of crimson hardlight flare to life down the length of the baton, revealing it to be a wickedly bladed club. The sight of it seems to give pause to a second cloaked lanternbearer that has dropped from the wall on the Captain’s side; and noticing this, he makes a gracious sweep with his weapon. “You are welcome to retreat at any time.” he offers to his would-be attacker.

The invitation does not have the intended effect, because the lanternbearer starts spinning up their blackstone lantern before swinging it at the Captain, who skips to the side as it shatters the concrete where he’d been standing. “Very well, then. Let the assbeating commence.”

On the other side of the ramp, Tacna has closed the distance to the first lanternbearer, forcing a close-combat engagement so that they cannot bring their chained lantern to bear. Being a Cyber, her strikes are rapid, calculated, and relentless; the lanternbearer finds themselves forced on the defensive, blocking and deflecting as many of the punches and jabs as they can. Some of the blows still slip past the defense, but they meet armor instead of the vulnerable points that she was hoping for.

“Armored!” she calls to the Captain as forces her lanternbearer back with a couple of kicks, then yanks a hilt off the backplate of her plugsuit. A short blue plasma blade flares from it as she flicks the switch, leaving a trail of burnt motes on the air as she lunges back at her opponent.

“Yes, I had noticed.” the Captain calls back, dodging his lanternbearer’s attempt to loop their chain around him. With the canister in one hand and the club in the other, he instead tangles his club arm in the chain on purpose and gives a savage yank, jerking the lanternbearer towards him at the same time that he lashes back out with his club. The bladed head of the club slams into his attacker, ripping through the cloak and hammering the armor; green runes flare to life over the metal, blunting the impact and dispersing some of the impact. But the instant the Captain notices this, he flicks a switch on the club’s handle, and the club releases a displacement blast that throws the lanternbearer flat on their back several yards away. “Magic. Runic.”

“Yes, I have seen.” Tacna replies tersely as she circles her lanternbearer, blade raised to eyeline as she looks for an opening in the chain lantern that’s being spun like a shield. “They are more durable than I had initially assessed.”

“Reinforcements?” the Captain asks, unraveling the chain around his arm as he starts marching towards the fallen lanternbearer.

“Dispatched. Eighty-three seconds.” Tacna answers as her lanternbearer tries to move around her, towards their compatriot. Noticing this, Tacna feints forward with a couple of testing slashes, sparks flying off the spinning chain as the lanternbearer blocks the swipes, but is forced to keep their attention on her.

“Sounds like you had the poor things on standby.” the Captain says to Tacna as he arrives to the fallen lanternbearer, planting a boot on the arm that’s holding the chain. Tightening his grip on his bladed club, he focuses his attention on the lanternbearer. “You will have one opportunity to tell me who you are working for. If I do not find your answer satisfactory, my boot will be taking up residence on your throat.”

“Your mistake.” is the distorted answer from beneath the hood, and the lanternbearer rolls as much as they can, their unpinned arm swiping for the canister the Captain is holding. He easily swings it out of reach, but his shield flares to life around him in the next second, and he looks around to see a silver ring of light pinging off the bluish hex grid, aimed for the hand that’s holding the canister. Following the ring back to its point of origin, the Captain sees another cloaked lanternbearer crouched on the ramp wall, dispelling a second ring that they had formed between their armored fingers.

“Ah, I see. A little midnight robbery, and you all thought stealing it from us would be easier than breaking into the command complex to steal it yourselves.” the Captain says, tightening his grip on the canister’s handle. “You should just go in there and acquire what you desire. Security is thin, and you are all amply capable of bulldozing any opposition in there.”

“You picked the much harder route, trying to steal from us.” Tacna growls, angling to the side and using her plasma blade to deflect a lantern chain, then diving forward with a thrust that clips her lanternbearer’s shoulder as they lurch out of the way. The blue blade burns clean through the black cloak, but skates off the green runes that flare to life on the pauldron beneath. “The Foundation is not forgiving.”

“However, I would remind you that my offer remains open.” the Captain says, taking his boot off the lanternbearer he was pinning down, and kicking them away. “You are welcome to retreat at any time.”

None of the lanternbearers answer; the one up on the wall pulls runes off their armor that form a green bow, with a crimson shaft aimed down at the Captain, who does not move. Perhaps sensing his confidence, the lanternbearer swings the bow towards Tacna at the last moment, prompting the Captain to bolt in her direction.

But even for a Fringe Captain, there are limits to how quickly they can move, and the crimson arrow moves faster. It streaks across the loading bay, and when it hits Tacna it detonates in a packed explosion that sends her hurtling into the ramp wall. The blast knocks back the lanternbearer that was fighting her, while the Captain’s shield flares to life as the roiling flames wash over it, and a thick black smoke fills much of the loading bay.

As the smoke starts to rise and disperse, the two lanternbearers that had been knocked down get back up, gripping their lantern chains as they move towards the spot where the Captain was. Against the ramp wall, Tacna lies prone; though her shield seemed to protect her from most of the explosion, and ate much of the impact of being blasted back against the wall, the emitters across her plugsuit now appear to be fried out and sparking fitfully. She no longer appears to be a participant in the fight, so the lanternbearers fix their attention on the drifting column of smoke, the two on the ground slowly beginning to spin their chained lanterns again.

And as expected, the Captain emerges from the acrid haze, but as a much different man. There is a glow to his green eyes that was not there before; the passivity is gone from his posture. You can read it in the set of his brows — this is a man who has had his patience tested and does not appreciate it.

“The option to retreat,” he rumbles, swatting aside both chain lanterns with his club as they’re swung at him. “is no longer being offered.”

With that declaration he sets upon the two lanternbearers before him, battering both of them ruthless strikes from his bladed club. The blows are not especially fast, but he is relentless with his assault, doling out a strike per second, and alternating between his two targets with metronome-like consistency. Each swing carries a brutal force behind it, staggering each lanternbearer as they try to block the strikes, and they barely have time to recover before the bladed club is swinging back towards them again, hammering them down like nails in a plank of wood. The protective runes on their armor start to fray, some of them shattering outright, as an emerald nimbus starts to coalesce around the Captain’s club.

The brutal clobbering comes to a head as one of the lanternbearers forgoes their guard to try and retaliate, and the Captain immediately capitalizes on this gambit by snapping his club to the side and slamming the aggressor square in the chest. This strike releases all of the pent-up energy gathering in the club, discharging as a blast of green lightning that throws the lanternbearer across the loading bay and flat on their back. The remaining lanternbearer has started to form the beginnings of a spell between their hands when the Captain immediately turns back to them, kicks their legs out from beneath them, and while they are still falling, slams his club down on their back, hammering them into the ground with an audible whud and an outrush of dust. And when the lanternbearer that was blasted away tries to get back up, he turns and chucks his club at them, nailing them square in the hood and putting them back down again.

Nor is that the end of it; with his weapon arm now freed up, he turns and extends a hand towards the last lanternbearer on the wall, fingers open and gripping. A paralyzing force seizes upon that last lanternbearer, their muscles locking up as the air around them fills with echoing whispers. In a single moment of dreadful clarity, they can see the psychic malevolence in the Captain’s eyes; how they burn like fire refracted through an trilliant-cut emerald.

The man was a psion, and a terrifyingly powerful one at that.

That paralyzing force begins pulling at the remaining lanternbearer, and though they try to fight it and cling to the wall they’re on, they are eventually yanked through the air until the Captain catches them by the throat. “I asked earlier who you all were working for.” he growls as  the lanternbearer grabs at his arm, trying to free themselves from his grip. “I am no longer asking. You will tell me who you owe your allegiance to, or I will peel your mind like an orange and find out myself.”

The hood obscures the lanternbearer’s face, but one can hear the almost-demented grin in their distorted voice. “You can try. The Exile didn’t raise weaklings.”

“Neither does the Foundation.” His grip tightens around the lanternbearer’s neck; he does not seem to have an issue with holding the entire armored weight of his opponent aloft. Whether by strength assist built into his plugsuit, or by psionic reinforcement of his physical frame, he seems to have more than enough strength to go around. The lanternbearer tries to get a leg up to kick at him, but he is already starting to dig into the hardened shell around their mind. The pressure quickly mounts, like a vice clamping down on a nut, seeking to crack or fracture it, and the lanternbearer pushes back with corresponding force, all while still kicking and swinging at the Captain, trying to break his concentration.

But the Captain is not a man that yields so easily to physical distractions, and when that becomes apparent, the lanternbearer changes tactics. “Why so serious? You didn’t have a care in the world when we first attacked you… are you mad that we broke your toy?”

The pressure on the lanternbearer’s mind sharply increases, making it clear that a nerve has been struck. But any further escalation seems to be aborted with the pervasive humming that has started to fill the air; something resembling a small, armored van has arrived over the loading bay. On its sides, there are rotary anti-grav field generators that twist and angle as it comes in for touchdown, landing at a slant on the ramp. The pressure on the lanternbearer’s mind eases off as the Captain turns his head towards his reinforcements, and after a moment he lets go of their neck, allowing them to drop to the ground as he turns and starts walking across the ramp to where Tacna lies prone.

“Secure this.” he orders, holding out the canister to one of the combat-armored Fringelings that comes out of the transport skiff. “Send a message up to the Moral Imperative; I want them to have a medical team on standby for our return.”

The Fringeling takes the canister and immediately moves back towards the skiff, while the other two Fringelings close in on the last lanternbearer, their rifles raised and safeties off. The lanternbearer still hasn’t fully risen to their feet, but they do have a hand on the chain of their lantern, ready to swing it up and around themselves at a moment’s notice.

“Leave them. We have what we came for.” the Captain orders to his subordinates as he slides his arms under Tacna, and lifts her up. He turns with little fanfare and makes his way directly to the transport skiff, without a second look at his battered ambushers.

The two Fringelings back off with that, though they keep their rifles raised as they backtrack to the skiff. As soon as the Captain has entered the skiff with his Adjutant, the Fringelings duck in behind him, with the door closing behind them. The skiff soon takes off afterwards, the field generators on its sides twisting and angling as it rises off the ramp and back into the air, humming away in the direction of the Genista starport.

In its wake, the last lanternbearer gets back to their feet. While this ambush had not gone the way they wanted it to, they were also aware it could’ve gone much worse. The fact that the Fringe Captain had simply dropped his demands and left when his ride arrived was not a matter of cowardice or fear; it was a matter of disinterest. The Fringe Foundation had gotten what they had come for, and likely would’ve gained very little from finding out who attacked them, as they were clearly not a threat. Perhaps it would’ve been different if they had ambushed lesser Fringelings, but the Captain was a different story; he has promised an assbeating and had thoroughly delivered on that promise. The evidence was currently sprawled on the ramp in at least two places.

With that awareness, the lanternbearer sets about the matter of rousing their clobbered compatriots so they could get up and away from the scene of the ambush. Law enforcement would doubtless be drawn to the area, and though they could easily be handled, there was a preference for avoiding the hassle. After all, they would have to be here for a little longer while waiting for Rofty to fulfill the Exile’s command.

And spending the remainder of that time evading outpost security was a distraction that none of them wanted or needed.

Event Log: 11/22/12768

Strigidae Stealth Skipper-4: Passenger Cabin

6:16pm SGT

“We will need to map the genome for each of the zygotes in the canister. Without damaging them.” the Captain orders, handing the data slate back to one of the uniformed Fringelings attending him. “The priority is checking for signs of damage, decay, or alteration.”

“The lab we’ve got on the skipper isn’t equipped for something that delicate.” the Fringeling says, taking the slate back. “The labs on the Moral Imperative can handle that kind of non-invasive sequencing, though.”

“Call ahead and tell them know that we will have work queued up for them, then.” the Captain says, starting to shed his labcoat. “Let them know that it is priority one. We will not be able to leave Halcyon until we have confirmed that the zygotes are in good condition.”

“Do we have a point of reference we can use? The lab techs will need to have something to compare the genomes against; it will be hard for them to identify alternations if they don’t have a frame of reference.” the Fringeling points out.

The Captain does not answer immediately, instead taking the time to fold his labcoat over his arm as if he was mulling his reply. “Tell the lab techs that they can use my genome as their reference point, adjusting for sex where necessary during the sequencing and comparison. It should already be in the Foundation’s genome library, but they will need to request access since it is classified. Tell them to submit the access request, and I will grant it when it I see it come through.”

The Fringeling tilts his head a little to the side. “You want to use your genome as the frame of reference?”

“Did I stutter, agent?”

“No Captain, of course—”

“Whoa whoa whoa hey, easy there!” exclaims another agent that’s tending to Tacna. The Captain glances over to see that she’s woken up; since they lacked medical beds on the skipper, he had laid her down in her passenger cabin seat and reclined it as far back as it would go so the medic could tend to her. At present it looks like she’s disoriented and trying to sit up, with the medic trying to push her back down.

“Where is the Captain? Is he well?” she demands, still trying to push up out of the chair, and largely winning the battle on the merit of her mechanical strength.

“I’m right here, Adjutant.” the Captain says, crossing the cabin to stand beside Tacna’s seat. “I am not injured; you can relax.”

Tacna blinks her mismatched eyes a couple times upon seeing him, slowly relaxing back into her seat. “Captain. Did we succeed?”

“We were able to extract with the zygotes in our possession, yes.” the Captain says, patting the medic’s shoulder. “You may leave, agent. I will take over from here.”

The medic yields the folding chair beside Tacna’s seat, reading the room and departing the cabin along with the other Fringeling that had been taking orders for the zygotes. As the door to the cabin slides closed again, the Captain takes up the disinfecting swabs and the can of liquid bandage that the medic had been working with.

“We are on our way back to orbit, then?” Tacna asks as the Captain settles into the chair and picks up where the medic had left off.

“Indeed. We’ll be leaving the atmosphere shortly and returning to the Moral Imperative. One of the medical teams will be on standby to give you a look over.” the Captain says, examining one of her cleaned lacerations and picking out a butterfly stitch for it. “The surface damage appears to be superficial, but you hit the ramp wall quite hard, and explosions usually come with concussive force that can create internal damage. So we will be having you in for a few scans as a precaution.”

“I am fine… you know that Synthetics have a higher tolerance for strain than organics do.” Tacna mumbles, trying to push herself up in her seat a little.

“Be that as is may, you still have your limits.” the Captain says, planting a hand on Tacna’s collarbone and pushing her back down while licking the back of the butterfly stitch to activate the adhesive. “Your shield emitters fried out when taking the brunt of the explosion, and without that protection, you took a few shrapnel hits. Considering the extent of the damage, I think we’ll recycle your plugsuit and print you a new one, as that would require less work than the repairs this one would demand.”

Tacna does not fight it, sinking back into the reclined seat beneath the Captain’s firm hand. “I suppose so. It would be an opportunity to modernize my suit and bring it up to standard as well; this model is at least a few years old, and I have been wanting to try one of the modular variations.” She places a hand to her chest, as if expecting to find her chestplate there, then looks down when her fingers graze over the fabric of the plugsuit instead. “Oh. You already unmounted it.”

“We’ll need to remove the backplate as well. You have at least a couple of abrasions there around the edges of the plate.” the Captain says as he finishes applying the butterfly stitch across the laceration. “We can cut away the portions of your plugsuit in those areas to reach the abrasions, instead of removing the whole sleeve like we’ve done with your arm.”

“You needn’t bother, since the medical team will be seeing me shortly anyhow. I will have to divest myself of the suit when I reach them anyway.” Tacna says as she glances at her unsleeved arm. “Besides, you have more important things to see to than my injuries.”

“They may be important, but I cannot work on them right now. So in lieu of those duties, the most important thing I can be doing right now is tending to my subordinates.” the Captain says as he finishes pressing the butterfly stitch into place.

Tacna does not say anything to that; if she was inclined to argue, she refrains, perhaps knowing it is futile to try and change her Captain’s mind. Instead, her attention cycles back to something she had heard when she was first coming back around. “You told them to use your genome as a frame of reference for the Cherriki zygotes.”

The Captain pauses, if only for a moment, before returning his focus to a smaller scratch on Tacna’s arm. “They do not have anything else to compare it against.” he says, taking up a disinfecting swab to rub it over the scratch.

It is a quiet admission, one that confirms much with only a few words. That was very much a hallmark of the Captain, to say much even when saying little; he rarely spoke for the pleasure of hearing his own voice. “That is why you insisted on attending this mission personally. I was wondering why you wouldn’t have sent subordinates for this.”

“Even if it hadn’t had personal relevance for me, I still would’ve tended to it. I was there when the contract was negotiated; it was only appropriate that I be there for its completion.” he says, forgoing the butterfly stitch and going straight to the liquid bandage since this scratch is smaller.

“What will we do with the zygotes once we have confirmed their integrity?” Tacna asks.

“Raise them, assuming the Board of Directors grants permission for my proposition.” the Captain answers, giving the can of liquid bandage a light shake before he starts spraying. “Perhaps they will show potential, as I did. Perhaps they will be normal people, or perhaps they will turn out like Laughing Alice. There are no guarantees once the ball is rolling — you can pick the hill and try to guide the path, but you never know where it will end up when all is said and done.”

“You could build a track for it.” Tacna suggests. “Ensure that it moves in the direction that you want it to go.”

“You could. But it may jump the track, and then you have entirely lost control over it, as was the case with Laughing Alice.” the Captain says, starting on his second pass of the scratch. “It is a lesson that the Genistans have not learned, with how rigidly they control their Cherriki clones… they are pouring a powder keg for themselves by putting those clones in Titans. Assuming the outpost survives the Leviathan attacks, they may have a more difficult problem for themselves in the future.”

“You think their pilots may go rogue?” Tacna says, running the theoretical in her head and furrowing her brows at the amount of destruction resulting from such a scenario.

“They are teenagers now, soon to become adults in the next few years.” the Captain says, setting the can of liquid bandage down. “The desire for independence will kick in sooner or later. The harder the Genistans clamp down — and I suspect they will because that is what adults do on reflex with misbehaving children — the more they will thrash and try to get free. It would be better to give them a little bit of latitude now, to avert a rebellion later on down the line.”

“Like a controlled release. Venting steam from a pressurized system in small amounts to keep it from overloading.” Tacna surmises.

“Precisely. That is the price of a stabilizing the future — a little bit of freedom, or even the illusion of freedom, goes a long way towards keeping subordinates compliant.” the Captain says, blowing lightly over the liquid bandage, then tapping it to ensure it has solidified. “But all of this is moot; it is not our program, and not our clones. I could offer my counsel unsolicited, but I doubt it would be heeded. People seem to take an especial pleasure in disregarding the wisdom of the Foundation.”

“To their undoing. It is not even worth warning them most times.” Tacna opines, her eyes roaming as her mind tracks through other matters. “It has occurred to me that we are not the only ones that were aware that the Genistans had Cherriki clones in their possession. They have not hidden the secret well, have they?”

“The Valiant are bound to know because they are the inheritors of the Challenger legacy.” the Captain surmises as he finishes with her arm and moves up to her shoulder. “They are not unintelligent; they have many capable people in their organization, Kaiser among them. Their presence here is not coincidental. It is possible that the Valiant have told others, but I doubt that, considering the sensitivity of the subject… no, to me it is more likely that the Genistans have been careless with the information, or their outpost has been infiltrated by spies. The Collective somehow know, because their sole focus on this world seems to be the outpost rather than a terrassimilation campaign. And our attackers obviously knew, because they attempted to steal the zygotes from us during the ambush.”

Tacna’s lips press tight as her thoughts turn back to the ambush. “Were they difficult to dispatch after I was incapacitated? The people that attacked us.” she asks.

“They were… durable.” the Captain says, dabbing over the abrasion on her shoulder. “It provided a bit of exercise for me.”

Tacna is quiet at that; there’s only the very faintest twitch of her face to indicate that the disinfectant might sting a little. “I apologize that I was not able to measure up to the standard expected of me.”

“Don’t start, Tacna. I know where you’re going with this and I have no interest in listening to you verbally flagellate yourself.” the Captain says, setting down the swab so he can squeeze out a dab of ointment on his finger, gently spreading it over the abrasion. “You did as much as you could in the situation you were given. If anything, my overconfidence put you in danger.”

“If you will not let me take blame, I will not let you take blame either.” Tacna grumbles. “I am no more interested in listening to your flaws as you are to mine.”

“The after-action report will be difficult to write if someone does not explain how one of the deployed assets had to be carried back to the extraction vehicle with a concussion.” the Captain says, drying his finger off as he picks up the can of liquid bandage and gives it a light shake. “And I can see, with the benefit of retrospect, that I was far too passive in that encounter.”

“Yes… well, unlike you, I do not need a physical interface to fill out reports.” she mutters as the Captain begins spraying over the treated abrasion.

“Tacna.” the Captain warns her as he finishes with the first pass and starts on the second pass. “I will fill out the after-action report. Leave it be; that is an order.”

“You can’t order me not to do my job.” she says, the blue lines running along her throat glowing as she begins accessing the file wirelessly.

“I can when you are supposed to be on medical rest. I am relieving you of your duties until you have been seen by the medical team aboard the Moral Imperative.”

“Filling out reports does not require any physical labor. I can do that while I am on medical rest.”

“You cannot fill out reports while you are concussed. Your mental state may be compromised.”

“I haven’t seen the medical team yet, so you don’t know if I’m concussed.”

“Tacna.” the Captain says, setting down the can of liquid bandage and leaning forward. “Leave it. You are on rest.”

“I’m filling out the report.” Tacna says, ignoring the command.

The Captain scowls, taking a firm hold of Tacna’s jaw and turning her head to face him. “I am ordering you not to fill out that report, Adjutant.”

She stares back at him, expressing all the defiance she needs to in the way she meets his gaze. “Make me. Captain.” she says softly.

He narrows his eyes at her. “I know what you’re doing.”

Her single turquoise eye flickers a couple times. “I just filled out the report summary. It took me three-quarters of a second. I can forge your signature in a second and a half.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“Forged. I’m about to submit it—”

The rest of the threat it lost beneath pressed lips, an aggravated kiss that was none too shy. It was not a glancing affair either; there was some familiarity demonstrated in the length and the intensity. The soft brushing of tongues; the silent nipping of a lip in parting; and when it ends Tacna finds that the Captain has barely pulled away from her. Whatever annoyance he is exhibiting is only a mask, otherwise he would’ve retreated further.

“I’ve sent the report draft to your tablet so you can review and submit it at your leisure, Captain.” Tacna murmurs, her mismatched eyes studying his, before tracking down to his mouth. “It should help reduce your taskload.”

“How generous of you.” the Captain answers, his hold on her jaw easing somewhat. “Are you trying to deprive me of work?”

“You’re a busy man. I simply wanted to help give you some free time.”

“Is that so. And what do you think a Fringe Captain would do with a rare spot of free time?” the Captain asks, using a thumb to trace one of the faint blue lines on her face.

“Something he enjoys, I would imagine.” Tacna’s pale fingers touch to the Captain’s face, gently stroking along one of his crimson eyebrows. “For as hard as you work, you deserve it. Always picking up the slack of lesser Fringelings… or cleaning up the messes left behind by your subordinates.”

The Captain’s annoyance softens somewhat. “I suppose I cannot argue that. You have accurately described my role.” His thumb strays from the line he was tracing over her cheek, venturing instead over her bottom lip. “And what if he has other work that he has to catch up on?”

“Well, there was a subordinate that forged your signature.” Tacna murmurs, kissing the thumb that is tracing over her lips. “If you insist on using your free time for work, you should probably arrange a disciplinary meeting for her. She may need to be reminded of her place in the chain of command.”

“Seems a little harsh, disciplining her after a particularly rough deployment.”

“She can handle it.”

The Captain’s thumb glides back down to her jaw, tilting her head back a little to take another kiss from her. “Very well. Once you’ve been discharged by the medical team, report to my quarters by twenty-two hundred hours for your disciplinary review. We’ll determine at that time what punishment would be appropriate for your insubordination.” With that, he rises from the folding chair, gathering up his armored labcoat and slipping it back on. “Is there anything else before I excuse myself, Adjutant?”

“That is all, Captain.” Tacna says, relaxing back into her reclined seat as he stands. “If there is anything I can help with, please let me know.”

“You will be apprised if you are needed for anything prior to your medical checkin. For now, your orders are to rest and recover.” the Captain says as he makes his way to the door leading to the skipper’s cockpit. As he goes, he pauses upon glancing out of one of the windows; though it’s evening by standard galactic time, the sun is only just starting to break above the horizon on Halcyon. With the light streaming across the terrain, one can see long, moving shadows being cast across the plains — Titans in formation, in the middle of a predawn training exercise.

And even though he had never met them and likely never would, he could not help but wonder what price these young pilots may have to pay to secure the future of the Genista outpost.