Arnarxx watched the little machine they’d constructed whir and spin, the tiny shard of quartz the General had entrusted them with carefully clamped within. A kaleidoscope of laser light beamed in, and then read the reflections by carefully placed sensors. It would take many many rotations for Arnarxx to be sure they’d examined every angle and nanometer of the internal structure, but by the time they finished, they’d have a perfect recording of every possible way to read the data encoded inside it.

The quartz was a clever bit of dense data storage in the form of laser etchings within the crystal structure. However, unlike disk or flash memory, the angle and position of the engraving were how the data was encoded. Every angle on two axes and every position in three dimensions could represent a different bit of data, and depending on the angle at which they read the etchings, the encoding changed.

Not only that, such a crystal structure could persist for eons. Even ceramic disks eventually lost their data, and flash memory rarely lasted more than a standard year without careful maintenance of the data within. Were the recordings on the crystal from millennia ago, or decades ago, or days ago?

The spinning crystal was much less attractive than the data streaming across their screen, however. Most of it was garbage, but by now, the algorithm they had fed into their server had managed to identify different types of encoding: text, audio, and image encoding.

The text would be somewhat tricky, who was to say what the code represented without a Human alphabet. Arnarxx could ask the General or the Singer, but it was likely they didn’t have something as mundane as text codes memorized. Not even Arnarxx was bothered to do so.

The audio was simple, a numerical value in a sequence was all it took, and while the sounds of Human voices were unusual, Arnarxx could understand none of the strange barking and yipping of the species.

It was the images that Arnarxx was interested in decoding first. Images were stored as color values in a matrix, easy enough to decode. The hard part would be ensuring that the read was from the correct angle and producing coherent images instead of random noise.

The algorithm was piecing together what it determined were separate image files into various ratios and color combinations. Arnarxx didn’t know what colors Humans combined, but it was in sets of threes, and they didn’t need to be too accurate. Still, most of the images were broken messes until the algorithm picked an aspect ratio that let the pixels slide together coherently.

But what Arnarxx was seeing confused them, some even frightened them. These images couldn’t be accurate. They pored over their algorithm again, checking to see if they could have somehow misinterpreted the data structures. It was no use, though. It was accurate, but Arnarxx didn’t like what it was showing them.

“What have your people done?” they asked in horror as picture after picture scrolled across the screen.

~,~’~{~{@ ((-(-_(-_-(○_○)-_-)_-)-)) @}~}~’~,~

The Singer found the General in the same place she’d left him, at his desk poring over endless amounts of documents. A Ventusi doe stood attentively nearby, perhaps the last of his many secretaries and informants, so she waited near the door.

Their last conversation hadn’t lasted much longer. The General had handed the three of them a set of manuals, some he’d written himself, and dismissed them. There was a roster for the crew, though he hadn’t bothered to explain beyond that. He just told them to study his manuals, and then to examine the others as they would describe how to operate the vessel.

The Singer had found herself at the end of the manuals sooner than she realized. The General’s manuals had explained what to do and where to go when the corvette arrived, if the restaurant was compromised, and if the Empire captured her. It was surprisingly concise and logical. It never assumed that any of them could hold out in interrogation for long without revealing what they knew – which was also why they only knew so much.

Only the General and the Viribus knew the entire plan – and the Singer somewhat doubted the Viribus’s understanding. The Viribus, according to the manuals, would fight to the death rather than be captured. And the General, the manuals claimed, would do the same. Should he die, the manuals instructed them to set the restaurant on fire, and then the rest of the block.

But what Singer still couldn’t wrap her head around was why. Why was the Empire interested in a bunch of Human popsicles? Why was the General so dedicated to fighting this, when he was so capable of leaving it all behind? Why was it that these people – alien people – rallied around him despite the terrible things she’d heard about him?

She knew why she had decided to join. Those pictures were enough reason for her.

“Thank you, Star,” the General said as he folded away a booklet of plastic pages. “Anything else?” he asked when the Ventusi didn’t immediately leave.

Singer watched the Ventusi doe dance nervously before finally deciding to speak. “She keeps coming back, sir,” she said reluctantly. “It’s starting to get a bit frightening.”

The General’s brow furrowed, and he turned away from his documents. “That’s not a good sign,” he admitted. “Any idea why?”

“She sounds like she’s scared in the messages she leaves me,” Star explained. “She keeps saying things like she wants to leave Torus Terminal.”

The General’s expression morphed into a grimace. “That is concerning,” he agreed. “If you still have those messages, send them to me. Would you like me to put you up somewhere else, so she can’t find you?” he asked. Surprisingly, Star shook her head. “I’ll send some of my boys down to watch your place, then. They’ll step in if things get out of hand.”

The tension in Star’s stance eased at that, and she thanked him before seeing herself out.

“Trouble in paradise?” the Singer asked as she stepped into the office properly.

“Loose ends, more like,” the General admitted, not looking up from his documents.

“What does she do?” the Singer asked. She tried to keep her voice conversational, but apparently, her distaste for the General’s morally grey business did not go unnoticed.

“Occasionally, she brings me blackmail material,” he said as he set down his stylus and stood from behind the desk. He stretched and said, “She’s also a talented orbital navigator and important leverage against one of my enemies.” He walked around from the desk and looked at her with a considering look. “Do you want tea?” he asked.

“Tea?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m no cook, but I can boil water,” he said. He walked toward the doors leading into the restaurant without waiting for her answer.

The Singer followed, if only because she hadn’t gotten what she came for yet. And tea did sound pretty good after months of bagged soup and snatched bread. Life on the run wasn’t the place to savor local cuisine, but apparently, the General’s decade-spanning plan did allow for such things.

He led her into the kitchen of the restaurant, freshly cleaned and organized by the staff for opening in the next shift. It was strange how such a mundane place could exist in such an alien place, but it looked like how she imagined a kitchen should – plus or minus a few gadgets and ingredients she couldn’t recognize. Still, a kettle was a kettle, and they waited patiently for the water to boil.

“This all seems so mundane,” she noted, gesturing to the kitchen full of knives and electric hot plates. “When I think space adventure, I picture machines that make a gourmet meal out of thin air, not kitchens with herbs drying on racks.”

The General nodded. “I’ve heard such things exist, but no one on this station is rich enough to have one of them shipped out here. No point either, since the wormhole is opening soon, the difference between decades and years in shipping.”

The conversation ran into a halt, and the Singer had to force herself to keep going. “I noticed you talk to people differently,” the Singer said abruptly. “Like, with Brettn, you keep being short with him. But with that Ventusi in there, Star, you were almost protective of her,” she clarified. “Why do you do that?”

The General looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before he answered. “Same reason you talk to your parents differently than you talk to your friends,” he explained. “I know these people, almost as well as they know themselves. Some people need more carrot than stick to earn their loyalty. Brettn is an interesting case: Too much carrot and he will get complacent, too little carrot, and he’ll become disinterested. Too much stick and he’ll get frustrated, not enough and he won’t push himself. It’s pavlovian.” He shrugged.

“Pavlov works on aliens?” the Singer asked.

He shrugged again. “Star is being stalked, and Old Bess is a particular case all her own. Turin’eh is afraid and angry, too scared to know what to do, and too angry to do nothing. Sheh’teh and Kanen’eh – the other male – bind themselves to duty and grief,” he listed off as he watched the kettle. “I know almost a hundred people so well that I also love them – even my enemies. It’s hard to understand a person that well and not love them the way they love themselves. Even when it means I have to destroy them.”

The Kettle hissed, and the General took it off the heat. He prepared a pair of teacups with familiarly packaged tea, almost as if it had come out of a kitchen on Earth. When he poured the water, it curved oddly through the air – the Coriolus force from the spinning Torus, she remembered, would do that. The General stared at his cup for a moment before looking up at her with a raised eyebrow. “I know I’m not the most entertaining company, so why’d you come to see me?” he asked.

“You’ve been doing this for a long time,” she said, trying to work herself up to the question she wanted to ask. “Longer than I realized, on account of that light rider. You told me why everyone else wants to fight. Why are you still fighting?” He stared at her for a long moment without answering, so she clarified: “Why go through all this, gather all this wealth, only to go back to fighting?”

“I have lots of reasons, Singer,” the General said, his voice low and somber. “Are the photographs I showed you not reason enough? Dead people, children, stacked up like cordwood in the name of the Empire,” he hissed.

“It’s a noble enough reason, but not for all this,” the Singer insisted. “Your ‘Thief-Taker’ persona is so convincing that I can’t see a reason for you to go back. Forgive me if you don’t strike me as a philanthropist with the name General,” she explained.

He snorted and looked back at his tea. Satisfied that it had cooled enough, he took a careful sip from the cup to bide for time. The Singer enjoyed her drink while she waited as well. It was an unfamiliar flavor, but not unpleasant.

“I’m not a good man, Singer,” he eventually said into the teacup. “I don’t think I can be anymore. And you’re right. If I wanted to, I could have left this whole fight behind me. Just hide out in this maze of the Empire’s own making,” he scoffed. “I have other reasons to want to fight.

“I hate them, Singer,” his voice went hollow with the words, and an icy calm came over his expression. “Don’t mistake me for someone who uses that word lightly. In our past lives, I remember that word being used a lot – overused, in my opinion. Hate is more personal than that.” He looked up at her, and that was when she heard the emotion in his voice. It wasn’t anger or rage as she thought she knew it, whatever it was that the General was feeling was cold and patient.

“Do you realize the advantages you have over any other species in the Empire?” he suddenly asked her.

“I dunno,” the Singer shrugged, scrambling to follow the course of the conversation. “I guess we must have a pretty good sense of touch. Everyone seems surprised that I can feel out secret panels and things,” she offered.

“That’s one,” he nodded. “We’re not very strong or fast. There’s plenty of species in the Empire that could beat the old weight lifting and sprint records on Earth. But almost every species in the Empire will die from shock without medical intervention. A Human won’t,” he explained. “Do you know what kind of a predator a Human is?” he asked.

“We’re predators?” the Singer asked incredulously. “I always thought that didn’t come along until people figured out spears and things,” she admitted with a shrug.

“Humans are predators, Singer. We’re the most effective predators on Earth: pursuit predators,” he explained. “We don’t bite our prey, or ambush them and drown them, or inject venom, or anything like that. We walk our victim to death. Over days or weeks, we can keep an animal on the run until it dies of exhaustion or heat stroke. Meanwhile, our unique foot structure means we walk farther, and sweat lets us stay cool while most animals pant.

“The Viribus won’t spar with me unless I let them tag team,” he continued. “Any one of them could beat me in a contest of strength or speed, but I can keep going longer than all three of them combined now. So, if you were an uncaring Imperial force that suddenly found a huge population of tireless people that could never go extinct, what would you do with them?” he asked.

At first, Singer wasn’t sure how to answer. But she considered what she could remember about the colonial period on earth, and her heart sank. “Slavery,” she realized.

“A slave army that can never depopulate,” the General agreed coldly. “Whenever one of us dies, another clone grows in our Sepulcher,” he explained. “Imagine an army that can keep going when most others would be disabled or exhausted. Or a workforce that can go longer and continue working in worse conditions than any other population. We are a high-quality resource, not to mention the cloning technology itself.”

“God,” the Singer cursed. “They could destroy us. It would be worse than dying,” she realized with horror. “We could become the worst thing that’s ever happened to the galaxy.”

“Only if we’re stupid,” the General said firmly.

“Huh?”

Instead of answering, he said, “Consider this: You’ve fallen into a trap. What do you do?”

“Get out of the trap?” the Singer offered, confused.

The General shook his head. “That’s thinking like an animal. Think like a Human,” he instructed.

The Singer shook her head, but she took a moment to consider the problem. “If there’s a trap, that means someone set the trap, right?” He nodded, so she kept going. She tried to imagine that someone had dug a pitfall into her back yard, or rather, the backyard she remembered. “And if someone set a trap, then I’d want to know who ... so, I’d stay in the trap.”

“And when the trapper came to find you?” the General asked, leading her.

The Singer felt a frown crease her face as she realized the issue. If someone had set a trap, they meant her harm – possibly not just a danger to her, but everyone around her. A trapper, like a Human trapper, was a threat to the entire population until they left. “I’d ... get rid of him,” she said reluctantly.

“You’d kill the trapper,” the General said with a nod, putting words to the thought she was reluctant to voice. “An animal only thinks about getting out of the trap. An animal trick is chewing your arm off to get free. But a Human stays in the trap and removes the threat.

“That’s why I’m fighting, Singer,” he said coldly. “We’re in the trap, now, all of us. We must kill the trapper, or we’ll stop being Human at all.”