Karen’teh was moving again, with Eabha carefully tied to her back. Her fur was mercifully warm despite the dampness, and though the air still held onto the Day’s warmth, every gust sucked the heat from Eabha’s skin.

Eabha’s joints ached with the cold, and she felt needles in her skin as the capillaries contracted. Shivers still crawled up and down her spine uncontrollably. And though she was still drowsy, she was awake.

The catharsis that followed their brush with death had left Eabha surprisingly clear-headed, and she remembered what she’d done. A scream, but not just with her voice.

Now, with the clarity of hindsight, she could tell exactly what had happened. She even thought she could do it again, but it was difficult to grasp like a deadened, extra limb – or a hole in the back of her mind.

Eabha was tempted to compare it to a radio, though some intuition suggested otherwise. Nevertheless, if she concentrated on the unfamiliar sensation, she could feel the slightest … something. A not-noise, but faint. Background noise with no direction or clarity.

And, occasionally, through the subtle buzz of background noise, something understandable but incomprehensible.

.̷.̷.̸ ̶n̷o̴l̸i̶ ̷t̸i̶m̶e̷r̵e̶ ̶.̴.̶.̷

A shiver crawled up Eabha’s spine, from her aching lower back to her stiff and cold neck.

It was quieter than when the branched thing had come for her – and it was after her. She could recognize those words, which brought up emotions she wasn’t ready to face. Betrayal and hope warred without direction, missing a face or name to point to. But the fear was there. It was unambiguous.

This voice, and the things that it came out of, were to be feared.

But Eabha’s ‘voice’ was louder. Her ‘scream’ had deafened the tangled beast, and without the guidance of that terrible voice, it went still again.

And strangely, just that simple reality made her feel a little better.

She wasn’t powerless.

She might not have brought something into the world, but she’d kept it from taking her out of it.

There was power in that, buoying her through their journey across increasingly beautiful countryside.

As the clouds began to break and the rain scattered, she could see further. Starlight, brighter than she ever realized it could be, revealed the towering walls of greenery. She could look down vast thoroughfares as they crossed bridges formed from hundreds of years of fallen debris and toppled trees – virtual land stretched through the air.

And the greenery was beautiful: Trees and ferns and vines, choking and soft and covered in spines. Karen’teh had insisted the Night was silent and dead. Even the animals were afraid of the monsters they’d been forced to face. But Eabha could hear the insects buzz, birds sing, and the small things that scurried through the branches and leaves.

If this was ‘dead and silent,’ she could hardly see the jungle in glorious sunlight again.

But that brought up a new thought: They’d stopped to sleep several times now, and she had yet to see another sunrise. Eabha even attempted to watch the motions of constellations, and while she’d spotted the moons, the stars remained fixed in place.

She became so fixated on trying to plot the rotation of the planet that she barely noticed when they’d reached their destination.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(ө_ ө)(Θ_Θ)(◌_◌)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

When the Manifest Destiny passed through M’divosk Terminal, the Singer felt it.

The mouth of an Anti-Euclidean bridge was not flat, for lack of a better term. The Singer could imagine the funnel-like diagram to demonstrate how such a bridge worked. But, it failed to convey how such a violently bent space looked to the naked eye.

At first glance, the bridge might appear spherical in nature. But, that illusion quickly broke once someone realized that the constellations within that ‘spherical’ window did not match the ones around them. As they passed through the throat of the Anti-Euclidean bridge, the light of the stars stretched into a ribbon. The Manifest Destiny groaned and shuddered as the warped space fought against the very mass of the vessel.

And another sky swallowed them.

More than that, though, the Singer could feel how the universe twisted within the bridge. More than the subtle strain in her joints. It roared like the rapids of the Library, ragged against the edges of the window in her mind.

A disruptive reminder of the weight of her task in front of her.

So many lives balanced on their success, and not just the lives of the Manifest Destiny’s crew. The Viribus likely would not survive the Empire’s occupation. And what of the other Humans? One hundred and six other lives, the last vestige of her own species.

The fates of the two species rested on not getting melted into slag before reaching the planet.

The next Terminal was the last barrier that Manifest Destiny expected to bluff their way through. And the Terminal that bridged to the Laetus system was not a commercial Terminal. It was a purely military installation. They would not be so easily cowed or convinced.

The navy would know what ships were scheduled to arrive or leave by that Anti-Euclidean Bridge. Anyone else would be fired upon.

But, of course, the General had known this.

Loaded into the shuttle’s hold was an incredible array of electrical equipment. The shuttle lay cavernous and empty now, save for emergency supplies if they needed to bail. Now, the equipment was woven through the ship and culminated in a repurposed electrical closet near the command capsule. The results of months of work to modify the Manifest Destiny while underway.

“This rack here holds the computer Arnarxx designed for us. It will handle most of the frequency targeting for the jammer,” the technician explained.

“It doesn’t just broadcast on every frequency?” the Singer asked. She still didn’t quite understand how signal jamming worked or electronic warfare in general, if she was honest.

“Not really possible,” the technician said with a grimace. “Maybe a star could do that, but not even a Terminal has the kind of power or space to do that. We’re targeting their radio frequencies, that’s all. It’s like shouting over them so no one can hear when they talk,” they explained.

“And we can use whatever we want? Just hijack their radios to play whatever we want?” the Singer asked.

“It’s not precisely hijacking, but sure. Really the most efficient way is just with noise-“

“I understand, but this isn’t about what’s efficient,” the Singer interjected. “They don’t need a radio to start shooting at us, and a landline won’t be affected by this, right?” she asked.

“Well, no,” the technician agreed.

“Can you set up a soundproof closet and set it to broadcast from a microphone in there?” she asked.

“I suppose,” the technician groused as he pulled out a notebook to make some notes. “It will take a few days, but we should have it done by the time we get to the last Terminal,” they grumbled as they did some quick math.

“That’s good; it could be the difference between life and death,” the Singer said reassuringly.

“At your command, Captain,” the technician said as they pushed themselves away down the tunnel.

Captain. When had they started calling her that? How could one word weigh so much on her shoulders in free fall? The specter of responsibility had never really left her, but now she could feel it hanging over her. Even if they succeeded and they made it to the ground on Laetus and sent the Empire packing, there would still be problems to solve.

And she hated to admit it, but the General was one of them.

It took time and the kind of introspection that the Singer suspected only the Library had been able to provide for her: The General hated the Empire. Of course, this was nothing new, and frankly, the Singer shared the sentiment. But the problem came in the General’s charismatic ability to drag armies of people along with him. It meant that the fallout could become nuclear when he acted on that hate.

But it was clear to the Singer that fighting this enemy head-on was suicide.

Hundreds of Imperial worlds, whole solar systems, and hundreds of years of development supporting their military – by all accounts, the most formidable force in the galaxy. And what did the General have? A few technologically deficient tribes in an overgrown valley? Some stolen guns? One pirate ship with an untested crew?

The General knew this. He had to. He was far too thorough to not know. The problem was that the Singer wasn’t sure that mattered to him.

He’d thrown away decades of work on a hail mary – twice. He seemed confident in his immortality, but they would all pay the price if he was wrong. He seemed optimistic that the Manifest Destiny would succeed in its mission to destroy the Laetus Terminal, but the odds were enormous.

Even if both managed to land successfully, what was his plan even if everything went exactly as he wanted? To drag their newborn siblings and their Viribus friends into a protracted, interstellar holy war? A jihad?

And the Singer just didn’t know how to get out of it.

She couldn’t take his place. That much was for sure. She didn’t have what he had, and she didn’t have twenty-some years to catch up. She barely knew the first thing about tactics or strategy. She never could have come up with this hair-brained scheme.

And, frankly, she didn’t want it.

Just the implication of the crew and the Poet Warriors that she somehow could take his place was crushing.

She wished she could just swallow her morals and concentrate on living through this. If it were as simple as just going home and letting someone with authority tend to this mess, she would.

But that wasn’t an option: No home to go to anymore. There were no courts, but the Imperial courts and the Empire had their own crimes to answer for. So if there was a chance that normalcy would ever come to their people, it would only be the one they made – and it was very likely that it would be the General at the head of it all.

That was almost a certainty. The General was almost deific in the eyes of his crew. Maybe even to the tribes on Laetus. He was a Napolean, a Hannibal. She could practically see it, hysteria sweeping over her siblings and the Tribes. He wouldn’t even have to ask; they’d sit him on a throne whether he wanted it or not.

And she didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to refuse.

That kind of pedestal wouldn’t be toppled easily. If the Singer wanted the General to answer for the crimes on Torus, then it would have to be her that did it. And she couldn’t do it unless she could match him, blow for blow. Physically, politically, and strategically.

And that didn’t even touch on what she’d found in the Library. Could she use that somehow? One or two, love or hate – the line seemed so faint and thin from where she stood.

Responsibility, heavier than ever, settled over her shoulders. A terrible purpose writ on her soul.

“It’s time, Singer,” Achilles said as he emerged from the command module.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(ө_ ө)(Θ_Θ)(◌_◌)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

The excursion group was not well-armed. The sidearms that the half-squad accompanying them carried were supposedly to deal with wildlife, as the metallic monstrosities were not the only dangers of the jungle. But if they did have to use them, that brought a different kind of danger– which was what the monstrously large, anti-material rifles were for.

Although, Doctor Tarpeia suspected they were more for the peace of mind of the soldiers that carried them. If they did have to use one of those, their fates were likely already sealed. They were only there if the trap didn’t work.

If the trap didn’t work, whatever they managed to lure to them would quickly kill all of them.

Unfortunately, the trap was based on principles they still weren’t sure they understood. Years of observation had proven that the Latian monstrosities continuously emitted Anti-Euclidean interference, the same kind measured from the Youngest Daughter. But unfortunately, just confirming the findings had taken years. Not because the experiments were long-winded or complicated, but because anything to do with Anti-Euclidean effects was highly regulated.

The investigation into the signals from the moon was on hold because of the red tape involved. And the danger of the ground investigation was why they’d had to steal the listening equipment in the first place. And unfortunately, the equipment required was not designed to be transported by hand.

But needs must.

No one was without a heavy, padded pack. Each was carefully constructed to prevent damage to the equipment during travel and contain everything the group would need for a remote setup – including a gasoline generator and the fuel to run it.

Their large amount of equipment, weapons, and haggard appearance would do little to help Doctor Tarpeia when she negotiated their sanctuary at the Viribus village. The Small God tribe was the closest, least violent tribe in the valley, but that didn’t say much. Still, the culture as she understood it was clear, a sanctuary during the Night was sacred and not to be denied.

That didn’t mean it wouldn’t come with conditions, but that was the least of their problems.

The hike had been harrowing. There was no way they could adequately complete their mission without a chance to rest. They were exhausted, filthy, dehydrated, and hungry – not to mention cold. It would be several standard days before they would make their attempt, and it would have to be far from the village lest they put the Viribus in danger.

If they did that, the Viribus’s opinion of the Empire would be soured in the best case – a significant setback in the occupation campaign. In the worst case, they would consider it an act of war, ending the tentative ceasefire with the tribes – who had proven surprisingly capable of unilateral action against a common enemy.

The Viribus found them before the Imperial troupe found the village.

It happened with no warning. One moment Dr. Tarpeia trudged under the oppressive weight of her share of the equipment, and the next, something blurred out of the dark and clamped over her muzzle. She barely noticed when she was tackled to the ground as her breath was knocked from her chest.

Around her, the rest of the troupe was treated to a similarly rough welcome. The half-squad was detained, a hand over their mouths and their weapons quickly tossed aside. She vaguely heard someone try to scream, but one of the Viribus shifted and the muffled scream choked to a halt.

The Viribus above her seemed to have no interest in their captured prey. Instead, they scanned the jungle around them, all four eyes and crowns of ears carefully examining their surroundings.

Eventually, Dr. Tarpeia’s heart stopped pounding in her chest. One Viribus made a complicated gesture with their tail, and the Viribus above Dr. Tarpeia finally turned their attention to her. The Viribus covered their own mouth with a free hand, and a third hand gestured to Dr. Tarpeia – a message to remain silent. Dr. Tarpeia nodded in agreement in the Viribus fashion, lifting her muzzle in a sharp motion that would have made a Viribus’s long ears move in a wave. Though she lacked the ears for it, the Viribus understood and gently released Dr. Tarpeia’s muzzle and helped her silently stand again.

It took several minutes to get the rest of the troupe standing. Few of them understood what had happened and had understandably mistaken the rough welcome as an attack. As far as the doctor understood, this wasn’t uncommon a greeting for Night travelers – rare as they were. Better to ensure a silent arrival than leading a monster to their home.

Dr. Tarpeia’s release, and some careful pantomime, convinced the rest to similarly keep their silence. The Viribus did not return the weapons. It took every bit of what little respect she had to silently persuade the soldiers to accept the loss. If they were good guests, the Viribus would likely return them.

Maybe.

Similarly, the Viribus stripped most of the troupe of their heavy equipment – dissatisfied with the ability of some to walk silently under the load.

The Viribus guided the troupe into a nearby wall of green, revealing a nearly invisible entrance – hidden in gloom and with a clever double-back shape. In the dark, she still could only barely make out their features. Only once a heavy curtain of woven vines securely sealed the doorway, still green and wet, one of them spoke.

“You will speak quietly,” the largest of them hissed in Fahn’ehten, barely a whisper. The dialect was different than Dr. Tarpeia expected, but she understood all the same. “You have made a grave mistake,” they spat. “You should have returned to your walls before the Storms.”

“What are they saying?” the Seargent hissed in Tarpeia’s ear. His presence was paradoxically frightening and reassuring. She appreciated that the Seargent would try to protect her if it came down to it. But he was also of the opinion that he was in charge of this expedition.

“Only posturing,” she mumbled to him as she bowed shallowly to the Viribus. “We understand the danger,” she said to the Viribus.

The Viribus seemed unimpressed. “If you understood the danger, you would not be here,” they scoffed.

“It’s no use, Laru’teh,” one of the other Viribus sighed. “We should take them to the Elders.”

“He’s right,” a third grumbled reluctantly. “We can’t leave them out here. They’ll attract attention to the village. It’s better to keep them where we can keep track of them than let them go crashing through the jungle like children.”

“Keep me informed, Doctor,” the Seargent hissed again.

“They’re saying they’ll take us to their village,” Tarpeia explained. “Be patient. This is what we wanted.”

“Good,” the Seargent huffed. “Then ask them to give us back our things, and we’ll get moving,” he said dismissively.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Tarpeia said before the Viribus could argue with each other any further. “If you return our things, we will gladly follow you to the village.”

“The Elders will decide,” the large Viribus, Laru’teh, growled. She turned and began to climb up a ramp of knotted roots, the heavy pack she’d claimed remained on her back.

The Viribus guided their troupe up a winding path, unkind hands shoved and pulled along those that fell behind. An engineer fell behind and couldn’t muster the strength to lift himself up a ledge. A Viribus threw the smaller Vyrăis over the wooden edge but didn’t deign to help the poor man back to his feet.

Eventually, they emerged from the hollow. Across a vast chasm in the towering forests stood an island – for lack of a better term. Isolated and perched atop a precariously thin tower of wood and ancient steel was the Viribus village of the Small God Tribe. The only sign that it was inhabited was the narrow rope bridge that connected this side of the chasm to the isolated structure.

Although calling it a bridge was generous. It was made of two thick ropes, from which lichens and mosses had taken root in thin curtains that caught the wind. One rope hung higher than the other, connected only by a delicate web of yarn of the same fibers used to make the rope. The entire bridge swayed in the breeze. And it was a long way down, the ground hidden in the gloom.

One of the more petite Viribus led the way across. He demonstrated how to cross the bridge by standing on one rope and using the other rope to steady himself. Although his touch was so feather-light, he apparently did not need it.

The leader, Laru’teh, scoffed at the apparent hesitation of Tarpeia’s group. Rather than follow the man, she stepped off the ledge and caught the rope with her hands with practiced ease. She moved with an easy brachial gait, and neither Viribus seemed alarmed at how the bridge dipped and swayed under her weight.

One by one, the Viribus coaxed Tarpeia’s troupe onto the rope bridge, following at a much gentler pace beneath them. A small part of Tarpeia’s analytical mind wondered if they remained with them so they could catch one of them if they fell. The more cynical part of her thought it was to ensure none of them ran away, especially now that they knew where the village was. But none of that was critical to her as she carefully sidled her way along the bridge, the rope handhold clutched with a death grip as she barely dared to lift her feet.

By the time she reached the middle of the bridge, she could fully feel the sway it had. A dizzying amount of movement. She didn’t dare to look down, though she could feel the bridge dip and sway as their Viribus escort followed from below.

When they made it to the other side, it was obvious that even the immense structure of the island swayed in the breeze. It was also utterly silent.

Tarpeia could identify family homes draped in colorful textiles and heavy nets of vines. But no one wandered the web of woven walkways between the chaotic platforms of the swaying village. Eventually, she began to spot signs of life in the gloom: washbasins still filled with water and skins on racks only half cleaned. The list went on and on. It was as if the village had been suddenly abandoned.

Even their Viribus escorts seemed surprised. And their mutterings attracted the Seargent’s curiosity again.

“They’re taking us to the tall house,” Tarpeia explained, her voice barely louder than a breath. “Think of it like their leader’s house or a city hall. It’s a place to gather and cook food and settle disputes – especially at Night when outdoor activity is avoided.”

“Looks like they dropped everything and left,” the Seargent noted in a voice that crackled to stay quiet.

“Perhaps we’ll find out why when we get there,” Tarpeia suggested.

Tarpeia did not tell him that it did not bode well for their own safety. This Laru’teh obviously did not think highly of them, prejudice or not. If it turned out that something tragic had occurred, their troupe could be blamed for it. Even if there was no evidence, it likely wouldn’t matter.

The Viribus led them deeper into the swaying megaflora, closer to its central trunk and where the tall house would be located. The tall house extended upward and downwards, built into the structure of the giant tree. The trunk was perforated with narrow openings, each draped with a lumpy curtain – thick and weighted down with stones. The escort led their troupe through one of the openings.

They passed the curtain into a narrow passageway, and when it closed behind them, they were plunged into silent darkness. The curtain blocked all sound and light.

They were not left in the dark for long, however, as the Viribus leading them opened the curtain at the other end of the passageway. Sound and light immediately flooded out, calm but with the buzz of excitement rather than the mutterings of dread. Tarpeia watched the tension drop out of their escorts as they realized nothing was amiss in their home.

It was only now, with the light of the interior, that Tarpeia realized the structure wasn’t just built into an immense tree but into the metallic bones of the ruins as well. It was an ancient tower, subsumed by the gigantic plant as it grew around it. And the Viribus had claimed and groomed the space into a shelter away from the Night.

The entire village had apparently stuffed themselves inside. The villagers hung from nets and boughs and crowded the spiraling floor, seemingly unconcerned with the unprotected drop to the bottom floor. The cooking fires filled the room with thin smoke. The chatter between them was excited and hushed, almost reverent.

Their attention was drawn upward to where the Chief and elders sat.

The Chief towered over the gathered elders, muscular and long-limbed. Her crown of ears was far longer and paler than her counterparts, indicative that she had long entered the rare third stage of the Viribus life cycle: the Fire.

No one knew what triggered the change, but the few women that went through it were legendary amongst the Viribus. The shift from adult to the Fire was much like a child to adult. They grew and ate at a dangerous rate. Their frames expanded and filled with muscle strong enough to pull trees apart with their bare hands. Their ears grew long, so long that they often drooped like braided hair. And they would keep growing and eating until their hearts simply couldn’t keep up, and they died.

But seated, protectively circled by the Chief’s long and muscular legs, was a pale little thing – no larger than a child.

A Human.

Information on the rumored second indigenous species of the planet Laetus was limited. Beyond instruction to report sightings, all previous reports were completely blacked out. But soldiers talked, especially ones eager to impress the constant influx of civilians and fellow soldiers. Rumors abounded about the deviously clever and spiteful creatures. The kind of animal that could and would walk through hell to spit in your face.

And that didn’t even begin to cover what little she’d learned of how the Viribus view them. The Viribus were not eager to share their secrets with an Imperial, even with Tarpeia, who had worked tirelessly to form a rapport with the local tribes. To the Viribus, the Humans were deific, holy, and eternal.

And there was one sitting in the Chief’s lap, staring right at Tarpeia. Those white-rimmed eyes seemed so accusing at that moment.

Tarpeia’s astonishment broke as the conversation around them became deafeningly quiet.

She had not noticed the Chief’s pipe on her initial inspection, but she saw the cloud of purple smoke that billowed out of her enormous lungs when she spoke.

“What is this?” the Chief asked simply, her voice like thunder in the cramped tall house.

Tarpeia yelped as a hand grabbed her and forced her to her knees. She belatedly realized that their entire troupe was forced into a submissive position, soon followed by their escorts.

Tarpeia tried to follow as Laru’teh explained how they’d been found. Still, as creative as Laru’teh’s insults were, Tarpeia couldn’t take her eyes off the Human. Those white-rimmed eyes had captured her attention. Tarpeia watched as its exigent eyes flicked over the troupe’s bags.

It didn’t say anything. It simply lifted a finger. It pointed to Tarpeia, and silence descended again on the tall house.

The Chief took notice immediately and, with a wordless order, commanded Laru’teh to approach. Tarpeia yelped as she was bodily lifted off the floor. Before she could take another breath, Laru’teh had pulled them both three floors higher, and Tarpeia was dumped in front of the Chief and the Human.

Tarpeia pushed herself back up to her hands and knees, but when she looked up again, she froze as the Human’s eyes met hers. Behind her, looming like a great tree, the Chief glowered protectively. But their scrutiny did not last, as the Human’s eyes flicked over to the bag draped over Laru’teh’s shoulders.

When the Human pointed, Laru’teh did not wait for her Chief’s command. Instead, reverently, she surrendered the heavy bag to the Human immediately.

The Human inspected the rugged canvas briefly before locating the various zippers and buckles that kept it closed. In moments she – and from its position and minimal clothing, the Human was clearly female – managed to open the bag, revealing its contents.

The Human began retrieving items carelessly, examining some closely but dismissing most quickly. Tarpeia was struck by how childish the behavior was. She was almost reminded of one of her nieces: carelessly tossing toys aside as her attention wandered.

Carefully packed cables and electronics were dismissed easily. But finally, the Human’s hands landed on one of the Anti-Euclidean antennas. A pyramidal device that used laser reflectors to measure fluctuations in space-time. The Human examined it closely. Nimble little fingers traced the casing around the laser channels: it was almost as if she already knew what it was. However, the sensor was inert without power, and the Human just as quickly lost interest.

Her interest at all sparked a thought in Tarpeia’s head, one which was confirmed before it could even be fully formed as the Human retrieved the excitation array.

Unlike the antennae, the excitation array lacked any distinguishing geometry. Instead, it was a miniature tool mainly used to calibrate antennas but which their troupe had hoped to employ as bait in their trap. By all accounts, it was an unremarkable box with a few electrical connections. But the Human was fixated on it, unerringly.

The Human’s dismissive countenance disappeared. With surprising violence, the Human hooked her fingers into any crevice she could find and began to attempt to tear the box apart. The plastic casing creaked alarmingly but did not budge.

Finally, frustrated, the Human turned to the Chief.

“Break,” she demanded as she proferred the excitation matrix.

The Chief accepted the box into one of her massive hands and crushed it before Tarpeia could protest. The Chief then offered the shards back to the Human, who eagerly picked through the shattered plastic and circuit boards. Finally, she located the heart of the device: a banded cylinder of layered crystal. Her face twisted into an expression that Tarpeia failed to recognize. She almost might have believed it a snarl if not for the amused giggle that bubbled out of the Human.

“How did you know that was in there?” Tarpeia breathed, almost too hesitant to speak before the Chief.

But even as the Chief and Laru’teh bristled at the sound of Tarpeia’s voice, the Human’s attention shifted to her, and the Viribus hesitated.

“I hear,” the Human said, her grammar and vocabulary apparently lacking. But with her gesture to the little crystal, it was clear what she meant.

She could somehow hear the excitation array. Which should have been impossible, especially when it wasn’t being oscillated by the circuitry that the Chief had destroyed. The crystal structure would, microscopically, flex in the presence of electrical voltage and, when stacked into an array, create a measurable space-time disturbance. So what was this Human supposedly hearing?

Hesitantly, Tarpeia reached into the bag. When the Viribus did not move to stop her, she retrieved a ruggedized terminal. She also recovered the discarded Anti-Euclidean antenna and found the correct cable to connect the two after some searching and untangling. After a short boot-up, the device began reading values from the antenna, and Tarpeia gasped.

Typically, the antenna would read a slight uptick in background frequencies, essentially just slightly louder noise. But now, it showed spikes far above the background standard, far above what they’d recorded from the third moon.

“It’s you,” Tarpeia realized. “You … speak like this does,” she said more than asked as she indicated the cylindrical crystal stack. But the Human’s nod was more than enough confirmation.

The Human pulled apart the stacked crystals with much less effort than was required to break its casing. The adhesive that held them together peeled away easily. And with each break, the noise shown on Tarpeia’s display dropped.

This seemed to relax the Human, who let out a sigh.

“You stay,” the Human finally said as she began to massage the sides of her head.

“The Lady is generous,” the Chief growled with a respectful nod to the tiny creature in her lap.

The Chief commanded Laru’teh to remove Tarpeia from their presence with a dismissive gesture. And while Laru’teh’s attentions were no more gentle, the tall house seemed to dismiss them, and conversation resumed into a low murmur. They even returned their bags, but the troupe’s weapons quickly disappeared into a lower chamber of the tall house. And judging by the expression of their military escort, they were not pleased.

Tarpeia sighed as an engineer handed her her share of their food supplies. One problem at a time, she supposed.