Aw hell, Thought Travertine, of course I'd be the one to hear something critical. The surgeon wrote down what he heard for an anonymous tip later, should the need arise. He also checked to make sure he had stashed his pistol under his long white coat. It's a dangerous world. No telling when it might come in handy. No telling whether the saboteurs were still around or not either.

* * *

Rook arrived on the same train as the medical staff. The conductor wasn't keen on letting a private detective on the train specifically transporting medical staff and equipment to the site of a terrorist attack, but one doesn't survive the things Rook had been through without being able to talk one's way in and out of much tougher situations. He made his way to the director's office at the office complex where he was greeted by a short, stocky zene secretary listening to a telephradio station.

A zene is humanoid in overall shape (although they would dispute that: according to them, humans are zenoid in overall shape). The most immediately obvious difference is the shape of the head. Zene heads are a fleshy, flat cylinder full of muscle, cartilage, and brain matter. Their brains are remarkably resistant to blunt force trauma, considering how they're able to flop their heads up and down without ever giving themselves a concussion. Mood can be deduced from the position of the head: both ends bent slightly upward means so-so; bent dramatically up means happy; bent down means sad; perfectly straight means angry.

The other major difference in outward appearance is that zene skin is covered in scales except for some particularly sensitive parts which are normally covered by clothing. Although they lay eggs (which have a resilient leather-like shell), they feed their children on milk in defiance of certain theories on scientific norms held dear by some (human) scientists.

“Private investigator,” Rook flashed his card, “I need to see the director, it's about—”

“The bombing.” Finished the secretary in an annoying, squeaky voice, “You can't meet with the director right now. He's meeting with police investigators.” placing a special emphasis on 'police' that told Rook she didn't have much regard for private investigators: “If you have to, you can wait over there.” The secretary pointed an eye at a row of chairs. “But be quiet.”

Sighing, Rook sat down. As he waited, a special news bulletin interrupted the music.

“We have another breaking news bulletin on today's terrorist attack. Minutes ago, someone telephoned the mayor's office and delivered the following message.”

A pause, then another voice, distorted with a voice changer, spoke:

“The glorious Revolution has struck again. You're pathetic. You think you will be protected by hiring soldiers and mercenary thugs. Or am I repeating myself? Chancellor Hellbringer sits in Serenity and you all make-believe that you suddenly care about us humans, but the People see through your lies. The humans of Ragnarok rise against you! The humans of the South rise against you! What you've seen today is just a taste of what's to come: Thirty-Two Nineteen will happen again!

“To you humans out there, I know your load is heavy, but take heart. The next Great Uprising is about to begin! Glory to the Revolution! Red Wolves drink zene blood!” The recording ended with a bang, indicating the messenger slammed the receiver down hard.

“That was the voice of an unidentified messenger of the Red Wolves.” The voice of the telephradio host returned, “The Red Wolves are a terrorist group based out of Utopia, capital of the People's Republic. They've been responsible for every other terrorist attack in the last...”

The door to the director's office opened and out walked two zene in police uniforms. One of them spotted Rook.

“Rook?” He asked, cocking his eyes to one side, “At the front line of revolution again?” Barely suppressing an audible groan as the two approached him, Rook replied,

“Yeah, it's a curse. Can't seem to stay away from it, no matter how hard I try.” The officer laughed;

“You always say that. I've never been able to figure out whether you consistently put yourself in harm's way by accident or if you're secretly addicted to the thrill.”

“I just have a strong sense of self-preservation.” Rook shot back with a wry smile;

“That's true.” The officer nodded his eyes, “Well, this time we're after the same quarry but on different teams.” The officer extended his hand. Rook glanced at it and paused before shaking it. “May the best sentient win.”

“Wishing me luck? You shouldn't have, you'll need it yourself.”

“Ha! Keep your wit sharp enough you and won't need that tunnel gun.” The officer pointed at the slight bump in Rook's coat where he hid his sawn-off shotgun.

“You always had a penchant for pointing out things that should have stayed secret.”

“I know.” With a grin, the officer and his partner took their leave.

“The director will see you now.” A squeaky voice almost made Rook jump before he remembered the secretary was still in the room. He looked up to see the secretary wasn't looking at him, but the office door was still open so he went in.

“You PI?” Asked the director, looking up from his desk,

“Yes. What can you tell me about the bombing?”

“Nothing.” With an air of finality, the director went back to his paperwork. Not one to take no for an answer, Rook sat down, uninvited, in the chair across from the director.

“You've been here the whole time and you can't tell me anything? What kind of a mine director are you?”

The director didn't look up. “Nothing you don't already know.”

Rook pulled out his notepad and pen. “Go on.”

As it turned out, the director really didn't know much, Rook reflected as he closed the door.

If a Third Line War starts, it'll be even harder to get out of this shithole. This place is a fuel dump surrounded by smokers and those high and mighty goons calling themselves police are only going to cock things up even more. I need to sort this mess out soon.

Continuing the investigation would have to wait until the rescue workers dug the miners out. He glanced at the secretary, who turned her eyes up to see him. With a sigh, she said,

“If you have to, you can wait over there.”

* * *

Warehouses lined the street near the edge of Ragnarok. Holding a piece of paper, Kyanite made her way along the rail line until she found the one she was looking for. That strange man-machine calling himself OC-1 was already there, along with a man and a woman. They had the door of the warehouse open and were loading boxes onto a waiting train.

“Hello!” Kyanite called,

“Hello!” Replied the man, “Are you the mechanic who's supposed to be coming?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Gifrag Berylbraids, head mechanic for our little expedition.” Gifrag put down the box he had and offered his hand.

“Kyanite Moonlet. Pleasure to meet you.” Kyanite shook the man's hand.

“Good to have you aboard.” Gifrag smiled warmly with a twinkle in his eye. “Now let's finish getting this stuff loaded.”

* * *

The train was not much bigger than a speeder. Inside the cab was a seat for the driver (who had introduced herself as Amber), and two benches that could seat up to six people. In front of the cab was the engine. Behind were two cars full of ventilation equipment.

OC-1 sat across from Kyanite, who was eyeing him intently. Something he was getting used to. Still, how dare this worthless sack of flesh stare at me. I am so much smarter than she could imagine being. My brain can calculate numbers in a fraction of the time these meatbags take. My databanks commit to memory more than a meatbag like her will learn in her lifetime! The only thing she's better at than me is mechanics, but soon I'll know everything she knows about that too.

“Mmm...” He heard her murmur, “mechazoid frog...” She whipped a notepad out of her coveralls; “I'm just curious, but how are you made? Which parts are organic and which parts are machine? You see, I've got this idea for a—”

“I don't know the answers to your questions.” OC-1 responded, glaring slightly, before looking away and proceeding to ignore Kyanite.

For her part, the mechanic didn't appear offended. She spent the rest of the trip flipping through various pages of her notepad, cross-referencing them in the bigger sketch book she pulled from her toolbox. Every so often, she looked up OC-1 again, then scribbled away furiously before flipping to other pages and cross-referencing things again.

* * *

Everyone's mood sunk even lower as they made their way toward the elevator. Zene's heads drooped down, their eyes hanging low.

“Why is everyone so sad?” He asked Father. Tears glistened in Father's eyes. As the elevator went down and the blast doors closed above, Father tried to answer, but his voice would not obey him.

Ever since that day, thirty years ago, when the Isolation began, Travertine's father had raised him to take his place. As if any day the Isolation would end and surgeons would be needed for the Old Guard's efforts to rebuild the Second Zene Empire—and to rebuild the solar system of Zadabakar's Pride as one of the empire's closest allies. Travertine's family had been among the humans to share in the Old Guard's dream.

Surgeons were needed alright: the First and Second Line Wars produced hundreds of thousands of dead and even more wounded. Still, as Travertine's memory of life before Isolation gradually faded, his father's faith never wavered. After the Ragnarok Colonial Council seceded from the planetary government, after the riots, famine, and epidemics, after the First Line War and the collapse of the colonial council, his belief stood firm.. When the colonial council gave way to the Collective Union, a new fire burned in his heart. The Collective Union, he told Travertine, could crush the rebels, reunite Ragnarok, perhaps even join with neighbouring Areas to form a new planetary government so they would be ready when the Isolation ended. Surely the Old Guard on the Sisters of Grace and Beauty had not forgotten them.

Discharged from the military after the war, Travertine became part of the shuffling mass of veterans aimlessly meandering the streets of Ragnarok. He still carried his old man's dog tags. The blood he had wiped off years ago, but he could never wipe his mind of the sight of his father hitting the floor, shot through the throat. One of many to fall to Red snipers.

Travertine woke with a start at the noise, not having realised he'd been asleep. He reached for his gun just as the curtain was pulled back.

“Doctor!” Exclaimed the nurse, “You're still here?”

“Yeah,” Travertine let his hand fall to to the armrest of his chair, “I must have dozed off, I was so tired.” No need to tell her why he was keeping guard over this particular patient. “Who're you?” the surgeon turned to the human next to the nurse,

“Rook. Private investigator. I heard there's a witness here.”

“There is.”

“May I speak with her?”

“I'd rather she rest.” Travertine glanced at his patient, “She was hit in the head by a falling rock and suffered mild traumatic brain damage.”

Rook took several steps into the cubicle, “If she has information on the bombers, it's vital to get it out as soon as possible. The well-being of all stations inside the 1st Ring is at stake.”

Having nothing to counter this with, Travertine got up slowly and went to the patient.

“I'll leave you to it.” Said the nurse as she closed the curtain.

“Ma'am? Ma'am?” Travertine said, gently shaking the patient's shoulder until her eyes opened. “Someone wants to talk to you.” The zene raised her eyes slightly to look at Rook.

“What?”

“I'm Rook. Private investigator. I'd like you to tell me what you saw.”

“A human? How do I know I can trust you?”

“I wouldn't.” A voice said from the door as two zene police detectives brushed past the curtain. “You stay outside. Make sure everyone out there minds their own business.” One told the other.

“I see I'm still half a step ahead of you.” Smirked Rook. Looking at Rook with one eye and the witness with the other, the zene detective went on,

“Rook here is a shameless bastard, but he likes to stay on the winning team so he won't betray us.”

“You always knew how to inspire confidence in your old friends.”

Ignoring Rook again, the detective turned both eyes to the witness. “I'm Lieutenant Zadabakar Bluescales. Please tell me what you saw.” Bluescales and Rook both took out their notepads as the witness sat up in her bed.

“I didn't see much. Two men, dressed in mechanic's coveralls, put something that looked like a big tool box at the side of one of the tunnels, next to the ventilation pipes. They left and shortly afterward came the explosion centred on the spot where they left the box.”

“Anything else? Facial features, hair colour, symbols on their clothes?” Asked Rook,

“I didn't get a good look at their faces and I can't remember their hair colour. Their coveralls had letters on the back.” She squinted in thought. “Three of them.”

“What letters were they?”

“I picked up enough of your human language from my co-workers to comfortably carry on a conversation, but I can't name a single letter in your alphabet.”

“Can you remember enough to write them down?”

“I can try.” The zene took Rook's notepad and hovered pen over paper for a while, trying to remember. Eventually she scribbled something, but it didn't resemble anything Travertine would call letters. “I'm sorry,” she passed the notepad back, “I can't remember. It was definitely three letters though.”

“Is there anything else at all?” Bluescales asked,

“No. That's it.”